“You were telling me about Stackpole being, as you indelicately put it, in your therapist’s pants? What makes you think that?”
“For one thing, you had to see them in the same room together. Paula was all giggly and flirty. And then, well, there was this other thing.”
“Tell me.” Betsy dug in her pocketbook, pulled out a stick of gum, offered it to her nephew, then took one for herself.
“Okay, but you’re not gonna like it,” he warned.
* * *
When he’d finished recounting his story, Betsy sighed. “You’re right. I reallllly don’t like what you guys did.”
“Do you happen to know where Stackpole lives?” Wyatt asked eagerly.
“I have no idea. But I would imagine he probably lives somewhere over on Longboat.”
“How about his car? Do you know what kind of car he drives? Like I said, this was a Lexus.”
“Stackpole is as conservative as it comes, so whatever he drives, I’d be willing to bet it’s a big American-made land yacht.”
“Hey!” A light came into Wyatt’s eyes. “Do judges have assigned parking spaces? Here at the courthouse?”
“Probably,” Betsy said. “God forbid a judge might have to drive around and hunt for a parking spot like the average Joe.”
She sighed. “I suppose you want me to swing through the county parking deck to check this out?”
Wyatt leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Did I ever mention that you’re my favorite aunt?”
“I’m your only aunt,” Betsy said. But she started the car and went on the prowl.
29
Transformations and Dirty Laundry
Dear Readers: If you’ve managed to follow me over here to my new blog, TrueGrace, from my former blog, you know that my personal life has been dealt some, uh, “challenges” lately. My marriage came off the rails in a fairly spectacular way, I’ve left my husband and lost my home, and now my former blog has been co-opted by my estranged husband and my former assistant. It sounds like it should be a funny story, but unfortunately there’s no punch line.
Somebody—and I have a good guess who that is—has been sabotaging me professionally, wiping out my blog posts, leaving nasty comments falsely attributed to me on other blogs, and just generally smearing my good name in the blogosphere. I won’t make any accusations, but I would like to assure all my readers, and other bloggers, that I have never and would never engage in such scurrilous behavior.
On a positive note, my life these days is a clean slate. And I have an exciting new project to share with you! Over these next few weeks and months I hope you’ll follow along as I rehab, restore, and redecorate a wonderful original 1920s cottage.
Mandevilla Manor, as I call it, is a classic example of a vernacular Florida cracker cottage. Built of heart pine on a raised cinderblock foundation, it has the original pine board and batten walls, oak floors, and an airy screened porch.
I discovered this diamond in the rough when I was out for a morning run recently. I noticed a huge pile of trash sitting on a curb, which meant a house was being cleaned out. As I watched, a gentleman dragged a fabulous 1940s rattan sofa to the curb. When I struck up a conversation with Arthur, who turned out to be the landlord, I learned that his deadbeat tenants had vacated the house after thoroughly trashing it.
The house has been in Arthur’s family for three generations, and he was disheartened by all the work it would take to make it habitable again.
At Arthur’s invitation, I toured the house, and, although it was filthy and in terrible disrepair, I could easily see all the charm just waiting to be rediscovered. So Arthur and I worked out a deal. He has provided a tiny budget, and I will provide the vision—and the sweat—to bring Mandevilla Manor back to life.
This will be a true shoestring operation. I’ll be shopping at discount centers, thrift stores, and yard sales, and, yes, I’ll probably be doing some Dumpster diving and curb cruising. Since my budget is so small, I’ll be providing most of the girl power myself. As you can see from this first batch of before and “in process” photos, I’ve already torn down all the yellowing venetian blinds and ripped up all the nasty old carpet. The kitchen cabinet doors have been removed, and that ugly vinyl flooring is currently under attack. Watch this space for frequent updates!
One other thing. Meet my new BFF, Sweetie. She is an adorable poodle mix who was cruelly locked in a bedroom at the cottage and abandoned by her former owners. Can you believe she is the first dog I have ever owned? Sweetie is an expert at watch-dogging and cockroach wrangling, and she works cheap—just a little kibble and a lot of love. Life is full of twists and turns, dead ends and detours, isn’t it? Lose a husband, gain a dog, take a run, find a house to transform.
I can’t wait to see what the next chapter of my life will bring.
