After The Last Toast (The Grown Woman Season #1)

CHAPTER ONE

The first thing to go wrong at my Friday-night divorce party was the cake.

Portia had ordered a three-tiered champagne cake with gold leaf, sugared peonies, and FINALLY written across the middle in black script.

What arrived looked like somebody’s cousin had watched half a baking tutorial and decided confidence could replace structure.

The top tier leaned hard enough to need prayer, the gold leaf had migrated to one side, and the word on the front read FINALY.

One L.

After twenty-two years of marriage, I felt like the missing letter was on brand. Portia stood beside the folding table in the middle of my unfinished living room, staring at the cake like it had insulted her mother.

“I paid three hundred and eighty-five dollars for this,” she said.

“You paid too much.”

“I paid for excellence.”

“You paid for buttercream and an attitude.”

“Nadine.”

I laughed before she could work herself into a call to the bakery owner. “Leave it. It’s funny.”

“It’s illiterate.”

“It’s dessert.”

She pulled out her phone. “It can be both.”

My new townhouse still smelled like cut wood, fresh plaster, and the lemon cleaner the construction crew used before they left each day.

Half the first floor was finished enough to entertain in.

The other half had plastic sheeting over two doorways, blue tape marking trim corrections, and a temporary plywood island where my real kitchen island would eventually sit.

It wasn’t the kind of place most women would choose for a party. That was exactly why I wanted it here.

The house on Greenbriar Lane—the one Terrence and I bought when Asha was three—had hosted every birthday, graduation cookout, Christmas brunch, family argument, and fake-happy anniversary dinner for almost two decades.

I had spent years making that house beautiful enough to distract from how lonely it felt.

This place had exposed brick, uneven floors, and no backsplash. It was mine.

By eight o’clock, thirty people had crowded into it with champagne, brown liquor, catered crab cakes, and opinions.

Portia made everyone wear black except me.

I wore a copper silk jumpsuit I had bought without asking whether it was too low in the front, too fitted in the back, or too expensive for one night.

Terrence used to call clothes like that attention-seeking.

At forty-four, I had finally decided attention wasn’t a felony.

“Lift your glass!” Portia yelled from the temporary island.

The room got louder before it got quiet.

My cousin Shelly stopped trying to teach my aunt how to record a Reel.

Two women from the Philadelphia arts foundation where I directed community partnerships lowered their phones.

Asha, home from Temple for the weekend, stood near the stairs with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

That smile tugged at me. My daughter had told me she supported the divorce.

She had also asked me three times if the party had to be public.

I understood. Terrence was still her father, and people could be cruel when they thought they were defending you. I had warned every guest before they came: celebrate me, don’t drag him. Our marriage had ended, but Asha’s family had not.

Portia held up a coupe glass. “To my best friend, who gave twenty-two years, one beautiful daughter, too many chances, and exactly enough of herself to survive.”

A few people murmured. I shot her a look.

She ignored it. “To the keys in her hand, the peace she paid for, and the next chapter that better have better sex.”

The room exploded.

Asha covered her face. “Aunt Portia!”

“What?” Portia grinned. “You grown.”

“I’m twenty-one. I’m not grown enough to hear that.”

“You’re grown enough to pay your own phone bill.”

“I’m on the family plan.”

“Exactly.”

Laughter rolled through the room, loosening something in my chest. I raised my glass.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “And thank you for not bringing me any of those little signs that say something about choosing joy.”

Portia slowly lowered a gift bag behind the island.

“You did not.”

“It’s not a sign.”

“What is it?”

“A decorative plaque.”

Everybody laughed again.

I waited until it settled. “I’m not celebrating that my marriage failed. It wasn’t all bad, and I’m not gonna stand up here and act like it was. Terrence and I raised a daughter I’m proud of. We built a life. We had years that were good.”

Asha looked at me then.

“But somewhere along the way, I got used to being unhappy because it was familiar. I kept calling endurance commitment. I kept waiting for a version of us that had already left.”

The room stayed still. No applause. No dramatic gasps. Just people listening. I looked down at the key hanging from a thin gold chain around my wrist. It was the key to the townhouse, tied there by Portia because she said a sash was tacky.

“I don’t know what the hell comes next,” I said. “I just know I’m not scared of my own life anymore.”

That brought the glasses up.

“To Nadine!”

