Crystal Ball

by Laney Kay

  Crystal Ball

  Laney Kay

  Contents

  I. Crazy town…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  II. A New Normal…

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Before you Go…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Info

  Part I

  Crazy town…

  1

  The minute I pinned my husband’s testicle to the garage wall with my car, my day got weird.

  I’ll give you the details later, but let’s make this part short and sweet. Bottom line, after twenty-five years together, my husband fell in love with his twenty-year-old administrative assistant, Barbie, and knocked her up. Yes, Barbie. I know, right?!

  Apparently, his next mistake was a big one. He told me about it. I was furious when I realized he’d had unprotected sex with both of us, we were both yelling, I got in my car to leave and then, oops. I thought my car was in reverse, but it wasn’t. I hit the gas, the car went forward, he tried to jump out the way, and I accidently pinned one testicle and his leg to the garage with my car. My bad.

  When the cops and the ambulance finally got there, he was yelling about me trying to kill him, so the cops arrested me. My best friend, Lola, who is an attorney, was trying to get me out before my dad, the sheriff in this county, came down here and started raising hell. And in the meantime, there I sat. In jail. Being watched over by a big, pissed off woman named Tiffany who looked like she wanted to kick my ass. Or possibly ask me out.

  Seriously, how did this happen? How did I go from ordinary wife to criminal in the span of two hours?

  You’ve got to know me to realize how ridiculous this whole scenario is. My name is Daisy Dukes Monroe. I know, I know. My maiden name was Daisy Ellen Dukes, and once daisy dukes shorts became a household term, you can imagine the kind of crap I took as a teenager.

  My family never really understood my problem with the name, but irony and sarcasm aren’t their strong suits. Don’t get me wrong, I love them all to death, but we couldn’t be more different. I obviously take after some tiny, smart-ass, great-great-aunt, or second cousin twice removed, because I am nothing like the rest of my family. They’re all tall, thin, dark, and serious, and I would be the total opposite of all of those things.

  My mom is a Southern housewife, a former debutante and past president of the Junior League, who is always dressed perfectly, and always says and does the right thing—basically the perfect politician’s wife. Which works out because my daddy has been the sheriff in Fulton County for about 30 years. He’s a huge, quiet, gruff, very nice man. He’s always been proud of the fact that I write for the Atlanta paper, but thinks I waste my talent on fluffy topics instead of righting wrongs and fighting corruption. My mom thinks I’m in desperate need of a makeover and should occasionally dress in something other than yoga pants and flip flops. I have two younger identical twin brothers, both of whom live in Roswell, north of Atlanta, and are both dentists. They share an office, and they married twins. They each have two kids, a boy and a girl, and they are very nice, normal people.

  I’ve always been the odd duck in our family. I’m 46 years old, and 4’11” tall, which I prefer to round up to 5’1” because it makes my weight more proportional to my height and doesn’t sound so freakishly short. I have curly blonde hair that goes from shoulder to jaw length depending on the humidity, green eyes, huge boobs, and a bubble butt. I have a nice smile. Basically, I’m on the cute side of average looking. Most people just comment on how tiny I am. It’s annoying, because I don’t really think of myself as small, but let’s face it—the reality is that I’m basically a busty, blonde Chihuahua.

  I was born and raised in various parts of Atlanta. I grew up a good Southern girl with a bad case of ADHD and I loved the Georgia Bulldogs, softball, sweet tea, and boys, all of which I pursued with equal passion, and not necessarily in that order. By the time I graduated with a degree in journalism from the University of Georgia, Bobby and I had already been married for a year after a quick detour to Gatlinburg on the way back from a football game in Knoxville. My three best friends and roommates, Lola, Mo, and Sara, had been my bridesmaids at a drunken wedding where all of us wore Georgia sweatshirts, Georgia boxer shorts, and flip flops. I thought it was awesome, although my mom was appalled.

  My dad was thrilled with not having to pay for a big wedding, so when we graduated, he gave us $10,000 to put down on a house, plus he bought us a washer and dryer. Bobby’s folks bought us a big TV so we thought we were living large. We moved our two carloads of possessions into our new home and started our new lives together.

  We had a great time in those early years. Bobby is a good old boy, from a good Southern family, so he joined his daddy’s insurance business and within a few years was making a very nice living. I got a job working for the Atlanta paper writing a weekly column and occasional articles about Southern culture and traveling in the South. We would travel to out-of-the-way places across the region and the paper picked up our expenses. I always tried to make sure that my schedule coordinated with Georgia football games, so we had a blast the first ten years we were married.

  Somewhere along the way, I guess, we settled into a routine. You know how it is when you’ve been married for a long time--you fall into a rhythm. You get up, you go to work, you go on vacation, you do your usual activities, and the years just pass. I knew that we’d had some down times, but isn’t that the way of any long-term relationship? In my eyes, the only way to keep excitement in a relationship long term is to fill it with drama and living that kind of life is my personal idea of hell.

