Ladies' Night, Andrews, Kay [best time to read books .txt] 📗

her cheeks. “Mom? You know what I remember that last year? When Dad was so sick? You were so strong. You kept the bar running, took him to all his doctor’s appointments, to chemo. You bathed him and spoon-fed him when he was too sick to eat, fixed his bed in the living room so he could look out at the water those last few weeks.”

Rochelle blinked back her own tears. “He made me promise I wouldn’t let him die in the hospital. It was a small enough thing to do.”

“So you forgave him?” Grace searched her mother’s face for an answer.

“You know? I guess I did,” Rochelle said, wonderingly. “At the time, I told myself I was doing it for you—because he was your daddy. But now, I think maybe I did it for me. I hated what Butch did—cheating on me—but I guess at the end, even after everything, I did still love him.”

“I’m glad you told me,” Grace said. “Thanks for that, Mom.”

49

Good morning Grace. Don’t know if you’ll remember me, but you and I had some dealings a few years ago when I was an assistant to Lily Soo at House Beautiful. I’m now features editor at Veranda, and I’ve been following your new blog and your new project with such delight. We think our readers would love it, too. Wondering if we might discuss having you write and photograph a monthly feature about your progress at Mandevilla Manor? Can’t wait to discuss! All best, Doreen Zelen. P.S. Adore that checkerboard kitchen floor!

Grace read the e-mail three times, just to make sure it wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Then she tucked her laptop under her arm and went running downstairs to the bar.

Rochelle was directing the beer-delivery guy into the storeroom. “Mom!” Grace cried.

Her mother whirled around, knocking her cup of coffee to the floor. “What is it?”

“Veranda! They want to hire me to write a series about Mandevilla. Can you believe it? I’ve subscribed to Veranda since forever. And they want me!”

Rochelle grabbed a bar towel and dropped it to the floor, mopping the spilled coffee with her sneaker-clad foot. “Honey, that’s fantastic!”

“I know,” Grace said. She was hopping up and down with excitement. “Veranda! This is a dream assignment.”

“How about some breakfast?” Rochelle asked. “You can tell me all the details and I’ll cook you some eggs and bacon.”

“Can’t,” Grace said. “I’ve got to get over to the cottage and get to work. I want to be able to move some furniture in by the end of the week so I’ll have some new photographs to show Doreen; she’s the Veranda editor who e-mailed me. I did a freelance piece for her years ago, when she was at another magazine. I was supposed to stop and pick up Sweetie, but I’m going to text Wyatt and see if he’ll drop her off. Talk to you later!”

*   *   *

Arthur Cater was sitting on the front steps of the cottage on Mandevilla when she pulled into the driveway.

“Arthur!” Grace called, as she crossed the lawn. “I’m so glad you’re here. Wait ’til I tell you my news.”

As soon as she got closer, she saw by the expression on Arthur’s face that something was terribly wrong. His face was streaked with what looked like soot, and he suddenly looked like a very, very old man.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it your wife? Is she sick?”

“My wife is fine,” Arthur said. “It’s the house, Grace. Somebody tried to burn down the house last night.”

*   *   *

Grace stood in the living room, staring down at the charred floorboards in the corner closest to the dining room. Soot marks streaked the white walls, and shards of broken glass sparkled from the shattered front windows. She clutched her laptop tightly against her chest and willed herself not to cry.

“The neighbor next door smelled something burning when he got up to let his dog out at six this morning,” Arthur said sadly. “He called me, then he called the fire department, then he came over here himself. As soon as he got onto the porch, he saw the flames, right over there. It was just a small blaze, looked like a bundle of rags or something, he said. He broke the window and climbed in. He found the mop bucket you’d been using and doused the fire with water. If he hadn’t done that, I don’t guess this place would be standing. This house is mostly wood. Heart pine that burns like kindling.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Grace said, her words catching in her throat.

“There’s more,” Arthur said grimly, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. Grace’s footsteps echoed in the high-ceilinged empty room. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and now she did cry.

Black paint had been spattered all over the kitchen. It oozed down the faces of the new refrigerator and range and trickled down the cabinet faces. Paint pooled on her freshly painted checkerboard floor. “Fuck the Man” had been painted in wobbly black letters across the kitchen window.

“Kids.” Arthur spat the word. He pointed at the sink, where an empty plastic half gallon of cheap vodka had been tossed, along with empty cans of Red Bull and assorted brands of beer cans.

“Oh my God.” Grace breathed the words. She backed away from the doorway and into the hallway, where half an inch of water sloshed over the floorboards. Wadded up towels littered the floor.

The bathroom door was closed. She was about to open the door when Arthur closed his own gnarled hand over hers. “Don’t,” he warned. “It’s awful bad.” He swallowed. “They … Grace. They took a dump in the tub and smeared it all over the walls. Then they shoved a towel down the toilet, to back up the plumbing, and did the same thing with the sink. I’ve shut the water off now, but hadn’t had time to clean everything up before you got here.”

The bedroom doors were closed, too. Before he