Ladies' Night (62 page)

He’d hurried her into bed, and spent the night on the armchair beside it, waking occasionally, to listen to her soft, steady breathing, gently touch her hair, and to reassure himself that she was here and she was safe.

It was nearly ten now. Sweetie trotted into the room and sat expectantly at his feet. He tossed her a treat, and she chewed noisily.

“Shh,” he cautioned.

Grace turned on her side and sat up slowly. “Oh, stop tiptoeing around! I’m awake, and I’m fine.” She patted the bed and Sweetie jumped up, did a quick circle, and then settled herself into a nest just under Grace’s arm.

Wyatt dropped a kiss on Grace’s forehead and sat down on the few inches of bed the little dog hadn’t claimed.

“How’s the head?”

“A little achey, but better than it felt last night.” She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “It’s ten already! Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You needed to sleep,” he said. “And the EMTs told me you should take it easy for the next few days.”

“But I don’t need a babysitter. And you need to get to work. So move along, mister,” she ordered.

He held four fingers in front of her face. “How many?”

“Four.”

“How did you get hurt?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Humor me,” Wyatt said. “I’m supposed to test your memory.”

“I was in a speeding car driven by a maniac. We went off the road and into the bay. Things get a little blurry after we hit the water. I do know you pulled me out and saved my life.”

“And then you promised to love me forever and be my sex slave,” Wyatt prompted.

“That part I don’t remember,” Grace said.

He shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

Wyatt pulled a bottle of Tylenol from his pocket and gestured to the tea. “Drink that and take two of these. And then drink some more. You’re supposed to stay quiet today. I’ve already walked Sweetie, and there’s some cereal and fruit in the kitchen. I’ve got to get over to the park now, but your mom will be by after the lunch rush is over.”

“Run along now,” Grace said. “You’re sweet, but I really don’t need babysitting and I hate being fussed over.”

“Humor me,” he said. “I nearly lost you yesterday.” He thumped his chest meaningfully. “I love you, Grace. Really, deeply, truly.”

“I know it.” She yawned and her eyelids drooped. “I think I love you, too. But I think I need another nap.”

70

Grace slept. And then she slept some more. Despite her protests and much to her annoyance, Wyatt and Rochelle continued to cosset her.

After a week had gone by she’d had enough. When Wyatt showed up at the condo after work that Friday afternoon, he found her fully dressed, tapping away at her laptop at the dining room table.

“Hey you,” he said, unsnapping Sweetie’s leash and setting down the bag of take-out Chinese. “What’s that?”

“My blog. I haven’t written a word in nearly two weeks. I’m afraid my readers will think I’m dead.”

He tried to read over her shoulder, but she shielded the screen with both hands. “It’s not ready for public consumption yet. My writing has gotten sort of … rusty. I’ll let you read it after I’ve cleaned it up and edited a little.”

“Okay.” He opened one of the white paper sacks. “Which do you want for dinner? Kung pao or sizzling shrimp?”

“Neither, thanks,” Grace told him. “I’ve been stuck here for what feels like forever. Let’s go out. I don’t care where, just as long as I’m not staring at these four walls and eating Tylenol.”

Wyatt nodded at the view out the French doors. “You’re bored looking at the Gulf of Mexico?”

“I don’t want to
look
at it anymore,” Grace said. “I want to walk in it, splash in it, get wet, sweaty, sandy—anything but safe and sleepy, which is what I’ve been all week long.”

“You’re sure you feel like that?” Wyatt looked at her anxiously. “No headaches? Funny smells?”

“I am absolutely symptom-free and bored to tears. And I am truly grateful for all the loving care you and my mom have given me this week. I know you must have been neglecting Bo and your dad, not to mention work.”

“We aren’t exactly swamped at Jungle Jerry’s this time of year,” Wyatt said. “Yesterday we did exactly sixty-two dollars in admissions. Anyway, Dad understands, and Bo’s just happy he’s gotten to spend so much time with Sweetie. In fact, he sent you this.”

Wyatt reached into the pocket of his shorts and handed her a carefully folded sheet of paper.

“Awww,” Grace said softly. It was a crayon masterpiece, vividly rendered in black and orange and green and red, with spiky objects erupting from what looked like either a garbage can or a spaceship. Written in exuberant red letters across the bottom was a caption reading, “GRACE, GET BETTER SOON. Luv, Your Freind Bo.”

