Queen of Broken Hearts (42 page)

“I do, and that's when I get all confused. I still love her, I guess, but … Oh, another thing. Elinor's jealous of you, something else that causes us problems. She's even jealous of Dory. She keeps demanding that I end my friendship with you guys. Says if I were more ‘sensitive' to her feelings, I wouldn't have women friends. You know me—I say I'll be friends with whoever I damn well please, and before I know it, we're fighting again.”

“Sounds like both of you have a lot of unresolved issues to sort out before considering a reconciliation. You're right not to rush into anything. Make sure it's what you want and that those issues are addressed first. You don't want to get back together and have it fall apart again. I've had clients who've divorced the same person twice because they didn't resolve what tore them apart originally.”

“Ha! No way in hell I'll go through that again.”

“Of course not, and it can be prevented by proceeding with caution. Keep trying to help Alexia understand what you're doing and why, though. I don't think things should be sugarcoated for kids, just presented in an age-appropriate way. Alexia's old enough and mature enough to understand your confusion about her mom. Tell her the truth. Tell her what you just told me.”

He shakes his head. “Naw, she won't believe me. Last night she yelled at me, saying that I'd humiliated her mom and broken her heart. When I told her she didn't know shit from shoe polish, she hung up on me. Scared the crap out of me, thinking Elinor'd turn her against me. Jeez! I'm beginning to understand why you've stayed single since your old man died. Who the hell invented marriage, anyway?”

I laugh until tears come to my eyes. Fearing that I might start crying after such an upsetting day, I get to my feet. “Okay, that's it for me. When I get this punchy, my exhaustion's caught up with me. I'm calling it a night.”

When I reach out a hand to pull Lex up, he waves me off with a yawn. “I'm not quite finished with my coffee. You go on to bed. I'll tamp down the fire and let myself out.”

The next morning, however, I arise at sunrise and come downstairs to find Lex asleep on the sofa, wrapped in the fuzzy throw I discarded. Pulling my robe close against the chill of early morning, I kneel beside him with an indulgent smile. With the lightest of touches, I place the back of my hand against the side of his face, trying not to wake him. I hate to see him going through such a difficult time, but I'm not sure what I can do to help. Life just keeps coming at you, I think, sighing. My sigh must have been louder than I intended, and Lex's eyes fly open, startled. “Clare?” he says, blinking at me in surprise.

“Good morning.” I stroke the side of his face with the back of my hand. To be so weathered, his skin is softer than it appears. In the rosy light of sunrise, I notice a lot more silver strands threading through his hair than when we first met. He's earned every one of them this past year. “It appears we finally spent the night together,” I say with a smile.

“Was it good for you?”

When I laugh and start to get to my feet, Lex surprises me by gripping my hand and pressing it against his face. I freeze when his lips move to my palm, and my fingers curl in a half-fist.

“Don't go, Clare.” His eyes move over my face, questioning.

“Quit looking at me that way.”

“What way?”

“You know.”

“First time I've seen you this early in the morning,” he murmurs. “I could get used to it.”

I yank my hand away and stumble to my feet. “You can have the shower first if you want.”

“We could share it.”

“Lex …”

Tossing off the throw, he sits up with a frown. Rubbing his head until his hair sticks up every which way, he yawns, stretching out his arms. “Naw, you go ahead. I'll go home and shower. Gotta get back to the marina, anyhow.”

“You don't have to run off. I'll fix you some coffee first. Or breakfast, if you'd like. I owe you, after yesterday.”

He shakes his head as he gets heavily to his feet and pulls on his windbreaker. “You don't owe me anything, Clare.” His jaw is set, and he avoids my eyes as he zips up his jacket, picks up his cap, and heads toward the door.

With a gasp, I go after him and grab his arm. “Jesus, Lex! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Come on. Don't do this.”

His eyes dark and troubled, he stares down at me for a long moment. Then he softens and pulls me to him in a quick, hard hug. “Everything's going to be okay,” I say, leaning in to him and patting his back. “And we'll be okay, too, you and I.”