  I guess I’m kind of the opposite of a drama queen. I work out of my house writing and I actually like to paint, knit, and play with my dogs. I love to cook, I like to work out, I do yoga, I love SEC football. I’ve still got the same big circle of friends I’ve had since I was a kid, my very best friends are all my college roommates, I’m on great terms with my family—really I’m pretty much on good terms with everyone. I’m the type of person who bakes cookies for the policemen and firemen every Christmas. I give money to charities for kids and dogs, I’m nice to old people, and generally, I’m exceptionally cheerful. Of course, now I can add that I also run over people with cars and get arrested by cops. Lawd. My dad will be so proud.

  Anyway, so there I sat. In a six by eight foot jail cell. And in case you were wondering, the jail was just as nasty as you’d imagine. The whole place smelled like a combination of various body fluids, BO, and industrial strength Pine Sol, so I was perched on the edge of the bunk trying to make myself as small as possible, so that I touched as little as possible. My mind was racing as my ADHD kicked in, so I checked my watch, figuring it had to be at least an hour since I got there. Nope. Fifteen minutes. Are you freaking kidding me? I’d been in there 15 minutes? I was in hell.

  The rest of my time passed pretty much in the same fashion. Fifteen minutes of intense periods of ADHD-induced stream of consciousness thinking, then a minute of pure panic. I kept wishing they would just come get me, get this done, and let me get the hell out of there.

  About three hours later, it hit me that my husband was in the hospital and was undergoing surgery because of me and I was trying not to cry, when suddenly Tiffany was in front of my cell, and she’s smiling. More panic. Holy shit, it’s like one of those
1970’s prison movies. I’m about to become Tiffany’s bitch. I could feel my eyes get big and I was trying to decide if I could outrun her, or if she’d leave me alone if I puked on her or wet myself, when she asked, “Hey Martha Stewart, is it true that you found out your husband knocked up his secretary and you splattered his nuts with your car?”

  I winced. Well, that really didn’t sound so good when you put it that way. I tried to answer, but it came out more like a squeak, so I tried again. Now it was just a big torrent of verbal vomit. “Uh, yeah. I guess that is pretty much what happened. Although, I didn’t actually mean to splatter his nuts, and, technically, it was actually only one nut, but yeah, I guess that is pretty much what I did.”

  A wide grin spread across her face. “You’re okay, lady. You look like some little fancy suburban princess, but instead, you are just a tiny little badass. Come with me and we’ll get you out of here.”

  I followed her down the hall. My new BFF Tiffany told me where to stand to get my picture taken and even got me my purse so I could use my brush and some bronzer to make me look presentable. She took the first picture, and then motioned me back when I stepped away. “Get back over there. We’re gonna take another picture. You look whipped and I want you to look like a badass so you’ll look good on the news.”

  My heart sank. “What? What do you mean ‘on the news’?”

  She laughed. “Honey, everyone’s talking about it so I’m sure you’re gonna be all over the news tonight. I’m going to take a picture that will warn every cheating asshole about what he can expect to have coming if he screws around. Your name will be like Lorena Bobbitt, but instead of cutting it off, you’d just smash it on the wall.”

  I was appalled. Holy shit. I do not want my name to be synonymous with castration of any sort. What in the hell have I done?

  She finished with my picture and did my finger prints. About that time, Lola appeared and told me we could go. I thanked Tiffany for her help and followed Lola toward the door. Before we left, Lola turned around and stopped me from leaving. “Look, there are a lot of news people out there. Do not say anything, just let me do the talking and we’re going to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  I thought she was kidding. “Lola, you’re so full of it. I’m sure there’s someone from the paper since I work there, but who else really cares about this stupid little situation?”

  And then we walked outside.

  It was a zoo. There were flashes and cameras and tons of people surrounding us on all sides, “Ms. Monroe, were you trying to kill him?” “Are you getting a divorce?” “Are you going to hire the same people who represented OJ?”

  I couldn’t help it, I stopped at that one and turned to Lola. “Isn’t that Johnny Cochran, and isn’t he dead?”

  Lola nodded and put her hand on my back to urge me along, but I couldn’t just let that go. I mean, come on, I work for the media and I was embarrassed that one of my colleagues would ask such a dumbass question, so I pointed out, “Uh, no. Johnny Cochran is not only dead, but extremely dead, like since 2005 or so, so no, he won’t be representing me.”

  Lola pushed me along and all the way to her car all I could think about is them matching the bumper impression to the hole in my husband’s testicle chanting, “If it doesn’t fit you must acquit” and then I realized that there was a good chance I was losing it.

  Lola stopped when we got to the front of her car and turned to face the cameras. “Ms. Monroe has no comment at this time, other than to say this was not intentional, it was an unfortunate accident, and no crime has been committed. Mr. Monroe is fine, he’s resting comfortably, and we believe that this entire matter will be resolved quickly. Thanks for your time.”

  Lola pushed me into the passenger seat and fought her way to the driver’s door and climbed inside. She looked at me for a minute, trying to gauge if I was really okay. I must have looked all right, because she smiled and put her car in gear. “Where to?”

  “I guess we should go to my house so I can grab the dogs.”

