And One Last Thing... Part 21

"Dorie's never made me wait before," Mama said. "She's kept the shop open late for me when I needed a last-minute appointment. She opened up at the crack of dawn that morning I woke up with orange hair because the chlorine in the Terwilligers' pool -" Mama gasped. "Wynnie got to her."

"Mama, Wynnie doesn't even go to that salon," I said, laughing.

"No, but Dorie's husband works for your soon-to-be former father-in-law," Emmett reasoned. "This could be her subtle way of showing where her loyalties lie."

"In the Great Hair Wars?" I laughed. "Mama, has Dorie treated you any differently since the e-mail?" Mama shook her head. "Then I'm sure she just didn't have room for me on the schedule. I'll go tomorrow and it will be fine. There is no ma.s.s salon conspiracy or darker purpose at work here."

But from the moment I walked into the Uniquely You salon, I knew I was wrong. The salon was packed with the usual Friday afternoon primping-for-the-weekend crowd, and the moment I walked through the door, everyone stopped talking. Plump, pleasant Dorie Watkins blanched at the sight of me, her mouth set in a grim line as her baby-doll blue eyes flicked to the peach and chrome shampoo station in the back.

"Hi, Lacey," Janey Radner ventured. "It's nice to see you."

I smiled politely, plucking at the long-sleeved red jersey dress Emmett insisted I wear, with a red-and-jet-bead lariat and killer heels. It had been so long since I'd worn a skirt or heels, it had felt almost alien to slide them on, like a skin I'd shed a long time ago. But now I was glad I'd slipped into one of the nicer outfits Emmett had purchased for me. I wanted to combat those insistent "dumpy sweatsuit and snake tattoo" rumors.

Dorie cleared her throat nervously. "Um, Lacey, I'm running a little behind on another appointment. It will take me a little while to finish up. Do you want to maybe have a manicure while you wait? Judy's free. Or we could just reschedule."

Judy Messer, a sweet girl I'd gone to high school with, waved at me from the rear of the shop. "Sure, my hands are a wreck. Are you okay, Dorie?"

Dorie insisted she was fine, but I couldn't help but notice the way she kept angling me away from the shampoo station, pus.h.i.+ng me to the rear of the shop. When Sh.e.l.ly, the shampoo girl, gently raised the chair up and began toweling the client in question's hair, I realized it wasn't just another woman, it was the other woman. Beebee, in all her bronzed and lacquered glory, shot me a triumphant look as she was led to Dorie's station and seated. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. The scent of perm solution roiled across my nostrils, making me dizzy and nauseous. The roar of the dryers grated on my eardrums. My grip on my temper was getting more tenuous by the second.

"What the h.e.l.l is she doing here?" I demanded.

"Getting a trim," Beebee said, smirking at me. "You might consider it, honey, you've got some split ends showing. Now, exactly who the h.e.l.l do you think you are, showing your face around here again?"

I smiled and stretched my hand out as if to offer a friendly shake. She flinched dramatically, as if I'd taken a swing at her. I rolled my eyes. "I know it must be difficult for you to keep track of all of the wives of the married men you've slept with, so I'll help you out. I'm Lacey, Mike's wife. You're living in my house, sleeping in my bed, oh, and, driving my car."

Over Dorie's shoulder, I saw Pam Hamilton watching our exchange with glee. Behind her, Felicity Clark was pretending to read a magazine, but was obviously memorizing every word and expression.

"Someone doesn't like being replaced," Beebee singsonged in a silly Betty Boop voice that made me want to smack her.

Distress raised Dorie's voice by two octaves as I took a menacing step toward her rack of scissors. "I'm so sorry, Lacey," she whispered, pus.h.i.+ng me away from Beebee toward the manicure station. "She started coming here right after you left town. Her usual appointment is on Thursdays, which is why I booked you for today. But then she came marching in ten minutes ago and demanded a shampoo and updo for some fancy dinner thing Mike's taking her to. I thought I could squeeze her in before you got here."