Grace uploaded all the before photos she’d taken of the little cottage, resizing and writing captions as she went. The last photo she posted was her favorite, Sweetie, posing on the front steps of the cottage, ears pricked up, tongue lolling, as though to say, “Hey, check me out!”
She held her breath and clicked the
PUBLISH
toggle on her new blog’s dashboard.
“Just try and hack me now, Ben,” she muttered to herself. She’d knocked off work on the cottage at noon, just so she could come home and re-create her blog. One more time. She’d chosen a new, easier platform, WordPress, and gone through every security move she could think of to foil any other attack on her blog, including running a malware program that would pinpoint and hopefully eliminate whatever method Ben had used to sabotage TrueGrace.com.
“Everything new” was her motto this time around. She didn’t have the graphics knowledge Ben had, and she sure didn’t have any of her former advertisers. But her new platform was clean and simple. The writing was brutally honest, and from the heart. The photos of Mandevilla Manor were clear, and Grace felt certain this project would resonate with all the homeowners, thrifters, and DIY-ers in the world, in a way her old blog never had. How many people, after all, could relate to a three-hundred-dollar Belgian linen tablecloth like the one that had adorned the dining room table at Sand Dollar Lane? Were there really all that many hostesses who wanted recipes calling for black truffle oil and imported pink sea salt?
After she published the blog post, she copied the URL and e-mailed it to every lifestyle blogger she’d ever read, explaining to them that Gracenotes had been taken over by Ben and apologizing, again, for any spurious negative comments they might have seen floating around on the Internet.
I’ve reinvented myself, and my blog. I’m TrueGrace now, and I would love it if you’d drop by and check out my new project. And since I’m starting from scratch, I’d be humbled if you saw fit to add me to your blog roll.
Grace lolled back on her bed pillows and closed her eyes. It was nearly six. She’d been hunched over her laptop for hours. She was tired and sore from being down on her hands and knees hacking away at the kitchen floor. She told herself she was in no mood for divorce-recovery group. And she really dreaded seeing Wyatt Keeler again after her clumsy and humiliating encounter with him after their last session.
She was surprised to find that she was looking forward to seeing the others. Camryn’s wisecracks and brutal honesty never failed to entertain her. Suzanne, quiet, vulnerable Suzanne, seemed close to revealing whatever secrets were tormenting her, and even that gold-plated gold digger Ashleigh was at least good for comic relief.
And yes, she was definitely curious about Paula after witnessing her encounter with the mystery Lexus driver. She got dressed and slipped Sweetie into her now-familiar tote bag, giving her a doggie treat to chew on and keep quiet.
* * *
A hastily scrawled note on the back of an envelope was taped to Dr. Paula Talbott-Sinclair’s office door.
DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY NO GROUP SESSION TONIGHT—PTS
“What’s going on?” Ashleigh Hartounian stuck her head out the window of her red BMW and called to Camryn Nobles, who was standing in front of the office door, fuming.
“No session tonight,” Camryn said.
“Whaaat?” Ashleigh scrambled out of her car and joined Camryn on the sidewalk in front of the office. She peered into the office window, but there was nothing to see.
“What are we looking at?” Grace asked, as she walked up to the two women.
“See for yourself.” Camryn gestured toward the note taped to the door.
“Huhh,” Grace said, frowning. “And there’s no sign of life inside the office?”
“None that we could see,” Ashleigh said. “So what do we do now?”
“We don’t spend three hundred dollars on Paula’s bullshit, at least tonight,” Camryn said.
“Oooh, that’s exactly how much the pair of shoes I’ve been stalking at Saks are,” Ashleigh said, rubbing her hands together in glee. She bowed in the direction of the door. “Thanks, Paula.”
Camryn adjusted the strap of her pocketbook on her shoulder. “Since I had to clear my calendar anyway, should we go somewhere and grab dinner?”
“Absolutely! I know this adorable new bistro at Saint Armand’s Key,” Ashleigh said. “If we hurry, we can still get in on happy hour martinis.”
Grace glanced at her watch. “What about Suzanne? Shouldn’t we wait for her? I’d feel bad if she came all the way over here just to turn around and go home again. She’s always so quiet, but I get the feeling we’re the only ones she can really talk to.”
