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

who has to be content with whatever crap sinks to the bottom of the cesspool. But hey, you want my old blog, take it! My house and that bed you seem to love? Help yourself. It means nothing to me now. Oh, and how about my husband?”

“He’s mine now,” J’Aimee purred.

“And you’re welcome to him,” Grace said. Suddenly, she remembered something Ashleigh Hartounian had said during their first session of divorce-recovery group, something about her husband’s new mistress.

“You are more than welcome to Ben Stanton, that lying, cheating piece of garbage. But here’s something you need to know, J’Aimee. You are just like a cup of Publix yogurt.”

“Huh? You’re crazy.”

“Nope,” Grace said, starting to enjoy herself. “You, J’Aimee, are just like any other garden-variety skank. You’ve got an expiration date stamped on your bony little ass. But you won’t even know when it’s past—until Ben throws you out for something sweeter and newer.”

Clearly, J’Aimee had no clever response. “Screw you,” she said, her teeth clenched. “Leave my advertisers alone. Quit making trouble for Ben and me, or you will live to regret it.” She turned to stalk away.

“No, screw you,” Grace said. “Now get out of my house.” On an impulse, she managed to land a kick, leaving a perfect impression of her bare foot in faux Farrow & Ball white on J’Aimee’s black-clad butt.

*   *   *

For the rest of the morning, Grace fumed. What, she wondered, had prompted J’Aimee to seek her out here? She was obviously worried about her advertisers. Had one of the companies she’d e-mailed dropped their support for Gracenotes? Wouldn’t that be poetic justice! When she finished with all the trim in the bedroom she struggled to her feet and went to check the time.

It was nearly twelve thirty. There was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out in the kitchen, calling her name. But as she was about to put her phone down, the screen lit up with an incoming text from a number she didn’t recognize, with a Bradenton prefix.

Got some news about Paula. Meet me for lunch at Rod & Reel Pier, 1 pm?

Who is this? Grace texted.

Camryn. R we good?

She looked down at her messy clothes. She’d have time to wash her hands and face, but not much more time than that. Fortunately, the Rod and Reel was an open-air restaurant at the end of the fishing pier on Anna Maria. She could go dressed as she was.

OK!

*   *   *

She almost didn’t recognize the woman sitting at one of the tables by the window. Most of the tables were full of families, tourists, and anglers who’d spent the morning trying their luck fishing for trout or redfish on the pier. Finally, a lone woman in a floppy straw hat and sunglasses waved her down.

“Camryn? Is that you?”

“You see any other black women loitering around here?” Camryn snapped. She fanned herself with her hands. “Lord, Jesus, I’d forgotten how hot it is out on this pier.”

Grace shrugged and sat down. “You picked this place, so don’t blame me.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Camryn said. “I come here once a year for the fried grouper sandwich. Best thing I ever put in my mouth, but I try not to eat fried food, so I generally stay away.”

“Why the disguise?” Grace asked.

“I’m what they call a minor celebrity in this town,” Camryn said. “When I first got in the business, I got a big kick out of having people come up to me at Dillard’s or a restaurant. ‘Ooh, you’re the lady on TV.’ Uh-huh. Then I gotta have my picture taken with ’em, maybe autograph something. And I swear, every time I step foot out of my house without makeup or my hair all looking nappy, that’s when somebody spots me. You think I don’t see them snapping pictures of me with their cell phones, telling their friends at work, ‘I saw that Camryn Nobles on channel four at the gym, and girl! Without her TV makeup, she is looking old in the face.’”

“So on Saturdays, you leave off the makeup and wear a hat and sunglasses. Makes sense.”

Camryn studied her. “If I went somewhere in this town, looking like you look right now, people would be tweeting and Facebooking my picture all over the Internet.”

“I was painting a house when I got your text,” Grace said, deciding not to be insulted. “There wasn’t time to go home and change. So what did you find out about Paula?”

“Let’s order first,” Camryn said. The waitress took their orders: fried grouper sandwich for Camryn, mahimahi for Grace, unsweetened iced teas for both.

When their drinks came, Camryn sucked down half her tea. “First off, don’t you think it’s funny that a supposed marriage counselor is divorced?”

“Maybe not,” Grace said. “After all, she’s not counseling us on how to hang on to our marriages. She’s helping us deal with breakups. So I guess it’s not all that surprising that she’s in the same boat. How’d you find out she was divorced?”

“I got tired of waiting for our silly little intern to do her job, so I made some phone calls myself. Did some googling, a little investigative journalism. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten how much fun it is to dig up good dirt. Anyway, yeah. Dr. Paula Talbott-Sinclair has only been divorced a couple years. We already knew she’d been in practice in Oregon—Portland. I called one of the assistant producers at our network affiliate out there, and she knew all about our Paula.”

Their food arrived, and Camryn picked up her sandwich, nibbled, and sighed happily. “I’ll have to do an extra hour on the elliptical to pay for this, but it’s worth every calorie.”

Grace was surprised by how hungry she was, so they ate in silence for a while. Finally, Camryn finished her sandwich. She picked up the paper plate with the remaining curly fries and dumped them in a nearby trash bin. “I don’t need the temptation,” she explained.

“You said that producer knew something about Paula?” Grace prompted.

“Mm-hmm. Paula