And One Last Thing... Part 3

I was free. So I shrugged and said, "Okay."

"I don't ever want to see you again," she said, obviously confused when her proclamation of shame failed to induce wailing and gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth on my part.

"I understand."

Wynnie stared at me, bewildered. Finally she flushed red and ground out, "When you can stop being hateful - when you can find it in your heart to be a good and forgiving wife to my son, I'll be willing to talk to you."

Wynnie stormed out of the house. It would have been a much more effective exit if she hadn't slammed the door on her purse strap, forcing her to open it to extract herself. She scowled at me as I struggled to keep a straight face. "You just stay here and think about what you've done!"

I watched her stomp out to her town car and screech out of my parents' driveway. I sighed. "I'm going to miss her most of all."

A half hour later, the doorbell rang again. I jerked the front door open, yelling, "Wynnie, I told you I'm not going on any d.a.m.ned cruise!"

"Well, that's good to know," Mama deadpanned, her arms full of luggage, her elbow firmly planted against the doorbell. "Because given the circ.u.mstances, I don't think you deserve a cruise."

"Mama." I laughed. My mother set her bags on the floor and held out her arms. I folded into them and for the first time since sending the e-mail, cried in earnest.

"Baby," she murmured against my hair. "I'm so sorry."

I sniffled, my tears forming a seal between my cheek and her neck.

"I'm going to strangle that little -" Mama grunted, patting my back. "I knew I should have said something earlier, but I thought you knew about Mike and Beebee."

"You knew? You knew?" I cried, pulling away from her.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't know anything," Mama said, throwing up her hands. "I heard rumors. I suspected something was going on, but I thought after that birthday party, so would you. I thought you were just trying to put on a brave face. To keep your head up while you sussed out how to hit him where it hurts."

Mama led me into the kitchen and poured me a cup of coffee. She forced me to sit at the breakfast bar, searched in the cabinet for Bisquick. "So when you finally figured out you were married to a cliched little man, you didn't think to call me?" she asked, her tone mildly exasperated. "Instead, I get phone calls in Hilton Head telling me to come home as my youngest child has clearly lost her mind."

And suddenly I was four years old again, with her pinking shears in one hand and the remains of my curls in the other.

"I may have sent out a little divorce notice," I said, measuring "little" with my fingers.

"In the form of a brag letter?" Mama asked, beating Toll House chips into pancake batter a little harder than was necessary. "Lacey, I'm all for healthy expressions of your feelings, journaling, creative ceramics -... If you'd wanted to, we could have made a Mike - pinata and beaten the living h.e.l.l out of it. But we probably wouldn't have sent pictures of the pinata party out to every person we know."

"I know, I know. It was a crazy thing to do. But I just - it was the only way I knew how to hit back. To hurt him as much as he hurt me."

"Well, Rissy called me in Florida and read it to me. I'd say you did a good job of it. I know I'm wired to think anything you write is fabulous, but after I got over the initial shock, I laughed my b.u.t.t off."

"Wynnie says that all men stray and I should suck it up and stick around for the fabulous prizes," I said, sipping my coffee.

Mama slapped a ladleful of batter on a heated griddle. "Honey, I've kept my mouth shut for years, but now that divorce is on the horizon, I feel perfectly comfortable in telling you that Wynnie Terwilliger is an idiot."

"But I thought you two always got along! You did all those walkathons together and the bridge club and the holidays."

"Well, what was I supposed to say, 'No, I don't want to spend the holidays with your husband's family'? That would have seemed unfriendly."

"You should have told me this years ago, a fat lot of good that will do us now. I did the right thing, didn't I?" I asked. Mama winced. "The newsletter aside, I did the right thing. I couldn't stay with Mike."

Mama flipped a pancake without even looking. "I can't judge. How could I tell you what to do in this situation until I'd lived through it?"

"So you never had to worry about this with Daddy?' I asked, not quite sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

"Oh, honey, no!" Mama laughed, wrapping her arms around me and holding me tight. Unfortunately, she had the batter ladle in her hand and there was now unfinished chocolate chip pancake dripping down my back. "No, I never had to worry about this with Daddy. Haven't you ever wondered why I le Daddy drag me along with him on these silly fraternity trips?'

