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

Jeepers-Peepers. I was getting our tax stuff ready for the accountant, which is how I found the AmEx bills. And, well, I, uh, um, I went over to that place one Thursday afternoon, Jeepers-Peepers, and I saw him—Daryl, that is, standing in the parking lot, and he was stuffing money into this guy’s—what do you call it? Not a G-string, if it’s a man, right? It was sort of a sequined jockstrap.”

“Actually?” Thea, an attractive woman in her early fifties raised her hand. “Technically, it’s not a jockstrap. It’s called a codpiece. I know because I’m from New Orleans.”

“Thanks, hon,” Harriett said. “He was stuffing fifty-dollar bills into this stripper’s codpiece. Right there in broad daylight! And it made me so mad, I lost it. Literally. One minute I was trying to take pictures of Daryl and his boyfriend with my phone, and the next minute I had crashed the car into a Dumpster. The police said I ran over Daryl’s foot. I don’t remember that part. I do remember he was wearing the four-hundred-dollar Italian loafers I bought him for Father’s Day.”

Camryn’s chest was heaving with silent laughter, and tears were rolling down her face. Harriett was too caught up in her story to notice the reporter’s reaction.

“Judge Stackpole called me a renegade!” she said angrily. “My lawyer said I should get half of Daryl’s pension plan—I never worked after we married, because he wanted me to stay home with our children. But Stackpole told me I was an able-bodied woman and I should get a job and stop being a leech. And then he told me he wouldn’t sign off on our divorce until I completed this divorce-recovery counseling. With a woman named Paula Talbott-Sinclair. Who I later found out isn’t even licensed to practice therapy in this state!”

“Did the judge give you the option of seeking treatment with any therapist? Or did he specify Ms. Talbott-Sinclair?” Camryn asked.

“He handed me her business card, right there in the courtroom,” Harriett said. “And he said she would have to notify him that I’d completed six weeks of sessions before he would grant our divorce.”

Harriett’s face was pink with indignation. “She charged me nine hundred dollars a session. Later, after I talked to some other women in the group and we began comparing notes, I found out they were only paying a third of that! And the thing is, I’m still pissed off at Daryl. I haven’t recovered from our divorce at all. I don’t know if I ever will.”

“Thank you, Harriett,” Camryn said soberly. She put the camera down and beamed at the women around the table.

“That was great. Who’s next?”

Suzanne took a deep breath and a sip of her iced tea. She was wearing a bright orange top and a flattering new shade of lipstick, and she’d had her hair cut and colored.

“Shall I go?” she asked.

“Oh my God,” Grace whispered. She was seated, facing the door, when a slender woman with unruly blond curls opened the door of the Sandbox and looked around hesitantly. She stood in the doorway, scanning the room, looking for something.

Grace jumped up and waved. “Paula! We’re over here.”

*   *   *

Conversation at the table came to an abrupt halt as Paula Talbott-Sinclair timidly approached the table. She stopped a few feet away, looking at Grace for guidance.

“What’s she doing here?” one of the women said angrily, jumping up from her seat and snatching up her pocketbook. “Spying on us for Stackpole?”

Paula’s already-pale face blanched.

“I invited her,” Grace said, standing. She reached out a hand for the therapist. “Paula? There’s an empty seat right here, beside mine.”

Paula’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t want to intrude. Maybe it would be better if I didn’t stay.”

“No,” Camryn said. “Stay.”

“Please,” Suzanne said.

When she was finally seated, Rochelle hurried over to take the newcomer’s order.

“Mom?” Grace said politely. “This is Paula. Paula, this is my mom, Rochelle.”

“The therapist?” Rochelle looked from Paula to Grace to Wyatt. “You’re the therapist?”

“Counselor,” Paula corrected. “And I’ll just have iced tea, please. Green, if you have it.” She lowered her voice and leaned in closer to Grace.

“How’s Ashleigh? Have you heard anything?”

“You know about Ashleigh? Already? Has it been on the news?”

Paula shook her head. “Ashleigh called me this afternoon. I guess it must have been before you went to meet her. And then a detective called me just before I came over here. The police retrieved Ashleigh’s cell phone, and they were following up on all her recent calls. They wouldn’t tell me much—just that she’d made an attempt on another woman’s life and nearly killed herself in the process.”

Grace stared at the therapist. “Let me get this straight. Ashleigh called you? Today?”

“She called me at the office, and I just happened to pick up. She’d obviously been drinking. She was ranting and raving about getting revenge against—what’s the other woman’s name?”

“Suchita.”

“Right. Suchita. Ashleigh was manic. It was hard to get a word in edgewise. I begged her to come to the office, to talk things over, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was cursing and making all kinds of wild threats. She talked about setting fire to her ex’s house or somehow poisoning the woman.”

Paula shook her head. “Ashleigh was in a very dark place.”

“I still don’t understand why she called you,” Grace said. “No offense, Paula, but she thought you were a quack.”

“I’m well aware,” Paula said. “She told me that several times today. But I think Ashleigh knew she was spinning out of control. She was desperate for help.” Paula looked around the table, recognizing all the faces arrayed around it.

“I failed Ashleigh. And I failed all of these women.” She glanced over at Wyatt, who was sitting on the other side of Grace. “And I failed you, too.”

Paula squared her shoulders and addressed Grace. “You said your lawyer would be at this meeting. Is she here?”

Mitzi raised her hand. “Mitzi Stillwell, attorney at law.”

Paula motioned to Camryn. “You can turn on that camera now. I’m ready to tell