“We’re working on the spelling thing,” Wyatt said. “But you’ll notice he spelled your name correctly. And his, too.”

Grace outlined the drawing with her fingertip. “I love it. What’s it supposed to be?”

“Silly girl,” he chided her. “That’s a bouquet of red roses. He wanted to buy you some from the QuikTrip, but since they were plastic, which I assumed would offend your sensibilities, I suggested he draw you some instead.”

“I’m going to have this framed and keep it forever. He really is the sweetest, most thoughtful boy.”

“He gets that from me,” Wyatt said modestly. “And lest the son outshine the father, I brought you a present from me, too.” From the other pocket he produced her cell phone.

“My iPhone!” She touched the
ON
button and the screen lit up. “It works! How did you manage this?”

“The cops told me where Ashleigh’s car was towed, and Tuesday morning, after I left you, I bribed, er, tipped the salvage guy twenty bucks to let me retrieve it.”

“But it must have gotten wet. It was ruined.”

“It did get wet. But I went online and read some stuff about how to save it. Turns out, if you don’t turn the thing on, which I didn’t, and just put it in a plastic bag full of uncooked rice and let it sit for a couple days, to let the rice absorb the moisture, there’s a good chance it might still work.”

Grace turned the phone over and over. “It’s ridiculous how much I missed this thing. I’ve felt like I was in solitary confinement without it.”

Wyatt looked a little guilty. “I actually powered it up yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice, you had some missed calls. And some voice messages.”

Grace scrolled down her call log. Lots of missed calls. One from Paula Talbott-Sinclair, one from Arthur Cater, some out-of-area numbers she didn’t recognize—and three calls from Ben, and two voice mails. She gave Wyatt a questioning look.

“I didn’t listen to any of them, I swear. Although I’ll admit I was tempted. If you want to listen now, or call anybody, I can come back in a little while.”

Part of her was tempted to send him away, to hunker down with the phone, catch up with the world—and find out why her soon-to-be ex had called her more times in the past week than he had in the previous three months. And then she glanced out the window, at the sun sparkling on the water, at a handful of late-afternoon beach strollers.

“It can wait,” she said, tucking the phone into the pocket of her shorts. She whistled for Sweetie. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *

They picked up grouper sandwiches and a couple of $1.50 beers at the Rod and Reel Pier, eating them on the lower deck, watching the fishermen, and chatting about life. Sweetie sat expectantly at their feet, waiting for her share of their dinner.

“Betsy called me today to say a new judge has been assigned to my divorce,” Wyatt told her. “Charlie Davis. She says he’s fairly young but has a good reputation. And he’s speedy. His nickname is Rocket Docket Davis. She thinks it’ll only be a matter of weeks now.”

“That’s good,” Grace said, trying to sound noncommittal. “Mitzi dropped by earlier today. She says we finally got the luck of the draw with Catherine Chandler. She’s the senior judge—and what Mitzi calls a card-carrying feminist. She expects Dickie Murphree and Ben will squawk about it, but there’s not a damned thing they can do about it.” While she spoke, her hand hovered unconsciously over the pocket with her cell phone.

“Go ahead and listen to your messages and voice mails,” Wyatt said. “I know the suspense is killing you. I’m gonna go back upstairs and get a slice of key lime pie. Text me when you’re done, and we can go for that walk I promised.”

“You sure?” Grace flashed him a grateful smile.

*   *   *

“Grace?” Arthur Cater seemed to be shouting into the phone. “Are you there? Listen, I had a visit from your, uh, husband. I guess he’s still your husband? Anyway, he straightened me out on a couple of things, and afterward, the wife and I got to talking. She’s got her heart set on you finishing up your work on the house on Mandevilla. The upshot is, we’d like to sell you the place if you’re still interested. You better call me quick, though, before I list it with an agent.”

“Yippee!” Heads turned as Grace stood and did a modified happy dance, right there in the middle of the Rod and Reel Pier.

She took a swallow of beer and hit the call-back button.

“That you, Grace?” Arthur was still shouting. “I was beginning to think maybe you’d found another project for yourself.”