Lex pulls away from me and reaches for the door. The handle tight in his hand, he pauses to say, “I know you will be. You always are, aren't you? But I'm not so sure about me.” Without another word, he goes out the door, closing it behind him, hard. I stand stunned, watching him leave. Now, what was
that
all about?

As it turns out, I'm not the one to tell Haley about Austin's girlfriend. I'm so heartsick, I decide to wait a day or so while working out the best way to approach her. I can't delay too long, because she
has
to see a lawyer now. When Austin first moved out, I tried to get her to talk with Lana Martin, the divorce lawyer I recommend for my clients, but Haley refused. She was terrified that seeing a lawyer would be the first step in the dissolution of her marriage, and none of my speeches about protecting her interests or the children or anything else mattered to her. Her reaction was not unexpected; the partner who doesn't want the divorce is almost always reluctant to see a lawyer, often going only under duress.

Because I have no intention of telling anyone what I saw on the deck of the Webbs' house until I have a chance to process it, I'm horrified to hear myself relating the whole story to Rye that very night. We planned on going to an Epiphany service at St. John's, but when I get in from work, I call him to beg off, claiming a headache. Suspicious, he says I sound strange, but I convince myself I've appeased him. Not so. I'm pattering around the kitchen in my gown, robe, and slippers when Rye shows up at the back door.

“Headache, my foot,” he declares. “It's been a long time since I've heard you sound so down, love. You'd better tell me what's going on.”

Although he's known me too long for me to pull it off, I try denying it. I'm just tired and have a headache, I insist. But Rye plants his feet firmly, crosses his arms, and refuses to leave until I come clean. Motioning for him to have a seat, I blurt out the whole story of Austin and the brown-haired woman on the deck of the Webbs' house. With a coldness in his pale eyes that reminds me of Mack's deadly glare of anger, Rye makes me swear I won't do anything until I hear from him.

“No way,” I protest. “Haley
has
to know, and it's better she hears it from me. If I wait, someone else might tell her. I should've done it yesterday.”

“Trust me on this, Clare,” he pleads. “Please.”

Reluctantly, I agree. At the end of the week, Etta interrupts me while I'm reading over my notes in preparation for a waiting client—something she never does—to tell me that I have an urgent call from Rye. After asking her to tell my client I'll be right with her, I answer the phone with trembling hands.

With no preamble, Rye says, “Her name is Muffie Chisholm.”

“
Muffie?
What is she, a stripper or something?”

“Far from it, sweetheart. Our Little Miss Muffet is quite accomplished. Real name Margaret, but she's been called Muffie all her life. She's Austin's age, thirty-two, and heads up the learning lab at the Emerald Coast Junior College in Orange Beach.”

With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realize I'd hoped she'd turn out to be one of those women men have flings with but don't leave their families for. “Sounds like she and Austin have a lot in common,” I say weakly.

“She has a master's degree in developmental studies and nine hours toward a doctorate at the University of South Alabama. Originally from a little town outside of Anniston, Alabama, she lives in a high-rise at Perdido Bay.”

“Good Lord. How did you find this stuff out?”

“I have my ways. Get this. Miss Muffet met Austin three years ago at a workshop he led at her junior college, when she was a mere tutor. Give her a few years, though, and she takes over the place.”

“Three years! Don't tell me—”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “But my sources tell me she set her cap for him then.”

“You're scaring me. What did you do, hire the Mafia?”

He chuckles. “Oh—bet this piece of information won't surprise you. Guess who roomed with Muffie Chisholm at Auburn and has been one of her closest friends ever since?”

“Wanda Webb.”

“Bingo. Your instincts were right about that one. She's played a big role in this from day one. Hang on, it gets better. Seems like old Muffie has been around the block a few times. Twice to the altar.”

“Twice at her age? Jesus! No grass growing under her feet.”

