Chapter 25
CLOVER
Beckett is finally able to pry me away from the chicks to run by the bank.
Something about signing papers for his new farm thingy.
While he’s in the bank, I’m searching for job offers for animators, but it’s essentially useless in this area.
I’ve started looking into freelance illustration, though, and that’s a bit more encouraging.
I’ve never really had the chance to focus solely on my art, and it might be time to start.
I startle when the truck door slams. Beckett looks livid, and he’s trying to breathe evenly, white-knuckling the steering wheel. There’s a deafening silence, save for the sound of my phone lock. “What’s up?” I ask him, sitting up straighter, my attention on him.
He lets out a controlled breath. “Buckle up, Clover Jane. I need to get to the lawyers early.”
I do as he asks. “What’s going on?” He smoothly reverses us out of our spot and heads towards the lawyer in town.
“She froze my assets.”
My jaw drops. “What?!”
I see his temples flex as he tenses his jaw. “Mhm,” is all he can commit to. No words at the moment, but that’s fine. He has every right to be pissed.
“What the fuck?!” Now I’m mad, too.
We pull into the attorney’s parking lot, and Beckett looks at me. “You don’t have to feel like you have to say yes, but will you go in with me? I could use someone to help keep me calm and focused.”
I’m already unbuckling to get out with him. We wait silently in a room that smells like far too much apple cinnamon. Beckett’s knee is bouncing a million miles an hour, but I don’t try to stop it. I’ll let him get as much energy out as he can before we head in.
Finally, Mr. Taylor comes out. He’s known us since high school; he doubles as the economics teacher there. “Hey, y’all,” he greets us, motioning us to come into his office. I follow behind the two men, grabbing a handful of soft mints off the reception desk on the way by.
“She froze my assets,” Beckett says harshly. “How was she allowed to do that?”
Mr. Taylor rummages through his files, looking for the correct papers. “Her lawyer filed a temporary financial restraining order,” he tells us.
“What does that mean?” Beckett shoots back.
“It means that it stops you from selling or moving around any marital assets until things are divvied up,” he says. “The only good thing about this is that she also can’t pile up even more debt until this is all said and done.”
“Even more?”
Mr. Taylor blanches. “Yeah. It seems like Hannah has gotten herself into quite a financial predicament. Credit card debt, a couple of evictions, and it seems like she’s defaulted on an account.”
“Jesus,” Beckett breathes.
“Until the court hearing, nothing moves.”
“I bought the ranch after she left. How can she do this?”
Mr. Taylor nods, understanding. “Since you acquired it while still married, it’s still considered her marital asset as well.”
I watch Beckett lean back in his chair and run a hand down his face.
“That’s not all,” Mr. Taylor says before clearing his throat. “She’s filed for spousal support . . . .and petitioned for visitation with Lennon.”
My spine stiffens at that, and I’m not able to just listen idly anymore. “Be honest. What does she actually want?” I ask, steeled. He doesn’t sugarcoat his answer or try to tiptoe around it.
“She’s in a lot of debt, Beckett,” he replies, looking back at Beckett. “Like . . . bankruptcy levels.” I laugh, the shock bubbling out of me.
“There we have it,” I comment. “She wants money and leverage, and her leverage is Lennon.”
“She hasn’t done anything in six years to be part of Lennon’s life!” Beckett explodes. “She’s a fucking stranger!”
Mr. Taylor nods his head. “I know, Beck. I get it. We all know it around here. My job will be to prove that. Just have patience. It’s going to all come out in the wash.”
“I sure fucking hope so,” Beckett responds, standing up.
“Good to see y’all together again, despite the occasion,” Mr. Taylor tells us. Beckett’s mostly out of the door, so I turn around and give him a polite smile.
“Please fix this,” I whisper.
“I’ll do my best,” he responds as I shut the door.
* * *
It’s been three days since the meeting with the lawyer, and things are tense. Lennon notices the change and asks why her dad is mad, but we explain that it’s just grown-up stuff, and it’s okay to be mad every now and then as long as you remember to be happy, too.
She handles things so well. I really meant it when I said he’s done a great job with her.
She’s not one of the kids who had to grow up too fast; she still has a wild imagination, loves playing with her dolls, and she’s super artsy.
Beckett has already scheduled her first appointment with a pediatric therapist, and they’re going today.
He isn’t taking any chances with the damage this could cause for Lennon.
I wish Hannah would consider the consequences of rushing back into her life, too.
Beckett drops me off at the store to pick up the ingredients for cowboy cookies, which Lennon has requested.
Her first appointment is only a thirty-minute session, so we should finish at the same time.
I’m standing in the baking aisle, double-checking my shopping list and comparing it to the items in my basket, when an unfamiliar voice speaks up behind me.
“So, I finally get to meet the woman tagging behind him like a lost little lamb.”
I turn around so I can get out of their way; clearly, they’re speaking to someone else.
I’m face to boobs with a tall platinum blonde with legs for days, bright pink rhinestone cowgirl boots, and shorts that hit just below her ass.
She’s wearing a bedazzled band shirt featuring someone from the 70s, but it’s not vintage, just made to look like it is.
I look around me, but it’s only the two of us in the aisle. “I’m sorry?” I can’t quite place where I know her from.
“Darlin’, don’t you know how to listen when people talk to you? Why have you been followin’ my husband around?”
Who the fuck . . .
“You must have me mistaken for someone else, sorry,” I respond, smiling politely and moving out of the way. Before I can, though, her perfectly manicured claws wrap themselves around my forearm and tug me to her somewhat forcefully.
A cruel, quiet laugh comes from her. “Oh no, Sweetpea. I know exactly who you are,” she seethes through her teeth. “You’re the whore who’s been tryin’ like hell to wiggle her way into my husband’s perfectly fitted pants and playin’ mommy to my little one.”
Fucking. Hannah.
Do I want to slap the shit out of her? Yes.
Am I going to? Hopefully one day, but this isn’t the day.
There’s no way in hell she’s going to rile me up and cause a scene that will hurt Lennon or Beckett.
Her fake ass accent is going to drive me up a wall, though.
We all grew up here, and while we all might speak banjo, our banjos aren’t that twangy.
“I’m staying at the ranch, yeah,” I say, smiling as I peel her hand off of me. “As for getting in your husband’s pants—if you’re still calling him your husband, that’s probably your first problem . . . out of many, clearly.”
Hannah’s waxed brow raises. “You don’t know anything about me, little lamb.”
I reach around her and grab the chopped pecans. “I know you didn’t show up until your bank account dried up.” I turn on my heels and head towards the checkout.
“This ain’t your fight, girl,” she calls after me.
I stop and look at her briefly, all politeness gone from my expression.
“It’s my fight if you’re involving her.”
She stomps her foot like a petulant child and walks off, and I can’t help but smile as I hand the clerk my money a few moments later.
What a bitch, honestly.