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

“Maybe the wife found out about Paula.”

“Could be,” Mitzi allowed. “Or maybe it’s just that it’s July. The Stackpoles have a house in the mountains in North Carolina. One of those woodsy, social places like Highlands or Flat Rock. I think she spends most of the summer up there.”

“And while the cat’s away, the rat will play,” Grace said. “Mitzi, I just know Stackpole and Paula are having an affair. I can’t prove it, but if you’d seen them that night when he showed up at group, it was just so obvious.”

Mitzi stirred the dregs of her ice with her straw. “So what? You’ve only got two more weeks of divorce camp left, and then Stackpole will sign off on your divorce.”

“I know,” Grace said resignedly.

“Isn’t that what we want? You—divorced? Free to get on with your life? Free to have a relationship with Wyatt or anybody else of your choosing?”

“The whole thing with Stackpole and Paula—it’s wrong, Mitzi! And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You are doing something, Grace. You’re building a new life for yourself. The financial aspect aside—I still haven’t given up on that—I still think we can argue that you’re entitled to your equity in the house since so much of the labor and materials were given to you as compensation for exposure on your blog … All that aside, you are doing what I preach to all my women clients. You are not letting this divorce define you. You’re not letting bitterness defeat you. Grace, you’re a rock star!”

Grace snorted. “I don’t even have a place to shack up with the new man in my life! So what kind of rock star does that make me?”

Mitzi’s eyes lit up. “Ohhhh. So it really is getting serious with Wyatt. Why didn’t you say something earlier?” She dug a key ring from her purse and extracted a key, which she pressed into Grace’s hand.

“Here. This is to my condo at Anna Maria. My long-term tenant just moved out, and I’m converting it to a vacation rental. I’ve bought some furniture and had it painted and recarpeted, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the place. Decorating is just not my thing. I’ve been planning on hiring a decorator to finish it, but maybe that’s something you could do?”

Grace flushed and tried to return the key. “Oh, Mitzi, no. I couldn’t. I really wasn’t asking for your charity. I just needed to vent for a minute.”

“I’m not trying to give you charity,” Mitzi exclaimed. “I’ll pay you, for God’s sake! You’d be doing me a huge favor. The management company that’s going to handle the rentals has been after me to get the place ready to be photographed for their Web site, but I hate shopping, and I suck at decorating. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you’d agree to fluff the place. Please?” She grinned. “It’s not fancy, but there’s a sofa and a bed and sheets and towels and a flat-screen television. What more do you need for a romantic evening? Say you’ll take the job, and I’ll stock the fridge with champagne and chocolate.”

“I don’t know,” Grace demurred, but Mitzi grabbed her hand and closed her palm over the key. “You’ve got a credit card again, right?”

“Yes, with a five-thousand-dollar limit,” Grace said.

“Great. So that’ll be your budget for the condo. Five thousand will be enough to get some curtains and some rugs and doodads, won’t it?”

“Sure, as long as I don’t have to buy the big-ticket items like mattresses or sofas or furniture, I should be able to fluff it for that much. When do you need it ready?”

“Like, yesterday, according to the property-management people. They wanted it done before Memorial Day, but that ship has sailed.”

Grace gave it some thought. “Give me two weeks. Is that okay?”

“Works for me,” Mitzi said. She reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook. “Designers work on retainer, right? So, how much?”

“No retainer,” Grace said firmly.

Mitzi’s eyes narrowed. “Then give me back my key. Because I won’t let you work for me for free. Listen to me, Grace. I have to remind my women clients about this all the time. Just because your spouse didn’t recognize your worth doesn’t mean you have no value. You’re a professional interior designer, not some little dabbler who does this as a hobby. Don’t devalue yourself by refusing to be fairly compensated. Now. What do you bill out at?”

Grace opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Finally, she said, “Going rate here is about 125 dollars an hour, but since I won’t actually be doing any sketches, and since it’ll mostly be a matter of shopping and installing, I charge a hundred dollars an hour.”

“Fine.” Mitzi wrote the check and handed it to her client. “That’s fifteen hundred. If you think it’s going to take you more time than that after looking at the place, let me know.”

Grace took the check and looked at it. It was written to Grace Davenport, her first paycheck under her born-again maiden name.

“Thanks,” she said, her eyes shining with barely suppressed tears. And then she remembered the reason she’d asked for this meeting with her lawyer.

“Okay. What about Stackpole?”

“Oh, all right,” Mitzi grumbled. “I’ll take a look at his recent dockets to see what other attorneys I know have had cases before him. I’ll ask around, to see if any of their clients have been sentenced to divorce camp with Paula Talbott-Sinclair. Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Grace said. “Totally satisfied.”

“In the meantime,” Mitzi wagged a finger at Grace, “stay away from Wyatt Keeler’s wife. That woman is trouble.”

Grace shuddered. “Don’t worry. I have no plans to get anywhere near Callie Keeler.”

*   *   *

Wyatt Keeler spent the morning in his tiny office at Jungle Jerry’s, staring at a mounting pile of bills. When his cell phone rang and he saw who was calling, he snatched it from his desktop.

“Betsy? Hey! How are you?”

“I’m fine. How’s the rash?”

“Mostly gone, thanks