“Not at all, Arthur! My phone and I were out of commission for a few days, so I just now got your message. I would absolutely love to talk to you about buying Mandevilla.” Her heart was racing—she was so excited—but she knew she had to ask the hard question. “Do you have any idea how much you’d want for it?”

“What I want and what I’ll take are two different matters,” he said, chuckling. He named his price, and Grace’s pulse blipped and her mouth went dry.

“You still there?” he hollered.

“I’m here, Arthur. But you must know, the house is worth at least fifty thousand more than that.”

“It’s probably worth seventy-five thousand more than that,” he corrected her. “But my accountant says if we make too big a profit, I’m gonna get screwed over at tax time. More importantly, my wife swears she’ll nag me into the grave unless I see to it that you finish what you started with that little old cracker house.”

“I really want to meet your wife, Arthur,” Grace said.

“That can be arranged. So … what do you say?”

She chose her words carefully. “I want to say you’ve got a deal. Right now. But to be honest, my divorce settlement is still up in the air. We’ve got a new judge, though, and my lawyer thinks everything should be settled pretty soon.”

“Fair enough. You call me when it’s all settled, then, will you?”

“The minute I know something, I’ll call. And thanks, Arthur. Really. Thanks.”

Grace took another sip of her beer and stared out at the water. A school of fingerling mullet slashed just below the surface of the green water, and a couple of screeching gulls swooped in to pick off a few.

Arthur said Ben had paid him a visit. Whatever he’d told the old man, it had been enough to change his mind about selling her the house. She wondered if her own mostly idle threats to tell the police about J’Aimee’s involvement in vandalizing the house had prompted the visit to Arthur.

She turned the phone over and over in her hand. Part of her was dying of curiosity, part of her dreaded hearing Ben’s voice. There was only one way to find out what he wanted. She listened to the first voice mail he’d left—which had been Monday evening.

“Hey, uh, it’s me. Give me a call.”

Tuesday morning, he’d left another message.

“Okay, Grace, if you’re trying to be coy, it’s not working. Call me, okay? I’ve, uh, got a proposition for you.”

A proposition? Did she even want to know? Yes. She did want to know exactly what Ben was up to. Without giving it much more thought, she touched the redial.

*   *   *

“Grace?” Ben sounded … different. “Listen, I didn’t know about the accident. Your lawyer just called Dickie about getting together to finalize the settlement, and she mentioned you’d had a head injury. What a hell of a thing. Are you all right?”

“I am now. Are we finalizing a financial settlement? Is that the reason you called?”

“It’s one of the reasons. Uh, there have been some changes around here, and I thought I should let you know about them. Before it’s final and everything.”

“Oh-kayyy,” she said slowly. Where was this going? Why was he being so civil? Maybe he’d been hit on the head, too?

“First off, I’m getting ready to list the house and move,” he said briskly. “Dickie informs me that the new judge will probably make me split the proceeds with you, so he says I have to let you know, in case you have any interest in buying out my half.”

“You’re moving? Where? Why?”

“It’s time,” he said. “I’ve had a job offer from a big-time agency in New York. They’re opening a new media division, and it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. But they want me up and running right after Labor Day, which doesn’t give me a lot of time to sell the house and find a new place.”

Her mind was racing. “What about the blog? What about J’Aimee? Will she move with you?”

There was a long stretch of dead silence on the other end of the phone.

“No. J’Aimee is not part of the new package,” Ben said. “If you must know, she’s gone. As for the blog, well, that was another reason for my reaching out to you.”

“I see.”

“If you’ve been following it, you probably noticed that our sponsorships were down, and the numbers had stagnated. I won’t get into the reasons for that.”

A smile played across Grace’s lips. Of course Ben wouldn’t get into the reasons why Gracenotes had tanked. It had tanked because it was Graceless. Not that she’d rub that in his face.

“I still think it’s a good business model,” Ben was saying. “For the right person. Somebody like you. Anyway, if you want it back, it’s yours. I’ll send you the new passwords and the contact info for the current advertisers. We can work out a payment schedule as we go.”

Was that a compliment he was sneaking in under the radar?

“Where is all this going, Ben?” she asked.

“Shit.” He sighed.

“Ben?”

“What? You want me to grovel? Beg for forgiveness? Not my style, Grace, and you know it.”