And One Last Thing... Part 16

"Well, the good news is you don't have to clean up after them," Monroe said.

Mr. Borchard gave a loud, hooting laugh. "I'll have to remember that one."

An awkward silence fell over the three of us. Mr. Borchard was looking at me, expectantly. Clearly, I was supposed to say something here, but what? It had been so long since I'd socialized with anyone but Monroe, I felt out of practice. I wracked my brain, trying to think of the appropriate conversational volley. What would my mother say in a situation like this?

"Oh, I've been meaning to tell how much I appreciate you finis.h.i.+ng the dock so quickly," I told him. "It's just as solid as the old one. I'm really very happy with it. And the benches are great. Gammy would have loved them. I've told everyone I've seen what a great job you've done."

Okay, the only person I'd told was Monroe, but he was the only person I'd seen for a while. So it was just a small lie, necessary to maintain the delicately balanced scales of small-town politics.

"Good to have something to keep my hands busy," Mr. Borchard said in a pleased, proud tone. "Have you thought about those other improvements to the cabin?"

"Improvements?" Monroe asked.

Mr. Borchard smiled beatifically at me. "Yeah, she's thinking about staying up here for the winter, becoming a local. If she's going to do that, she's going to need some new windows, some new insulation. We don't want her freezing to death, do we?"

Monroe shot me a speculative look. "No, we don't."

"Then again, from what I can see, you two do what you can to keep each other warmed up," Mr. Borchard said, winking at us. Before either of us could respond or protest, he raised his hands like he was making a benediction and said, "The missus and I think it's a good thing. We couldn't be happier for you, Miz Lacey. Never took much to your husband. If this fella here treats you right, he won't have to worry."

"Is that a not-too-subtle threat?" Monroe asked, grinning good-naturedly.

Mr. Borchard shook his head, all innocence. "Not from me. I meant, if you treat her right, she won't send an e-mail to all and sundry, calling you everything but a nice Christian boy. You've got your hands full, I'd say." My eyes must have looked like saucers, because Mr. Borchard winked at me again and said, "The missus just got a copy from one of the gals in her quilting group. We laughed our heads off. Always knew you had your granny's backbone."

"Thanks," I said. "I think."

"Well, I better get going," he said. "I promised the missus a corn dog. Don't want her getting cranky with me."

"Tell her I said h.e.l.lo," I said. "See you around, Mr. Borchard."

"I'll call you next week. We'll talk about those improvements."

"I will."

"You've been holding out on me," Monroe said, turning on me the minute Mr. Borchard was out of earshot.

"You're right, I should have told you a long time ago. I hope one day to have a relations.h.i.+p based on foods on a stick, just like the Borchards."

Monroe quirked his lips. "Were you going to tell me you were thinking about staying?"

"I haven't made any definite decisions," I told him. "I want to be prepared, just in case. It's not a big deal."

"For you, maybe, but what happens to me when my winter girlfriend shows up?"

"Nice," I said, rolling my eyes. "Is this the sort of charm that drew her to you like a moth to a flame?"

"No, I think it's my resemblance to Hugh Jackman."

I gave him my patented confused look.

"You talk in your sleep sometimes," he said, shrugging.

"Sonofa -"

"Oh, it's adorable. And you say some other very interesting and dirty things. Where do you think I get half my ideas?"

"Well, this is weird," I muttered.

"No, this is us out in the world," he said. "Plagues and pestilence have yet to pour forth from the sky. I haven't forgotten your name or turned into a toad. We have managed to have a real date out in public."

"This is not a date," I told him. When his brow furrowed, I quickly said, "I'm wearing a baseball cap. I'm eating from a brown paper bag."

He grinned. "You're right. It won't be a date until we have funnel cake."

"No, it won't be a date until you demonstrate your manliness by winning me something plush and inanimate through ring-toss ability."

"Well, let's go make it a date, then," he said, slipping his arm around my waist and leading me to the games.

"I have news for you," I told him. "You just became the girl in this relations.h.i.+p."

23 * The Bottom Line of Booty Calls.

Mike's lawyer, Bill Bodine, finally ran out of legal reasons for not showing Samantha the credit card records she'd demanded. I did not want to know what sort of unholy power she'd called upon to obtain these records. I was just glad she was on my side.

"Do you really want to see this?" Samantha asked, sliding the manila envelope across the desk. "This can prove upsetting for a lot of people."

"I can handle it," I promised, taking a seat on her couch.

"Well, just in case..." she paused and reached into a mini-fridge and pulled out a pint of Haagen-Dazs and an airline-size bottle of vodka. "Pick your poison."

At the sight of my raised eyebrows, she said, "This is not my first rodeo."

I refused the liquor and the ice cream, instead ripping open the envelope to survey the neatly typed pages.

True to Sam's estimation, there were several charges to Leo Goote's jewelry store. No wonder Leo had seemed sorry for me. He knew exactly how much Mike had spent on his mistress. Mike had bought a tennis bracelet, a gold locket, and several crystal figurines, none of which I received.

"Sadly, one of these charges is for me," I told her, taking a little red pen and crossing it off the list. "Mike had my engagement ring cleaned and inspected six months ago, for insurance purposes. But everything else, he bought for Beebee. In fact, I'm pretty sure I admired that locket when I stopped in at the office a few months ago. She said it was a gift and I said she was lucky to have someone who was so thoughtful"

"Ow," Samantha said, wincing.

I sighed. "I think I'll take that ice cream now."

Samantha put a spoon in my outstretched hand and served the ice cream with a flourish. She took out a pint of coffee ice cream for herself, kicked off her rather stylish tan heels, and joined me on the couch. She put her feet up on the coffee table, dug her spoon into the ice cream and stayed silent as I read over the charges.

Being anesthetized by mocha chip didn't quite dull the shock of seeing thirty pages of itemized adultery expenses. Beebee was definitely a high-maintenance girlfriend. There were, of course, several charges to Cherry's floral shop, at least once a month for the last year. There were receipts to restaurants outside of town on nights when Mike was supposedly attending Lions Club meetings. Some of the places Mike hadn't even taken me, but all of them were romantic, out-of-the way restaurants where people went on special occasions.

"I had no idea he was spending this much," I said, shaking my head.

"Well, having an affair is expensive," Samantha said. "Generally, you're trying to impress your girlfriend. You're insecure about your ability to hold on to a younger woman -"

"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.