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

you’d never take your husband back, but maybe you’ll change your mind. How do I know?”

“How do I know you won’t take Callie back?” she retorted. “Right now? I just don’t care. I really don’t. I’m tired of worrying about what might happen. I’ve got no control over anything: your marriage, what’s left of my marriage, that asshole judge, my career. From now on, I’m going to do just what everybody else in this world does. I’m going to do what feels good. And the hell with the what-ifs.”

“I don’t have that luxury,” he said quietly.

27

It was the most erotic sensation she could ever remember having. She was having smoking-hot, crazy sex—under a Hawaiian waterfall of all places. Or she guessed it was a Hawaiian waterfall, from the profusion of flowering orchids and waving palms surrounding them. She couldn’t see her lover’s face, but my God, his body was sleek and hard and muscled and tan all over, and he had magic hands that did the most amazing things, and it seemed to go on forever and ever, until he had her body humming like a concert violin. And then, just as she was about to climax, a gigantic parrot swooped in and landed on his shoulder. “Gimme shots, gimme beer,” the parrot called. Her lover turned his head. It was the honorable Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.

The horror made Grace sit straight up in bed so abruptly that Sweetie, who’d been nuzzled on the pillow next to hers, yelped.

“Shhh!” Grace bundled the dog into her arms and hugged her close. “It was just a dream, Sweetie. No, not a dream, a terrible, terrible nightmare.” She shuddered at the memory of it. Looked over at the nightstand to realize it was five in the morning. “Stupid men,” she said, pounding the bed with her fist. “Stupid, stupid men!”

Sweetie hopped off the bed and made a beeline for the bedroom door. “Okay,” Grace said wearily. “Let me put some shoes on.”

*   *   *

The only good thing about waking up early from a nightmare was getting to work early, Grace decided. It was still dark outside when she unlocked the door of the house on Mandevilla and switched on the lights.

Dark outside, but sweltering inside. She set Sweetie down on the floor, then ran from room to room opening all the windows she’d closed the previous day. She sniffed the air. The house reeked of Pine-Sol, in a good way, but there were still strong undernotes of mildew and pet smells, not to mention more dead bugs.

It took two more trips to retrieve the rest of the day’s supplies, which included a pair of old box fans she’d found in the shed back at the bar. She set one fan in the window of the living room and another in the back bedroom where Sweetie had been imprisoned and switched them both to the HIGH setting.

The little dog apparently hadn’t been totally traumatized by her time living in the house. She trotted from room to room, her nails clicking on the wooden floors, and had a high old time in the kitchen, barking and growling at a cockroach in the death throes.

Her plan for the day had been to carefully assess the house and work out a list of priorities and a timetable. But her mood, following the previous evening’s disastrous encounter with Wyatt, and the revolting sex dream that had followed, left her in no mood for assessments.

“Right,” she said briskly. She wheeled in the huge plastic trash can she’d borrowed from the shed, lined it with a black contractor’s bag, snapped on her rubber gloves, and began emptying the kitchen cabinets of their contents.

She’d considered trying to salvage the pots and pans and dishes left behind, but one glance at their cracked and battered status convinced her to discard them, too. When the house was done, she’d bully Arthur into letting her buy new cookware.

With the cabinets empty, Grace took another look. In a perfect world, she’d rip out all the upper and lower cupboards and fit the kitchen with inexpensive Ikea cabinets, ones with Shaker-style door panels, with matching drawers. She’d outfitted their little rental house in Bradenton with the exact same ones, spending less than seven thousand dollars for everything, including hardware and countertops. She didn’t have that kind of budget here.

Instead, she got out her cordless electric screwdriver and removed all the upper-cabinet doors, setting them aside, just in case she found another use for them down the line. The kitchen immediately looked better.

The gray aluminum-edged Formica countertops were funky but age-appropriate for the house, and the deep porcelain-over-cast-iron sink was filthy, but she knew a good cleaning with Bar Keepers Friend would make it shine again.

Grace gazed out the kitchen window and saw the first orange streaks of daylight at the edge of the overgrown yard.

On an impulse, she clipped a leash to Sweetie’s collar and walked out the kitchen door, drawn to the glorious glow. They walked the block to a sandy lot that overlooked the bay, and the two of them stood there, basking in a Technicolor Florida sunrise. Whoever ended up renting the little house on Mandevilla would have the privilege of watching that same sunrise whenever they liked. Maybe she would have to make it a habit to get over here every morning in time to do the same thing. It wasn’t a bad way to start the day.

She turned to go back to the house, resolving to start ripping up that revolting vinyl kitchen floor. It would feel good to jab something inanimate with a knife, a pry-bar, a chisel, or anything sharp she could put her hands on.

*   *   *

For months now, Wyatt had been meaning to take down the sprawling thirty-foot-tall Brazilian pepper tree that had taken over the area near his grandmother’s old orchid slat-house. As he set out on his golf cart with his weapons of battle—chain saw, ax, and ladder—he grimly decided that today, Wednesday, was as good a