Ladies' Night (36 page)

“Please, Dad, please, please, please?” Bo was hopping up and down.

“I guess that would be okay,” Wyatt said. “But not too much later, right, buddy? We’ve got a big game tomorrow, and your granddad is making you pancakes in the morning.”

“Don’t worry, the assistant coach is not gonna risk letting her star catcher suffer from sleep deprivation,” Anna said.

“Let me give you some money to pay for Bo’s golf,” Wyatt said, half standing to get to his wallet.

“Not necessary. I’ve got buy-one, get-one coupons,” Anna said. “Grace, it was nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Grace said.

Anna leaned over and put her head next to Wyatt’s. “She’s cute, dude,” she said in a stage whisper. “Classy, too. Don’t screw this up, ’kay?”

37

“Sorry about that,” Wyatt said, when they were alone again. “Anna’s worried about my love life. She keeps trying to get me ‘back in the game,’ as she calls it. But she’s about as subtle as a slap in the face.”

“You haven’t dated at all since your split?” Grace asked.

“Me? The only other woman in my life besides Anna right now is Joyce Barrett.”

“Who’s she?”

“Our eighty-year-old bookkeeper slash office manager. I love Miss Joyce to pieces, but I seriously doubt she’s interested in starting a new relationship.”

As the waitress passed by, he gestured to her to bring the check. “It’s still another hour ’til sunset, and Bo won’t be back from putt-putt ’til after eight. Would you like to go someplace else for a drink? Or just take a walk on the beach?”

“Sweetie would probably love a stroll on the beach. And so would I,” she said.

*   *   *

Grace stepped out of her sandals and stuck them in the back pocket of her pants, and after a moment of hesitation, Wyatt tied the laces of his Top-Siders together and slung them over his shoulder. They walked through the powdery white sand to the shoreline, and Grace stood and let the mild breeze blow through her hair. They walked for a while, close, but not touching.

The bright blue sky gradually darkened to deeper layers of dark blue, violet, silver, and then ochre and pink. The wind began to whip whitecaps on the incoming waves. Families lingered on beach blankets with coolers of drinks, radios playing softly. Closer to the dunes, at every pathway from the road, knots of people stood beneath the clumps of Australian pines, sea oats, and beach myrtle, waiting for the sundown ritual to begin.

The county had an ordinance against dogs on the beach, but Sweetie stayed close to Grace’s side, and, as if by tacit agreement, other law-breaking dog walkers passed by and nodded in a conspiracy of silence.

The sun dipped lower, glowing gold, and when they came to a dune walk-over with an empty bench, they sat down to watch the show. Sweetie hopped up onto Grace’s lap, and Wyatt stretched his arm across the back of the bench; when his hand brushed the bare skin of her shoulder, she smiled to herself.

She leaned back, resting her head against his arm, and the warmth of his skin on hers felt familiar and exciting at the same time.

“Look,” Wyatt said, pointing with his free arm. Out in the waves, the graceful gray backs of a pod of dolphins curved through the water. There were four or five larger ones and three or four smaller ones. “Some moms and some calves,” he said.

“I’ve been watching dolphins in the gulf and the bay my whole life,” Grace said. “But it never gets old. I used to love it when we’d go out on my dad’s boat and they’d follow us, waiting for us to throw in some bait or a too-small fish.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said with a sigh. “Kind of reminds you why you live here, doesn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The sun was sinking lower and the clouds above growing purple and midnight blue. “You ever see the green flash?” he asked, his hand grazing her shoulder.

“You mean the thing that happens the moment the sun slips below the horizon? Yes. We used to make a big ceremony out of it when I was growing up. My dad had a cowbell he’d ring at that exact moment.”

But there was no green flash tonight, just another bright yellow glow, and then striations of deepening colors.

“This is nice,” Grace said, snuggling back against his arm as the air grew cooler. She leaned against his chest, inhaling his clean, woodsy scent, feeling his warmth seep into her bare shoulders.

“You cold?” He wrapped both arms around her. “We could go back to the car.”

Grace shook her head. She wondered if he would ever get up the nerve to kiss her again. Or if she would have to be the one to initiate things. In the meantime, she closed her eyes and told herself to enjoy the moment.

At some point, she must have enjoyed the moment so long that she dozed off. When her eyes fluttered open, it was dark.

