Читать книгу The Power House Wives - Fredrica Greene - Страница 3

Although she didn't know it, this was to be the last dinner Laurel would give for a long time. Since it was Indian Summer, the theme for tonight was Autumn Sun. Her centerpiece was a flotilla of chrysanthemums and orange candles bobbing in a crystal bowl. She was trying to surround the bowl with a dozen shot glasses each containing an orange mum, to suggest the sun's rays. But the flowers kept flipping out of the glasses like suicidal goldfish. It had looked so easy on The Home Hostess yesterday morning. She refused to be defeated by a bunch of stubborn flowers. With a final thumb thrust in the center of each flower, she shoved them into their glass holders and tamed them into submission.

Tonight she was entertaining Wes's bosses, his new protegé and their spouses. The table was set: eight gold-rimmed dishes, eight damask napkins folded into fans tucked into eight crystal goblets; eight place card holders Laurel had made herself - tiny pine cones sprayed with gold paint with hand-lettered place cards in each. After moving the place cards around like chess pieces too many times to count, she finally settled on the best seating arrangement she could.

Wes would sit at the head of the table, of course. His protegé, Hollis Peterson, and his wife could sit by him. Craig Armstrong and Nathan Lowe, Power House's CEO and CFO would sit on either side of her. That left Craig's young wife Caprice and Zora Lowe. The problem was Zora would be indignant if she didn't get to sit next to Craig.

When Craig was married to Charlotte, Laurel didn't have these problems. Charlotte didn't take offense if she wasn't next to the most important person in the room. She could start a conversation with anyone. Laurel was wrestling with the cards when Wes stormed in with a scowl and cardboard box.

"What's that?" Laurel asked.

He dropped the box on the floor. "I've been canned."

"What?" Laurel's stomach twisted into an instant knot.

"The whole fucking department's shipped out. "

"Where?" She felt woozy."I don't understand. When did this happen?"

"About an hour ago. Armstrong called me into his office and handed me my hat. Company's sold to an outfit out of Minnesota."

Her heart nearly stopped. Not again."We're not moving?"

"Weren't you listening? I'm canned, not transferred."

"That's a relief."

"It's a relief I lost my job?" he said in disbelief.

"You'll find another one. You always do." Laurel clapped her hand to her forehead. "Oh my gosh. Our dinner. This will be so awkward."

"Have you lost your marbles? There won't be any dinner tonight."

"Of course. What am I thinking? I hope it's not too late to call our guests." She knew she should be most concerned with the job loss, but she couldn't help focusing on all that food, sitting in the kitchen, going to waste. All the hours spent preparing for tonight, gone to waste. Setting her feeling of dismay aside, she went to him and stroked his cheek. "I'd better get on the phone. I guess I don't have to call the Armstrongs."

"You got that right."

Fortunately she only had to make two calls. She got the Peterson's answering machine and left a message. She hoped they hadn't left already. The next call was to Zora.

"Isn't this rather short notice?" Zora sniffed "

"I'm sorry."

"Where can I get a dinner reservation anyplace decent now?"

"I'm really sorry," Laurel said. "Something came up."

"May I ask why?"

"I can't talk now." Laurel hung up.

Wes was in the den pouring Jack Daniels into a tumbler."Dinner's ready when you are." Laurel was about to add, "I have a lot of food," but thought better of it.

"I'm not hungry." He sank into his recliner. "You and Justin eat without me."

"Justin's got football practice tonight. He won't be home till late."

"Well then I guess it's just you." He clicked on the TV.

Laurel had no appetite either. Oh my God, she might have to move again. She retrieved the roast from the oven, wrapped it in foil and stashed it in the refrigerator. Wes had promised this was their last move. Tomorrow she'd try to think of how many creative ways she could make it stretch over the next several days. Justin would have to change schools again.

She pulled the cheese cubes off the pineapple, leaving toothpicks sticking out like a startled porcupine. She'd melt the cubes for macaroni and cheese. It was never too soon to start conserving. The last time this happened, Wes was unemployed for four months.

She put away the nuts, the chips, the onion dip, the prosciutto wrapped, out-of-season, criminally expensive asparagus, dumped the marinated brown and white mushrooms she'd so carefully arranged in a yin-yang pattern into a bowl. She replaced the china in the sideboard, unfolded the napkin fans, tossed the place cards in the trash. She absentmindedly popped shrimp balls into her mouth as she cleared away the party that never was and glanced morosely at the chocolate cake topped with a giant blossom of edible chrysanthemum and nasturtium petals. She thought of the day like an empty sandwich, all bread and no filling. Preparation and cleanup, but no party.

She had flitted around the country like a moth her whole life, first with her parents as a military brat, then with Wes's spiraling career. She'd land just long enough to touch down before she had to fly off again. Nine homes in twenty-one years of marriage, always picking up before she could set down roots. This was the first house they'd owned.

