Beach Season (5 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Beach Season
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“Every single time,” Leoni sighed. “Every time, my imagination bows to yours when I watch you work, June. Your mind is a mass of color. I could tell you we had an order for bridesmaids’ dresses in dark brown and blah green, and those girls would wear dresses you’d see in
Vogue
magazine.”
“You’ve got a hole in your brain where talent was poured in,” Estelle said. “We get a witchly order from a half-cocked, ditzy bride, and you turn it into elegance. No sign of a witch or a spell or a black cat anywhere.”
Estelle and Leoni worked for me, had for twenty-two months, but they were friends, too, and I became a bit snuffly with their sweet compliments.
Leoni patted my back. “Be gentle on yourself. Kind to your soul.”
Estelle said, “Buck up, June,” but not in a mean way. “Shoulders back, chin high, quit sniveling.”
“She received another phone call today from Cherie,” Leoni pseudo-whispered, as if I couldn’t hear it, though her mouth was six inches from my ear.
Estelle said, no volume control at all, from my other side, “That’ll upset her hormones. She gets in an emotional tornado and baby bawls each time.”
“And she got a call from you-know-who about the you-know-what,” Leoni said, then hissed. “Grayson!”
“Not good. He gets her panties in a twist, too. Two twists of the panties today.”
“And, you know we have that writer coming from the magazine who’s going to feature all our wedding dresses,” Leoni said. “She’s all jacked up about that, too.”
“She should be,” Estelle said loudly. “We can’t screw that one up. That’d burn our butts.”
“And she’s stressed about her sister’s wedding dress. She wants it to be perfect, more than perfect. She wants it to be a wearable dream.”
“She still hasn’t finished the bridesmaids’ dresses, either, she’s got to get it right for the clan. Go, Scotland.”
“I’m right here, ladies,” I said, still drawing, the oranges blurring and smearing, until I grabbed a black pencil and added a streak of black to the orange Popsicle/sunset/Costa Rica colors. I wouldn’t think about the scary reporter, I already had enough to worry about.
“She has a lot going on.” Leoni’s breath ruffled my hair.
“Too much,” Estelle agreed. “But she’ll manage. She’s a woman with iron panties.”
“Iron panties? Gee, thank you,” I said. I held up the drawing of the non-Halloween orange-and-black bridesmaids dresses. Not bad.
“Gorgeous,” Estelle said. “If women must get themselves swindled into marriage, if they lose their minds to lust and society’s rules of what a woman should do, they must come to you, June. Panty power, that’s what it is.”
“Panty power,” Leoni breathed. “That is stunning.”
 
That night I circled the work tables in my studio, again and again, while Reece jetted in and out of my head.
I have part of a blue rowboat in the corner where I’ve stacked all my favorite books. I have a blue cheetah lamp stand and art supplies stacked on open shelves painted yellow. I have two six-foot-tall white dressers filled with wedding dress paraphernalia.
I need all of it to keep me creative and focused.
But it sure wasn’t helping me keep my mind off Reece.
Reece, Reece, Reece. June and Reece. Reece and June.
Oh, for heaven’s and Pete’s sakes, June!
When I was done I crawled into bed and wrote in my Worry Journal.
 
 
Seven Things I’m Worried About
 
1.
Another sneaker wave.
2.
Sharks in a tidal wave that might land on my deck. What would I do?
3.
Business failing because no one wants to get married anymore because they realize it is a silly thing to do, akin only to prison.
4.
Not being able to resist the Greek god.
5.
Never being able to divorce Grayson, the process dragging on and on until I give up because I am too broke and too much of an emotional wreck to deal with it anymore. Then Grayson gets what he wants, and I will be tied to him for life until I am an old and feeble woman collecting plastic bags and chatting with spiders.
6.
The article. What if the reporter thought I had a sponge for a brain and said so?
7.
Estelle. Is she lonely living alone? I think I’ll make her a lace shirt.
