Ladies' Night by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

pick up my clothes and things. Please, Dickie. Please call me.”
    Grace was pulling into the crushed-shell parking lot at the Sandbox when her cell phone rang. She saw that the caller was Murphree-Baggett-Hopkins.
    “Hello?”
    “Hiya, Gracie,” Dickie said. “I just got your message. Sorry it took me so long to call you back. I’m in trial this week, and the damned judge just now cut us loose for a lunch break. How’s your Uncle Dennis?”
    “He’s fine,” Grace said. “He sends his best. Look, Dickie, if you listened to my message, you know I’m in big trouble. When can I come see you? To talk about my situation?”
    “Welllll,” Dickie drawled. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
    “Why not?” Grace asked, stunned. “Uncle Dennis said you’re the best divorce lawyer in town.”
    “Hell of a guy, your uncle,” Dickie said, chuckling. “He sure gets himself in some damned interesting jams, doesn’t he?”
    “Why isn’t it a good idea for me to come see you?”
    “Awwww, Grace,” Dickie drawled. “You know I think the world of you, don’t you? We had some good times, way back there in high school, didn’t we? You broke my heart when you threw me over for that basketball player, sophomore year. What was that guy’s name? He went on to play college ball at FSU, didn’t he? It was years before I got over you.”
    “That’s sweet, Dickie,” she said impatiently. “His name was Calvin Becker. Could we discuss current affairs? Like my divorce?”
    “The thing is, we can’t talk, Grace,” Dickie said. “It ain’t even really proper for me to be talking to you right now, but I figured I owe you an explanation.”
    “What are you explaining?” Grace asked.
    “That I can’t represent you. Because I already agreed to represent Ben.”
    Grace put the phone down in her lap. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the steering wheel, utterly defeated.
    “Grace?” Dickie’s voice rose faintly from the phone. “Grace? Are you there?”
    She pushed the disconnect button.

 
    5
     
    “I take it things didn’t go well with the asshole,” Rochelle said, pouring her a large glass of iced tea and pushing it across the bar. “Drink that. It’s sweetened. You’re losing weight so fast it’s starting to scare me.”
    Grace took a sip of the tea and sucked on an ice cube. “I never got to see Ben. I couldn’t get through the security gate. He had my key card deactivated.”
    “Bastard,” Rochelle said, pouring her own glass of iced tea. The lunch-time rush hour was over, and only two people remained at opposite ends of the bar, one watching the Rays game on the TV, the other staring intently down at his smartphone.
    “Did your uncle’s lawyer ever call you back?” Rochelle asked.
    Grace stirred her tea with a straw. “Dickie Murphree. Yeah, he called. But I can’t hire him.”
    “Why not? Just because you dated years ago?”
    “I can’t hire him because Ben beat me to it,” Grace said, lifting her eyes to meet her mother’s. “Yeah. Ben has already hired the best divorce lawyer in town. Face it, Mom. I’m screwed.”
    “No, you’re not,” Rochelle said. “The Yellow Pages are full of divorce lawyers. You can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a lawyer. We just need to find you the right one.” She drummed her fingers on the bar’s scarred wooden surface. A minute later, she disappeared into the kitchen.
    When she reemerged, she handed her daughter a well-worn business card.
    “Mitzi Stillwell, Attorney at Law?” Grace asked, lifting one eyebrow. “Who’s she?”
    “A lawyer I know,” Rochelle said. “Give her a call.”
    *   *   *
    Mitzi Stillwell didn’t waste much time with niceties. She’d been practicing domestic law for a dozen years, and she generally believed her clients needed the truth more than they needed coddling.
    She listened for fifteen minutes while Grace recounted her tale of what she now thought of as the