Six years ago, when Wes joined Power House, she finally got her own home. She had planted her first garden: a vegetable plot, roses, and a lemon tree whose scent filled the room when she opened the kitchen window. She'd decorated as she pleased. No landlord's restrictions. She had sponge painted the dining room to resemble a Tuscan villa, papered the kitchen walls in a blue and sunny yellow Provincial print, and hung family photos in the hallway without fear of having to patch the holes or forfeit a deposit. She'd set down roots - not just for herself, but for her family. Justin had one more year of high school. It would be the worst possible time for him to change schools.

She was elbows deep in soapsuds, scrubbing the roasting pan, when the doorbell rang. "Can you get that?" she called. When the bell rang a second time, she peeled off her rubber gloves and marched indignantly past the den where Wes sat staring at a game show. Wes never watched game shows. Exasperated she opened the front door to find herself face to face with a young couple straight out of a toothpaste ad - blonde, tan and enviably fit looking.

"Hi, I'm Hap," the bronze god said with a broad grin. "And this is my wife, Robin." Laurel could see why Wes had promoted him to sales manager. He exuded boyish confidence. His wife looked like a cheerleader, slim and perky, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, a few wisps framing her heart-shaped face.

Robin looked past Laurel at the empty living room. "Oh-oh. Do we have the wrong night?"

"No," said Laurel, collecting herself. "I tried to reach you. We had to cancel the dinner." The couple stood there awkwardly. They had obviously dressed up for a party. She couldn't just shut the door on them. "Come in," she said. "At least, let me offer you a glass of wine."

She led them to the living room and went to get Wes. The den was permeated with eau de bourbon. "Tell them to leave," Wes grunted. When he refused to get up, she conceded defeat and went into the kitchen to cobble something together.

When Laurel returned to the living room, Robin and Hap were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands. She set down the tray bearing wine, glasses, and the rescued cheese cubes.

Robin held up a hand. "I'm not drinking."

Hap patted her stomach. "We're expecting."

Robin blushed and pushed his hand away.

Laurel didn't see any sign of a bulge. "When are you due?"

"Not till the end of May,” Robin said. "After school's out."

"Are you going to the University?"

Hap laughed. "She teaches at Norton High."

Laurel blushed, embarrassed by her misjudgment. "You look so young." She put her hand to her mouth. "I hope you're not offended. I mean it as a compliment."

Robin smiled. "I took it that way."

"Our son, Justin, is a junior at Norton."

"He wouldn't know me unless he takes home economics," Robin said.

"Or hangs around to watch the girls," Hap added.

She gave him a stop-it nudge. "I coach girls' track," she explained.

"Where's Wes?" Hap asked.

"He's not feeling well," Laurel said. That was an understatement.

As if to prove her right, Wes appeared in the doorway, swaying, in his undershirt and slacks. "You still here?" he slurred. He squinted at the startled trio with red-rimmed eyes. "You didn't get the word?" Laurel wished he'd go back into his cave.

Hap looked puzzled.

"We've been terminated. Fired."

Hap looked uncomprehending for a moment; then his grin melted away. "But I've nearly doubled the sales in my territory."

"I didn't say 'you'. I said 'we.' The whole damn sales team."

Hap shook his head."That doesn't make sense."

Wes leaned against the door jamb. "Whole fucking department's down the tubes."

Robin's face had turned white. "We just bought our house."

Hap wrapped a protective arm around her. "Don't worry, honey."

"The company will probably call in the loan they gave you," Wes growled.

"Wes," Laurel warned. This was not the time for more bad news.

"Sorry, pal," Wes said as he staggered back to the den.

Laurel was afraid Robin would faint. "I'm sure Hap will find a job," she said to reassure her, although she had no idea if this were true.

"I’m not worried, Hon," he said.

Robin got up shakily. "I don't feel well. We'd better go. "

Laurel walked Robin and Hap to the door. "Don't mind Wes. This has been a shock to him."

Laurel closed the door behind them and leaned against it. Tonight was bad enough; tomorrow would be worse. Wes was a bear when he had a hangover, and he'd have a doozy. She found Wes in the den, staring glassy-eyed at the television screen. She turned off the set. "Go to bed," she said. "Things will look better in the morning."

"Yeah, and Jesus is coming back, too."

Laurel recoiled from his hot whiskey breath as she walked Wes down the hall, his arm draped over her shoulders. In their bedroom, she twisted him off her shoulder and onto the bed. She unbuckled his belt, grabbed the cuffs of his pants and pulled them off. Once he was tucked in, none too gently, she went to the den and found the bottle on the floor by his chair. It was less than half full.