I played online Scrabble. I play online Scrabble with anonymous other people across the world. I almost always win. I did not win a single game that night, though I did spell these words: “nymph,” “lust,” and “green.” I could not get the gentle eyes of a man on a chariot out of my head to save my life.
I ate a Pop Tart and a teeny, tiny handful of buttered popcorn.
Okay, two Pop Tarts.
C
HAPTER
5
“This divorce could have been settled months and months ago,” I said, my anger simmering.
“But I don’t want a divorce,” Grayson, my soon-to-be-ex-husband replied, clipped and definitive. His hair was brushed back, nice and tight. Some women thought he was attractive, in a well-groomed, fashionable, rich attorney sort of way.
I did not.
I grunted with deep frustration and tapped the conference table in Cherie’s office. It was new. Another divorcing couple had had a fight on it over a lizard or something, and the table had split in two. “That’s out of your hands. We’re not living in the caveman era where a man can refuse to divorce his wife, then go out and slay a dinosaur for dinner with a spear.”
“I don’t think he’d be able to slay a
big
dinosaur,” Cherie said, beside me. She was wearing a tight, red dress with a plunging neckline and a silky, animal-print scarf. In the legal community, she is a legend. Cherie held up her fingers, one inch apart. “His spear isn’t big. He’d only be able to slay a dinosaur this big.”
I did not miss the hidden reference, and neither did Grayson, who protested by saying, “Hey! Keep it civilized.”
“A teeny, tiny dinosaur. A weak dinosaur. A floppy dinosaur. A dinosaur who has to fake how big he is, because he is so small ...”
“We get it, Cherie,” Grayson’s attorney, Walid, said. Walid had the same slicked-back hair as Grayson. He is five foot, four inches tall. Cherie and I always wear our heels when we meet with him. Walid and Grayson had been friends for years. I thought he was my friend, too. That was incorrect. “Knock it off.”
“I was explaining to your client, the teeny dinosaur, how things are.” Cherie leaned her elbows on the table. “Grayson, June wants out. She will never want back in. I have handled divorcing couples for many years and trust me when I tell you that she is not changing her mind. This is a fair deal we’ve offered. Sign it.”
“No,” Grayson bit out. “June, we can talk this out. I’m still waiting for you to sit down and listen to me. You refuse to do it. You’ve been rash and emotional. You took a vow, in sickness and in health, good times and bad, blah, blah. So, we had a few bad days, now you walk out? You were tired from work, overwhelmed, it was too much for you, and you take it out on us.”
I actually laughed. It was ludicrous. He was ludicrous. He didn’t even surprise me anymore with his ludicrousness. “I’m done arguing, Grayson. Sign the papers.”
“I hardly recognize you anymore,” he said.
“I hardly recognize who I used to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that woman is gone. She landed somewhere off Neptune. We sell the house, we each take half. We each put half of the money down, so that’s fair. I left you half our savings and half of what was in the checking account. You got your Porsche, I got my Porsche.”
“Which you sold.”
“Yes, gladly.” I bought an old and grumbly truck with a lot of personality and a deep growl. I had needed the proceeds from the Porsche to start my business.
“Grayson, El Monster,” Cherie delights in calling him and Walid “the Monsters,” “you are ticking me off. All chat, no action. All style, no substance. All slick, no brain. All schmooze, no thinking person in there. Let’s wrap this up or I’ll have to get nasty.”
“Hey, Cherie,” Walid said. “No threatening.”
“I’m not threatening him, El Monster, I’m telling him. This is a simple divorce. The simplest one ever. Sign the papers.”
“We need to talk about the paper signing,” Walid said. He wriggled in his seat, shot Grayson a glance, and Grayson wriggled, too. Two wrigglers. “We think the house should go to Grayson.”
“What?” I semishrieked. Not that I was surprised. They are ruthless and sneaky.
“No way,” Cherie said. “Fifty-fifty. On what insane grounds would you think we would give you the house?”
