Secrets over Sweet Tea (12 page)

“You can do it, Scarlett Jo. Keep those legs moving.”

“You can’t move what you can’t feel!”

The entire back row of seated spinners snickered, but she just ignored them.

Scarlett Jo had joined the Athletic Club of Williamson County last summer to get away from the boys. One day she had had all she could take and decided she’d rather torture her body than her brain. So she’d joined the gym and found out she actually liked to sweat. Most of the time. She’d decided to take a spin class two days a week and reward herself with yoga and Pilates any of the other days. She loved those classes not because she was good at them—though she was better than she used to be—but because they were the perfect place for a nap. Between the mats and the music, they felt like kindergarten.

She had always been a woman who loved her curves, but she also liked the definition of her waistline. She knew too many
women who were just a “bip”—a term she’d coined for women who were the same width from bust to hip. Scarlett Jo was no bip. She was simply a full-figured gal—a Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield, only a little taller—and she was fine with that. But she wanted to stay around for her family too. So she exercised for her physical and mental health.

Sabrina spoke into a small microphone that was strapped over her ear and pressed against her dainty mouth. “Give me one quarter turn to the right.”

Scarlett Jo looked at the little knob that rested between her knees, the knob that dictated the tension of her pedals. A turn to the right increased torture. A turn to the left decreased torture. And she did have a choice here. She could increase the torture, which made no sense to her. Or she could
pretend
to increase the torture—just let her hand roll across that knob as if she were adding more tension and let the entire class think she was superhuman. But that wasn’t Scarlett Jo. She didn’t care what the rest of the class did or thought.

“There ain’t no way on God’s green earth I’m touching that thing,” she said, then grabbed her towel from the handlebars and mopped the sweat from her brow. Before spin, she hadn’t even known she could sweat. Now she realized that Southern women actually could do it. That “glistening” stuff she’d heard about for years was nothing but hogwash.

“Last climb! Give it all you’ve got! Make your work count! Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .”

“Oh, my side. Oh, help me, someone. Oh, have mercy.” Scarlett Jo’s words came out in breathless staccato bursts. Her legs continued to move rapidly on the pedals as her hand turned wildly at the knob between her knees.

“. . . two, one.” Sabrina finished the count, and the people atop the bicycles exhaled as one.

Scarlett Jo let out a dramatic moan. “My behind is going to look so good, I’m going to be buried in my casket facedown.” She raised her bum off the seat and patted it. “My last words will be ‘View this, people! View this!’”

The class erupted. Sabrina couldn’t help but laugh too as she climbed off her bike. “Great job, Monday,” she said, addressing her class as usual by the day of the week. “Now let’s do some stretching.”

Scarlett Jo made a vain attempt to get her right foot atop the handlebars to stretch. It swiped the edge and then fell and bounced like a bobblehead by her side. She pulled at it again until she got it perched, though then she felt like she’d just ripped her entire muscle clear up to her behind. She was as flexible as a hammer. By the time they’d finished stretching, she wasn’t sure what had hurt worse.

She wobbled out of the spin room and headed for the women’s locker room. She walked straight up to the scale, something she loved to do after a workout. She always figured she’d weigh less after sweating out a gallon of liquid. “Not bad!” she noted, then called out the results to whoever was listening. Other women usually tried to cover the top of the scale with their hands. She figured she’d just announce her number so they could feel better about themselves.

“Oh, excuse me,” Scarlett Jo said as she rounded a corner and just about took out the woman in front of her. Then she realized who she’d run into. “Elise.”

“Hey, Scarlett Jo.”

“Honey child, how are you? I haven’t snagged you in a
month of Sundays. By the time church is over, you’re off that stage and out the door. How in the world have you been?”

She watched Elise fidget with the bag draped across her shoulder. Scarlett Jo had five boys. She never trusted fidgeting.

“Doing great,” Elise mumbled. “Uh, really well. How about you?”

Scarlett Jo fought for Elise’s lowered eyes, then thought of Tim’s visit. It all flashed through her mind as quickly as Cooper could clean out a bag of M&M’s. “Good. Good. Well, you and I need to get together for lunch.”