She was about to pour the rest of the bourbon down the kitchen sink when she reassessed the situation. With the holidays just two months away, she could use it for Bourbon Balls and her famous fruitcake. But she had to hide the bottle from Wes. She was looking for the right spot when Justin popped in the front door. The duffel slung over his shoulder reeked of dirty gym clothes. Judging by his smile, Norton High must have won the Homecoming game. He dropped his duffel on the floor and gave Laurel a peck on the cheek. "Hi, Mom. Party over already?" He opened the refrigerator door and stood back. "Whoa. What's with all this food?"

Laurel tried to sound matter-of-fact, as if this happened all the time. "Dinner was cancelled."

"Why?"

She kissed his forehead, brushing his lock of auburn hair aside. "Dad didn't feel well. Nothing for you to worry about."

Justin frowned. "Is he sick?"

She shook her head. "Just tired."

He narrowed his eyes."What's that in your hand?"

Laurel realized she was holding the half-empty liquor bottle. "He had a hard day."

"Shit, not again. It's his job, isn't it?"

Laurel patted his cheek. "I told you not to worry. And watch your language, young man."

"Sorry."

"Besides, things always look better in the morning."

"You always say that."

"That’s because it's true."

He picked up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. "Shit," he muttered as he crashed down the hall to his room. "Shit, shit, shit."

Laurel's stomach rumbled. She'd eaten nothing but a few cheese cubes and shrimp balls. She made a cup of chamomile tea and cut herself a piece of the cake that was to have been tonight's grand finale. The house was silent. When she had finished the last crumb and rinsed off the dishes, Laurel hid the bourbon bottle in the back of the cabinet with her baking supplies. Wes would never look there. Then she trudged slowly down the hall, her way lit only by the light seeping under Justin's door.

She undressed in the dark and crawled into bed. Wes snored loudly. With each exhalation, his sour breath fanned over her. Laurel scrunched over to her side of the bed, her back to him. Tomorrow they would discuss his next move. "Move" as in take action, not "move" as in relocate. She'd do whatever she could to stay put.

Zora wangled a last minute reservation at the Club. The fact that she was Mrs. Nathan Lowe did the trick. The hostess managed to find her a table.

She had tried to reach Nathan at his office to tell him of their change of plans, but he had already left. To her annoyance, when she phoned his private line, her call was routed to the Power House main voice mail. She thought she might have misdialed, but when she tried again she got the same result.

As she watched from her living room window as cars wound up the hill to her street, she grew restless. Where was Nathan? She had chilled two martini glasses so they could have a relaxing cocktail before they left for the Club. Lights were coming on in the town below; square nuggets of gold glinted in the darkening sky.

She was irritated at Nathan for being late, irritated at Power House for its misdirected phone answering system, and really irritated at Laurel for canceling dinner so last minute. What could be so important? Why the mystery? If someone was sick, why didn't she just say so?

On the bright side, she didn't have to suffer through one of Laurel's over-the-top dinners with their silly themes. Sometimes it was hard to keep a straight face. Especially the April Showers dinner Laurel gave, in which every drink had an umbrella, strings of raindrop-shaped glass beads hung over the table, and the place names were written on doll-size rubber rain boots. Frankly, she didn't understand why Laurel went to all that work. Why not just have her parties catered? Zora couldn't imagine actually cooking.

Zora paced back and forth in front of the window until she saw Nathan's car pull into the driveway. She heard the front door open and Nathan's heels click along the marble entry floor. Zora filled the chilled glasses and dropped a pistachio-filled olive in each.

Nathan trudged into the living room, shoulders sagging; shadows underlined his eyes. Zora kissed him on the cheek, then rubbed off her lipstick mark off with her thumb."You look exhausted."

He collapsed onto the beige leather couch.

Zora handed him his martini. "You'll be glad to know we don't have to go to the Hardestys' tonight. The party's been canceled."

"I would expect so," he said glumly.

Zora raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Wes got the axe today."

A few drops of gin spilled from Zora's glass onto the Oriental carpet."No wonder Laurel didn't want to talk. Why ?"

"You heard the rumors that the company would be sold."

Zora hadn't paid much attention.

"A lot of people lost their jobs today." Nathan raised his glass to his lips and took a swallow. "But the shareholders will be happy."

"What about your job?" At his level, he should be untouchable."They need you."

Nathan drained his glass. "Don't worry."

Zora sat on the arm of the couch. "A strange thing happened when I tried to call you. I got the main number."

He flushed. "They're redoing the phone system. My line must be down."

"Not for long, I hope." She stood up and took his glass. "We're due at the Club in twenty minutes."

Nathan sighed. "Can't we stay home?"

"I have nothing here. I thought we'd be at Laurel's." She took his glass. "We'll have a nice quiet dinner."

The Club hostess led them to a table in a corner near the kitchen.

"Don't you have anything better?" Zora asked, looking pointedly at an empty table near the windows that overlooked the golf course.

"They're all reserved."

Ordinarily Zora would have stood her ground and insisted on the better location, but she was glad to get anything at all on such short notice.