"What the h.e.l.l, Dorie?!" I exclaimed. "I've been coming here for years! You did my hair for the junior prom, for G.o.d's sake!"

"I know," Dorie said, chewing her lip. "But with Mark working for Jim, I need to keep the Terwilligers happy, Lacey. I can't make a fuss."

"Lacey, I think you need to calm down," Felicity told me. "You're making everybody uncomfortable."

I whirled on Felicity, and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she'd be just as upset if her Karl paraded Margie Wannamaker through the salon. Or to tell Pam that everybody knew her hubby, Larry, and Bruce Gibbs don't really go "camping" once a month, unless you count shacking up at the DeLuxe Inn for two days as "roughing it." Emma Powell, who was smirking at me from under the dryer, had the bad fortune to have married a man who gave a stripper at Ta.s.sles more than five thousand dollars from his 401(k) and a used Honda. And he paid to have some of her tattoos removed. I could wipe the smug expressions from their faces with just a few well-chosen words, just like I was knocked off my own smug little pedestal all those months ago.

h.e.l.l, I could tell Beebee that Mike came crawling back to me, begging me to b.u.t.ter his toast and scratch his back again. That little tidbit would be circulated on the kitchen circuit by dinnertime.

But just as my lips parted to launch my opening attack on Felicity, I remembered feeling that sick, queasy sensation of my world spinning off its axis. And I tried to imagine going through that with other people around, with a room full of women I knew. And I couldn't do it.

"Why don't we all just admit that we have problems?" I asked, shaking my head. "My ex-husband is nailing this bimbo. He moved her into our house, gave her my car. h.e.l.l, I'm pretty sure those are my shoes she's wearing. And how exactly is that my fault? I didn't do anything to encourage it. I wasn't a bad wife. I had a bad husband. Why don't we just admit that we married the wrong men? h.e.l.lo, my name is Lacey, and I married an a.s.shole. Why is that so hard? Whatever happened to sisterhood? Why can't we just be honest and support each other? Well, obviously Beebee's out. But why can't we just admit to each other that our lives aren't perfect? That's all I did when I wrote that newsletter. I admitted that my life, at the moment, sucked. And if that scares you, or sickens you, I'm sorry. But you might want to ask yourselves why.

"Dorie," I said, turning to her. "Finish Beebee's hair. I'll come in the same time next Wednesday if you're free. That should keep us from any unpleasant pa.s.sing encounters."

Dorie smiled shakily. "That should be fine."

I walked out of the salon with my chin up, my heels clicking on the floor as the silent patrons watched me. The moment I stepped out the door, the buzz of voices rose like a swarm of angry bees.

I'd almost made it to my car when I realized I'd actually walked over to my old Volvo, the car Beebee was now driving. c.r.a.p.

"Don't you touch my car!" Beebee shrieked, scrambling out of the salon door with a wet head and a nylon cape tied around her neck.

"I wasn't going to," I sighed and spotted a half-dozen faces pressed against the salon window, watching us. "I just forgot you were driving it now."

"Don't you play dumb with me," Beebee hissed. "What do you think you're doing, just waltzing around town after what you did to me and Mike?

"Beebee, I know you're upset. I mean, after all, I did call you a wh.o.r.e in a public forum. But I would just like to point out that you did sleep with my husband. So, really, I think that makes us even. So if you don't mind, I'm going to climb into my car and leave with some dignity intact."

"Oh, spare me, you wives always climb up on your high horses, getting all righteous and offended, like it's not your fault your husbands sleep around. You know, Mike wouldn't have come after me if you were keeping him happy! That's why men leave women like you for women like me. You're dull. You're uptight. You're so worried about keeping Mommy and Daddy happy that you can't keep your man happy. You're useless in bed. And then you're surprised when he goes looking for something else." Her eyes narrowed and she smiled nastily. "He told me you're so frigid, you would just lay there like roadkill."

