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

as just showing up,” Paula said. “Judge Stackpole knows some people will just go through the motions, simply so they can get that divorce decree. Despite what you all think, I must tell you, Cedric Stackpole is really a very wise man. So he’s asked me to be very clear about his expectations for all of you.” She smiled.

“Each week, I’ll be reporting in to Judge Stackpole about your progress in group. And if I feel that you’re only coasting, just giving group therapy lip service, I won’t be able to sign off on your attendance report.”

“Attendance report?” Ashleigh asked. “Like in kindergarten? Are you serious?”

“Very serious,” Paula said. “You have fifteen minutes to write. Starting now.”

She walked out into the reception area, closing the door firmly behind.

*   *   *

Grace began scribbling on the second page of the journal.

I can’t believe I have been “sentenced” to group therapy. I have nothing in common with these other women. I don’t see how hearing their pathetic stories is going to help me get over what was done to me. I don’t need therapy. I need a divorce. I was betrayed by my lying, cheating, dirtbag husband. You want to know how I feel? I feel different ways, different days. Most nights, I can’t sleep. I don’t know what’s happening with my life. How will I make a living for myself? Where will I live? I can’t keep living with my mother, but right now I don’t have a choice. I have no choices at all. That’s what I think I resent the most about all this. The feeling of powerlessness, of being helpless. It’s so damned unfair. And I’m supposed to get over all of this? I’m supposed to reach a point where I don’t feel this rage, bubbling up inside me, threatening to boil over at any moment? Most of the time, I am CONSUMED with anger. And when I’m not, I’m just sad. So damned sad. And lonely. Everything I had is gone. I’m thirty-eight. And alone.

“This is bullshit,” Camryn Nobles was saying, as she made bold, looping lines of script on the open page of her journal. “My lawyer didn’t tell me anything about having to write in a journal, or having to report to therapy, like a high school kid to study hall. I’m calling him tonight, just as soon as I get out of here. That bullshit judge can’t make us do this shit.”

“Shh,” Ashleigh whispered, jerking her head in the direction of the door. “She’ll hear you and tell the judge what you called him.”

“I don’t care what she tells that damned judge,” Camryn said fiercely. “I’m not in his courtroom now. This is America. Not some damned banana republic, where he gets to lay down the law and make us salute every time he farts.”

Grace laughed despite herself. “Maybe you could do an exposé of the judge for your television station.”

“Maybe I will,” Camryn shot back. “Just as soon as I get my divorce from Dexter Nobles, I might just do that.”

The room was quiet then, with only the scratching sounds of their pens as they scrawled their thoughts across the cheap notebooks.

After she’d filled two pages of her journal, Grace looked at her watch. “It’s been thirty minutes. Where do you think Paula went?”

“Who cares?” Camryn said. “This whole thing is a charade.”

“I’m gonna go check on her,” Grace said. “I’ve had a long day. I just want to get out of here.”

She walked across the room, opened the door, and peeked out into the reception area. Paula Talbott-Sinclair was slumped down in the chair behind the reception desk, her chin resting on her chest. She was snoring softly.

Grace stood there for a moment, uncertain what her next move should be. Then she heard the front door behind her open.

A man stepped inside the reception area, looking uncertainly around the room.

He was tall and lanky, and sunburned. He was about Grace’s age, she guessed, and at first she thought he was completely bald, until a closer look revealed a fine dark stubble of hair covering his scalp. He was dressed like a workman, in baggy khaki cargo shorts, a grimy-looking faded khaki safari hat, and high-topped lace-up work boots. His eyes were dark, nearly black, with an astonishing fringe of thick, luxuriant lashes. And dimples. It was the dimples that reminded Grace that she’d seen this guy before, and recently.

“Hey,” Wyatt Keller said, scowling at her. “I’m looking for Dr. Talbott-Sinclair?”

Grace nodded in the direction of the slumbering therapist. “You just found her.”

12

“Is this a joke?” Wyatt asked, narrowing his eyes. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and reread the card the judge had forced him to take. Then he took a closer look at Grace.

“Didn’t we meet…” he hesitated. “In court?”

“That’s right,” Grace said.

“I’m supposed to be here for the, uh, divorce recovery group,” he said.

“Well, you’re late,” Grace snapped. “It started thirty minutes ago. Not that you missed much.”

“Damn,” Wyatt said. “The bridge was up. I’ve got a sick bird, and I had to run her to the vet’s office, and the asshole vet tech wouldn’t wait for me to get there, and the office was closed by the time I got there, and I had to stop at a drugstore and buy some meds…”

“Really?” Grace sniffed. “That’s the best you can do? The dog ate your homework?”

Wyatt bridled. “It’s true. Anyway, what do you care?”

Grace shrugged. “I don’t. I just care about getting out of here. Right now. I’ve had enough ‘sharing.’”

Wyatt nodded in the direction of Paula, who hadn’t stirred despite their odd conversation.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Grace said. “It’s eight o’clock. My time’s up.”

She marched over to the desk and shook the therapist’s shoulder. “Paula,” she said loudly. “Hey, Paula. Wake up.”

Nothing.

“Is she sick or something?” Wyatt asked, taking a step closer. He reached out and touched the side of her neck, looking for a pulse.

“Who’s that?” Paula’s eyes flew open and she