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

“I’ll have to remind you of that in the future,” Betsy said drily. “Look, I won’t beat around the bush. I just got a call from Callie’s lawyer. They’re asking Stackpole for an emergency hearing.”

Wyatt’s throat went dry. “What’s the emergency?”

“Oh, Christ,” Betsy said. “Promise me you will not go crazy when you hear.”

“I won’t go crazy,” Wyatt said automatically. “Now tell me what’s going on. Please.”

He heard the sound of pages being turned. “Callie is now claiming that Nelson is suffering from acute dementia. Her filing says that when he is not confused and nonresponsive, he is verbally abusive and threatening, and he uses profane language in front of Bo, and he’s capable of violence. In short, she’s saying that as long as Nelson is living with you, your home is an unfit atmosphere for a child.”

“What!” Wyatt put the phone down on the desk. He stood back and kicked his old army-surplus battleship-gray desk so viciously his work boot left a hollow impression in the bottom file drawer.

He sat back down and took several deep breaths.

“Wyatt?”

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

“Do you have any idea what prompted this piece of garbage?”

“I do,” he said grimly. He quickly recounted Saturday evening’s events for his aunt.

“Well.” Betsy sighed. “You and I know Callie deliberately provoked Nelson into a tirade. Is any of what she’s claiming true? Is your Dad suffering from dementia?”

“No. Betsy, you know what Dad’s like. He’s slowing down, no question about it. Sometimes, usually in the evenings, he gets a little … foggy. And sometimes, again, usually when he’s overtired, he can get a little verbally combative. But most days, he’s still sharp as a tack. And he’s a sweetheart, you know that. He adores Bo. Being around Bo, helping take care of him, it’s given him a real sense of purpose. Of responsibility. And it’s good for Bo, too. There is no way Dad is capable of violence. Ever! He might rant and rave at Callie, because as far as he’s concerned, she abandoned us. But he would never act on his threats.”

“That’s what I think, too,” Betsy said. “But this latest ploy has me worried. Stackpole really chewed her out last time around. I’m thinking she wouldn’t risk annoying him again unless she thinks she really has something that will stick.”

Wyatt buried his head in his hands. “Oh my God,” he said softly. “This is like a nightmare that never ends. She really will stop at nothing.”

“I know,” Betsy agreed. “Stackpole wants to see us at eleven A.M. tomorrow. In the meantime, I went ahead and made an appointment with Margaret-Ellen Shank. She’s a really well-respected geriatrician on staff at Sarasota Memorial. Fortunately for us, she had a really messy divorce a couple years ago, and I was able to help her out. Can you have your dad over there by four this afternoon? She’s agreed to juggle her schedule to see him.”

“I’ll have him there,” Wyatt said wearily. “But what do I tell him? He’s gotta see a doctor to prove he’s not senile so I don’t lose custody of my son?”

“Tell him the truth,” Betsy said. “I’ll see you there.”

43

Arthur Cater stood on the porch staring into the doorway at the little cottage on Mandevilla. He wore an ancient T-shirt with chopped-off sleeves; shapeless, colorless green pants; and a dubious expression. He poked his nose inside the living room. He sniffed. His craggy face scrunched into some indefinable expression that threatened to give Grace an anxiety attack.

“What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” She’d spent all day Sunday using a rented floor sander to take the dirty, scuffed finish off the oak floors. She’d worked all night, mopping every last particle of sawdust before staining the floors a rich, dark walnut color. Her arms and lower back were still throbbing from her efforts.

When Arthur Cater called to casually announce his intention to drop by and check on her progress, Grace had only managed to stall him until after her meeting with Mitzi. Her stomach had been in knots all morning, wondering what Arthur’s reaction would be to her progress.

Now she had it, and judging by the look on his face, the news was not good.

Suddenly, she got angry. And defensive.

“Arthur,” she exclaimed, “it’s just paint. If you hate it, I can repaint. But I wanted a higher contrast between the floors and the walls, which is why I chose the dark stain for the floors.”

“Hush!” Arthur turned on his heel and walked rapidly out to the porch and into the yard.

Grace stared, speechless. Was he leaving?

No. A moment later he was back, carrying a bulky leather-covered camera. It was an old 35-millimeter.

He stood in the doorway and clicked the shutter. He walked into the dining room and snapped another picture. When he got to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” When he turned to Grace, his face was actually wreathed in smiles.

“You did all this?”

“I did,” Grace assured him.

“By yourself?”

“With a little help.”

He gestured at the secondhand Craigslist range, fridge, and dishwasher. “How the hell did you get those in there?”

“Some guys I used to work with back in my model-home days. Jimmy and Eduardo. I hired them to pick up the appliances in their truck and to install them. I don’t do wiring, Arthur.”

He gestured at the floor, with its gleaming red-checkerboard pattern. “What’s that made out of?”

She gulped. “It’s marine-grade plywood. The old linoleum tiles just were not coming up. So I nailed the plywood down, primed it, then taped off the squares and painted it with deck paint. Do you hate it?” She prayed he didn’t. Her knees still had bruises from all the hours she’d spent taping and painting.

“It’s good,” Arthur said, nodding and flashing that rare-as-diamonds smile again. “Better than good. It’s great. This floor—it looks just like the tiles my grandmother used to have in here. I’d forgotten that until just this minute.”

“How about the