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

“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