As she fastened it, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him, propped up in bed, watching her with amusement.
She gathered up their clothes and went out to the laundry room to load them into the washer. When she’d started the wash, she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of the chilled white wine. Through the open bedroom door she heard the sound of the shower starting.
Grace found a large bowl—white pottery, of course, in one of the kitchen cabinets. She dumped in the bag of boiled shrimp, cut up a lemon, and arranged the slices around the edge of the bowl, humming as she worked. She rinsed the green grapes and placed them on a cutting board, next to the loaf of French bread. There was no bread knife in the scarcely appointed drawer of kitchen implements, so she simply tore the bread in hunks and heaped them beside the grapes along with the cheeses she’d picked up in the deli department.
She heard the clicking of nails on the tile floor and looked down. Sweetie jumped up, her front paws scratching at Grace’s bare knees.
“Ow,” Grace said, leaning down to scratch the little dog’s silky ears. “We’ve got to get you to the groomers to get your nails trimmed. In the meantime, thanks for reminding me. I actually did bring some dinner for you, too.”
She poured dog food into one bowl and water into another and set them on the floor, then went back to her preparations, loading all the food, along with the wine bottle and two glasses, onto a large wicker tray.
Wyatt was just emerging from the bathroom as she walked into the bedroom. He had a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and, with a hand towel, he was rubbing his closely shaven head. His chest was muscled and his abs were not quite male-porn-star tight, but close enough. His skin gleamed darkly tan in contrast to the white towel. She stopped dead in her tracks, forgetting what she’d been about to say.
“You’re staring at me,” Wyatt pointed out.
“That’s not staring. That’s lusting.” Grace set the tray with the food on the nightstand. She wrapped her arms around his waist and backed him toward the bed.
He laughed, but offered no resistance.
When she had him right where she wanted him, she placed one hand on his chest and toppled him backward.
“You’re freaking gorgeous,” she said, looking down at him, spread-eagled across the bed. “I thought I liked you best dressed in your little Ranger Rick safari outfit, but that was because I’d never seen you naked. Or in a towel. I definitely like the towel best.”
She leaned forward and brushed her fingertips lightly across his chest. Wyatt caught her hand and pulled her down beside him. He pinned her arms to the bed and rolled until he was on top of her.
He frowned down at her. “That is not a Ranger Rick outfit. I’ll have you know it’s an official Jungle Jerry uniform. My grandmother had them made for everybody who used to work at the park. The one you’ve seen me wearing is the last one left. The rest are all in tatters, and that one is one rip away from the trash.”
She easily worked her hands free from his and ran her palms down his flanks. “You can never throw that uniform away,” Grace said sternly. “It’s what you were wearing the night we met.”
“Minus the parrot poop,” he reminded her. “But that wasn’t the first time we met. The first time was that day we both went before Stackpole. Remember? I have to confess, I have no idea what you were wearing either time. You looked so angry and intimidating, I was about to flee the premises.” He pointed at the tray. “Room service? I like your style.”
“There’s no dining room furniture yet,” she said. “And I still have to buy barstools for the island in the kitchen. And I don’t want to eat on that white sofa, not until I have a chance to spray it with a stain repellant. So … dinner in bed.”
She crawled onto the bed and propped herself up against the padded headboard. Wyatt handed her a glass of wine and took his own. He lightly clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to divorce camp.”
* * *
An hour later, they’d devoured every morsel of food on the tray and drained the bottle of wine. The towels were scattered about the floor, and after another longer, more leisurely session of lovemaking, they were spooned together on the big bed, Sweetie asleep on the floor beside them, moonlight pouring in through the open doors.
At some point, Grace was vaguely aware of her cell phone, which she’d left on the dresser, dinging softly to indicate an incoming voice mail, and then another, and then another. But she was still too drowsy, too warm and happy and overwhelmingly, bone-deep contented, to rouse herself and see what was going on in the rest of the world.
52
Driving back to the Sandbox the next morning, Sweetie sleeping on the front seat beside her, Grace finally took the time to check the voice mails from the night before.
The first, at 9:45
P.M.
, was from Rochelle.