“Because of June’s business.”
That sentence, that
one
sentence, and Grayson leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled together as if he was smart and savvy, smirking, had my blood flowing, the ole MacKenzie temper flaring. “What about my business?”
“You have a business that you started when you were married to my client,” Walid said, his dark eyes condescending.
“I started sewing clothes, at night, and if I had time, on the weekends, because I was stressed-out,” I protested. “I wore the clothes.”
“It was a business,” Walid said, tapping his pen. “You sold clothes. You designed dresses, wedding dresses, other clothes. You started the business while married, which makes your business, June’s Lace and Flounces, I believe it is,” he fiddled with the paperwork to give me the impression that my company’s name was of zero consequence to him, “communal property.”
“Ha! Incorrect, El Monsters!” Cherie said. “June was sewing dresses for herself to wear, purses for her to carry her things, her guns and knives and a book on how to take revenge on small husbands.” She seared my ex with a meaningful, mad gaze. “It wasn’t a business.”
“I disagree,” Walid said.
“So do I,” Grayson said. “You get your business, I get the house. You started the business in my home. We aren’t divorced. We’re still married. You developed this business during our marriage. I was supportive of you and encouraging. I helped with the design, the inspiration, the early development of your company. Without me, you would not have launched it to the point you’re at now.”
I actually saw red, I was so steamin’ mad. “You didn’t encourage me. You barely asked what I was doing. I worked on my dresses at night until two in the morning. I worked weekends. You told me once that it was embarrassing to be seen with me when I was wearing one of my lace skirts. You called it too ‘redneck country. ’ You said the wedding gowns were too ‘repulsively unconventional. A bridal circus.’ You said nothing I ever made would sell, and that I should wear my ruffled shirts only at home in the bathroom where no one could see them.”
“Nah,” Grayson said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t remember that. I remember long nights being up with you while we worked. I remember analyzing your designs and making corrections. I presented a plan for marketing and making contacts in the wide world of fashion ...” He smirked again. He knew he was lying. He knew I knew it. He was simply using lawyer talk to pressure me into capitulating.
I grabbed a law book off a nearby shelf and heaved it at Grayson’s face. Cherie sat back, relaxed. “Nice one, June.”
Grayson ducked.
“Control your client!” Walid shrieked, rather high-pitched for a man who tried to present himself as a manly man.
I threw another book at Walid. He squealed and bent under the table.
“I will sprout wings before I give you the house, Grayson. Half of it is mine.”
“Then start sprouting wings,” Grayson said, running a hand through that perfect gob of slicked-back hair.
I pelted another law book.
“And I will take my business with me.” My voice pitched high.
“The house for the business, June,” Grayson said, ducking again. “That’s the deal.”
So that was it. That was the exchange. I would lose all my money in the house in exchange for a business that I was barely making money on. I thought of how much equity I had in that house. “No. Never.”
I grabbed another book as Walid’s pokey head poked above the table.
“That’s for you, you freak. I thought you were my friend, Walid.” He hid again and squealed.
“Never,” Cherie said. “Ever. Ridiculous. Tiny dinosaur man, you are ridiculous. Small and flippy-floppy ridiculous.”
Grayson flushed again. He was mad, but I saw what I always saw in his beady eyes: relentless stubbornness and a sick desire for control over me. “Then no divorce. That’s what I wanted anyhow. We’re still married, June.”
This time I didn’t bother to grab only one book, I grabbed two and threw them at the same time until he and Walid scuttled out, like infected warthogs. Both books smacked Grayson in the butt.
“Monsters!” Cherie called out. “Limp monsters!”
 
“I’m afraid, June,” Cherie said later, as we both nursed Bloody Marys at a bar around the corner, “that you’re in a bad place.”
“How can I be?” My hands were still shaking I was so infuriated. And I was mad at myself for letting Grayson make me infuriated. “I was sewing at night when I was married to him, I didn’t have a business, I wasn’t even planning on a business for a long time ...”