“Although she hasn’t really told us anything at all,” Ashleigh pointed out. “I’m thinking whatever she did to get Stackpole to order her to therapy must have been really, really radical. And scary.”
“Scarier than writing on her husband’s mistress’s house and car with blood?” Camryn asked.
“I told you, it wasn’t blood. It was only red paint,” Ashleigh said. “Although now I kind of wish it had been blood, which would wash off, because I was in such a hurry when I did it, I grabbed oil-based paint. And since my lawyer is making me pay to have the bitch’s house and car repainted, it’s costing me a fortune.”
As they talked, a Prius rolled up to the office.
“Oh good, here’s Suzanne now,” Grace said. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”
“What about Wyatt?” Ashleigh asked. “We can’t leave him behind.”
“It’s five after,” Grace said. “Maybe he’s ditching us tonight.”
“Who’s ditching us?” Suzanne asked as she joined the group. “And why are we all standing out here on the sidewalk?”
“Paula’s got some kind of family emergency,” Grace said, pointing at the note on the door.
“Allegedly,” Camryn added. “We’re just talking about going out to dinner, since we’re all here anyway. Care to join us?”
Suzanne hesitated. “Well, since I’m here anyway … but what about Wyatt?”
Grace made a show of checking her watch again. “He’s probably not even coming tonight. Look, we better get going if we’re going to Saint Armand’s. You know how crowded it gets there.”
“Saint Armand’s?” Suzanne’s face fell. “I, well, never mind. You all go on without me. I’ll get something to eat on the way home.”
“No, Suzanne,” Grace protested. “We don’t have to go to Saint Armand’s, if you have a problem with that. We could go anywhere.”
“What’s your problem with Saint Armand’s?” Ashleigh asked. She was promptly given a not-so-subtle elbow in the ribs from Camryn.
“Why don’t we just go over to the Sandbox, like we usually do?” Camryn said. “I’m not really in the mood for a twelve-dollar martini tonight anyway. Your mom serves food, right, Grace?”
“Sure, anything you want, as long as it’s fried.”
“Then it’s settled,” Camryn said. “Suzanne, do you need a ride? I can drop you back here afterward.”
As they headed for their cars, Grace took a quick look around, mentally crossing her fingers and hoping Wyatt would not drive up as they were leaving.
When she got home, she bounded up the outside stairs at the Sandbox, unlocked her bedroom door, and opened the top of the tote bag. Sweetie climbed out, yawned widely, then hopped onto the bed.
“Good girl,” Grace laughed. “I’ll be back in a couple hours or so, and we’ll take a quick walk before bedtime.” She scratched the dog’s ears and earned a generous tail wag for her efforts.
* * *
“You’re early,” Rochelle said when Grace strolled into the bar. “But I already reserved your table. Where are the rest?”
“They’ll be along,” Grace said, moving toward the table. “Could you bring some menus when they get here? We’re going to have dinner.”
A few minutes later, Rochelle appeared with menus, a glass of wine for Grace, and a basket of popcorn for the middle of the table. “Did your therapist pass out on you again?”
“She wasn’t there,” Grace said, helping herself to a handful of popcorn. “There was a note on the door saying she’d had some kind of family emergency. Very cryptic. Very mysterious.”
* * *
“Does anybody really believe Paula had an emergency tonight?” Ashleigh speared a french fry with the tip of her fork and chewed slowly. “I mean, I find it hard to believe Paula even has a family. She’s just so … spacey. I mean, can you imagine having her for a mom? Or a wife?”
“It might not be something with a child or a husband,” Suzanne said timidly. “Maybe she has elderly parents. A friend I teach with has to use up every day of her sick leave and vacation time caring for her mother and her aunt, who both have dementia.”
Grace tore off a piece of her patty melt and chewed slowly. “I was thinking it could have something to do with Paula’s behavior last Wednesday night. She was definitely on edge.”
“Family emergency, my ass,” Camryn said. She squirted ketchup on her burger. “I knew all along there was something odd about that woman…” She broke off her sentence.
“Oh, my precious baby Jesus! Will you look at that boy’s poor face?”
They all turned to see what she was talking about. And that’s when they spotted a familiar-looking figure, threading his way through the maze of tables and chairs in their direction.