The Divorce Attorney Read online

  Carter, on the other hand…he fits all of them.

  Every. Single. One.

  Well, shit.

  Up goes the glass, down goes the wine.

  Harper leans back from Quinn, examines her work, and claps her hands excitedly. “Voila! I think I finally got the formula right. How do your eyes feel? Open and close them a few times.”

  Quinn obeys, blinking rapidly. She looks impressed, a rare expression on that one. “I can’t even tell there’s any makeup on them. They actually feel naked.”

  Harper fist bumps the ceiling and hands Quinn a mirror. “Hell yeah, they do. Here. Look for yourself.”

  Quinn takes one glance and groans. “Dammit, I hate it when you’re right.”

  Those two might act like they hate each other, but they’re as close as any blood sisters. Though when their parents met and got married years ago, they actually did hate each other. Harper’s mom is old money, so she came with dollar signs galore. Whereas Quinn and her daddy barely had two nickels to rub together. Due to her growing up far closer to the poverty line than Harper, Quinn had a chip on her shoulder the size of Texas. Any resentment she’d harbored toward her stepsister was mostly due to the fact that her family wasn’t flush with cash and Harper’s was.

  The marriage may not have lasted, but their friendship has.

  Knowing Harper’s mama the way I do, I’m actually surprised she married him in the first place. When she realized Quinn’s daddy had no interest in money and didn’t care to try and make more with the horses he raises, she divorced him.

  See? Money has a way of muddying the waters.

  By that time, Harper and Quinn had become thick as thieves. The four of us were assigned to the same dorm suite in college and have been sticking together like glue ever since.

  Quinn is the outdoorsy, tough-as-nails one, with a slightly jaded side. Harper is the bubbly, outgoing one with a sweet nature but a problem with low self-esteem. Gretchen is the sassy wise one who has enough confidence for all of us and never takes shit from anyone. And me? Who the hell am I? The whimsical, sarcastic one who would sometimes rather bury her head in history than deal with the present?

  Not exactly a glowing description.

  More wine.

  “You need to market that stuff, babe,” Gretchen tells Harper. “At least start selling it online and see how it goes. I can even help you with an advertising campaign.”

  We’ve been trying to nudge her into actually developing her own line of cosmetics for a while now.

  Harper’s eyes dull a little, though she still manages to paste on a tight smile. “I’ll think about it. For now, it’s just a fun hobby.”

  The three of us all shoot each other looks, knowing our blonde friend is full of it.

  “I’ve got our name, by the way,” Gretchen announces, breaking the monotony. “We’re The Gretchen Castellanos Experience. Like a girl band.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “How about something that isn’t such a mouthful?”

  She glares. “I’ll give you a mouthf—”

  “How about the Southern Belle Sweethearts?” Harper suggests.

  Gretchen gags. “I just threw up in my mouth.”

  “The Charleston Harpies?” Quinn throws out.

  “That sounds like a roller derby team,” I say. “What about the Lowcountry Ladies?”

  Quinn scowls. “We’re not a middle-aged book club.”

  “Give it up, Gretch,” Harper says, sighing. “It’s never going to happen.”

  “I refuse to believe that.”

  Quinn springs to her feet and heads for the kitchen. The spritely brunette has always reminded me of Crysta from the movie FernGully, only with short brown hair instead of black.

  “All right, Sloane.” She rubs her hands together. “Are these cake pops ready for consumption yet or what?”

  “Hold up. I’ll try them first.” I try to jump to my feet, but, well…alcohol.

  She thrusts her hand in the air, staring down at the rounded, iced cake balls on a stick like she’s meeting them on a battlefield. “I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

  My voice comes out grave. “Quinn, I can’t let you do that. I care about you too much. If there are going to be any casualties from my desserts, it’s my responsibility to be the one who goes down.”

  She spreads her feet, bracing herself in front of the counter. “I’ll be okay. Y’all just stay close in case I need backup. If I don’t make it out of this, Harp, you can have my Schwinn.”