She sat up with a start.

“What?” Wyatt asked. “You finished your nap?”

She yawned and laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working so hard every night, I fall asleep as soon as the sun goes down. She glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet, grabbing Wyatt’s hand and pulling him up, too. “Come on, Cinderfella. I regret to remind you that at eight o’clock, you turn into a dad again.”

He groaned. “I’ll text Anna, tell her to play another round of putt-putt. On me. That’ll give us another hour, at least.”

“No way. She’ll think I’m seducing you.”

“Anna’s a hopeless romantic. She’d probably offer to get us a room.”

Grace sighed. “Bo’s expecting you to be home when Anna drops him off. I don’t want to be the one who causes you to break promises to your son.”

“I hate it when you talk sense,” Wyatt grumbled.

They walked hand in hand back down the beach, with Sweetie staying close at their heels. Wyatt stood awkwardly beside her car as she unlocked the door. She sensed his nervousness, and found it touching.

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “About that dating-reentry counseling you mentioned—maybe we could take a class together.”

38

At exactly 8:15
A.M.
Wyatt hopped out of his truck and dashed into the house on Mandevilla. He found Grace sitting on the floor in the back bedroom, taping off baseboards.

“Gotta run,” he said, setting Sweetie down beside her. “I promised Bo I’d throw him some extra batting practice before the game.”

“Okay,” she said. “How about if I just drop Sweetie off to you at the park later? Say six?”

He was halfway out the door, but he turned around, came back, and pulled to her feet. “I thought about what you said last night. Just before you left. You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

She smiled. “In a good way, right?”

“Absolutely. See you at six.” And then he was off again. A minute later, she ran out to the porch, hollered at him as he was getting into the truck. “I’ll bring dinner. What do you like?”

“If you bring it, I’ll like it.” He threw the truck into reverse and headed down the road.

*   *   *

She was still on the floor, barefoot, dressed in her messy, paint-spattered T-shirt and cutoffs, a bandanna tied over her hair, scooching along on her butt, painting the baseboards, when she heard footsteps in the living room. Maybe Bo’s T-ball game was over early? She turned expectantly.

J’Aimee stood in the doorway, looking down at her, eyes blazing with hostility.

Grace scrambled to her feet, dusting off her butt with both hands. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cool.

J’Aimee was dressed in all black, a sheer, sleeveless black chiffon midriff-baring top worn over a black bra, black skinny jeans, and high-heeled silver-studded black sandals with gladiator-wrapped ankles. With her jet-black dyed hair she looked like a refugee from a bondage flick.

Although J’Aimee was actually about Grace’s height, today, in the heels, she glared menacingly down at Grace.

“You think you’re pretty damn smart, don’t you,” J’Aimee said, poking Grace in the chest with her forefinger. “With those bullshit e-mails you sent my advertisers. Me, steal your content? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

J’Aimee’s breath was hot on her face. Grace was tempted to take a step backward, but instead stood her ground.

“Me? I’m the person who started Gracenotes. I’m the actual Grace. I’m the person who developed, cooked, photographed, and wrote that corn-crab chowder recipe you so blatantly lifted off my blog to pass off as your own work.”

“There are a million recipes for that soup floating around on the Internet,” J’Aimee said with a shrug.

“Ben managed to wipe out that post on my page, so I can’t prove it, of course,” Grace said calmly. “But I’ve got a new blogging platform for TrueGrace and a new protected password, and I’ve installed malware now, so tell him not to bother to try to mess with it. Also? I’ve started watermarking my photos with my TrueGrace logo, so you won’t be able to poach my photos anymore either.”

“Me? Poach your shit?” J’Aimee’s throaty laughter was harsh. “Who are you kidding?”

She took a step backward, her eyes sweeping disdainfully over the room. “So this is your exciting new project? This
shack
?” Abruptly, she turned and walked out of the room, her high heels clacking sharply on the wood floors.

J’Aimee walked into the kitchen, took in the beat-up, doorless cupboards; the gaping spaces where appliances should have stood; the bare, glue-spattered plywood floors. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Just as quickly, she walked into the hallway, peered into the bedroom and then the single bathroom with its outdated tile and filthy tub and toilet.