Okay, that did sting a little bit.

Even with grinding teeth and my fingernails biting little half moons into my palms, I managed to smirk at her. "So how many times have you had to fake it for him?"

"That's none of your -" she hissed before she caught herself. "You're never getting Mike back. Do you hear me?"

"I don't want him back!"

"I don't believe you!" she yelled.

"I don't care what you believe. That's the crazy thing about having your life derailed. It means you have nothing left to lose. I'm not even that angry with you anymore, Beebee. If you're happy with my hand-me-downs, more power to you. If anything, I owe you a big fat thank-you for showing me what kind of man my husband really was. I'm not going to thank you, because, again, I think you have no redeeming value as a person, but the temptation is there."

"I love him," Beebee said simply, in a voice that made her sound so much younger. "I know that probably doesn't matter to you, but I do. And I don't want to lose him."

I stared at her. This was a different Beebee than the unnaturally colored, husband-stealing she-beast I'd come to picture in my head. Her face was clean. Her hair was damp and slick against her skull. There were actually tears s.h.i.+mmering in her eyes. She looked... bare, somehow, vulnerable. And scared.

Of all the emotions bubbling through my chest at the moment, the one that caught me by surprise was pity for Beebee. She really did feel something for Mike, and he had already given up on her. He'd made it clear that afternoon at the lake that he was moving on, whether it was with me or the next receptionist, c.o.c.ktail waitress, or dog shampooer that took his interest.

Wait a minute.

"I don't care!" I cried. "I don't care if you love him. I don't care if you tattoo his name on your eyelids! If you came to me looking for forgiveness or some sort of blessing, you're even dumber than I thought you were."

Beebee's lip curled back over her teeth as she snarled, "Fine, if you want to be a b.i.t.c.h, be a b.i.t.c.h. But you stay away from us."

"Fine!" I exclaimed, climbing into the car. As I backed away, I could see the salon patrons scooting away from the window as Beebee stomped through the door. But I managed to get out of the parking lot without running her over, and I gave myself a little pat on the back.

The drive home seemed to take longer than it should. I used the time to stew. Was this the way it was going to be for the rest of my life? Would every trip into town result in some sort of public scene? Would I have to sneak into town for holidays with my family, a.s.suming that my father was speaking to me? Was I going to have to enter some sort of shamed small-town divorcee witness protection program?

I'd been evicted from my whole d.a.m.n life. Mike had replaced me with the kind of woman that could engage in a catfight in a beauty salon parking lot. Someone who he could lavish with stupid, thoughtful, impractical gifts that had no value other than making Beebee happy. He had time to take Beebee on long weekends at bed-and-breakfasts. Her gifts weren't bought with the intention of impressing our neighbors. I'll bet she didn't get a d.a.m.n robot vacuum for Christmas.

Just when I thought I had moved on and wasn't angry at Mike anymore, I got pulled back in. It was like I was in some sort of petty mafia. And I wanted that righteous anger, that feeling that I'd been wronged. It was clean, clear, like a gas flame that helped burn away my more jumbled emotions, like guilt and doubt and regret. But I couldn't find it. I wasn't even angry with Mike anymore. I just didn't want to know him. I wanted him out of my life, to cut him out like a cancer. I wanted... why was this drive taking so long?

I finally focused on my surroundings and realized I was about a mile away from the cabin. I must have driven the car there on autopilot. I'd wanted to go home, and here I was. The light sprinkling of rain that had started to fall just a few minutes ago picked up to full gale-force winds and sheets of water over my winds.h.i.+eld.

"s.h.i.+t," I muttered. "Emmett's going to love this."

I pulled the car into the gravel driveway. Monroe's truck wasn't parked outside his cabin. For a panicky moment, I worried that he'd moved out. That he was gone and I'd never see him again. I jumped out of the car, shucked the needle-thin heels, and trudged across the wet, muddy ground in my stocking feet. The porch light was on, a beacon in the growing darkness of late fall. I peered in the window and saw his laptop open on the desk, his running shoes thrown in the corner, as usual. The place was a mess. There were dirty dishes piled on the kitchen counters. Stacks of papers were strewn over every available surface. It looked like he'd started reading a half-dozen paperback novels and then just dropped them when he was finished.