  Lola shook her head. “Not a great idea. There’s already reporters there waiting on you. Mo picked up your pups and took them to her house, so why don’t you just come home with me?”

  That sounded great. I rested my head against the headrest and relaxed for the first time in hours. “How’s Bobby? Have you heard anything else?”

  “They removed the testicle, but they were able to put in some kind of prosthesis, so he’s not going to look like some kind of freaky one-ball wonder. He’s got a huge bruise and a hairline fracture on his leg, but he’s going to be totally fine. They’re keeping him for observation because of the risk of clots, not because there’s a problem.”

  I nodded and thanked her for checking on him for me. She reached over and patted my leg. “Hey, can you tell me what happened?”

  I threw up my hands. “Lola, I swear I didn’t mean to hit him. Don’t get me wrong, I was super-pissed. He’d just told me he’d knocked up some pre-teen slut from work and I just realized that meant that he’d been having unprotected sex with both of us at the same time. He was standing in front of my car and I just wanted to get away from him, so I hit the garage door and threw my car into what I thought was reverse, but apparently wasn’t. Next thing I knew, he was pinned between my car and the wall. I called 911, told him to call his skanky whore so she could take care of him at the hospital, and went inside to eat dinner.”

  She laughed at that mental picture. “So, he’s in the garage, rolling around the floor, wailing and grabbing his one intact testicle and you’re inside eating takeout?”

  That got a reluctant giggle out of me. “I guess so. And you know the rest.”

  We pulled up in front of her building and she hit the opener and pulled her car into the underground garage and parked. We walked into her private elevator and rode in silence up to her condo and walked in the door.

  Lola lives in a reclaimed lace factory between Inman Park and Virginia Highlands that has been converted into loft condos. It is one of those kind of lofts that you see in design magazines, with exposed brick, and exposed air conditioning pipes and free standing walls and reclaimed hardwood floors from a 250-year old Amish barn in Pennsylvania. Lola owns the building, so her loft takes up the entire top floor.

  I guess that needs a little explaining. Lola’s family is one of the oldest families in Georgia. They were Jewish business owners who came over from Germany in the late 1700s right after Georgia was settled. They moved to Atlanta in the 1800s and were clothing merchants. When the Civil War came, or as my great-aunts called it, “the War of Northern Aggression,” they switched over to making uniforms, and after the war was over and a huge portion of Atlanta lay burned and in ruins, they started buying land and putting up buildings to rent. By the turn of the century, their family owned a huge portion of what is now downtown Atlanta, so as Atlanta grew, so did their wealth. Their money had been invested in a ton of already paid-for real estate and they were distributors of illegal alcohol during the 1920s, so unlike many wealthy people in America, when the stock market crashed, they came out just fine.

  Anyway, Lola’s parents and she and her brother are the only remaining family members, so when they sold most of the family holdings about ten or fifteen years ago, they each ended up with close to a billion dollars, after taxes. Lola promptly bought the old lace factory for next to nothing and had it overhauled. She had our friend Sara, who is a talented designer, design her loft and it is absolutely jaw-dropping. She has a rooftop pool with a terrace patio and an amazing view of the skyline, and built a separate pool and terrace behind the building on the ground floor for her other condo owners. The building was sold out before it was even completely built.

  Lola was born Stephanie Markowitz, but hated that name since birth. She staged some sort of hunger strike when she was twelve, refusing to eat until her parents let her change her name. After three weeks, and fifteen pounds that she couldn’t afford to lose, they finally gave in and Stepha
nie Markowitz became Lola Prentiss. Her mother was mortified, stating that the name Lola chose made her sound like some kind of stripper, which made Lola like it even better.

  Lola is a lawyer, specializing mostly in criminal law, because she likes being in court and she likes working for herself. She’s long and lanky, with blue eyes and olive skin, and is one of those women who always looks pulled together. She drives a red Mercedes convertible and an enormous Ford F-250 Super Duty truck, also red. I don’t get the whole truck thing, but she loves it, so that’s good enough for me.

  We’ve been best friends since we met at orientation our first day at UGA. She’d deny it, but she’s one of the most kind-hearted, generous people you’d ever meet and she’s my very best friend on earth. I’m so glad she’s on my side.

  Other than law, she has a real estate license, she’s part-owner of several local businesses, and she also does some real estate investing. She set up a foundation with a chunk of her money that she uses for charitable causes in and around Atlanta. She gives money to various pet rescues, the children’s hospital, and to small charities that she thinks actually make a difference. She singlehandedly funds a shelter for women who are trying to turn their lives around and funds medical and dental care for women who have left abusive situations. I can’t count how many random people have had their medical bills and tuition paid anonymously by Lola.

  She’s also been a huge help to all of us, her closest friends. Whenever we need a mortgage, we go to her, she has her lawyer draw up the papers, and we have our money. It’s great because we don’t have to pay all the bank charges, and it’s great for her because we insist on paying one point over standard in interest since there’s no hassle and costs, the loan is secured with real estate so her interests are protected, and she’s making more interest than she can make in a regular investment nowadays.