He nodded and said, “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself, honey.”
Oh, the irony.
After the call, I lost my appetite and nursed my spicy margarita while Scott shoved down his tacos and the remainder of mine. Then he went off to shag Steph or whatever it was he was doing, and I went home and reorganized my pots and pans so I wouldn’t open another bottle of sauvignon blanc and leaf through our family albums that I had created in my scrapbooking class, crying over all that was lost to me.
Of course, the next morning, the thought of meeting with my soon-to-be attorney threw me into a mixed state of denial, anxiety, and determination. Overwhelmed, I stayed in my pajamas too long and watched cute and oh-so-together Kelly Ripa chirp too happily and charm visiting celebrities. Which meant I then panicked because I had left myself only forty minutes to rip through my closet for something perfect to wear to begin divorcing one’s husband. I had thought to wear something severe and black, even contemplating lopping my beachy waves into an abrupt pageboy that screamed, Don’t screw with me. But I settled on a Lilly Pulitzer wrap dress that I had bought too long ago but still loved, and a loose ponytail. I felt more me in that getup, if not a little bougie.
Well, sometimes I was bougie. What of it?
Turns out my new attorney, Jackie, didn’t care because she had enough badassery for both of us.
Jackie wore a navy power suit, ivory blouse, and stacked gold chains against her dark skin. Her hair jiggled in coils that framed her rounded cheeks. The full lips painted boardroom red, big diamond studs in her earlobes, and cute frameless glasses perched on the end of her nose seemed right on her. She was rounded in all the right places, like someone who knew how to make a good pie, but then you peered behind the glasses into her eyes.
Those dark orbs reminded me of the sharks I’d seen when I took Julia Kate to a New Orleans aquarium a few years ago. They had whirled around, coldly assessing me from behind the twelve-inch-thick glass. I’d taken a step back each time one headed my way.
And if it weren’t for Jackie’s big smile and warm hands when we shook, I might have retreated for the door. She seemed to be the perfect balance of a woman who could gut you or smother you in a hug. Maybe at the same time.
She would do nicely as my attorney.
“Well now, Mrs. Crosby, I hear you’re looking for a female to represent you,” Jackie said, her voice smooth, confident, everything I wished I were.
“Is that wrong?”
“Hell no.”
“Oh, good.”
“Sit.” She gestured to a pair of fawn-speckled chairs centered on a zebra rug. I sank down on one and tried not to fidget. I had that habit, and my mother had tried to pinch it out of me on the fifth pew of First Presbyterian Church every Sunday. Jackie slid behind her desk, gracefully dropped into her white leather chair, and tented her hands with long fingernails just the shade of her lipstick. “You want coffee, Catherine?”
I had already drunk a gallon. “No, thank you. And I go by Cricket with most everyone.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, then, Cricket. Tell me your story.”
How far back should I go? To the day I had first met Scott on the porch of Hallie Henderson’s lawn party? He’d dressed in whites as per the invitation （because so many people in Shreveport played cricket or croquet or whatever that whole deb party was about）， and his tanned skin, straight teeth, and confident manner had me casting glances at him all afternoon as I nursed a Pimm’s cup and tried to look cool in my new sundress and sandals that matched the blue bow in my hair （hey, it was the nineties—don’t judge）。 Or maybe I should go back to the night he’d driven me to Dallas, taken me up in that tower restaurant, and hidden a two-carat diamond engagement ring in my cheesecake. Or the way he’d looked at me as I walked with my daddy down the aisle, careful not to wrinkle the satin runner lest I trip on the way back up the blasted thing. Or the day I’d told him I was pregnant with Julia Kate. Or . . .
I felt tears creep into my eyes.
Jackie calmly passed me a tissue. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. Nothing was okay about everything that had happened to me over the past two weeks. But this is what I was left with—a cheating husband, a wrecked marriage, and a life that would never be the same. Mentally, I tried to tug on my big-girl panties, preferably the Spanx that would help me hold it all together, and said, “I found out a little over a week ago. He’s doing my daughter’s tennis coach. Saw it with my own eyes. Um, not the actual doing, but I know he’s a cheater.”