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

“Taking back my maiden name?” Grace asked. “Does the judge have a problem with that?”

Paula cocked her head and blinked. “The question is, Grace, do you have a problem with it? Is this something you’re doing out of anger? Because we can’t have a healing when our hearts and minds are full of bitterness. You’ll come to see that, I think, eventually, in group.”

“It’s my name,” Grace said, feeling unusually obstinate. “I was a Davenport for way longer than I was in Stanton.

“All right,” Paula said, pushing the door open. “Let’s hold that thought. For now, come on in and meet the other members of group.”

The inner office consisted of a large glass-topped desk and a swivel chair, in the corner of the room. It had the same brown carpet as the outer office and a pair of smallish windows that were covered with a set of shiny bronze drapes in a cheesy sheer fabric. Five folding chairs were arranged in a semicircle around a high-backed brown leather chair. A row of framed diplomas was stretched across the wall above the desk, and three women, all of them looking ill at ease, were clustered around a small wooden table that held a coffeepot and a stack of Styrofoam cups, talking in subdued voices.

“Ladies,” Paula said, her voice rising to let them know she had an important announcement. “Ladies!”

The women turned their attention to the newcomer. If Grace had any expectations about what her divorce recovery group would look like, this wasn’t it.

“Don’t I know you?” A tall, elegantly dressed black woman approached Grace, hands on her hips, studying the newcomer intently. She wore her hair in a sleek bobbed cut, and the first thing Grace noticed about her were her almond-shaped eyes and her luxuriously thick fringe of eyelashes. Fakes?

“I, I’m not sure,” Grace said, stuttering a little. Wasn’t group therapy supposed to be anonymous? Wasn’t Paula Talbott-Sinclair supposed to protect her identity?

“Wait, I’ve got it,” the woman snapped her fingers. “Gracenotes! Am I right? You’re the lifestyle blogger who drowned her husband’s 175,000-dollar ride. Damn! I covered that story, and it got picked up by all the networks.” She patted Grace’s shoulder. “Nice goin’, girlfriend.”

Grace felt her face flame with embarrassment. So much for anonymity.

“You! You’re that reporter! Camryn. Camryn … something. You snuck into our subdivision, trespassed, talked to all my neighbors.” She lowered her voice. “Did you follow me here today? Don’t you people have any sense of decency?” She looked around for the therapist, ready to chew her out.

“Relax,” Camryn said, chuckling. “Me, follow you here? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the same reason you are.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “You drove your husband’s car into a pool?”

“Not quite,” Camryn said. “Let’s just say what I did do didn’t set well with some parties.”

Another woman walked up to join them. She was younger than Camryn Nobles but older than Grace, petite and slender, with sun-streaked shoulder-length blond hair pushed back from her forehead by a pair of designer sunglasses. Her skin was flawless, and she was dressed casually, in white capris and a flowery pink and orange tunic top and gold sandals. She wore a fine gold chain around her neck, and dangling from it was a whopper of a diamond, three carats, at least, Grace estimated.

“Hey, y’all,” she said, in a honey-dipped drawl. She glanced over her shoulder at Paula Talbott-Sinclair, who had seated herself in the swivel chair and was looking expectantly at the door. “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“What’s that?” Camryn said.

“Well, I’m just wondering what kind of dog-and-pony show we’ve lucked into here. I mean, did you get a look at this shopping center? I’ve been living in Sarasota all my life, and I have never, and I mean ever, stepped foot in a place like this. What kind of a therapist has her offices between a tattoo artist and a diaper store?”

“The kind who charges three hundred dollars a session,” Camryn said. “Obviously she’s not spending what she makes on overhead.”

“For real,” the blonde said. “And the thing is, my lawyer says I probably can’t make my ex pay for these sessions. Even though I’m not the one who was fuckin’ around on the side. I’ll tell you, that damned Stackpole has my lawyer runnin’ scared.”

“Stackpole!” Camryn said with a snort. “He’s the judge hearing your divorce?”

“That’s the one,” the blonde said. “You too?”

“Unfortunately,” Camryn said. She looked at Grace. “How about you?”

“Afraid so,” Grace said. “My lawyer says he hates women. Especially women lawyers.”

“My lawyer’s a man, and I still got the shaft,” Camryn pointed out.

“Me too,” the blonde said. “Well, I guess we’re in this together, huh? By the way, I’m Ashleigh. Hartounian.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to tell our last names,” Grace said.

“Why not?” Camryn shot. “I got nuthin’ to hide. Anyway, y’all both know my name, so why shouldn’t I know yours?”

Grace sighed. “Whatever. I’m Grace Davenport.”

“I thought your name was Stanton,” Camryn said.

“It was. I’m taking back my maiden name.”

Camryn rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet the judge is gonna love that.” She turned toward Ashleigh. “So, is your ex Boyce Hartounian? The plastic surgeon?”

“You know him?”

“Only his reputation,” Camryn said. “He did an eye lift for one of my girlfriends at the station. I swear, she looks ten years younger.”

“Boyce is good, all right,” Ashleigh admitted.

Camryn took a step closer and examined the younger woman’s face. “How ’bout you? Did he do some work on you?”

“Some,” Ashleigh admitted. She lifted her shoulders. “He gave me these boobs, not long after we started dating. And for our first anniversary, he gave me Reese Witherspoon’s nose.”

“Damn,” Camryn said. “Those boobs are fine.”

The fourth woman in the room wandered up, looking distinctly uneasy. She was older than all of them, in her early fifties. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and a thin network of crow’s-feet radiated out from her eyes. She was neatly dressed in a pale gray linen blouse and gray slacks.

“Hello,”