“Once as a teenager, then again in college. This won't come as a surprise, I guess, but man number two was one of her professors and happily married at the time. Can't say our girl doesn't believe in the holy state of matrimony.”

“Yeah, right. Everything you've told me so far makes my blood run cold.”

“As well it should. What we've got is a hard-driving, ambitious, single-minded woman who's always gone after what she wanted and gotten it, whatever the cost. The only thing that stood in the way of her and man number three was a pretty little blonde named Haley.”

“And two children,” I add, my voice catching.

“Seems that she's convinced Austin her greatest regret is not having children of her own, so she's anxious to be a loving stepmother. But make sure you understand this, my dear. We're not talking about temporary insanity on Austin's part, or an innocent boy duped by a scheming woman. Their little affair has been going on for well over a year. All this time, while Mr. Perfect's been playing the role of devoted husband and father, he's led a double life.” After a long silence, Rye says, “Clare?”

“Listen, Rye, I'm hanging up. I think I'm about to be sick.”

Both Jasmine and I are at Haley's house on Saturday morning. Austin has taken the children for the weekend, and I go over as soon as he leaves, determined not to let another day go by without having the overdue talk with Haley. Once I get there, however, I'm paralyzed with trepidation. Sitting on the sofa waiting for her to prepare a pot of tea, I pick up a flop-eared stuffed bunny of Abbie's, and my throat tightens. What is it she calls him—Mr. Bunny? As a toddler, she was never without Mr. Something-or-other, dragging the poor thing around by its long ears. I didn't know Haley at Abbie's age; she was eleven when she came to live with Mack and me. But that first night she clutched a cheap, worn-out stuffed bunny as if it were a lifeline, and her solemn owl's eyes followed Mack's and my every move. There are times when the sight of Abbie holding her stuffed animal causes me such pain I can hardly stand it, thinking of Haley at that age. I can't even imagine the kind of life she must've had, with a drug addict for a mother who dumped her with any relative who'd take her in.

Haley is smiling and proud of herself when she comes from the kitchen area carrying a tray with a teapot and china cups. Usually her tea is a microwaved cup of water with a tea bag floating in it. She told me that the ironic thing about Austin's leaving is how she's discovered the joys of domesticity, freed of his critical eye. When she added, “Funny, isn't it, now that Austin isn't here to benefit,” I told her to do it for herself and herself only.

Just as I clear my throat so I can begin the dreaded talk, the door flies open, and Jasmine comes in. I feel both relief and exasperation, because now it'll have to wait until she leaves, and sometimes her visits go on for hours. Grinning, Jasmine hands a stack of mail to Haley. “I ran into the mailman as I was coming in. Hey, Auntie Clare! I brought Haley some of Mama's shortbread. Be great with your tea.”

“Nothing but bills,” Haley says. Waving a manila envelope, she adds, “Except this one. No return address, but postmarked Orange Beach.” Jasmine opens a cabinet door to get a plate for the shortbread, then stops in her tracks to stare at Haley, wide-eyed.

“Haley?” I say, getting to my feet.

She's standing as though struck dumb, blinking down at a piece of paper held in her hands. Her face has gone ghost-white and her lips colorless. My first thought is, Austin has filed for divorce. But it can't be—the papers don't come in the mail; they have to be served. “Haley?” I repeat, taking a step toward her.

Jasmine is quicker. Yanking the paper from Haley's grip, she cries out and puts a hand over her mouth. With jerky movements, Haley turns stricken eyes my way and whimpers. My heart in my throat, I move to Jasmine's side, and she holds out the paper for me to see.

It's a photograph of Austin and the woman with the chestnut-brown hair. They're in bed together, nude, and it appears to have been taken in a hotel room. Straddling the woman, Austin is grinning as he gazes down at her, propped on his elbows, and the woman's long, red-tipped fingers grip his back. A shapely bare leg arches around his waist, but the sheets are tangled and bunched around them in such a way that we are spared further detail.