The room was bustling. The few empty tables had Reserved signs. The waiters rushed in and out of the swinging kitchen door, irritating Zora, though Nathan didn't seem to notice. When their waiter finally approached, Zora ordered lobster tail and a glass of Chardonnay.

Nathan handed the waiter his menu."I'll have a martini. Make it a double. And the clam chowder,"

"Is that all?" Zora asked. Nathan always ordered the prime rib.

"I'm not hungry."

She leaned across the table and touched his forehead. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He brushed her hand away. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Zora glanced toward the door. "Look who just came in," she said. "Craig and his child bride." Her eyes followed them as they were led to the table she coveted. In a sea of homogenous middle-aged diners, Caprice stood out -- tall and slim with long blonde Alice-in-Wonderland hair. Zora's hand involuntarily went up to her own neatly sprayed, freshly highlighted bob.

Nathan didn't look up. The waiter appeared and set their drinks in front of them.

Zora glanced around the room. "Why don't we have our Christmas party here for a change? I'll ask Antonio if the banquet room is available."

Nathan swirled his drink. "Let's skip the party this year."

She took a sip of wine."We can't do that. Everybody looks forward to it." Zora leaned forward, lowering her voice. "If we don't, people will think they weren't invited. You don't want to offend anyone."

Nathan took a slug of his drink."Let's not talk about it now."

Zora decided not to pursue the subject. He was obviously upset by the events at work. Having their annual party was clearly the right thing to do. It would be insurance to help cement his position - just in case. She'd make all the arrangements and present it to him as a fait accompli. Nathan wouldn't have to do a thing.

She tried to think of something amusing to cheer him up. Since her day had been spent getting her hair and nails done after a morning of bridge, she had little ammunition. Somehow she didn't think he'd be distracted by her description of her bridge hands.

Fortunately, the waiter appeared with their food, and the need for conversation was allayed. Zora picked at her lobster tail, careful not to get a drop of melted butter on her dress. Nathan toyed with his soup, barely touching it. The waiter came over to ask if anything was wrong. Nathan shoved the bowl away and asked for the check.

On the way out, Zora headed toward Craig's table.

"Where are you going?" Nathan asked, placing his hand on her arm.

"To say hello."

Nathan tugged at her sleeve."I don't think they want to be disturbed."

She plucked his hand off. "They've seen us. We can't ignore them. "

Nathan lagged behind as she led the way to Craig's table.

"What a coincidence," she said brightly.

Craig stood up, but Zora flicked her wrist. "Please sit. We were just on our way out."

Caprice flashed a porcelain smile.

Craig resumed his seat and nodded to Nathan.

Nathan placed a hand on Zora's back and guided her away.

Once outside, Zora hooked her arm into his. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Didn't you see they wanted to be left alone?"

"It wouldn't hurt to say hello. You shouldn't be rude to him. He's still your boss."

Nathan placed his hand over hers. "I'll keep that in mind."

As they drove home, Zora's mind was on their annual party. Christmas was three months off, but it was not too soon to start planning. There was the room to book, a menu to decide, invitations to be engraved. No, it was none too soon.

On a beautiful Indian Summer day under a brilliant Northern California sun, Charlotte Armstrong was about to enter the Fairbrook Country Club for the first time since her divorce to meet with the man who had replaced her with a woman half her age six years before. This would be the first time she'd been alone with Craig since he'd left. He hadn't even spoken to her at their son's high school graduation four years ago. Of course with his new wife hanging on his arm, that would have been awkward. Since then, she hadn't even seen him, although she often saw his photo in the newspaper: either in the business section as Power House CEO, or at a social event with his young wife/ former secretary, beaming at his side. They lived in the same town, but different worlds.

When she heard his voice on the telephone yesterday her heart started pounding so loudly she thought he must have heard it across the phone lines. She had been so stunned she had accepted without thinking. "I need to talk to you, and I'd rather do it in person," he'd said. And she'd agreed. As soon as she'd hung up she wondered why she hadn't asked more questions. What was so important he couldn't tell her over the phone? She'd lain away all night -at least it seemed all night - wondering and worrying. Was it good news or bad? Was he ill? Terminal? Getting divorced again? Did he want her to take him back? Did she want him back? She didn’t know. This morning, she'd spent an hour agonizing over what to wear, finally choosing the blue silk blouse that matched her eyes. She'd tried to disguise the effects of a sleepless night, but all she had was some ancient powder and lipstick. On her way out the door her Labrador, Lucky, had jumped up leaving a dusty paw print on her black slacks.

The road to the club had changed radically in the last few years. The mosaic of flowering peach and almond orchards that thrived when her grandfather built their family home was now a desert of terra cotta and white stucco mini-mansions. Power House Inc., where Craig ruled, had mowed down the orchards to plant its concrete roots there. Now Fairbrook, once a sleepy village, the fruit basket of the Bay Area, was a smugly prosperous sterile suburb.