Elise stepped to the right, her dark ponytail falling across her shoulder. “Sure, yeah. I’d love that. Let’s do that soon. But I need to hurry today or I’m going to be late for my class.”

“Oh, I understand. But when can we do lunch?”

Elise fidgeted some more. Scarlett Jo didn’t mind. She just let her fidget.

“Soon,” Elise finally blurted. “I promise. Great to see you.”

That wasn’t good enough. “Soon when? I could do tomorrow. How is tomorrow?”

“Um, wow. Tomorrow? You know, tomorrow is crazy. I couldn’t—”

“Okay, Wednesday. Wednesday is good for me too.”

Elise crinkled her perfect little nose. Which matched her perfect little body. Which matched her perfect little outfit. All of which clashed with her avoidance act. “Wednesday is crazy too, Scarlett Jo.” She let out a half laugh. A fake half laugh. “With church and everything and practicing with the worship team.”

“Okay, then, Thursday or Friday. Those days are wide open.” She’d make sure they were wide open.

Scarlett Jo saw the flash of frustration give way to resolve. “Sure. Yeah. Okay, let’s say lunch on Friday. How’s that?”

Scarlett Jo’s smile stretched so wide she felt her eyes move. “Perfect! Shall we say eleven at Puckett’s? Their blueberry cobbler will make you slap your mama.”

“Sure, that sounds great. But now I gotta scoot.”

Scarlett Jo snickered and shooed her with her hand. “Scoot, sugar, scoot.” She watched the dark ponytail flap against the back of Elise’s white sleeveless workout top. The contrast was striking. And so was a lot else that hadn’t been clear before.

Grace sat in the front seat of her Prius. The package in her hands felt as heavy and deadly as an anchor around her neck. Now, it seemed, she was about to launch it into the ocean. And once she delivered these papers to Tyler, something would die.

She had been strong all week, determined to move forward. Leo had left a dozen messages assuring her that she still had a job and could take off a month if she needed it. She hadn’t responded. Neither had she responded to any of Tyler’s repeated attempts to contact her after she packed up Miss Daisy and moved to Rachel’s for a temporary stay.

He had probably written her absence off to a bad mood and a prolonged pout. But even he knew her well enough to understand that if she handed him divorce papers, she meant
it. She had never brought up divorce, never used the possibility to manipulate or threaten him. When he saw her there holding the papers, he’d know this was something she had wrestled with her Creator over. Something she was doing with absolute, if heartbroken, peace. He’d know without a doubt that she was serious. Which was why it was so important to do this according to plan.

She set the envelope that would begin the dissolution of her marriage on the passenger seat, then started the car and pulled away from the curb. She had just a couple hours to do what she had to do and then catch Tyler right before he had to leave for the airport.

He was flying to New York to meet with his agent and publicist to see what damage control needed to be done about his DUI. The Predators had suspended him indefinitely since the arrest. Grace knew he had to be desperate to figure out what he would do next.

Giving him the papers right now while his life was in an uproar seemed a little harsh, but Zach and Rachel and Scarlett Jo all agreed it was the best plan. Tyler was impulsive and easily angered, so he needed time to process the situation without easy access to Grace, and she needed the buffer of physical distance. The trip would provide both—and professionally speaking, he couldn’t afford to miss it.

Grace turned in to the parking lot of a downtown bank. Inside, a friendly young woman greeted her. “Can I help you?”

Can she help me?
The words bounced around her brain like a pinball. “Sure, um, yeah. I need to talk to someone about opening a new account.”

“Let me get someone to help you.”

Grace watched the woman walk away, then glanced idly around the small waiting area. Her gaze fell across a copy of
Time
magazine with a photo of the American president and the Israeli prime minister on the front. As she studied their faces, her mind traveled back several years to when she had visited Israel. It was unlike any place she’d ever been. Before she went there, she’d never known she needed to go. After she left, she’d wondered how she could have lived her whole life and never gone there. She wondered when she could go back.

Then her mind interrupted its own mental travelogue.
I just had a normal thought.
She hadn’t had what felt like a normal thought since she knew she was headed for divorce.

“I’ll help you, ma’am.”

