Part 16 (2/2)
”Watch it,” I warned.
Samantha grinned cheekily, dis.h.i.+ng up more ice cream. ”You wine her, you dine her. You buy her special little presents for no reason You end up treating her better than you're treating your spouse. And you feel guilty, so you end up throwing a little money your spouse's way, too.”
”Not really, I mean, Mike gave me flowers once a couple of months back, but - oh, c.r.a.p.” For Valentine's Day, Mike had given me a silver bracelet with a monogrammed heart charm, a rare departure from his usual ”practical gift” MO. I checked the page listing February expenses and saw that Mike had purchased two of them from Leo Goote. So basically, he purchased something nice for Beebee for Valentine's Day and threw me a bone by doubling the order. ”I think I'm going to need the vodka, too, Sam.”
”I told you, this part can be upsetting,” she said.
”Yeah, yeah, make with the liquor, woman.”
”I see those lovely manners diminish proportionate to the amount of sugar you consume.”
”Oh, look, he took her on a tour of the Missouri wine country,” I said, tilting my head as I held up the April page. ”He told me he was going to a tax seminar in Nashville.”
”I wasn't aware Missouri has a wine country”
”Well, it does, and it's home to the Dew Drop Inn, which I'm guessing is some sort of bed-and-breakfast.”
Samantha wrinkled her nose. ”Gag. Some people have no sense of irony.”
”Or decency.” I muttered. ”Seriously, hasn't he ever heard of using cash?”
”Well, you can't get the frequent-flier miles that way,” she said. When my eyes went wide, she shrugged. ”I've been at this awhile. I've heard every possible rationalization you could think of.”
I tried and failed to tamp down the now-familiar little flashes of anger and embarra.s.sment. Why was I mad? I knew that he'd taken her out, bought her things, sent her flowers. Why was I so p.i.s.sed off now that I knew exactly what he'd bought her?
Samantha cracked open the vodka and poured a shot into each of our cartons. When I made a face, she told me, ”Think of it as a flavored White Russian.”
”Speaking of rationalizations,” I muttered.
”Look, I've noticed that - while you have a healthy sense of justice when provoked - you have a tendency to kick yourself pretty hard. You're going through perfectly normal stages, blaming yourself for what you didn't see. You're kicking your own a.s.s for taking the easier route in your marriage, which is normal. Most people take the easy route. That's why it's called the easy route. If it appeals to your sense of self-flagellation, you're paying for it now. So learn your lesson, spank your inner child, and let it go.”
After offering me a few more plat.i.tudes, Samantha said she would request a mediation session with Mike's lawyer sometime over the next month.
”Mediation sounds a little scary” I admitted.
”Oh, it's no big deal. Your lawyers get together and talk about what your issues are.”
”I think it should be abundantly clear what my issues are,” I deadpanned.
”Ha, ha, Jokey Jokemaker. I mean, your financial issues, division of property, maintenance, if you and Mike had kids -”
”Let's not even joke about that.”
”If you'd had kids, we would discuss visitation and child support. It's basically a starting-off point for negotiations. Most cases actually resolve themselves in mediation. Depending on Mike's shame level, we might be able to wrap it up before we go to trial.”
”Mike has no shame.”
”Well, in that case, we'll be scheduling a pretrial conference sometime in the next six months.”
”Six months?!” I cried. ”I can't be married to Mike for another six months. I don't want to be married to Mike for six more minutes. He's moved another woman into our house, Sam. Isn't there some sort of special a.s.shole divorce law exception that could speed the process along?”
”I'll try to make it as quick as possible, Lace, but you don't want to rush it. We're going to need time to iron out a financial settlement that works the first time. It's not like we can go back and ask for more money if you figure out you can't live on what we get. Have you thought about what you're going to do for money after the divorce is final?”
”Oh, you mean, like a job?” I asked.
”Yes, that's what the large majority of the population does for money.”
”I have thought about it. This probably won't make you happy, but I have the chance to do some writing, the kind of writing I have some experience at, for a living. And it would be enough money for me to live on, but it might mean that I would be retaining your services for a while longer.”
”So that explains the e-mails Maya Drake has been sending me.” Realization spread across Samantha's features. ”Oh, not good.”
I shrugged. ”Apparently there's a lot of money to be made in the revenge business.”
”Lacey, let me look around. You have other options. Give me a few more weeks,” she said. ”If I don't have you single and gainfully employed within a month, well, I don't know what to offer you. Just take some time and make the right choice before you do anything drastic... again.”
That Sat.u.r.day I woke up in Monroe's bed, which was becoming a common occurrence that neither of us commented on. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other resting on my stomach. This was his deep sleep before the dawn position and meant he would be in a near coma for at least another hour. Even though I had a few things in Monroe's closet, I slipped into one of his LPD T-s.h.i.+rts and a pair of panties. I shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee and tried to remember whether we had the makings for chocolate chip pancakes.
Monroe's coffeemaker was one of those old-fas.h.i.+oned percolators that made more noise than a jet engine. As the water hissed and roared, I wondered how the h.e.l.l he was able to sleep through it. I thought cops were supposed to be hyper-vigilant and jump out of bed at the slightest noise. But clearly, if we ever had a break-in after bedtime, I was going to have to face off the burglar on my own.
I sat at the kitchen table and read over Monroe's latest revisions to Two-Seven-Zero. This book was definitely funnier than his previous ventures, I mused as I sipped that ambrosial first cup of coffee. I liked to think I had something to do with his getting in touch with his inner smart-a.s.s, particularly the creation of the sa.s.sy, smart female police dispatcher who mocked the main character through most of the book.
I'd just poured myself a second cup and was taking another back to bed for Monroe when I heard the tumblers of the front-door lock turn. I turned to see an older couple come through the door with grocery bags, the wife singing ”Happy Birthday” in an exaggerated falsetto. I shrieked, flailing one arm, sending boiling hot coffee splas.h.i.+ng across my chest.
”Ow! s.h.i.+t! s.h.i.+t!” I hissed, pulling the scalding s.h.i.+rt away from my body.
And that's when I remembered I wasn't wearing any pants.
I yelped, dropping both cups and pulling the hem of my s.h.i.+rt as low as it would go.
”Lacey, what's going on?” Monroe ran into the living room, pulling on a pair of sweats, to find me doing the third-degree-burn dance half naked in his living room while June and Ward Cleaver: The Golden Years looked on.
”We came to surprise you for your birthday,” the woman said weakly. ”Surprise...”
Monroe skidded to a stop in front of me. He looked from the couple to me, and back again. ”Urn...”
”Well, son, aren't you going to introduce us?” the man asked, smirking.
Of course, now that I'd seen the smirk, I knew. I should have recognized the man as Monroe's father right away.
”Mom, Dad, this is Lacey Vernon, my neighbor. Lacey, Doctors Frank and Janice Monroe.”
Two tall, dark-haired men in their early thirties appeared in the doorway, both of them cleaner cut versions of Monroe. I'd seen them in the photo he kept on his bookshelves. These were Monroe's brothers.
s.h.i.+t.
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