The Fairbrook Country Club was a large, rambling building resembling a ranch house on steroids. The three flags outside the front door, American, California, and the club flag - green with crossed golf clubs - were at half mast. Charlotte wondered who had died.

Charlotte handed her car keys to the valet and sucked in her breath to quiet her squirrely stomach. She threw back her shoulders, clutched her purse in front of the smudge on her slacks and walked in.

Nothing had changed. The lobby had the same red and black swirled carpet, brass-studded leather couches, and wagon wheel coffee table it had when she was last there.

She waited in the dining room entry for the hostess. The light from the glass wall overlooking the golf course silhouetted the diners. She couldn't make out any faces. Not that it mattered. She'd been out of the social loop since the divorce. The only one who'd kept in touch was Laurel.

The hostess, blonde hair pinned in a tight French twist that seemed lacquered in place, teetered toward Charlotte on spike heels. She looked at Charlotte as if she couldn't quite place her. When Charlotte said she was meeting Craig Armstrong, the hostess's expression changed to a smile. Charlotte followed her toward the back of the room, her purse clutched over the paw prints on her thigh.

Craig had barely changed since she last saw him. His forehead was a little higher than she remembered, but it could just be that his thick hair was brushed straight. While her hair had grayed to mouse, his was silver, accentuating his tan. Wrinkles were gaining on her despite her daily slathering with moisturizer. He appeared rugged and, she had to admit, handsome. Life would be more fair if he sported a shiny-smooth cranium ringed with gray frizz and hair poking out his ears.

"You're looking well," he said. He waved the waiter over. "What'll you have? A glass of white wine?"

"I'll have a martini," she said, as the waiter snapped her napkin open and placed it on her lap.

Craig raised an eyebrow. "One martini, and one Perrier." He studied her for a moment. "You've changed."

Charlotte didn't know if he meant her choice of beverage or the fact that she no longer wore her hair in the plastered page-boy of their married years. Or that she wasn't wearing one of the prim dresses she had given away. "I suppose I have," she shrugged. "I'm through with patent pumps and panty hose now that I'm not a corporate wife."

"I meant the drink," Craig said. "But I like your new style. It's becoming."

The waiter returned with their drinks and menus.

"What's with the lowered flags?" she asked.

Craig's jaw tightened, then he shook his head. "You didn't hear? Larry Hopkins died."

"Your lawyer?"

"The company lawyer."

"I'm sorry. When?"

"Last week."

"What did he die of?"

"It was a freak accident." He raised his glass and drank half of it in one gulp.

"What kind of accident?" she pressed.

"He was killed by a runaway golf cart." He set down his glass. "Have you decided what you want?"

Charlotte glanced at the menu."Yes." She sipped her martini and waited for him to tell her why she was here.

When the waiter materialized, Craig handed him his unopened menu. "I'll have the usual."

"I'll have the prime rib," Charlotte said. She never ate big lunches, but she might as well splurge on Craig's expense account.

Craig leaned back in his seat. "I know you're wondering what this is about."

That was an understatement. She tried to look nonchalant.

"Word isn't out yet, but Power House has been sold to Omni Vortex out of Minneapolis. The Fairbrook plant will just be a satellite outpost."

For this he had invited her to lunch? This is what he couldn't tell her over the phone? What a fool she'd been to think it was something more.

"You're moving to Minnesota?"

He shook his head. "Hell, no. There can be only one CEO. The Omni guy is keeping the job and I'm not about to take a step down. I'm retiring."

Her stomach flip-flopped. She couldn't see any way this conversation was going in the right direction.

He leaned back. "Charlotte, we'll have to reduce your support payments since I won't be working."

The sip of martini she had taken went down Charlotte's windpipe. She started to cough spasmodically. Craig got up to pat her on the back, but she shook him off. When she'd regained her composure, she pressed her hands on the table to get up, then sat back down. She spoke as calmly as she could. "I didn't ask you for an increase when you started making a lot of money, and I can't believe you're even suggesting this now. I tried to play fair and I expect you to do the same. I'm not some business competitor. I was your wife for twenty-eight years."

He knitted his brows in what she recognized as his 'sincere' look. "I don't want to hurt you, Charlotte. I'm warning, no that's not the word - I’m 'advising' -you that I won't be able to keep up the payments. I'll be sixty next June. At my age, I can't expect to find another position making the kind of salary I've been earning. Especially with the downturn in the economy. And it's going to get worse. Power House is going to lay off nearly two thousand people."

Charlotte was shocked. "How can you do that to your employees?"

He shrugged. "The work is leaving." He tried to take her hand, but she pulled back. "Of course, you'll still get support from me. Just not as much. We're all going to have to make some adjustments in our lifestyle."

"I already live simply. I'm taking care of everything I used to pay people to do." She counted on her fingers: "My house, the yard, the car," she brushed her hand over her hair, "my hair."

"You could get a job."