Grace looked up quickly. She pressed her red patent-leather handbag against the side of her navy sleeveless blouse and fiddled with the ruffles that ran down the front. She followed the bank officer into a glassed room and took her place in a nondescript chair, feeling her knees collide at rhythmic intervals. She placed her hands on her legs in an attempt to still them.

The round, middle-aged woman scooted her chair up close to the desk and clasped her hands over the desktop calendar, covering countless red markings. “I’m told you want to open an account.”

“I actually already have a money market account here. I wanted to take half of that out and open a personal checking account.”

A piece of her felt like a criminal doing this without Tyler’s knowledge. But Zach had told her that people served with divorce papers often flipped out and started trying to hide money. So she needed to protect herself. She was entitled by
Tennessee law to half of everything she and Tyler owned, so as long as she only moved half, she could and should make sure it was in her name only.

Fortunately for her, Tyler’s name wasn’t even on the money market account, though half of it was still legally his. She wasn’t even sure he knew it existed. Again and again, she had tried to engage him in money matters, set up a budget with him, plan for the future with him. But his single focus always seemed to be how quickly he could spend whatever they made. She had opened the money market account to protect some of their savings. Now it would be her safety net.

“I’d like to move thirty-two thousand dollars,” she told the officer.

The woman’s stubby fingers moved quickly across the computer keypad. “Let’s see here.” She clicked a few more buttons. “Okay, let me get just a little more information.”

Grace was tired of giving information. She was tired of questions. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

The officer worked quickly. In less than twenty minutes Grace had the little bit she owned in this world tucked away and was back in the car, headed for her house.

Tyler had texted her that morning before she left for Zach’s office to pick up the papers. His flight left at two, and he wanted to see her before then.

It was the opportunity she had prayed for, laid out before her like a gift. She would meet him right after noon, giving him little time to process before his flight, which she knew Tyler wouldn’t miss. He loved being an athlete, a performer. He would want to salvage his career more than his marriage—though, ironically, he was willing to risk both with his drinking.

The closer she got to the house, the faster her heart beat. Maybe he’d cancel his trip. Maybe he’d do something crazy or even violent. Maybe there would be a horrible confrontation. Or worse, maybe he wouldn’t even care. But all she could do was what she had planned.

She eased her way onto their street and stretched her head forward to see if she could spot his SUV. He was home just as he’d said he would be. And Rachel, as promised, sat in her car in front of the house next door.

Grace pulled into the driveway behind the Mercedes. She felt her pulse really take off. If heartbeats could be visible, she was certain Rachel would see hers from here.

Rachel met her at the edge of the front walk. “How are you doing?”

She held her free hand in front of her, and they watched it shake.

Rachel grabbed the hand and pressed it between her own. “I would have gone with you this morning.”

Grace nodded. “I know you would. But there are certain things I need to do alone.”

Rachel released her hand. “I understand. So I’m going to sit right here on the front steps like Zach suggested. And you need to stay in the foyer, okay? Keep the door open. Let him know I’m here. Help keep it calmer.”

Grace was grateful for all the reminders, though she had rehearsed this moment in her head more times than she had greeted morning viewers. “I know.”

They trudged toward the house at a dirgelike pace, cicadas crunching beneath their feet. Rachel shuddered. “Those things deserve to die.”

Grace didn’t respond.

“This feels like a funeral too,” Rachel whispered.

“It is, Rachel. Unfortunately it is.”

Grace gripped the manila envelope more tightly as they reached the steps. She rang the doorbell. Then she and Rachel waited—for what, she wasn’t sure, but waiting was all they had left to do. Through the window on the door, she saw Tyler’s flustered face come into view. His awkward smile at seeing Grace faded when he caught sight of Rachel, but by the time he opened the door, he had plastered on his familiar, for-the-public grin.

“Gracie. Babe. It’s so good to see you.” He reached out and wrapped his arms around her. She felt every muscle in her body stiffen as tightly as Miss Daisy’s did when Grace tried to pick her up. Rigor-mortis stiff.

“Come in. Come in.” He released her and tugged her arm. “I’m so glad you got here before I left town. I’ve wanted to talk to you all week.” His words emerged fast and coated with awareness that he was onstage.

“I’m going to stay out here,” Rachel said as Tyler and Grace moved into the foyer.