“Grace! Those women from the other divorce camp sessions are here. They’re on their second round of free drinks. You need to get back here and talk to them.”
Shit! She’d totally forgotten her mother’s plan to leave free-drink coupons on the windshields of Paula’s other divorce campers. She couldn’t believe her mother’s crazy scheme had actually borne fruit.
The second call, ten minutes later, was also from her mother. “There must be seven or eight of those divorce women in here,” Rochelle said, her voice cracking, either from excitement or desperation, Grace didn’t know. “What the hell are you doing? Why aren’t you here? These women all have hollow legs. They’re drinking me broke!”
The third call was from Mitzi Stillwell, and she didn’t sound happy. “Grace? It’s ten fifteen in the evening. And I have a deposition at 8:00
A.M.
I just got a call from your mom, insisting I get over to the Sandbox, to talk to some women she claims have some important information about Stackpole and your therapist. I have a vague idea where you might be right now, but I’m going to claim attorney-client privilege and not divulge that to Rochelle. Instead, I’m going to get out of bed, get dressed, and drive over to that bar to check this out. All I can say is, this had better be good. And he better be good, too.”
* * *
Rochelle was practically beside herself by the time Grace walked into the bar, shortly before nine.
“Didn’t you get any of my messages last night?” her mother demanded. “I kept calling and calling!”
“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “Vandals broke into the cottage on Mandevilla sometime Wednesday night. It was a huge mess. They splattered paint all over the place and tried to burn it down. I kind of had my hands full. I had to try to get the paint off the floors and the appliances before it dried, and wash everything down. It was late by the time I got done, and I kind of just collapsed. I didn’t get your messages until this morning.”
“Vandals?” Rochelle asked. “Did you report it to the police?”
“Arthur did,” she replied. “He’s dealing with them.” She walked around to the back of the bar and poured herself a mug of coffee. She took a sip and seated herself on a barstool. “Did you find out anything from the women who showed up here last night?”
Rochelle took a sip of her own coffee. “I found out a lot of stuff I didn’t want to know, that’s for sure. Husbands who are cross-dressers. Husbands who like to hang out in public bathrooms and expose themselves to little boys. Husbands who like to watch their wives have sex with strangers…”
“Eewww,” Grace said. “Stop. I get the picture. I mean, did you find out anything about people who’ve been referred to Paula by Judge Stackpole?”
“Yup,” Rochelle said, looking immensely pleased with herself. She turned to the bar back and pulled a spiral-bound stenographer’s notebook from the drawer. “I took notes,” she added.
“I must have put twenty or thirty of those coupons in the cars in that therapist’s parking lot,” she continued. “I didn’t get over there ’til nearly eleven yesterday, and by that time, there were five women coming out of her office. I just handed them the coupons, and, since they were watching, I had to put them on the other cars. I got back over there after the lunch hour and hung around an hour, and another group of women, and one man, drove up and went into her office, so I put coupons on their cars. Then this big, burly, scary-looking guy came out of that tattoo place, and he wanted a coupon, so what could I do? I had to give him one. And then…”
“Mom,” Grace said gently. “You did a great job handing out the coupons. But could you just cut to the chase? How many people actually showed up here last night who said they were in Paula’s divorce camp?”
Rochelle didn’t like having her story interrupted. “I was getting to that. I guess there were nine women who came in last night over the course of the evening with those free-drink coupons. I was trying not to act too nosy, just, you know, talking them up, asking how their day was going. A couple of them got kind of snotty with me. Just drank their free drink and left, without even leaving me a tip! What kind of woman stiffs a bartender who’s giving her free drinks?”
“Probably one whose husband got to keep all the money in the divorce,” Grace said.
“Eventually, though, four women sat right here at the bar. I think they were all in the same divorce group, because they were calling each other by their first names and kind of joking about their action plans. One of them said her action plan was to find herself a new sugar daddy. So I kept pouring the free drinks and playing dumb. Finally, I asked the chattiest one, this gal named Ginger, how they all knew each other, and she said they were in the same divorce-recovery group. I told Ginger I was going through a divorce myself, and how did she find out about something like that. And she said it wasn’t her idea. The judge in her divorce case told her she
had
to go to a therapist. And not just any therapist. It had to be a therapist named Paula Talbott-Sinclair. That’s when I started calling you.”
