Part 38 (1/2)

”After the shower. I promise.” She stood and unzipped her athletic top.

He tugged on his second boot. ”It is just that they can be so pushy and overwhelming.”

”He is a friend of ours, Jean-Pierre. Well, of Matthew's anyway.

But I trust he'll be straight with me,” she said, sounding not totally certain.

”I am just trying to help,” Jean-Pierre said, tucking in his s.h.i.+rt.

She slid her little horseshoe charm back and forth on its chain.

Should she call now? Perhaps with Jean-Pierre here it would be easier. And if she really was going to go through with this, she might as well do it with him here. He was, after all, the reason why she had made up her mind in the first place.

”Wait,” she said, as he was zipping his suede jacket. ”Pa.s.s me my little address book. It's over there next to my wallet.” She flipped through the book and found the number she wanted and dialed the telephone.

Jean-Pierre stood with his arms crossed, broad shoulders pressed squarely against the wall. He gave her an encouraging look.

She turned her attention to her free hand, the left, which she had kept ungloved since she and Jean-Pierre had made love the first time. Somehow it seemed only fitting that she stare at where her finger once was while making this call. On the second ring a young woman's voice greeted her.

”This is Greta Locke,” she said, and after a moment's hesitation, ”Matthew Locke's wife.” She met Jean-Pierre's intense stare. ”I'd like to speak with Mitch.e.l.l, please.” A pause, then: ”Mitch.e.l.l, h.e.l.lo. Yes, he's fine, thank you.” Her expression turned serious as she smiled through the last of the lawyer's greeting.

”Actually, Mitch.e.l.l, things aren't exactly perfect,” she said, twisting the phone cord in her hand. Her eyes went to Jean-Pierre for a moment, taking him in from head to toe, his boots. The ranch, she reminded herself, boosting her courage. This was all for their ranch. She took a deep breath and plunged on. ”I'm calling you, Mitch.e.l.l, because I want a divorce.” Pinpoint dots of sweat had formed on her upper lip.

”I'm sorry?” she said, shaking her gaze from Jean-Pierre. ”No, Matthew and I have not talked about it yet.” Another pause. ”No, I don't know if it's what Matthew wants. It's what I want.” She swallowed a deluge of conflicting emotions, her eyes pleading with her lover for support.

Jean-Pierre dropped before her and rested his head in her lap.

”Yes, I will,” she said, and placed her hand on Jean-Pierre's head. ”Yes, as soon as he gets home from New York, yes.”

Jean-Pierre lifted his face. He was silently mouthing a word, but she could not understand him.

”No, I can't think of anything. I'm sure by the time I call you back I'll have - oh, wait.” She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.

”Property,” Jean-Pierre whispered.

”Oh yes, Mitch.e.l.l, I do have one question.” She held the phone with both hands and looked out the window. ”Mitch.e.l.l, I'm not clear on a few things in these matters. The property. The house.

a.s.sets. Those sorts of things.”

Jean-Pierre held her around the waist with both arms. In the distance she could see his small cottage, the ranch, a few horses being led from the stable.

”It is half, then,” she said softly. Her hand dropped to Jean-Pierre's head and slid down to his shoulder. She held on tight. ”Half of everything,” she uttered, feeling as if her lips were suddenly anesthetized.

”Okay,” she said, her voice different now, smaller. ”Thank you, Mitch.e.l.l. I'll contact you soon.” She placed the handset on its cradle and closed her eyes.

Jean-Pierre seated himself beside her and wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He whispered to her soothingly, to breathe slowly, relax.

She opened her mouth, tried to form words, but they would not come. After a minute she regained some control. ”My G.o.d, Jean-Pierre,” she managed, hiding her face in her trembling hands. ”That amounts to millions.”

”Greta,” he said, pulling her from him, ”You have earned your share. You have worked for it.”