I s.h.i.+vered, touching the cold gla.s.s with my fingertips and thinking of Miss Havisham and her moldy wedding dinner. It didn't seem like the same house anymore, the place where I'd spent so many happy hours. I backed away from the door, worried that Monroe would come back and find me staring into his window like some creepy stalker. I ran back to my car and grabbed my purse, thankful that I'd left some stuff behind when I bolted to Emmett's.

I took out my cell phone and called him. After he shrieked at me for a couple of minutes about being worried sick and checking the emergency rooms because he'd heard Beebee had whipped my a.s.s in the Uniquely You parking lot, he calmed down enough for me to tell him that I'd just driven up to the cabin to pick up a few things.

"Well, it would have been nice to let me know," he huffed. "Are you staying up there for the night? It looks like the weather is supposed to get pretty nasty."

"It already is up here," I told him. "I will probably stay. But I'll come back first thing in the morning."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Actually, Lace, there's an auction I wanted to check out in Sikesville. I'll be gone all weekend anyway; why don't you just stay up there?"

There was a casual nonchalance to Emmett's tone that I just didn't trust. I chuckled. Emmett had always been a terrible actor. "Emmett, if you and Peter are getting back together, all you have to say is that you need some privacy."

"Um, sure, you got me," he said, laughing awkwardly. "Remember, we're closed on Mondays, so no need to rush back. I'll see you soon, Lace."

I listened for Emmett's line to go dead and shook my head. "My brother is weird."

I shrugged out of my wet dress and into some warm flannel pajamas. I spied my laptop, open and in hibernation mode, at the kitchen table. I hadn't even thought to grab it in my exodus to Emmett's. I clicked the touchpad and the screen roared to life, showing me the chapter I'd been working on before my fight with Monroe. The police had just questioned Laurie about Greg's mysterious disappearance. Greg's new girlfriend, Patricia, had stormed into the house and demanded that Laurie tell her where Greg was. Behind her, Laurie saw the sliding pocket doors twitching in the entryway to the dining room, as if any second they would snap together, closing on Patricia like the jaws of a steel trap. I'd been in Gladiator thumbs-up or thumbs-down mode, trying to decide Patricia's fate, when I'd left the computer.

Part of me wanted to write Patricia's death in brilliant, blood-soaked detail, the sound of the doors crunching through bone to meet in the middle, the look in her eyes when she realized that Laurie was making this happen. The more rational part of my brain realized that as long as I wanted Laurie to punish Greg or his mistress, she wasn't going to be a bigger, better person. She was going to be the same person she was at the beginning of the book. And she'd be stuck in an evil house that ate people.

As long as I was mad at Mike, I wasn't going to be able to finish this book. As long as I was unsettled on my future, I wouldn't be able to give Laurie the ending she deserved.

"Okay, I get it!" I shouted at the ceiling, at some invisible writing G.o.d. "It's a metaphor!"

I chewed my lip, staring at my cell phone. I dialed Samantha's cell number. She picked up on the first ring. "For future reference, when we talked about 'not having contact with Beebee or Mike,' that includes not beating the tar out of one of them with your car antenna on a beauty salon lot."

"I did not do that," I promised her.

"I know, I'm just messing with you," she said, hooting. "The antenna thing seemed a little too mafioso. You're more of a fists-and-fingernails kind of girl."

"Thank you," I muttered. "I need to come see you next week. There's some paperwork we need to talk about."

"Has Mike filed involuntary commitment papers?" she asked.

"It's likely, but that's not what I need to talk to you about," I muttered. "What would be the fastest way to wrap up the divorce proceedings?"