“You’re pathetic, Grace,” J’Aimee said, her eyes glittering with malice. “You are desperate and pathetic, like this house. You put yourself out there to all the world on the Internet as this all-knowing authority. Miss Know-It-All: the perfect designer, entertainer, gourmet cook…”

J’Aimee admired her own reflection in the bathroom mirror and then stomped out of the bathroom and into the living room. “But you’re not even woman enough to keep your husband interested in you. You want to know how long it took Ben to jump my bones after you hired me? A week.”

She laughed at the look of shock on Grace’s face. “And don’t be telling yourself that I’m the little tramp that went after him. He came on to me. Uh-huh. That’s right. The first time? Oh, that was while you were out giving a speech to some fancy society women’s fund-raising luncheon. I even remember the title of your talk, because I had to type it and print it out for you. ‘A House Is Not a Home.’ And while you were giving your lame talk, I was back at your house, fucking your husband’s brains out.” She paused and laughed again. “In your bed.”

Grace wanted to knock J’Aimee down, shove a fist in her throat, anything to shut up the torrent of bile spewing from her mouth. But she was paralyzed, speechless.

J’Aimee’s smile was mirthless. “TrueGrace? That’s what you’re calling yourself now? Who are you kidding? Ben was the brains behind Gracenotes. He and I did all the scut work, making it look pretty and effortless, while you took all the credit.”

She took another step closer to Grace again, until she was directly in her face. “Look at you now, Grace
Davenport
. Living with Mommy above a shitty bar, hiring yourself out as nothing more than a glorified housepainter.” She whipped a cell phone out of the pocket of her form-fitting jeans, and before Grace could stop her, she’d snapped a picture of Grace, standing there, covered in paint, her mouth gaping. “This’ll give Ben a good laugh.”

The click of the camera lens suddenly snapped Grace back to consciousness.

“Just what is it you want here, J’aimee? You want more material to leave some more snarky, barely literate comments on TrueGrace? Don’t bother to deny it either. I know you’re Freebird. Since you’re living in Ben’s pants these days, you might want to get him to explain ISP numbers to you.”

Now it was Grace’s turn to fight. She put her paint-spattered hand squarely in the middle of J’Aimee’s chest, leaving a perfect white handprint on the black chiffon.

“Hey,” J’Aimee cried angrily, swatting Grace’s hand away.

“You’re a fraud,
J’Aimee
,” Grace said, rolling the name out with the exaggerated French pronunciation. “Oh. Wait. Even your name’s a fake,
Jamie
. You’ve never had an original idea in your life. You’re the kind of bottom-feeding parasite who has to be content with whatever crap sinks to the bottom of the cesspool. But hey, you want my old blog, take it! My house and that bed you seem to love? Help yourself. It means nothing to me now. Oh, and how about my husband?”

“He’s mine now,” J’Aimee purred.

“And you’re welcome to him,” Grace said. Suddenly, she remembered something Ashleigh Hartounian had said during their first session of divorce-recovery group, something about her husband’s new mistress.

“You are more than welcome to Ben Stanton, that lying, cheating piece of garbage. But here’s something you need to know, J’Aimee. You are just like a cup of Publix yogurt.”

“Huh? You’re crazy.”

“Nope,” Grace said, starting to enjoy herself. “You, J’Aimee, are just like any other garden-variety skank. You’ve got an expiration date stamped on your bony little ass. But you won’t even know when it’s past—until Ben throws you out for something sweeter and newer.”

Clearly, J’Aimee had no clever response. “Screw you,” she said, her teeth clenched. “Leave my advertisers alone. Quit making trouble for Ben and me, or you will live to regret it.” She turned to stalk away.

“No, screw you,” Grace said. “Now get out of my house.” On an impulse, she managed to land a kick, leaving a perfect impression of her bare foot in faux Farrow & Ball white on J’Aimee’s black-clad butt.

*   *   *

For the rest of the morning, Grace fumed. What, she wondered, had prompted J’Aimee to seek her out here? She was obviously worried about her advertisers. Had one of the companies she’d e-mailed dropped their support for Gracenotes? Wouldn’t that be poetic justice! When she finished with all the trim in the bedroom she struggled to her feet and went to check the time.

It was nearly twelve thirty. There was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out in the kitchen, calling her name. But as she was about to put her phone down, the screen lit up with an incoming text from a number she didn’t recognize, with a Bradenton prefix.