And One Last Thing... (19 page)

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

“Well, I better get going,” he said. “I promised the missus a corn dog. Don’t want her getting cranky with me.”

“Tell her I said hello,” I said. “See you around, Mr. Borchard.”

“I’ll call you next week. We’ll talk about those improvements.”

“I will.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Monroe said, turning on me the minute Mr. Borchard was out of earshot.

“You’re right, I should have told you a long time ago. I hope one day to have a relationship based on foods on a stick, just like the Borchards.”

Monroe quirked his lips. “Were you going to tell me you were thinking about staying?”

“I haven’t made any definite decisions,” I told him. “I want to be prepared, just in case. It’s not a big deal.”

“For you, maybe, but what happens to me when my winter girlfriend shows up?”

“Nice,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Is this the sort of charm that drew her to you like a moth to a flame?”

“No, I think it’s my resemblance to Hugh Jackman.”

I gave him my patented confused look.

“You talk in your sleep sometimes,” he said, shrugging.

“Sonofa -”

“Oh, it’s adorable. And you say some other very interesting and dirty things. Where do you think I get half my ideas?”

“Well, this is weird,” I muttered.

“No, this is us out in the world,” he said. “Plagues and pestilence have yet to pour forth from the sky. I haven’t forgotten your name or turned into a toad. We have managed to have a real date out in public.”

“This is not a date,” I told him. When his brow furrowed,

I quickly said, “I’m wearing a baseball cap. I’m eating from a brown paper bag.”

He grinned. “You’re right. It won’t be a date until we have funnel cake.”

“No, it won’t be a date until you demonstrate your manliness by winning me something plush and inanimate through ring-toss ability.”

“Well, let’s go make it a date, then,” he said, slipping his arm around my waist and leading me to the games.

“I have news for you,” I told him. “You just became the girl in this relationship.”

23 • The Bottom Line of Booty Calls

************************************************************************************************

Mike’s lawyer, Bill Bodine, finally ran out of legal reasons for not showing Samantha the credit card records she’d demanded. I did not want to know what sort of unholy power she’d called upon to obtain these records. I was just glad she was on my side.

“Do you really want to see this?” Samantha asked, sliding the manila envelope across the desk. “This can prove upsetting for a lot of people.”

“I can handle it,” I promised, taking a seat on her couch.

“Well, just in case…” she paused and reached into a mini-fridge and pulled out a pint of Häagen-Dazs and an airline-size bottle of vodka. “Pick your poison.”

At the sight of my raised eyebrows, she said, “This is not my first rodeo.”

I refused the liquor and the ice cream, instead ripping open the envelope to survey the neatly typed pages.

True to Sam’s estimation, there were several charges to Leo Goote’s jewelry store. No wonder Leo had seemed sorry for me. He knew exactly how much Mike had spent on his mistress. Mike had bought a tennis bracelet, a gold locket, and several crystal figurines, none of which I received.

“Sadly, one of these charges is for me,” I told her, taking a little red pen and crossing it off the list. “Mike had my engagement ring cleaned and inspected six months ago, for insurance purposes. But everything else, he bought for Beebee. In fact, I’m pretty sure I admired that locket when I stopped in at the office a few months ago. She said it was a gift and I said she was lucky to have someone who was so thoughtful”

“Ow,” Samantha said, wincing.

I sighed. “I think I’ll take that ice cream now.”

Samantha put a spoon in my outstretched hand and served the ice cream with a flourish. She took out a pint of coffee ice cream for herself, kicked off her rather stylish tan heels, and joined me on the couch. She put her feet up on the coffee table, dug her spoon into the ice cream and stayed silent as I read over the charges.

Being anesthetized by mocha chip didn’t quite dull the shock of seeing thirty pages of itemized adultery expenses. Beebee was definitely a high-maintenance girlfriend. There were, of course, several charges to Cherry’s floral shop, at least once a month for the last year. There were receipts to restaurants outside of town on nights when Mike was supposedly attending Lions Club meetings. Some of the places Mike hadn’t even taken me, but all of them were romantic, out-of-the way restaurants where people went on special occasions.

“I had no idea he was spending this much,” I said, shaking my head.

“Well, having an affair is expensive,” Samantha said. “Generally, you’re trying to impress your girlfriend. You’re insecure about your ability to hold on to a younger woman -”

“Watch it,” I warned.

Samantha grinned cheekily, dishing up more ice cream. “You wine her, you dine her. You buy her special little presents for no reason You end up treating her better than you’re treating your spouse. And you feel guilty, so you end up throwing a little money your spouse’s way, too.”