  Harper places her hand over her heart. “God bless you, Quinn Prescott.”

  Gretchen raises her fist. “Solidarity.”

  I huff. “Okay, it’s one thing for me to make fun of my baking skills. For everyone else to do it is just annoying.”

  We all wait in silence as Quinn takes a stick from the baking sheet and lifts it to her mouth. I watch with bated breath as she takes a bite out of the cake pop and starts to chew…

  and chew…

  and…chew.

  Her face screws up in an expression of pure revulsion before she forces the food down in a swallow that lasts at least thirty seconds.

  She eventually shudders. “Wine. Now.”

  I cringe.

  Harper rushes over and hands her the almost-empty bottle, which Quinn finishes off by tipping back her head and chugging.

  My shoulders fall in disappointment.

  “Verdict?” Gretchen asks helpfully.

  “Well,” Quinn says, meeting my eyes, “it has the consistency of Play-Doh. But the taste…”

  I perk up, a smile forming. “Yeah?”

  “It tastes like Play-Doh, too.”

  Harper snorts. “Play-Doh Pops. Hey, Sloane, that’s something you and Gretch could market to kids. You’d make a fortune.”

  Quinn nods encouragingly. “I mean, kids eat Play-Doh all the time anyway, don’t they? At least these wouldn’t be toxic.” She scrunches her nose up, glancing warily down at the little ball-shaped failures. “I don’t think.”

  I fall back on the mound of pillows behind me, throwing an arm over my eyes in dramatic fashion. Commence drunken rant. “I’m never going to get this. I’m going to have children one day, and when the poor child’s in kindergarten and has to bring in dessert for another kid’s birthday, he’s going to be known as the kid whose mom’s cupcakes taste like ass. Oh my God, you guys, my child’s going to be that kid that brings ass cakes to class! No one will want to be his friend. The teacher will probably ask him to bring paper plates and napkins instead of food. Oh, God, I’ve already socially isolated my child!”

  A Play-Doh pop sails through the air and bounces off my boob.

  I open my eyes to see Quinn smirking at me. “Trust me, lady. There are about a million other ways you can screw your kid up so much worse than that.”

  “Yeah, she would know,” Harper quips.

  Quinn rips another pop off its stick and launches it right at her ex-stepsister.

  Harper dodges it at the last second, giggling.

  Quinn looks back at me. “Don’t ruin your buzz over shit that hasn’t even happened.”

  “Especially before we discuss how you’re going to even have those children if you can’t get past your hang-ups with money and marry this seemingly perfect, uber-rich lawyer.”

  I glare at Gretchen.

  Then I laugh hysterically when a pop nails her on the side of the head. Her head swivels around to Quinn who blows her a kiss.

  My roommate cracks her knuckles. “Oh, it’s on now, little Prescott.”

  “I think I’m defecting to Quinn’s side after that comment,” I tell her.

  “Bring it, Pale Face.”

  The events that follow will now and forever be known as the Play-Doh Pop Massacre.

  I mentally add one last item to my Right Guy List as I take cover from being eviscerated by cake bombs.

  He must be:

  - Able to bake desserts for our child’s kindergarten class.

  How is it poss
ible to miss a man you’ve known for less than a week?

  I’m not sure either, yet here I am. At my father’s wedding reception, sulky as hell, with a glass of pink champagne desperately clutched in my hand. The strapless, chiffon bridesmaid dress I’m wearing isn’t a bad fit, but the pale pink fluff color isn’t exactly my style.

  My new stepmother Rachelle apparently has a thing for pink.

  And as far as I can tell, her personality is as bubblegummy as her favorite color.

  Every time I’ve been around her, she’s been perpetually cheery. Never a frown, never a cross word. I would find it annoying if she wasn’t also sweet and thoughtful and easy to talk to.

  But her most redeeming quality is that she makes Daddy happier than I’ve ever seen him. And she seems just as head-over-heels for him.