“But you made patterns for about a year before you left him. Patterns for wedding dresses, bridesmaids’ dresses, the white lace shirt and skirt you have now. You started selling your clothes when women came up to you and asked how they could get what you were wearing. That’s an issue.” She ate peanuts. I knew she was thinking hard. She’s a bulldog with sharp teeth. “I will harass him for you repeatedly, and I don’t think he has a solid case, but he clearly doesn’t want a divorce and he will drag it out and drag it out and eventually you’re going to have to settle.”
Financially, I knew that. Cherie and I were longtime friends and she’d discounted the divorce costs, but hey, I’d had to write her a check with several zeros. If Grayson and I went on much longer it would be more economical to eat a hundred-dollar bill for breakfast each morning for two years.
“How badly do you want this to end? How much longer do you want Grayson in your life, manipulating your emotions, bringing all this negative stuff in?”
“I wanted him out of my life years ago. I can’t stand that the guy is renting space in my head. I have to work to never think of him and it takes so much energy. Plus, this divorce is so wearing. Sometimes he’ll send something, like flowers, or call out of the blue. He does it deliberately to antagonize me. It’s sick.”
“You have a magazine editor from
Couture Fashion
coming to your home to photograph your studio and dresses soon, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s big-time. It’s imperative that we get the papers signed before then. Your sales are going to skyrocket. The more successful you are, the harder Grayson will hold on. He’s seeing money, June. He’s smelling it. He doesn’t get how flippingly successful you’re going to be, but he will soon. He’ll demand half of June’s Lace and Flounces and then he’ll be in your life for years to come.”
Gall. “I will hand over proceeds and control of my company to Grayson only after I have constructed a home-built spaceship and launched myself off my own roof.”
“Then, my friend, we need to talk about that house.”
I ordered another Bloody Mary.
 
Early the next afternoon, a florist truck rumbled up to the front of my blue cottage.
Leoni rushed to the window to join me, as did Estelle, our faces plastered to the glass. They both bounded down the stairs and brought up a huge bouquet of roses and lilies.
“It’s for you, June,” Estelle said. “Hopefully it’s not from that leach of an ex-husband of yours; you lost your mind when you married that one. What were you thinking? Had someone taken a hatchet to your head? Were you bleeding?”
“Probably, Estelle,” I said. “Probably.”
“Don’t be so tough on her, Estelle,” Leoni defended me. “She didn’t know he was a vulture. Vultures can hide their vulture-ness. I should know. I married a vulture myself.”
“I hope our ex-vultures eat each other one day, Leoni,” I said.
I ran a finger over the fragrant roses and lilies. Flowers! As old as time. You send your justifiably raging wife flowers and she swoons and forgets that you were a wicked beast. Did Grayson honestly think I was going to swoon over his bouquets? Did he honestly think we could erase the last hideous two years as he incessantly fought our divorce, not to mention the two years before that, with
flowers
?
“I’ll drive them down to the assisted living center again,” Leoni said. “We don’t want the vulture among us.”
“A bleeding head,” Estelle said, tapping her forehead, “is no excuse for marrying him. Don’t you forget that, June. Use your noggin next time.”
I ripped the card from the flowers and tore it open, my anger zip-zapping along my body, head to foot. He’d done this before, and each time it made me more mad that he could intrude on my life, my time, whenever he wanted.
But ... but ... it was from... . I gaped at the card and made a choking, gulping sound in my throat. It was not from
him.
It was from
him.
The chariot rider.
Him.
That him.
Estelle and Leoni leaned over my shoulder.
“By gum and golly, this is a miraculous moment. It’s from the sneaker wave rescuer,” Estelle said. “You should get knocked over by sneaker waves more often. What’s a life-threatening event when you can meet a muscled, seductive rancher?”
“You obviously didn’t tell him that the male species will soon die out because of flaws in their genetic makeup,” Leoni gushed.

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