“Not really, I mean, Mike gave me flowers once a couple of months back, but - oh, crap.” For Valentine’s Day, Mike had given me a silver bracelet with a monogrammed heart charm, a rare departure from his usual “practical gift” MO. I checked the page listing February expenses and saw that Mike had purchased two of them from Leo Goote. So basically, he purchased something nice for Beebee for Valentine’s Day and threw me a bone by doubling the order. “I think I’m going to need the vodka, too, Sam.”

“I told you, this part can be upsetting,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah, make with the liquor, woman.”

“I see those lovely manners diminish proportionate to the amount of sugar you consume.”

“Oh, look, he took her on a tour of the Missouri wine country,” I said, tilting my head as I held up the April page. “He told me he was going to a tax seminar in Nashville.”

“I wasn’t aware Missouri has a wine country”

“Well, it does, and it’s home to the Dew Drop Inn, which I’m guessing is some sort of bed-and-breakfast.”

Samantha wrinkled her nose. “Gag. Some people have no sense of irony.”

“Or decency.” I muttered. “Seriously, hasn’t he ever heard of using cash?”

“Well, you can’t get the frequent-flier miles that way,” she said. When my eyes went wide, she shrugged. “I’ve been at this awhile. I’ve heard every possible rationalization you could think of.”

I tried and failed to tamp down the now-familiar little flashes of anger and embarrassment. Why was I mad? I knew that he’d taken her out, bought her things, sent her flowers. Why was I so pissed off now that I knew exactly what he’d bought her?

Samantha cracked open the vodka and poured a shot into each of our cartons. When I made a face, she told me, “Think of it as a flavored White Russian.”

“Speaking of rationalizations,” I muttered.

“Look, I’ve noticed that - while you have a healthy sense of justice when provoked - you have a tendency to kick yourself pretty hard. You’re going through perfectly normal stages, blaming yourself for what you didn’t see. You’re kicking your own ass for taking the easier route in your marriage, which is normal. Most people take the easy route. That’s why it’s called the easy route. If it appeals to your sense of self-flagellation, you’re paying for it now. So learn your lesson, spank your inner child, and let it go.”

After offering me a few more platitudes, Samantha said she would request a mediation session with Mike’s lawyer sometime over the next month.

“Mediation sounds a little scary” I admitted.

“Oh, it’s no big deal. Your lawyers get together and talk about what your issues are.”

“I think it should be abundantly clear what my issues are,” I deadpanned.

“Ha, ha, Jokey Jokemaker. I mean, your financial issues, division of property, maintenance, if you and Mike had kids -”

“Let’s not even joke about that.”

“If you’d had kids, we would discuss visitation and child support. It’s basically a starting-off point for negotiations. Most cases actually resolve themselves in mediation. Depending on

Mike’s shame level, we might be able to wrap it up before we go to trial.”

“Mike has no shame.”

“Well, in that case, we’ll be scheduling a pretrial conference sometime in the next six months.”

“Six months?!” I cried. “I can’t be married to Mike for another six months. I don’t want to be married to Mike for six more minutes. He’s moved another woman into our house, Sam. Isn’t there some sort of special asshole divorce law exception that could speed the process along?”

“I’ll try to make it as quick as possible, Lace, but you don’t want to rush it. We’re going to need time to iron out a financial settlement that works the first time. It’s not like we can go back and ask for more money if you figure out you can’t live on what we get. Have you thought about what you’re going to do for money after the divorce is final?”

“Oh, you mean, like a job?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s what the large majority of the population does for money.”

“I have thought about it. This probably won’t make you happy, but I have the chance to do some writing, the kind of writing I have some experience at, for a living. And it would be enough money for me to live on, but it might mean that I would be retaining your services for a while longer.”

“So that explains the e-mails Maya Drake has been sending me.” Realization spread across Samantha’s features. “Oh, not good.”

I shrugged. “Apparently there’s a lot of money to be made in the revenge business.”

“Lacey, let me look around. You have other options. Give me a few more weeks,” she said. “If I don’t have you single and gainfully employed within a month, well, I don’t know what to offer you. Just take some time and make the right choice before you do anything drastic… again.”

******

That Saturday I woke up in Monroe’s bed, which was becoming a common occurrence that neither of us commented on. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other resting on my stomach. This was his deep sleep before the dawn position and meant he would be in a near coma for at least another hour. Even though I had a few things in Monroe’s closet, I slipped into one of his LPD T-shirts and a pair of panties. I shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee and tried to remember whether we had the makings for chocolate chip pancakes.

Monroe’s coffeemaker was one of those old-fashioned percolators that made more noise than a jet engine. As the water hissed and roared, I wondered how the hell he was able to sleep through it. I thought cops were supposed to be hyper-vigilant and jump out of bed at the slightest noise. But clearly, if we ever had a break-in after bedtime, I was going to have to face off the burglar on my own.