"Off the top of my head, you could ask for what you brought into the marriage, a fair share of your savings-slash-gifts, and promise not to come after more later if he drops the lawsuit," she said. "He might go for that, or he might laugh in your face and threaten you with the Sizzler again."

"Could you have that drawn up for me this week sometime?"

I could almost hear her smiling through the phone. "What are you up to, Lacey?"

"Growing up," I told her.

"Sucks a little bit, doesn't it?"

"You aren't kidding," I snorted.

After settling a few minor details and asking Sam to keep an eye open for decent rentals in the area, I hung up, closed the blinds, turned off my phone, and refused to acknowledge the outside world until I'd finished the d.a.m.n book.

Eventually, I lost track of time and the cartons of c.o.ke I'd consumed.

I didn't know if Monroe was paying attention to the lights in my window or how late I was staying up. Frankly, I was glad he couldn't see me pacing in front of my computer, dancing to Gloria Gaynor to try to make words come out of my brain... eating chocolate fudge icing straight out of the can. Using an Oreo as a spoon.

I wrote until my eyes drooped and I thought my head would explode from staring at the screen. I fell asleep with my head against the keyboard on more than one occasion.

In a gesture I preferred to think of as hope, I did not let the house eat Patricia - or Laurie, for that matter. In the end, Laurie burned it to the ground, destroying her past, banis.h.i.+ng the b.l.o.o.d.y specter of her former husband. But because this was a horror novel and I wanted the ending to be somewhat ominous, I wrote a little scene in which Laurie is moving into her new apartment. Her handsome male neighbor comes over to introduce himself while she's moving in, and romantic sparks fly. Behind her, where neither of them could see, the stairs rippled just the tiniest bit "The end," I muttered as I typed out the last line.

And now, according to Monroe, the real work began. Editing, writing query letters to agents, surviving the rejections. As intimidating as it was, I wanted to see if I was good enough, if my work was good enough to actually get published.

"And now, the editing," I muttered, returning to page one. When the overwhelming smell of, well, me, wafted up from my T-s.h.i.+rt, I shuddered. "But first, a shower. Blech."

When I'd read the ma.n.u.script, once and then again, taking most of Monroe's advice into account, I printed it out and sneaked it over to his cabin in the dead of night. Well, I thought it was the dead of night. By the time I came out of the cabin, it was 4:30 p.m. on Monday. And I was still in my pajamas. Well, let's face it, Monroe had seen worse from me.

I padded across the lawn, my paper baby cradled in my arms. I laid it on Monroe's steps and almost made a clean getaway when I heard the door open behind me.

"c.r.a.p," I muttered without looking back.

"Well, h.e.l.lo to you, too," he said in a tone far more pleasant than I'd expected. "So we're just leaving manifestos on each others' doorsteps now?"

"It's not a manifesto," I protested. "When I stalk you, you'll be aware of it."

"Good to know," he said.

There was a long awkward pause. "I'm sorry." I said. "I'm sorry for the things I said and for taking the easy way out again. You said some pretty horrible things, but they were accurate, which was probably why they hurt so much."

"Lacey -"

"I'm not saying this because I'm looking for an apology. I just wanted to say I miss you and not just because you're the closest thing I've had to a functional s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p. I miss my friend. And I'm hoping that we'll eventually find our way back to being friends again."

"Lacey, don't -"

"Let me finish," I told him. "But for now, I'm moving out. I'm sorry we left things the way we did. Thank you being my friend and the voice of reason I so desperately needed. If you ever base a crazy-woman, scorned character on me, please be kind. My brother's right; I've hidden out up here too long. And if you ever tell him I said that, I will deny it to my dying breath.

"But I did want to leave this for you," I said, handing him the ma.n.u.script. "It's an extremely rough draft. But I'd like to know what you think."

"You finished it?" he asked, flipping through the pages.

"Well, what did you think I was doing when I was avoiding you?"

He pursed his lips. "I pictured something involving ice cream."

"Well, you weren't wrong there."