“The notary?” Scott said, slightly stupefied and perhaps a bit sheepish. “Oh . . . you were . . . watching the signing. I thought—”
“She’d hired me to kick your ass?” Griffin asked with a predatory smile. Goodness, the man looked extremely dangerous. And hungry. Like he could carve out Scott’s liver without a second thought. Griffin looked at me, amused. “I can kick his ass if you want me to. I know a great place to dump a body. Lots of gators.”
Scott looked at me like he believed Griffin. I shrugged and smiled. “You know, Griff, it was a toss-up, but I think we can let him live to see another day.”
“It’s your party, sunshine,” Griffin said, continuing with his stamping and signing.
Scott looked vastly uncomfortable. I understood. A month ago I’d felt pretty uncomfortable around Griffin, too. And this whole bar scene was way different from anything Scott frequented in town. Country club it wasn’t. But I found I liked the way I felt here, and the people who occupied this space were the real deal. They were just what I needed in my life.
My husband looked across at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. I knew I didn’t look all that different, but I felt different. Like the skin I’d been wearing had sloughed off to reveal a softer, more supple Cricket. I had done a peel on myself, getting rid of the tired, worn outer layer and bringing forth someone who could truly see herself. This new Cricket was more than a wife and mother. More than a committee chair. More than an agreeable daughter. Just more than.
And it felt good.
Really, really good.
So I smiled at Scott.
The man looked positively perplexed. I guess that made sense. A minute ago I had cried over him. At present I felt almost relieved that I no longer had to wash his underwear or go to a mind-numbing social event just so he could “work” the room. With the stroke of a pen, he’d submitted to our divorce. Now it was a matter of going before a judge and dissolving what was left between us.
It was over.
And I had gotten the money, too. So yeah, I smiled.
Griffin shoved the papers into the folder and handed them to me. “No charge.”
“You sure?” I asked.
He looked over at Scott, a disdainful, almost hateful look. Then he did something crazy. Something spiteful. Something that seemed to highlight that Scott was an absolute idiot, at least to Griffin.
Griffin kissed me.
His lips were hard, and the kiss looked overfamiliar, like he kissed me all the time. Then my biker hero straightened and said, “See ya later, sunshine.”
Scott’s mouth sagged open, and if we had not just ended our years of loving and laughing together, I would have burst into hysterical laughter. His face was that horrified. But I didn’t. Instead I found that cool lady detective in the stilettos and jaunty hat and said, “You bet, handsome.”
“What in the ever-loving hell?” Scott asked, sputtering and flushing.
“What?” I asked, picking up the folders and sliding the one with the pictures of our daughter in it over to him.
“That man . . . Are you cheating on me?” He vibrated with sudden outrage, which I found vastly amusing.
“Of course not,” I said as I stood and gave him my best withering Scarlett-O’Hara-wearing-the-sin-red-dress glare. “I am not an asshole.”
And then I walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RUBY
Dusting was such a belittling task. Because the next day dust would reappear like a bad blind date ignoring your polite rejection and doing what it wanted anyway. But I dusted the antiques regardless because it was my job. Besides, shiny things sold better.
I skirted around a large dining room table set for twelve with rose-strewn porcelain that any grandmother would be proud to serve a slice of tenderloin upon and fluffed the napkins showcasing lovely Japanese napkin rings. In the center of the table was a wooden box of plated silver, monogrammed and forgotten by some granddaughter who would rather have a new Louis Vuitton than the family silver. Cricket found this a travesty. I found it practical. Silver was a bitch kitty to clean.
I put the dustcloth away and signaled to Jade that I was going to work on my deconstructed haute couture. Cricket had agreed to my using half the kitchen as a small studio. It was tight quarters, but I could fit my sewing machine and a dressmaker dummy. Plus, the coffee maker was right there. As long as the store wasn’t busy, I could work on the small line we would debut at Spring Fling in a few weeks. After the debut, Cricket would work on a studio for me upstairs.
Time was of the essence, and I had deposited Ed Earl’s check and used a nice chunk of change to hire a Russian designer on Fiverr to create a logo. Finally, after grappling over styles back and forth yesterday, the designer had created a flared dress on a dressmaker’s dummy with a measuring tape swirling around it bearing the name. The image was clean edged and done entirely in Wedgwood blue, and my font for “Deconstructed” was an old-fashioned script with an elaborate scrolled D. Normally, not my vibe, but it screamed vintage and southern at the same time, so I thought it had a better shot at reeling in the women who might buy my creations.
“Here you are, darling,” I said to my dressmaker’s dummy, using a fake Russian accent. I was currently giving shape to a white jacket with art deco black braiding that created an hourglass illusion at the waist, making it striking, modern, and not so dated.
I had run across this Carven suit jacket on Instagram from a Houston thrift shop. Someone there knew good craftsmanship if not couture, which was something I myself knew little about, and I had purchased it inexpensively because the braid trim had come detached, and the white jacket was patinaed into a cream. The “Esperanto” suit jacket was a masterpiece, even with the ruined braid. But I planned to fix the braid in some way. Pairing that with black custom-fit pants would create a feminine power suit that meant business but was chic at the same time. Perfect for the mini collection.
I almost felt like a real designer.
Glancing at my watch, I went to the coffeepot and poured another cup, though I didn’t need another afternoon caffeine jolt. Waiting on Cricket to call was hard.
So I texted Griffin. He ignored me.
I texted Dak. He texted back. Everything cool.
Well, that told me exactly nothing.
I sat down and started removing some of the braid. In order to refashion and not steal the intellectual property of whoever had designed the jacket at Carven, I needed to take the best elements of the design so that the piece retained the essence but was used in another creative way. I pulled out my sketch pad and started doodling, getting lost in the various ways I could use the horsehair trim. Which is why I suppose I didn’t hear Jade calling me.
“Ruby!” Jade burst into the kitchen.
I jumped a foot off the chair, and my drawing pad tumbled to the linoleum floor. “Oh my God, J!”
“Sorry. Your uncle’s on the phone. He said your grandmother is being taken by ambulance to the hospital.”