And One Last Thing... (5 page)

“So this is my fault?” I asked. “I should have seen this coming?”

“No! Well, of course, you did miss a lot of signs.” Mama said, flipping the pancakes onto a plate and coating them in butter and syrup. “But you didn’t know what to look for. Mike probably saw this growing up.”

“You knew about Mike’s daddy and the other women?”

Mama snorted. “Wynnie doesn’t suffer in silence nearly as well as she thinks she does,” she said. “I’m sorry your marriage turned out the way it did. You deserved better. I’m proud that you stood up for yourself, proud that you refused to just roll over and die. Though you could have done it a little less spectacularly.

“For now, I want you to focus on something besides getting back at Mike. I don’t want you to become one of the bitter women in my bridge club, counting every alimony penny as if making Mike suffer will make your life better.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. She sprinkled powdered sugar over my plate. “Oh, good, because I was just thinking, this isn’t sweet enough.”

She nudged the plate toward me. “Lacey, eat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said again, now dutifully forking a bite of pancakes. My stomach roiled at the thought of putting it in my mouth.

“Good girl,” she said, giving my forehead a smacking kiss. When she turned her back to wash the griddle, I wrapped several bites into a paper napkin and tossed them into the trash.

There was a knock at the door. My eyes widened. ‘Don’t answer it. It will be my mother-in-law with a tranq gun and two tickets to Cancün.”

Mama rolled her eyes and opened the door to find a well-dressed young man with an envelope in his hand.

“Lacey Terwilliger?” he asked, looking past Mama to me. He placed the envelope in my hand and slunk back out of striking range. “You’ve been served.”

Mama snatched the envelope out of my hand and tore it open. I padded back into the kitchen. “It’s probably his divorce countersuit, Mama. It’s nothing to get excited over.”

Mama exclaimed, “Lacey, he’s suing you for character defamation and libel!”

“Well, I can’t really say I’m surprised,” I snorted, taking the papers out of her hand.

“I can’t believe he’s actually suing you,” Mama said. “It’s just so… tacky.”

“Oh, let him,” I snorted. “Let him try to prove it’s not true.”

Holding up Mike’s countersuit, Mama deadpanned, “And look, he got a two-for-one deal with the process server. His lawsuit and the divorce papers. His grounds for divorce are abandonment!”

“Abandonment?” I said, taking the papers from her. “Oh, what fresh hell is this?”

“Well, you did leave the marital home without warning or taking half of what you deserve,” Mama said. “Honey, you might just want to calm down and reassess your situation. You don’t want to get into a big legal battle here. Mike’s like a cat.”

“Emotionally unavailable and fond of licking himself?” I asked.

“I was going to say he always lands on his feet.”

7 • Swimming Lessons with Sammy the Shark

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Despite agreeing to take my divorce case, Sammy “the Shark” Shackleton hadn’t had time to meet with me yet. His office, however, had time to cash my retainer check. Given our newfound financial relationship and Mike’s recently filed lawsuit, I had no qualms about calling Shackleton and Associates and asking for an emergency consultation.

I twitched a little as I waited in the lobby of the law office. Despite the elegant, minimalist décor, it still felt like the principal’s office. Here was the one person who would probably yell at me about the newsletter thing and his opinion would actually hold some sway. What if Mr. Shackleton decided that my case was too weird and sent me on my way? The closest decent divorce lawyer (that didn’t play golf with Mike’s daddy) I might be able to get would probably be in Louisville. And that meant my piddly ten thousand dollars cash reserve would be spent in no time.

It was almost disorienting to be outside of my parents’ house after hiding for so long. But frankly, the constant ringing of the phone was driving me crazy. The question was, what does one wear to meet with her attorney after ridiculing her husband’s sexual abilities in a public forum? I didn’t want to look like Betty Draper or the woman wronged. I wouldn’t show up wearing my typical khakis and twinsets. I wanted to look like someone else, someone braver and bolder. I put on a black tank top and a pair of my skinny jeans, which fit better than ever thanks to my stomach churning for the last three days.

Mama suggested that she come to the meeting with me, but somehow I didn’t think bringing my mommy would reinforce my stance as a responsible, emotionally mature, non-insane person. I twisted my purse strap round and around my fingers, staring at the clock. Shackleton was running five minutes late.

A young woman clipped through the reception area, wearing a crisp gray pantsuit and shuffling through several files.

“Excuse me, do you know when Mr. Shackleton will be ready to see me?” I asked in my polite-customer tone. “I’m a little anxious.”

The woman’s lip twitched. “Aren’t we all? Why don’t I take you back and I’ll see if I can find him for you.”

I followed her into the surprisingly light and airy office marked “S. Shackleton, Attorney-at-Law” and quirked an eyebrow as she circled the desk and sat in her boss’s chair. She extended her hand over the desk and shook mine. “Samantha Shackleton.”

I wouldn’t have had any idea this woman was a lawyer, not because of any preconceived sexist notions, but because she looked nowhere near old enough to have attended college, much less law school. Samantha had sharp aquamarine eyes and a long nose, set in a face completely devoid of makeup. Her skin was deeply tanned in that genuinely healthy way, like she’d spent all weekend hiking. She looked like she’d just walked out of an advertisement for trail mix.