I nodded. "Every time you go."

"Well, if I learned anything from my mama, it was that if you don't want to be with your man, there will always be another woman willing to take your place," she said. "So I go on these trips and I watch your daddy make a complete fool of himself, because, for one thing, it's funny, and because there are plenty of miserable Phi Rho wives there who would be more than happy to upgrade to your daddy if they had the chance. I've said the thought of having an affair probably wouldn't occur to Daddy, but I really don't give him a chance to think of it."

"So this is my fault?" I asked. "I should have seen this coming?"

"No! Well, of course, you did miss a lot of signs." Mama said, flipping the pancakes onto a plate and coating them in b.u.t.ter and syrup. "But you didn't know what to look for. Mike probably saw this growing up."

"You knew about Mike's daddy and the other women?"

Mama snorted. "Wynnie doesn't suffer in silence nearly as well as she thinks she does," she said. "I'm sorry your marriage turned out the way it did. You deserved better. I'm proud that you stood up for yourself, proud that you refused to just roll over and die. Though you could have done it a little less spectacularly.

"For now, I want you to focus on something besides getting back at Mike. I don't want you to become one of the bitter women in my bridge club, counting every alimony penny as if making Mike suffer will make your life better."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. She sprinkled powdered sugar over my plate. "Oh, good, because I was just thinking, this isn't sweet enough."

She nudged the plate toward me. "Lacey, eat."

"Yes, ma'am," I said again, now dutifully forking a bite of pancakes. My stomach roiled at the thought of putting it in my mouth.

"Good girl," she said, giving my forehead a smacking kiss. When she turned her back to wash the griddle, I wrapped several bites into a paper napkin and tossed them into the trash.

There was a knock at the door. My eyes widened. 'Don't answer it. It will be my mother-in-law with a tranq gun and two tickets to Cancun."

Mama rolled her eyes and opened the door to find a well-dressed young man with an envelope in his hand.

"Lacey Terwilliger?" he asked, looking past Mama to me. He placed the envelope in my hand and slunk back out of striking range. "You've been served."

Mama s.n.a.t.c.hed the envelope out of my hand and tore it open. I padded back into the kitchen. "It's probably his divorce countersuit, Mama. It's nothing to get excited over."

Mama exclaimed, "Lacey, he's suing you for character defamation and libel!"

"Well, I can't really say I'm surprised," I snorted, taking the papers out of her hand.

"I can't believe he's actually suing you," Mama said. "It's just so... tacky."

"Oh, let him," I snorted. "Let him try to prove it's not true."

Holding up Mike's countersuit, Mama deadpanned, "And look, he got a two-for-one deal with the process server. His lawsuit and the divorce papers. His grounds for divorce are abandonment!"

"Abandonment?" I said, taking the papers from her. "Oh, what fresh h.e.l.l is this?"

"Well, you did leave the marital home without warning or taking half of what you deserve," Mama said. "Honey, you might just want to calm down and rea.s.sess your situation. You don't want to get into a big legal battle here. Mike's like a cat."

"Emotionally unavailable and fond of licking himself?" I asked.

"I was going to say he always lands on his feet."

7 * Swimming Lessons with Sammy the Shark.

Despite agreeing to take my divorce case, Sammy "the Shark" Shackleton hadn't had time to meet with me yet. His office, however, had time to cash my retainer check. Given our newfound financial relations.h.i.+p and Mike's recently filed lawsuit, I had no qualms about calling Shackleton and a.s.sociates and asking for an emergency consultation.

I twitched a little as I waited in the lobby of the law office. Despite the elegant, minimalist decor, it still felt like the princ.i.p.al's office. Here was the one person who would probably yell at me about the newsletter thing and his opinion would actually hold some sway. What if Mr. Shackleton decided that my case was too weird and sent me on my way? The closest decent divorce lawyer (that didn't play golf with Mike's daddy) I might be able to get would probably be in Louisville. And that meant my piddly ten thousand dollars cash reserve would be spent in no time.