Was he out of his mind? "Who's going to hire a fifty-three year old with no experience? Besides, you just told me the jobs are leaving."

Craig tucked his napkin into his collar. "There's one other thing. I want to sell the house."

So that was it. Charlotte felt as if her heart had stopped. "My house?"

"It's half mine too."

"Not really."

"According to the divorce decree it is."

"But you know ... "

"I know what the judge ordered. Look, I let you stay after Brad graduated. You didn't think I meant forever, did you?"

Well yes, she did. Craig lived with his bimbo wife and their daughter in a palatial home in Fairbrook Highlands, the best part of town. Why in the world would he need a piece of her house? Especially since he had lied and cheated to get it.

Her home, a comfortable two story farm house with gables and a wraparound porch, had been left to her by her father. But despite Charlotte's vigorous objections in court, since both names were on the deed, the judge had ordered it sold and the proceeds split as soon as their son graduated from high school. When Craig said nothing since Brad's graduation, she assumed he'd had a change of heart.

"Why now?" she asked when she caught her breath.

"You're sitting on a big chunk of my assets. When the layoffs start in this town, house prices are going to tank. I want to sell before word gets out."

"I can't believe you'd do this to me."

"As I recall, you're the one that wanted the divorce."

"I had good reason," she snapped.

He wrinkled his brow as if this topic pained him as much as it did her. "I would have broken it off."

"I'll tell you what you should have broken off."

"Sarcasm isn't like you, Charlotte."

I know. I was the perfect wife, she thought. And look where that got me. "People change."

Charlotte signaled for the waiter. "Wrap this up to go," she said indicating her plate.

"You haven't touched anything," Craig said.

"I've lost my appetite." Her pets would dine lavishly tonight. "By the way, if you need the money so badly, why don't you send What's-her-name out to work? As her former boss, you can give her a good reference."

"Don't be childish. It's beneath you. Besides, that wouldn't solve anything. Caprice couldn't earn enough to pay for child care for Cassie."

Ouch. That stung. The mention of his other child. Except at the graduation, their own two hadn't heard from him since the divorce. She toyed with the steak knife. She felt like using it on him. "You won't be working. You can babysit."

"Very funny. Listen, Charlotte, I want to do this amicably. You don't want to battle this out in court and have the money eaten up in lawyers' fees."

The waiter returned with Charlotte's lunch. She stood and took the bag.

"You can't go," Craig said. "We haven't finished talking."

"I have." She grabbed her purse.

"Walking out won't solve anything."

"I'm not feeling very amicable right now." She'd been an idiot to expect good news. She should have known Craig better than that. And to think she had wondered if she would take him back. Well, at least she wouldn't have to make that decision.

At two o'clock the next afternoon, Charlotte sat in the fifth floor office of her divorce attorney. She chewed her lip nervously as Paul McBride sat across from her behind his massive desk and perused her file through rimless half-glasses. In the past three years his face had grown ruddier and fuller. His jowls waggled as he reviewed the court order that had cemented the dissolution of her marriage.

Finally, he set the papers down. "The best I can suggest is you buy out his share."

Charlotte shook her head. "There's no way."

"I don't see any alternative." He tilted back in his chair as if that was the end of it.

"He doesn't need my house. He has one twice as big."

"That's irrelevant."

Charlotte folded her arms."It's not fair."

"That's also irrelevant."

"That house was mine. My grandfather built it. My father left it to me."

"As I recall we argued that point to the judge, but since both names were on the deed..." he shrugged.

"As you should recall," she said, emphasizing the 'you', “that was because Craig lied to me. Remember? We needed to borrow for the kids' college expenses and had to put the house up for collateral. The bank wouldn't lend us money unless Craig's name was on the deed. He promised to deed it right back to me after we got the loan."

"But he didn't."

"He said he'd taken care of it. Stupid me. I trusted him."

"Unfortunately, in the eyes of the law, you both own that house."

"No wonder Lady Justice wears a blindfold. The law is blind. Guess I was blind, too." She leaned forward and rested her hands on the edge of the desk. "Isn't there some way to save my house? Something we can do?"

"I'm afraid not." He stood up to indicate the meeting was over. "I wish I could give you better news."

"So do I."

Charlotte gripped the steering wheel tight, fantasizing it was Craig's neck. She would not give up. Mc Bride was not the only game in town. There were plenty of attorneys. She'd go through the phone book from A to Z if necessary.

As she let herself into her house, all four of her dogs greeted her, anxious for their afternoon walk. She had never intended to have so many dogs. She had adopted them one by one as she met them during her volunteer stints as a dog walker at the Humane Society. Now she had Lucky, a rambunctious Labrador, Gunther, an aging German Shepherd, Corky, part Corgi and part terrier, and Sophie, a small mutt of unidentifiable parentage. She couldn't understand how people could abandon their pets just because they were old and no longer frisky. On the other hand, Craig had done the same to her, so why should she be surprised?