“Well, I am deeply, deeply embarrassed,” I said, chewing my lip.

“So I take it you didn’t put a lot of research into your quest for a divorce attorney?” she asked.

My cheeks flushed hot. “I’m so sorry. All I’ve heard about you is that you got Mimi Reed’s husband’s… well, you know.”

“The junk in the mayonnaise jar story?” she asked, grinning. “Well, that’s been slightly exaggerated in the telling and retelling. And I can’t really comment on it, because I protect my clients’ privacy, as I will, of course, protect yours. Let’s just say that if your wife supports you and cares for you while you recover from testicular implant surgery - and pays for the surgery using a recent inheritance - you shouldn’t leave her for your nurse.”

I gasped. “She really did take them back?”

“I can’t really say,” she said while nodding. “So let’s get down to business.”

She opened my file. “Well, you’re probably one of the more interesting clients to walk through that door, mayonnaise jars aside,” she observed drily. “I think you should know that I’ve received forwarded versions of your e-mail from a dozen or so of my colleagues under the heading of, ‘Well, at least, we’re not representing her’ or similar.”

“So I’ve gone viral?” I asked. “Great.”

“Of course, they didn’t realize that I am representing you. I’m not afraid of the challenge, Lacey. Believe it or not, you’re not my first client to do something rash when faced with the betrayal of a spouse. I have a prepared speech I give to these clients; would you like to hear it?”

“I don’t feel I’m in a position to refuse.”

She cleared her throat and in a professional monotone, she said, “I understand that you are very upset. It’s natural to feel hurt and betrayed when your spouse has left you for someone else. In the heat of the moment we sometimes do and say things that we normally wouldn’t. If you’d shown your e-mail to my mother, she would have told you to put it in a drawer for three days and then decide whether you wanted to send it. Obviously, the genie is out of the bottle now - … okay, I’m sorry. I’m breaking from protocol. I’ve had clients change their outgoing messages to invite callers to press two to leave messages for ‘the cheating bastard.’ I even had one client start a blog called TheMillionWaysKevinlsAnAsshole.com. But I’ve never had someone abuse the internet the way you did. I have to ask, what the hell were you thinking?”

I probably deserved much worse than that, so I took her bemused, exasperated tone with a grain of salt. “I may have gone a little too far, comparing Beebee to an Oompa Loompa,” I conceded. “I can’t say thinking had a lot to do with it. Mostly it was a reaction fueled by rage. Can I claim diminished mental capacity?”

“Well, you certainly deserve it more than most of my clients, but I don’t think that would help. Professionally required scolding aside, I did think it was pretty funny. Just don’t ever, ever do it again. At least, don’t put your name on it, if you do. You’re just inviting threats to your legal/financial/physical health.”

I handed her a file folder containing copies of Mike and Beebee’s e-mails and photos from Mike’s inbox. “It was just a onetime thing, I’m sure. Do you need me to sign something to that effect …?”

Samantha quirked her lips. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Well, the good news is that there is precedence for judges, as in the case of the angry blogging ex-wife, to rule that these types of publications are protected by the First Amendment.”

“That’s good!” I exclaimed, letting out a shaky, relieved breath.

“Of course, in other cases, the courts have stated that these communications are inappropriate and the author should, in one judge’s words, ‘Shut the hell up and show some class.”

“That’s bad.”

She cleared her throat. “Now, on to the questions I ask every client: You need to decide how far you want to go. Do you want to get even? Do you want to recover some dignity? Or do you want to slink away and hope we can depend on the common sense of the court and win the defamation suit?”

“Can I have some of column A and a little of column B? I don’t really want to skin him,” I admitted. “I just want what’s fair. Hell, half the stuff in that house, even the house, I don’t want it. I don’t want the condo. I don’t want the cars or the bass boat. And I could care less if he ends up paying me alimony. In fact, I don’t think I want monthly contact with him, even if it’s just through a check. I just want - I want enough to start over, to get on with my life.”

Samantha smiled. “I take it you just happen to have detailed financial records for the entirety of your marriage?”

“Um, no. I know this is going to sound pretty cliché, but Mike took care of all of our finances. He was an accountant. I trusted him. It just made sense at the time.”

“Let me guess, when it came to loans, bills, and tax returns, you just signed where he told you to?”

I nodded, staring at the twisting hands in my lap.

“Don’t worry about the records, Lacey. The discovery process makes my clerk feel useful. The first thing we’re going to do is make sure that Mike’s house is in order, that there’s nothing illegal or unethical going on. And if he’s up to something illegal or unethical, we’ll do what we can to make sure you aren’t liable for any of it. Then we use it as leverage.”

I chewed my lip as I considered that. “As much as I would relish the idea of Mike showering with his back against a prison wall, I don’t think you’re going to find anything but aboveboard business with Mike. He’s ambitious and materialistic, but also dull as a box of mud and straight as an arrow. Frankly, I didn’t think he had the guile to carry off an affair.”