She glared accusingly at her daughter. “And when you didn’t call me back, I called Mitzi Stillwell. And she came right away.”
“And that’s when things started getting really interesting.” A woman’s dry voice came from behind them. Grace swiveled around on her barstool. “Mitzi! I thought you had an early deposition.”
“I did, but when I got to the other attorney’s office, he asked if we could reschedule. So here I am.”
Rochelle took a mug and filled it with coffee before handing it over to the lawyer.
Mitzi sat down beside Grace. “I’m seriously thinking of hiring your mother as a private investigator. She’s
that
good at asking dumb questions and drawing people out without raising their suspicions.”
“That’s what happens after you’ve tended bar for thirty years,” Rochelle said modestly.
“What did you find out?” Grace begged. “Give me the nitty-gritty, please. I’m dying here.”
Mitzi nodded deferentially to Rochelle. “Go ahead.”
“All four of those gals, Ginger, Angie, Becky and Harriett, had your judge in their divorces,” Rochelle said.
“The Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.” Mitzi put in.
“Right. Harriett Porter, she was the oldest one, probably around my age, her husband owns a Cadillac dealership up north in Indiana, but they live down here full-time now,” Rochelle reported. “She discovered her husband was having himself a fling with a male stripper in Tampa. She waited for him outside that club, and when he came outside at two in the morning, she sort of lost her temper and accidentally ran over his Gucci loafers with her SRX Crossover.” Rochelle took a sip of coffee. “I’d never heard of such a car, but Harriett says it’s sort of a cross between a real Cadillac and an Escalade. Escalades are what all the rappers drive, Harriett says…”
“Mom!”
“Right,” Rochelle said, without missing a beat. “Stackpole threatened to throw Harriett in jail for aggravated assault, which her lawyer later told her was bullshit, because her husband did not want to have it get in the papers that he’d been run over in the parking lot at Jeepers Peepers. Instead, Stackpole told her she had to attend divorce-recovery group. With Paula.”
“And the rest of the women in the group?” Grace asked.
“Different stories, same endings,” Rochelle said smugly.
“By the time I got here last night, dear Harriett was fairly intoxicated,” Mitzi said. “Lovely lady, but I think she probably needs AA more than she needs divorce recovery. I sat with all the girls for a while; then, I volunteered to make sure Harriett got home safely.” She raised an eyebrow. “While she waits for her divorce to get settled, she’s living in an enormous rented mansion on Siesta Key. Before I walked her to her door, I casually asked how much she’s paying for her divorce-group sessions. Grace, she’s paying nine hundred dollars!”
“That’s three times as much as the rest of us,” Grace said.
“I know,” Mitzi said. “I was as stunned as you are. It didn’t seem to bother Harriett. I think she’s actually enjoying the sessions with Paula. She apparently hasn’t made a lot of friends since moving here. Before I told her good night, I asked for her lawyer’s name.” Mitzi sighed happily. “It’s Carlton Towne. He’s senior partner in my old law firm, and a prince of a guy. I put in a call to him first thing this morning.”
Rochelle pushed her steno notebook across the bar to Grace. “Here’s the name of the other gals in Harriett’s group. They even have a name for themselves. The Diva Divorcées. Cute, huh?”
Grace read the names scrawled on the notepad. “Are these their lawyers’ names, too?”
“You bet,” Rochelle said.
“I only know one of these lawyers personally,” Mitzi said, running her finger down the list of names. “And because we have to do this very quietly, with an abundance of caution, I’m not going to call them until absolutely necessary.”
Grace nodded. “Just what is it you’re planning to do?”
“First, I’m going to call Betsy Entwhistle and chat with her about Wyatt’s experience with Stackpole. Then, I’m hoping Carlton Towne will be as frank with me as his client was last night. Then, I think it’s time we talked to the other members of your group, Grace, to see what their lawyers have to say. If that goes well, I think we’ll probably have enough to file a complaint against Stackpole with the state Judicial Qualifications Committee.”