Free Ladies' Night by Mary Kay Andrews

Grace spotted Wyatt Keeler. He was sitting on a wooden bench, focused on conversation with his lawyer. He was deeply tanned, and from here Grace could see that his dress shirt was ill-fitting, the collar too big, the sleeves too long. The shirt had obviously just come from a package, as the factory fold marks were still visible.
    The other lawyer looked up just as they were passing. “Hey, Betsy,” Mitzi murmured, nodding. “Looks like Stackpole is in rare form today.”
    Betsy Entwhistle rolled her eyes. Her client turned, noticing the two women who’d been in the courtroom earlier, and blushed, then looked down at his hands. For the first time, Grace noticed that his right hand was heavily bandaged.
    “He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Betsy said. “I saw you sitting in the courtroom. Are you on his docket today?”
    “Unfortunately,” Mitzi said. She gestured toward Grace. “This is my client, Grace Stanton.”
    “And this is my nephew, Wyatt Keeler,” Betsy said.
    Wyatt Keeler offered them a solemn smile, revealing choirboy dimples. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown, framed with stubby dark lashes. He was seated, but he had the lean, lanky look of somebody who spent a lot of time outdoors. “I hope you fare better with that guy than I did,” he said quietly.
    Up close, Grace thought, he didn’t look quite as much like the deranged goon he seemed in the video shot by his wife. Up close, he looked sad. Defeated.
    “I was just telling Wyatt he’s lucky Stackpole didn’t order him to be castrated,” Betsy said.
    “He did seem pretty worked up today,” Mitzi agreed. “I was kind of surprised, since it’s usually the wives he’s antagonistic towards.”
    “That damned video didn’t help us any,” Betsy said bluntly.
    Mitzi glanced down at her watch. “Whoops. Sorry, but we’ve got to make a pit stop before Stackpole readjourns.”
    “Good luck in there,” Wyatt said.
    *   *   *
    They slid into their seats at the front of the courtroom just as the bailiff at the rear of the room was closing the doors.
    Mitzi Stillwell shot Grace a sideways glance. “You okay?”
    Grace nodded. “As good as I’m gonna get.” She turned halfway in her chair and looked around the courtroom. There was no sign yet of Ben and his lawyer. She didn’t know whether to be glad or mad.
    “What happens now?” she asked, turning back to her attorney.
    “It should be pretty cut-and-dried,” Mitzi said. “We’ve asked the judge to order Ben to mediation for a financial settlement, since he’s so far resisted all our efforts in that direction. We’ve produced plenty of documentation that the business is yours and that he’s put you in an untenable situation. Even Stackpole should agree that you are arguably the rainmaker for Gracenotes.”
    “And then?”
    “Then we figure out a way to divide up the marital assets, seek a final decree for you, and Stackpole pronounces you unmarried.”
    “You make it sound easy,” Grace said.
    Mitzi shrugged. “Not easy. The statutes don’t want to make it too easy to get a divorce. But if Stackpole makes Ben play by the rules and divvy up the goods, this shouldn’t be too terribly complicated from hereon out.”
    Grace heard footsteps coming up the center aisle of the courtroom and turned slightly before swiveling violently back toward Mitzi. “He’s here,” she whispered. “Oh, God. I don’t think I can breathe.”
    She still hadn’t laid eyes on Ben since the night she’d driven his Audi into the pool on Sand Dollar Lane. He strode past her, eyes front, and sat at a table directly to the right of the one where she sat. He was dressed in a conservative charcoal suit, sharply pressed white dress shirt, and a purple silk tie. His glossy hair looked freshly cut, his black Gucci loafers were polished to perfection. He was carrying a briefcase Grace hadn’t seen in years, and he busied himself now, snapping it open and sorting through file folders.
    Grace felt