It was almost disorienting to be outside of my parents' house after hiding for so long. But frankly, the constant ringing of the phone was driving me crazy. The question was, what does one wear to meet with her attorney after ridiculing her husband's s.e.xual abilities in a public forum? I didn't want to look like Betty Draper or the woman wronged. I wouldn't show up wearing my typical khakis and twinsets. I wanted to look like someone else, someone braver and bolder. I put on a black tank top and a pair of my skinny jeans, which fit better than ever thanks to my stomach churning for the last three days.

Mama suggested that she come to the meeting with me, but somehow I didn't think bringing my mommy would reinforce my stance as a responsible, emotionally mature, non-insane person. I twisted my purse strap round and around my fingers, staring at the clock. Shackleton was running five minutes late.

A young woman clipped through the reception area, wearing a crisp gray pantsuit and shuffling through several files.

"Excuse me, do you know when Mr. Shackleton will be ready to see me?" I asked in my polite-customer tone. "I'm a little anxious."

The woman's lip twitched. "Aren't we all? Why don't I take you back and I'll see if I can find him for you."

I followed her into the surprisingly light and airy office marked "S. Shackleton, Attorney-at-Law" and quirked an eyebrow as she circled the desk and sat in her boss's chair. She extended her hand over the desk and shook mine. "Samantha Shackleton."

I wouldn't have had any idea this woman was a lawyer, not because of any preconceived s.e.xist notions, but because she looked nowhere near old enough to have attended college, much less law school. Samantha had sharp aquamarine eyes and a long nose, set in a face completely devoid of makeup. Her skin was deeply tanned in that genuinely healthy way, like she'd spent all weekend hiking. She looked like she'd just walked out of an advertis.e.m.e.nt for trail mix.

"Well, I am deeply, deeply embarra.s.sed," I said, chewing my lip.

"So I take it you didn't put a lot of research into your quest for a divorce attorney?" she asked.

My cheeks flushed hot. "I'm so sorry. All I've heard about you is that you got Mimi Reed's husband's... well, you know."

"The junk in the mayonnaise jar story?" she asked, grinning. "Well, that's been slightly exaggerated in the telling and retelling. And I can't really comment on it, because I protect my clients' privacy, as I will, of course, protect yours. Let's just say that if your wife supports you and cares for you while you recover from testicular implant surgery - and pays for the surgery using a recent inheritance - you shouldn't leave her for your nurse."

I gasped. "She really did take them back?"

"I can't really say," she said while nodding. "So let's get down to business."

She opened my file. "Well, you're probably one of the more interesting clients to walk through that door, mayonnaise jars aside," she observed drily. "I think you should know that I've received forwarded versions of your e-mail from a dozen or so of my colleagues under the heading of, 'Well, at least, we're not representing her' or similar."

"So I've gone viral?" I asked. "Great."

"Of course, they didn't realize that I am representing you. I'm not afraid of the challenge, Lacey. Believe it or not, you're not my first client to do something rash when faced with the betrayal of a spouse. I have a prepared speech I give to these clients; would you like to hear it?"

"I don't feel I'm in a position to refuse."

She cleared her throat and in a professional monotone, she said, "I understand that you are very upset. It's natural to feel hurt and betrayed when your spouse has left you for someone else. In the heat of the moment we sometimes do and say things that we normally wouldn't. If you'd shown your e-mail to my mother, she would have told you to put it in a drawer for three days and then decide whether you wanted to send it. Obviously, the genie is out of the bottle now - ... okay, I'm sorry. I'm breaking from protocol. I've had clients change their outgoing messages to invite callers to press two to leave messages for 'the cheating b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' I even had one client start a blog called TheMillionWaysKevinlsAna.s.shole.com. But I've never had someone abuse the internet the way you did. I have to ask, what the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

I probably deserved much worse than that, so I took her bemused, exasperated tone with a grain of salt. "I may have gone a little too far, comparing Beebee to an Oompa Loompa," I conceded. "I can't say thinking had a lot to do with it. Mostly it was a reaction fueled by rage. Can I claim diminished mental capacity?"