Tyler turned toward her quickly. “Rachel, that’s ridiculous. You know our home is your home.”

Rachel’s face held solemnity and compassion at the same time. But her words were firm. “No, I’m just going to sit out here on the porch.” She looked at Grace. “I’ll be right here.”

Grace felt fear begin to trickle up her spine. She nodded. Tyler shrugged and started to close the door.

“No, keep that open.” Grace’s words came out louder than she had intended and slightly more panicked.
Maintain control,
her mind whispered.
No tears. No fear.
“I want the door to stay open.” These words were different. Calmer. Steadier.

“Sure. Yeah. Whatever you want.” It was evident he knew she wasn’t here just to talk, but he didn’t seem upset. “Hey, I got you something,” he said. “Let me run and get it.”

He disappeared down the hall, and in a moment he was back with a box. He held it out to her. She’d know that brown box with the gold monogram anywhere. Boxes like that held expensive handbags. She had five of them already.

Expensive gifts were the consolation prizes Tyler offered her—either as repentance offerings or as excuses for the expensive items he’d bought himself. Or maybe somewhere down inside, they were his way of extending the love he had determined he was incapable of giving in other ways. But no matter the reason, she didn’t need or want another bag.

She took the box from his hands and set it on the long, carved table that stretched against the wall beside her. Then she held out the manila envelope in her hand. “This is for you.”

He eyed it for a moment. He didn’t reach for it, just looked. “What is it?”

For a moment, as he stood there, she wanted to pull it back. Run from the house and forget any of this had happened. Because once he opened that envelope, once he saw the heading “Original Petition for Divorce,” this would all be real.

She stuck the envelope out farther. “Take it.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched. They always did that when he was deciding how angry he was about to get. He snatched the envelope from her hand and opened the gold-toned clasp. He pulled the papers from the envelope, and his eyes darted across the top page. Then he slammed the whole stack down on the
table. Grace resisted the urge to jump. But she did hear movement on the front porch and saw him look past her. Whatever Rachel did out there caused him to tamp his rage down to a sullen seething.

“So this is it, Grace? You wait until I’m—what?” He looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes from having to leave for very important meetings regarding my career, and then you blindside me with divorce papers. You don’t call all week. You don’t answer my e-mails. You don’t respond to my texts. You don’t say one word to me, just show up on the doorstep with these papers. Don’t I deserve the common courtesy of a conversation with my wife before she goes off and files for divorce?”

Her words came out the way she had practiced, self-assured and calm, though she felt anything but calm inside. “You’ve had ten years of conversation.”

He let out a mocking laugh. “I’ve had ten years of a mistake is what I’ve had.” His voice wasn’t as controlled as it usually was. “This was always a mistake.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. As I told you before, it was never a mistake to me.”

He snatched the papers again. “How can you say that? How can you walk in here with divorce papers and then say this wasn’t a mistake? If it wasn’t a mistake, why would you walk away from it?”

She had wondered how quickly he would try to make it her fault. “I’m not walking away from my marriage. I’m walking away from you. I’m walking away from a man who keeps choosing something he values more than me. I’m walking away from deception. I’m walking away from a man who looked at me a week ago and said he wanted to be left alone to
be the man he is. A man who was convinced that his marriage was a mistake. But let me tell you one thing. This may be all you’re willing to be, all you choose to be. But I will never—and please hear me when I say this—I will
never
believe it is all you are capable of being.

“So that is what I am walking away from. I believe in this marriage. Even years down the road, I will believe in all that this marriage could be and should be. But I’m walking away from you, from what you have chosen to make it. Not because I don’t believe in you, but because I am no longer willing to be the only one in this marriage who does.”

He didn’t hesitate. He never hesitated. He always had a response. It had taken her a week to figure out how to say what she had just said. “Well, you can perch yourself on your high horse if you want to, Grace, but you
are
giving up. That’s all there is to it. I would never have left you.”

She didn’t remind him that he’d told her to get out. She just nodded. “I know. You would have let me stay here forever. You would have let me die here because that would be easier than confronting who you have become. You’re desperate for me to stay because I’ve spent all these years rescuing you. But I’m not going to do it. Today I am deciding for myself that Grace Shepherd is not going to die here.”