  Thanks to Grant the Asshat, the cynical side of me wants to see her behavior as an act, but Daddy has assured me time and time again that it’s not. Rachelle’s first and only other husband was killed while he was on active duty in the Army almost twenty years ago, and she never remarried. Apparently, she went into a deep depression after that and almost couldn’t go on. But the fact that she had two sons to take care of kept her going. Since then, Daddy says she’s found a silver lining in every aspect of life, in every trial and tribulation she’s faced.

  Maybe she could help me with that.

  Her sons both seem extremely nice, along with their wives and children. Seeing Rachelle with her grandchildren reassures me of her caring and generous nature.

  Just like that, I got a brand-new family in the blink of an eye.

  I need a breather.

  Pink champagne in hand, I take a seat on the large fountain in the middle of the hotel’s outdoor courtyard, where the reception is taking place. I stare at the sparkling clear water and flinch. I’ll never be able to look at fountains the same way again.

  The downtown Charleston hotel is historical and swanky and a popular locale for weddings. The courtyard is dotted with about a dozen large, round tables with pale pink tablecloths and white folding chairs. Silk pink roses are really the only other decoration, which I thought would have been tacky but is somehow romantic and understated. Twinkling white lights drape over the ivy-covered stone walls and wrap around the wide pillars. Even though it’s the middle of the day, the effect is still enchanting.

  And here sits the sad fair maiden in the middle of it all, longing for her Prince Charming.

  Although, I don’t think the female protagonist was guzzling down pink champagne in any of those fairytales.

  She probably wanted to be.

  As nuts and impulsive as it sounds, I’d been thinking about inviting Carter today as my plus one before we parted ways the other night. Which, in hindsight, sounds absurd. I haven’t even known him a week, and he’d be meeting my father? What the hell was I thinking?

  But something tells me Carter would have accepted the invitation. Happily.

  In fact, I don’t think he would have even hesitated.

  “How you doin’, honey bee?”

  I look up to see Daddy taking the seat next to me on the fountain’s ledge, glass of water in hand rather than a champagne flute. Going on seven years sober, he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since I was in high school.

  His mostly silver hair is cropped short, as is his gray beard that matches the shade of his suit. Despite his aging color, his face is more wrinkle-free and youthful-looking than a lot of men his age. He’s only a little soft in his middle these days, having lost a lot of the weight he gained after his second divorce. And with his jovial smile, he actually looks healthier than ever.

  “Good. Just giving my feet a break.”

  The strappy nude heels I’m wearing aren’t actually that uncomfortable. But I’m not going to tell him that I might be experiencing an existential crisis on the day of his wedding.

  “Nice place, isn’t it?” he asks, referencing the hotel.

  I nod, glancing around the bustling courtyard filled with a lot of happy, smiling people. I want to be one of them. But as looney as it sounds, I just don’t think I can be without Carter.

  “It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Rachelle did a great job with everything.”

  His expression softens at the mention of his bride. Then he turns to me with inquisitive eyes. “You like her, don’t you?”

  The fact that he actually cares makes my chest squeeze. “Of course. She seems wonderful. And the more I get to know her, the more I’m sure I’ll come to love her.”

  “She’s looking forward to getting to know you. Fair warning, she’ll probably be begging you to go on shopping trips with her in the future.”

  I smile. “That sounds…nice.”

  And it does.

  My mother isn’t really in my life anymore and hasn’t been since she married her second husband. Mama has her own life, and she’s never really seemed interested in including me in it. And while my three best friends keep me sane and I love the hell out of them, it would be nice to finally have a mother figure back in my life.

  Not to mention, Rachelle’s sister Rita, who was the only other bridesmaid with me, seems cool as shit. Forgoing the pink champagne, she brought her own personal bottle of port wine when she heard there was going to be a chocolate fountain. As she discreetly hid it behind the bar earlier, she looked over and winked at me, saying, “The richer the dessert, the smoother the wine, the more full-bodied the man.”