“You’d be surprised,” Samantha said.

“I’d really rather not be surprised again,” I muttered.

“The fun part is that we can ask for every piece of financial information Mike has handled since your wedding. You have every right to see it and searching for it will be a gigantic pain in the ass for Mike and his lawyer. And if you want to have some real fun, we can demand that every cent Mike spent ‘entertaining’ Beebee be paid back to the marital pot. We might even get the judge to consider her salary part of his maintenance of the affair. We’ll have my associate go over every receipt and credit card charge, pick out all expenditures, like two thousand dollars spent at a jewelry store or three days at a resort. If you don’t remember getting a diamond anklet or a weekend getaway in Hot Springs, then we assume that Mike spent that money on Beebee, and not, say, his mom.”

“Yes, let’s do that, please. But you should know his mom is also a strong possibility.”

“Ew.”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

We talked for another hour or so and I found it oddly therapeutic, even if Samantha mostly kept her head down to take a copious amount of notes. She nodded. She grunted. She occasionally muttered something in Latin.

We finally came to the subject of the newsletter, how I’d found the information, how I’d written it. When I told her I’d forwarded the actual messages to my account, her smile was a mile wide. Samantha assured me that even if Mike had deleted the e-mails from his account, that her forensic computer analyst would be able to prove the messages were sent from Mike’s IP address at work, where I didn’t have access.

Sammy went on to explain that the lawsuit would be handled separately, but she would handle both cases. Apparently, in the course of her divorce court experience, she’d handled quite a few defamation suits - which made me feel a little bit better. She assured me that as long as information in the newsletter was proven to be true, there was nothing the court could do to prevent the publication or punish the author.

“We shouldn’t have a problem then, because it was all true,” I told her. “Everything I wrote was based on finding those e-mails. Wouldn’t the pictures alone be enough to just cancel this whole lawsuit thing?”

“Well, no, you would have to respond to the suit either way, particularly since Mike and Beebee’s complaint states that the e-mails were spam and Mike has no idea who they’re from. They’re claiming that the woman in the photos isn’t Beebee, that this is a horrible case of a nosy wife who found bad information while snooping and wreaked havoc with it. They’re saying you’ve defamed both of their characters, have damaged Mike’s reputation/ earning potential, and harmed Beebee’s standing in the community.”

“Oh, what standing in the community?” I snorted. I opened the file folder with the e-mailed photos. “Besides, you can tell it’s Beebee, just look at this…”

I sifted through the photos, tamping down the flare of rage ignited by seeing them again. But as I thumbed through, I realized that none of the pictures showed Beebee’s face. I gasped. How could I not have realized that I never saw her face?

“Crap,” I moaned.

“Exactly,” she said. “These pictures are more anatomical in nature.”

There were no face shots.

“He’s going to win, isn’t he?” I sat back, deflated. For the first time, I realized that as scared as I was, up until that moment I sincerely believed that I was going to come out of this unscathed. My marriage couldn’t be saved, obviously, but I honestly thought I would be able to emerge from this ordeal able to carry on a normal, productive, not-working-as-a-french-fry-technician life. I wasn’t aware I was even capable of that kind of optimism, so I wasn’t willing to let it die just yet. “Wait!” I snatched up one of the pictures. “Look! The bumblebee tattoo. Beebee has a bumblebee tattoo on her inner thigh. Can you subpoena her thigh?”

“Not as part of the divorce action, but to defend you from the lawsuit, yes. We can ask for an inspection of her thighs as proof of identity,” Sam said, examining the photo. “That’s a good catch on the tattoo. Even if she tried to remove it before the suit goes to court, it would still show up.

“But for now, do me a favor,” she said. “From this point on we need you to appear to be the brokenhearted discarded wife, not the angry, possibly crazy, woman scorned. Do not discuss the newsletter with large groups of people. If you see Mike or Beebee in public, do not cause an ugly scene. Do not call, e-mail, write letters to, or otherwise contact Mike or Beebee without contacting me first to see if it’s a good idea. When you do appear in public, try to look sort of, well, beaten and tragic.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult, thank you.”

“In fact, if you’re comfortable with therapy, you might start seeing a counselor,” she suggested. “It will help establish the psychological trauma Mike has inflicted on you. Since you obviously enjoy writing, it would also help if you started a journal to document your hellish, slow recovery from said trauma. How is your current financial situation? How are you getting by day to day?”

I shrugged. “Actually, it’s okay. I don’t have a lot of living expenses. I’m staying with my parents, which I don’t think can last much longer. I’ll probably have to find an apartment soon. But I have a little savings cushion. If the case drags out, I have some investments I can cash in if I need to.”

“I’ll be honest, you’re probably going to need to,” she told me, pinning me with those frank seawater eyes. “It all depends on how contentious negotiations are going to be. And I doubt Mike is going to be forthcoming or cooperative with us. I’ve had some cases that only took sixty days. Then again, I’m still involved in negotiating a canine custody agreement that has dragged a divorce settlement out for almost three years.”