Charlotte cut the meat from her uneaten lunch into marble-size pieces she parceled into four bowls on the kitchen floor. The dogs eagerly chowed down. Except Corky, her half Corgi, half terrier mutt. He sniffed at his dish and walked away. Charlotte followed him, reached down and felt his nose. It was hot and dry. When she started to pick him up, his body stiffened and started to quiver violently. Alarmed, she called Mark Kamron, the veterinarian she met at the Humane Society. "Bring him in right away," he instructed.

Corky was too listless to protest as she gently pulled him from under the table. This was not a good sign. The phone rang as she was leaving. She had no time to talk, but it might be Meredith. Her daughter called her about this time every week. Snuggling Corky against her body with one arm, she picked up the receiver.

"This is Sheila Barnett," the caller said. "I'm Craig Armstrong's realtor. I'd like to come over. When would be a good time?"

"I can't talk now," Charlotte snapped, and hung up.

Corky whimpered as the vet prodded him gently. "We'll need to do some tests," he said. "Leave him here overnight."

Charlotte stroked Corky's head. "I hope it's nothing serious."

"I'll call you when the tests come back," he said.

The next morning Charlotte sat at her kitchen table, drinking her third cup of coffee, when the phone rang.

The vet sounded somber. "I'm sorry to tell you, but Corky's lungs are filled with tumors. He can hardly breathe."

Charlotte felt the same way.

"I can try to keep him comfortable," he said, "but he would have to be heavily sedated."

Charlotte's mouth went dry."What would you do?"

"His time has come. You've given him a good life. Now it would be doing him a kindness to put him to sleep."

"Okay," she whispered.

"Do you want to say goodbye, or would that be too difficult?"

"I"ll be there. I can't let him go alone."

The reception area of the clinic was empty as Charlotte was the last client of the day. She sat on one of the orange vinyl couches and plucked a magazine from the pile on the corner table. She was only there a few minutes before the young assistant appeared from the back and invited Charlotte into the examination room. Charlotte shuddered as she followed her in. The room was windowless and cold, with white cabinets lining one wall and a steel table in the center.

As soon as she saw Corky, Charlotte knew there was no choice. Even in his semi-conscious state, his breathing was labored. She could hardly stand to stay in the room, but she had to do this for Corky's sake. He opened his soft brown eyes and seemed to recognize her as she cradled him in her arms. Mark administered the fatal injection. Corky took his last breath, his coat dampened with her tears. Mark took the limp body from her and handed it to his assistant, who carried it from the room. Charlotte leaned her forehead against the wall.

Mark put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "You made the right decision."

She wiped her eyes. "I know."

"This is not the best timing," he said, "but I have a Keeshond in the back who needs a home. Some idiot abandoned her, and she was found half-starved. I know she can't replace Corky, but I can't think of a better home than yours."

"I can't take her." Her hand shook as she reached in her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. "I may be homeless soon myself."

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose, but he didn't press her. However, her inner turmoil did. The pressures of the last few days bubbled into a head of steam and her story poured out. He listened, arms folded across his chest. When she finished, she clapped her hands to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload on you."

Mark held up a hand. "Wait here a minute." He disappeared into his office, leaving Charlotte in the sterile examining room. He returned with a business card. On the back he'd written a name and number. "This is my aunt. She was one of the best divorce lawyers in town, a real ball of fire. She's slowed down some, but give her a call. Maybe she can help you."

Charlotte stuck the card in her purse. She appreciated his concern, but she didn't need a "slowed down" lawyer. She needed a warrior.

As she turned to leave the assistant appeared from the back and handed her a brown paper bag. "I think you'll want this."

Charlotte peeked inside. It was Corky's collar.

Charlotte answered the ringing phone. "Why did you hang up on my realtor?" Craig barked.

Charlotte cringed. She'd completely forgotten about the call. "I had an emergency."

"What happened?" He sounded suspicious.

"My dog died."

He laughed harshly. "C'mon Charlotte. You can do better than that. Don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

"I'm not trying to make anything difficult."

"Good. She wants to see the house. We'll be there at four o'clock."

"Not today. I don't feel well."

"All right, tomorrow."

"Make it Monday."

"Monday at four. No excuses and no more stalling." He hung up.

Charlotte clenched her fists. The man had the sensitivity of a python. She refused to be his rat to swallow. There must be a way to avoid this. She had just bought herself three days to find a lawyer.

The first lawyer Charlotte tried told her she had no case. The second said not to waste her time or money. To forget about it. The third didn't return her calls.

So Friday afternoon Charlotte found herself on the front stoop of a small gray bungalow in a part of town that was slowly unraveling. Sandwiched between a laundromat and a shoe repair shop, the cottage was one of the few holdouts against the encroaching blight of commerce. Mark had said his aunt was a fireball in her day. Charlotte hoped that day hadn't passed. But she had no other options. So here she was, waiting for the fireball aunt to answer the bell.