I sat at the kitchen table and read over Monroe’s latest revisions to Two-Seven-Zero. This book was definitely funnier than his previous ventures, I mused as I sipped that ambrosial first cup of coffee. I liked to think I had something to do with his getting in touch with his inner smart-ass, particularly the creation of the sassy, smart female police dispatcher who mocked the main character through most of the book.

I’d just poured myself a second cup and was taking another back to bed for Monroe when I heard the tumblers of the front-door lock turn. I turned to see an older couple come through the door with grocery bags, the wife singing “Happy Birthday” in an exaggerated falsetto. I shrieked, flailing one arm, sending boiling hot coffee splashing across my chest.

“Ow! Shit! Shit!” I hissed, pulling the scalding shirt away from my body.

And that’s when I remembered I wasn’t wearing any pants.

I yelped, dropping both cups and pulling the hem of my shirt as low as it would go.

“Lacey, what’s going on?” Monroe ran into the living room, pulling on a pair of sweats, to find me doing the third-degree-burn dance half naked in his living room while June and Ward Cleaver: The Golden Years looked on.

“We came to surprise you for your birthday,” the woman said weakly. “Surprise…”

Monroe skidded to a stop in front of me. He looked from the couple to me, and back again. “Urn…”

“Well, son, aren’t you going to introduce us?” the man asked, smirking.

Of course, now that I’d seen the smirk, I knew. I should have recognized the man as Monroe’s father right away.

“Mom, Dad, this is Lacey Vernon, my neighbor. Lacey, Doctors Frank and Janice Monroe.”

Two tall, dark-haired men in their early thirties appeared in the doorway, both of them cleaner cut versions of Monroe. I’d seen them in the photo he kept on his bookshelves. These were Monroe’s brothers.

Shit.

“Nice,” the younger one said, offering his own smug grin as he took in my bare, coffee-splattered legs.

I straightened, pulling the T-shirt as far down over my thighs as I could as I backed into the bedroom. I smiled way too brightly, my cheeks hot and flushed. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to… go die of embarrassment.”

“Thanks a lot, guys,” I heard Monroe say as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I pressed a cold washcloth over the reddened skin on my chest. And then I put another on my cheeks. I leaned my head back against the bathroom wall and murmured, “Lord, I know we haven’t talked in a while. I’m Lacey Terwilliger, soon-to-be just Lacey Vernon. You’ve smote me pretty good this year, what with the cheating spouse and the public humiliation and all, so if you could just move on to someone else, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Lacey,” Monroe said, appearing at the bathroom door. “I am so sorry. I had no idea they were coming. Their schedules are so crazy, I usually have at least two weeks’ notice.”

“Why can’t I meet anyone in your family while wearing pants?”

He shrugged. “I met you without pants and I like you just fine.”

“Not helping.”

“You have to admit, it’s a little funny,” he said, chuckling. “I mean, of all the ways they could have met you. You’re going to look back at this and…” He stopped that conversational train wreck in its tracks when I scowled at him. “You’re right. It’s too soon to even think about laughing. Levity is dead to me.”

I turned toward him, leaning against the bathroom counter and burying my face in my hands. “Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he said, lifting me up on the counter and wrapping his arms around me. “It’s not that bad.”

I groaned into his chest.

“It was memorable,” he offered, reaching around me to run the washcloth under the tap. He wiped the cool cloth down my legs, clearing away the sticky drying coffee. He swirled it up over my knees, up my thighs, sweeping between my legs. I moaned a little, and he captured the sound with his mouth. He hitched my newly clean legs over his hips and ground against me.

“I know a way to make you feel better,” he murmured against my lips as he slowly slid the damp shirt up my body. I broke away from his kiss, and pushed him halfheartedly.

“I am not doing this with your whole family in the living room,” I told him, finally able to laugh. “They already think I’m some trampy T-shirt thief.”

“Yes, so, the damage is done. Might as well take advantage.” He ghosted his fingers across my breasts, gently tweaking the nipples. My ankles flexed around his hips, pulling him closer.

“You’re insane!” I laughed, as he nuzzled my neck. He cradled my cooling cheeks in his palms, and kissed me tenderly I smiled up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“Because I’m not a woman?”

“Seriously, this is important stuff. Birthdays, food allergies, the location of tattoos I may have missed so far.”

Monroe shrugged, lacing his fingers through mine. “I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. And I know you, Lace, me casually dropping it into conversation would make you think you had to make a fuss.”

“You’re right. Your whole family surprising me while I’m running through the living room commando, that’s the very definition of low-key.”

“If I agree that I should have told you, can I unwrap my present?” he asked as he pulled the shirt over my head.