  Yep, I think my step-aunt and I are going to get along just fine.

  “How’s everything been goin’ this week?” Daddy asks, his tone turning somber. “How have you been doin’ with it?”

  He’s speaking of Grant and the divorce.

  Which inevitably makes me think of Carter.

  I need a quarter to throw into this damn non-wishing fountain.

  “I’ve actually been okay. It’s been a long time coming, so it’s not like I haven’t had time to prepare. Besides, there weren’t a lot of feelings left toward Grant to really ‘get over’, you know?”

  Daddy nods, having gone through two divorces himself. If anyone can relate, it’s him. “Believe me, you come out of a failed marriage all the wiser. It’s the kind of life experience that makes you stronger and smarter. I have no doubt the next one will go better for you.”

  Yes, but how much time should pass before the next one comes along?

  “What if the next guy is rich like Grant?”

  A “V” forms between Daddy’s brows. “What do you mean?”

  “What if he’s a great guy and everything, but he has money? I mean, money was a factor in your marriage with Mama and with Cynthia. I don’t want it to keep playing a role in my relationships.”

  He scowls. “Grant was a privileged, entitled ass, honey bee.”

  I grin.

  “Not all men who come from money are like that. It’s a testament to your character that you not only wanted to marry him before you found out he had money, but that you stayed with him and were even committed to helping him after you found out what kind of person he was.” He huffs out a frustrated breath. “I mean, hell, you postponed your education for that little prick. I could kill him for that alone.”

  I chuckle and lay my head on his shoulder. “That’s what every girl needs to hear. That her daddy is willing to kill the boy who broke her heart.”

  “He didn’t break your heart, honey bee. You never gave it to him in the first place.”

  I lift my head to look at him in shock. “You never thought I loved him?”

  He squints in thought. “I suspected it was just a first love kind of thing. But I wasn’t about to make a big fuss when you decided to marry him. I mean, look at my history. I was the last person to tell you what a successful marriage should look like. I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut and pray I was wrong.”

  Wow.

  He never once let on that he was ever against the marriage.

  “If you’re worried about money being a factor
in your next relationship, you shouldn’t be,” he goes on. “You are nothing like your mother. The fact that you chose to divorce Grant despite his family’s vast wealth just proves that you don’t focus on the money. For the record, I think you would have come to that conclusion regardless of his wayward di—”

  He glances sharply at me, cutting himself off and making me grin all over again. “His wandering eye,” he amends. “And I’ve got to say, with our past and all the struggles we went through, I couldn’t be prouder of you for that.”

  “Thanks.” My grin fades a little. “But that’s kind of what I’m worried about. I don’t want money to ever be a lure for me or get in the way of my feelings. And having no money is…hard.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Honey bee, the fact that you’re even asking yourself these questions tells me that it never will be. Being wealthy was conditional for your mother’s and Cynthia’s feelings for me. Once I figured that out, that my money was the only thing keeping them around, I admit it changed my opinion of being rich. I thought I had to earn more and more in order to keep them happy so that I could be happy. I lost sight of myself.”

  When sharp pain pierces my chest, I have to remind myself that it’s all in the past and that he’s happy now.

  “I thought I loved them,” he continues, “so I proportionally fell in love with money. Which was why losing my business and going broke was such a huge blow. I thought that meant I’d never be happy again.”

  His eyes search the courtyard, seeking out his new wife. When they land on her, a calmness settles over him and his entire body relaxes. “Then I met Rachelle. She taught me that the most important thing in life is finding someone you love unconditionally to spend it with. You can’t take your money with you to the next life, so you shouldn’t focus too heavily on having a lot of it in this one. At least not to the point that you can’t enjoy the time you have now.”

  That’s the moment when the clouds above our heads open up and sunlight streaks into the courtyard. The beams are bright and warm and only touch the two of us and this fountain.

  This is my epiphany moment.

  Why the hell am I focusing on the money so much? Who cares!