I drank champagne and let them cheer. For the next hour, I danced with women I had known since college, took pictures beneath a gold balloon arch, and accepted gifts that ranged from thoughtful to nasty.

Portia gave me silk sheets. My cousin gave me a gift card to a lingerie store.

My aunt slipped me a church fan and told me not to lose my mind because I was single.

Asha gave me a framed photograph of the two of us from her high school graduation.

On the back, she had written, Home is wherever you’re not pretending.

I read it twice.

When I looked up, she was watching me.

“You trying to make me cry at my own party?”

“No. I’m trying to make you stop acting like you don’t.”

I pulled her into me. She smelled like vanilla perfume and the hair oil she had used since she was fifteen.

“You okay?” I asked near her ear.

“I’m fine.”

“That answer usually means no.”

She leaned back. “I’m happy for you. I am. It’s just weird seeing everybody cheer because you and Dad are done.”

My hand slid down her arm. “You don’t have to cheer.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t have to choose.”

“Nobody’s asking me to.”

“But?”

Her eyes moved toward the people dancing. “Somebody posted the cake already. One of Dad’s coworkers sent it to him.”

I closed my eyes for half a second.

The divorce had been final for six weeks. The party wasn’t a secret. Still, I knew Terrence. Public embarrassment hurt him more than private truth ever had.

“Did he call you?”

“He texted. He said he hoped I was having fun.”

The words were harmless. The timing wasn’t.

“Don’t get in the middle,” I said.

“I’m already in it.”

That landed exactly where she meant it to. Before I could answer, a sharp pop came from the back of the house. The music cut off. Half the room shouted at once. Somebody dropped a glass. The temporary lights over the kitchen went dark, then flickered back on.

“What the hell was that?” Portia asked.

A beat later, water began spilling from the ceiling near the plastic-covered doorway. Not dripping. Spilling.

“Move, damn it!” I shouted.

People scrambled away from the kitchen. I kicked off my heels and grabbed the nearest champagne bucket while Portia snatched a catering pan from the table. The water hit the plywood floor protector, splashed over its edge, and started running toward the finished hardwood.

“Asha, get everybody upstairs and out the front,” I said. “Nobody comes back here.”

“Mom—”

“Now, baby.”

She moved. I called the emergency number Warren Mercer had given me on the first day of construction. He answered on the second ring.

“Mercer.”

“Something popped, and now water is coming through my kitchen ceiling.”

His voice changed immediately. “Are the lights on?”

“They flickered.”

“Don’t touch a switch. Get everybody out of the kitchen. The shutoff is in the basement, front wall, red handle. Can you get to it without walking through water?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it clockwise until it stops. I’m twelve minutes away.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Nadine. Shut the water off.”

I went. The basement stairs were bare wood and steep enough to punish bad decisions.

I used my phone flashlight, found the red handle, and turned until my wrist hurt.

The pipes knocked once. Upstairs, the rushing slowed.

By the time I came back up, Portia and two of my cousins had created a line of pots and pans beneath the leak.

“I told everybody to leave the kitchen, not form a plumbing union.”

Portia shoved a stack of towels at me. “You’re welcome.”

The front door opened eleven minutes after my call.

Warren came through it in dark jeans, work boots, and a black crewneck sweater that looked too expensive to be near drywall dust. He was tall without using it as an announcement, broad through the shoulders, and calm in a way that made the room reorganize itself around him.

I had met him four times before—contract signing, demolition walk-through, cabinet meeting, and one argument about preserving the original stair rail.

Every time, he had been measured, professional, and impossible to rush.

Tonight, his eyes took in the ceiling, the water, the party crowd pressed near the stairs, and me standing barefoot in a silk jumpsuit with a stockpot in my hands. He didn’t smile. That would have annoyed me.

“Main is off?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Anybody get shocked?”

“No.”

“Slip?”

“No.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

A man carrying a tool bag came in behind him. I recognized Cedric, the site supervisor. Warren pointed toward the basement, then the second floor.

“Breaker first. Then open the guest-bath access panel. Don’t touch the ceiling until power is confirmed off.”

Cedric moved without asking for an explanation.

Warren stepped beneath the leak but stayed outside the wet area. “What happened before the pop?”

“Music was playing. People were dancing. Then the lights went out for a second.”

“Any water upstairs?”

“I haven’t checked.”

“Stay here.”

“I can show you—”