The woman who opened the door barely came to Charlotte 's shoulder. A frizz of apricot hair framed a deeply lined face. She wore no makeup, a boy's button down shirt tucked into her jeans, and glasses on a red plastic chain dangling from her neck. She beckoned to Charlotte. "Come in, dear," she said in a voice that was too deep for her slight body.

"Dear?" She sounded more like a waitress at a small town diner than a fiery lawyer, Charlotte thought.

Charlotte followed her to a large sunny living room. "Make yourself comfortable. I was just brewing a pot of tea." She picked up a sleeping cat from an overstuffed sofa, spanked cat hair from the seat, and gestured to Charlotte to sit down.

The sofa sat in the middle of the room facing several unmatched chairs, as if the furniture were set for a discussion group. French doors opened onto a small garden that, although it was November, was aflame with color: lush oleanders, camellias, even roses.

Charlotte sat on the edge of the seat. "Your nephew suggested you could help me."

"Oh yes. Mark. Delightful young man."

"Mrs. Diamond,.."

"Call me Freya, please." She sat on a chair facing Charlotte. "It used to be Frieda, but I changed it. Freya means Queen of the Gods. Much more interesting than Frieda, don't you agree?"

A teakettle whistled from the kitchen. Freya excused herself and disappeared through a narrow door and returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with a bright Italian pottery teapot and mugs. With a nudge of her elbow, she knocked magazines off the lamp table next to Charlotte and set the tray down. "Milk or lemon?"

"Lemon, please."

Once the tea was poured, Freya settled down, perched her glasses on her nose and leaned forward. "What can I do for you?"

Charlotte handed her a copy of her divorce decree."My husband - my ex - wants to sell my house."

Freya's lips contorted into fleeting shapes as she read silently. "This looks pretty straightforward, my dear. You can stay in the house until your son graduates from high school." She peered at Charlotte over the top of her glasses. "And when might that be?"

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her chair. If she read the document carefully, she'd see that more than enough time had passed. Obviously the fireball had lost some of her spark. "He's at college in the Midwest."

"It looks like your only option is to buy him out."

Charlotte laughed bitterly. "Fat chance of that. Besides, I shouldn't have to. That house has been in my family forever. It was left to me."

Freya looked back at the papers. "It seems a little late to argue that." She looked up at Charlotte. "How did that happen?"

Charlotte took a deep breath and explained. "Boy, was I gullible."

"Of course you trusted him."

"Big mistake."

"But understandable. Maybe you can work out a payment plan with your ex."

Charlotte sighed. Not that suggestion again. "Impossible. I'm living on his support, and now he wants to cut that.

"It isn't as if I haven't tried to get a job. After the divorce I applied for several, but I got nowhere. Nobody came out and said it, but I think it was my age. Plus I have no recent experience. I put Craig through graduate school teaching first grade, then quit to raise our kids. I even tried to go back to school to get a new credential, but the college admissions office couldn't locate a thirty year old transcript."

Freya pursed her lips and gazed off in space. "Well, then," she said after a few moments, "here's what you need to do." She pointed an arthritic finger at Charlotte. "When that real estate agent comes, make sure the house looks its very best."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "Why?"

Freya smiled."Let's just call it guerilla tactics."

"Gorilla?"

"Guerilla. Like the soldiers. Rebels."

Fixing up the house seemed more like total surrender than guerilla warfare. "I don't get it."

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing. This is in your best interest."

Charlotte was flustered. "You do understand I don't want to sell?"

"Of course, Charlie."

Oh my God. This woman was senile. "It's Charlotte."

"I know that, dear. But Charlie suits you better."

Charlotte felt uneasy. "Have you ever handled a situation like this?"

Freya leaned forward. "I used to, my dear. All too often."

'Used to' is not what Charlotte wanted to hear. She reached for her purse. Craig was a bulldog when he wanted something, and she needed a Rottweiler to deal with him. Freya was more of a poodle, and a miniature one at that. "I appreciate your time, but it sounds as if you no longer do these cases."

Freya rested a hand on Charlotte 's arm. "Ordinarily, I don't litigate any more, but I don't like to see bullies pushing people around. Now go spiff up your house and make it look pretty."

Charlotte pulled her checkbook out of her purse. "How much do I owe you?"

Freya waved her off. "Don't worry about that now. We'll work it out later."

Charlotte wasn't planning on there being a 'later'.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Freya said as she walked Charlotte to the door. "Whatever you do, don't let the realtor show the house to anybody until you've called me." She held out her hand. "I'll be waiting to hear from you."

Charlotte walked briskly to her car. With each step she took, her hopes that someone could help her grew dimmer. Now she had a new problem. She had to diplomatically disengage herself from Freya, who seemed to assume Charlotte was now her client. But first, she had to find her gladiator to take on Craig. She didn't have much time left.