"Well, you certainly deserve it more than most of my clients, but I don't think that would help. Professionally required scolding aside, I did think it was pretty funny. Just don't ever, ever do it again. At least, don't put your name on it, if you do. You're just inviting threats to your legal/financial/physical health."

I handed her a file folder containing copies of Mike and Beebee's e-mails and photos from Mike's inbox. "It was just a onetime thing, I'm sure. Do you need me to sign something to that effect ...?"

Samantha quirked her lips. "I don't think that will be necessary. Well, the good news is that there is precedence for judges, as in the case of the angry blogging ex-wife, to rule that these types of publications are protected by the First Amendment."

"That's good!" I exclaimed, letting out a shaky, relieved breath.

"Of course, in other cases, the courts have stated that these communications are inappropriate and the author should, in one judge's words, 'Shut the h.e.l.l up and show some cla.s.s."

"That's bad."

She cleared her throat. "Now, on to the questions I ask every client: You need to decide how far you want to go. Do you want to get even? Do you want to recover some dignity? Or do you want to slink away and hope we can depend on the common sense of the court and win the defamation suit?"

"Can I have some of column A and a little of column B? I don't really want to skin him," I admitted. "I just want what's fair. h.e.l.l, half the stuff in that house, even the house, I don't want it. I don't want the condo. I don't want the cars or the ba.s.s boat. And I could care less if he ends up paying me alimony. In fact, I don't think I want monthly contact with him, even if it's just through a check. I just want - I want enough to start over, to get on with my life."

Samantha smiled. "I take it you just happen to have detailed financial records for the entirety of your marriage?"

"Um, no. I know this is going to sound pretty cliche, but Mike took care of all of our finances. He was an accountant. I trusted him. It just made sense at the time."

"Let me guess, when it came to loans, bills, and tax returns, you just signed where he told you to?"

I nodded, staring at the twisting hands in my lap.

"Don't worry about the records, Lacey. The discovery process makes my clerk feel useful. The first thing we're going to do is make sure that Mike's house is in order, that there's nothing illegal or unethical going on. And if he's up to something illegal or unethical, we'll do what we can to make sure you aren't liable for any of it. Then we use it as leverage."

I chewed my lip as I considered that. "As much as I would relish the idea of Mike showering with his back against a prison wall, I don't think you're going to find anything but aboveboard business with Mike. He's ambitious and materialistic, but also dull as a box of mud and straight as an arrow. Frankly, I didn't think he had the guile to carry off an affair."

"You'd be surprised," Samantha said.

"I'd really rather not be surprised again," I muttered.

"The fun part is that we can ask for every piece of financial information Mike has handled since your wedding. You have every right to see it and searching for it will be a gigantic pain in the a.s.s for Mike and his lawyer. And if you want to have some real fun, we can demand that every cent Mike spent 'entertaining' Beebee be paid back to the marital pot. We might even get the judge to consider her salary part of his maintenance of the affair. We'll have my a.s.sociate go over every receipt and credit card charge, pick out all expenditures, like two thousand dollars spent at a jewelry store or three days at a resort. If you don't remember getting a diamond anklet or a weekend getaway in Hot Springs, then we a.s.sume that Mike spent that money on Beebee, and not, say, his mom."

"Yes, let's do that, please. But you should know his mom is also a strong possibility."

"Ew."

I nodded. "Exactly."

We talked for another hour or so and I found it oddly therapeutic, even if Samantha mostly kept her head down to take a copious amount of notes. She nodded. She grunted. She occasionally muttered something in Latin.

We finally came to the subject of the newsletter, how I'd found the information, how I'd written it. When I told her I'd forwarded the actual messages to my account, her smile was a mile wide. Samantha a.s.sured me that even if Mike had deleted the e-mails from his account, that her forensic computer a.n.a.lyst would be able to prove the messages were sent from Mike's IP address at work, where I didn't have access.

Sammy went on to explain that the lawsuit would be handled separately, but she would handle both cases. Apparently, in the course of her divorce court experience, she'd handled quite a few defamation suits - which made me feel a little bit better. She a.s.sured me that as long as information in the newsletter was proven to be true, there was nothing the court could do to prevent the publication or punish the author.