Ladies' Night Andrews, Kay (great novels .txt) 📖

and talking to him today. One thing. What’s his diet like?”

Wyatt shrugged. “Dad has a sweet tooth. He likes Pop-Tarts or Twinkies for breakfast. He might eat some canned soup for lunch, and a lot of nights he’ll have a frozen chicken potpie for dinner. Or, and I’m not proud of this, a quart of ice cream or some more Twinkies.”

Dr. Stark was still making notes. “What did he have for lunch today, do you know?”

“I don’t,” Wyatt admitted. “I was out in the park working until right before time for his appointment with you.”

She frowned and consulted her notes. “Your dad has good balance and coordination, is able to communicate clearly, and his short- and long-term memory seemed to be in an acceptable range for his age. But as the day wore on, his personality changed drastically. I’m not an endocrinologist, but I think there really is a good possibility that your dad might be suffering from diabetes.”

Wyatt stared at her. “So … you don’t think he has Alzheimer’s?”

“We’ll need to take a look at all the test results, but my initial impression is that he does not. Your Aunt Betsy called him cantankerous, but I’d prefer the word ‘spirited.’ He clearly adores you and your son and is not an admirer of the boy’s mother.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Wyatt said. “As far as Dad is concerned, Callie is the enemy, because she wants to move to Birmingham and take Bo with her. And, of course, she’s now trying to prove that he’s senile.”

“He’s pretty adamant on that subject,” Dr. Shank said, smiling. “And I can’t blame him. By the way,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “I don’t agree with him on the subject of Alex Trebek. At all. I think he’s every bit as intelligent and talented as Art Fleming.”

Wyatt let out a sigh of relief. “We’ve got to meet with the judge at eleven tomorrow morning. Is there any way you can give us some kind of report?”

She glanced at her watch. “I’ll fax over something by ten tomorrow. Will that work?”

“That would be great,” Wyatt said, jumping to his feet and pumping her hand. “I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Shank. For seeing Dad so quickly and, just, everything. You’ve been a huge help.”

Margaret-Ellen Shank leaned over and tapped Nelson gently on the shoulder. “Mr. Keeler?”

Nelson yawned widely. “What’s that?” he asked groggily.

“It’s nearly seven o’clock,” she told him. She offered her hand; he took it and stood slowly.

“I told Wyatt you need to eat more sensibly,” she said, giving him a look of mock disapproval. “No more Pop-Tarts for dinner. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed.

45

Grace heard the muffled pinging of an incoming text coming from somewhere beneath the towering pile of merchandise in her shopping cart. She shoved aside the quilt with its vivid orange and green chinoiserie print, the four turquoise and green quilted throw pillows, the green and blue striped dhurrie, and the stack of turquoise and white polka-dotted bath towels.

The pair of green chevron-striped shower curtains she’d bought for the condo’s dining room windows slid off the top of the stack and onto the floor. Finally, burrowing deep down into her pocketbook, she brought up the phone.

The text was from Camryn Nobles.

Where r u?

HomeGoods. What’s up?

While she waited for a reply, Grace studied the store’s furniture selection. Mitzi Stillwell’s kitchen had an island crying out for barstools. Here were a pair of barstools with a perfectly acceptable look, clean lines, and a great price, $59.99 a pair. The problem was that they were white. And that was the problem with Mitzi’s condo. Every single thing in it was white.

The walls were dead white. The tile floors were white. The sectional sofa in the living room was white, the pair of armchairs facing it was white, the sheer draperies hung from the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the sparkling blue Gulf of Mexico were white. In the kitchen, the countertops were white Corian, with a white subway-tile backsplash. The master bedroom had a king-sized bed with an upholstered, tufted white headboard and footboard. The carpet was an off-white flat weave. The guest bedroom featured a pair of twin beds with no headboards at all, just an expanse of white quilted-cotton bedspreads.

Just thinking of all that arctic white made Grace shiver. Maybe, she thought, running a finger over the back of one of the barstools, she could paint the stools a high-gloss tangerine.

Her phone dinged again with a reply from Camryn.

Been digging into Stackpole’s financials and hit paydirt. Lunch?

Grace shook her head, annoyed. She had just begun shopping for Mitzi’s place. She still needed lamps, bedspreads for the guest bedroom, and a new chandelier to replace the hideous builder-brass one in the dining room—and art. And those was just the accessories. She still needed dining room furniture, dressers for both bedrooms, coffee tables and end tables …

Can’t it wait til tonight? she typed. With her pocket calculator, she began adding up the tab for the merchandise in her cart. She frowned. She was already at $431.99, not counting the two barstools.

Another ding interrupted her mental mathematics.

Got good stuff. How ’bout meet @Sandbox @2?

Grace shrugged and typed.

See u there.

*   *   *

Cedric Stackpole drummed his fingers on his desktop. He looked down at the faxed report from Dr. Shank, then up at Nelson Keeler. “Mr. Keeler? I understand you are a Vietnam veteran, is that right? In what branch of the service did you serve, sir?”

Was this some kind of trick question? Nelson looked to his son for some kind of signal, but Wyatt remained expressionless.

“That’s correct, Judge,” Nelson said finally. “I was in the army. Fifth Infantry. Did two tours, managed to get home in one piece. How about you?”

“Er, no,” Stackpole said. “I like to think that my time in the judiciary is of some small benefit to my community. But I thank you for your service to this great country.”

“You’re welcome,” Nelson said. “I got drafted, so it wasn’t like I had a choice or anything.”

Stackpole looked