One
ELISE
“No, Harry, I do not want your Great Aunt Edna’s china set in lieu of stock options. No, they’re not equally valuable. And no, throwing in your baseball card collection isn’t going to sweeten the deal.” I roll my eyes at my cell, already tired of this conversation.
“Elise, be reasonable.”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m so tired of having this argument.”
“Same, Harry, same. Which is why we’re getting divorced. I’m in car line right now at the kids’ school—you know, someplace you’ve never been—and I have to get off the phone.”
With that, I stab at the screen and disconnect, huffing out a deep breath, my hands shaking.
I’d heard the line between love and hate is a thin one, and I can now attest to the veracity of the statement.
Sure, I used to love Harry. Back in the day, before he was Harrison Edwards, Wealth Manager Extraordinaire and King of the Dow.
Back then he was Harry, President of Kappa Sig and King of Beer Pong.
That Harry was a lot more fun.
I inch my car up, hot anger surging through my veins, careful to avoid making eye contact with any of the other moms in line. The last thing I need is the busybody PTA president gossiping about the Edwards family during the monthly coffee chat.
Buzz, buzz.
I glance at the text.
Lawyer Man: New piece of intel came through. Call me.
My lawyer, Nate Clark, is young, attractive, and a bit of a flirt. A knockout combo for recently dicked-over wives. He drinks protein shakes for breakfast—I’ve seen the evidence during an early-morning Zoom call—and I’m positive he looks damn good naked.
Not that I’ve thought about him naked.
Fine. Maybe once or twice, but can you blame a girl? The man is gorgeous, with a capital ‘G.’
Honk!
The Range Rover behind me blares the horn, startling me, and I jam on the accelerator. I manage to slam on the brakes a split second before rear-ending a minivan.
“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath as my car door flies open and a teacher pops her head into my SUV.
“Mrs. Edwards, you very nearly collided with the car in front of you. Remember the Covington School rule: no cell phone use in the car line.” She shoots me a sugary-sweet smile, as fake as the Prada knock-offs in Times Square, and I do my best to return the fake sentiment.
“Of course, my apologies. An emergency text came through. I’m sure you understand.
Also, you might mention to the Range Rover mom back there about the meditation class being offered through Wellness Services next month.
She clearly needs to relax.” I glare back at the Range Rover driver, but she’s busy chatting up an assistant teacher.
“Thanks for the reminder, will do.” The teacher tips her chin at me before loading Cami and Colton into the car.
“Hey guys,” I say, shoving down my annoyance. I’ve had just about enough of Covington School rules at the moment. Thank goodness it’s almost summer.
“Mom! You nearly crashed the car!” Cami throws her hands up in the air.
“Cam, I didn’t. And it was really the Range Rover mom’s fault—you should never honk at people. It’s very rude.”
“Uh-huh,” Cami grumbles before turning her attention to the cartoon playing on the TV screens in the back.
“How was school?” I ask, easing into traffic.
“Terrible.” Colton shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Why?”
“Because everyone’s talking about you and Dad.” Cami’s voice is matter-of-fact and my heart sinks, my armpits suddenly sweaty.
“What do you mean?”
“That Dad fell out of love with you and is marrying his secretary.” Cami pops open a bag of Goldfish crackers and stares deep into the packet.
“What? Marrying her?” I screech, depressing the accelerator even harder as I take the turn into our gated neighborhood.
“Yeah. Rachel A. said they’ll be married by Christmas at this rate.” Cami licks artificial cheese off her fingers, not realizing she’s just dropped a nuclear tidbit of info.
“First, how does Rachel A. know this? And second, what does ‘at this rate’ mean?”
And third, why am I digging into third-grade gossip? But that’s a question for later, when I’m lying in bed alone in the dark. Right now, I just need to know.
“Rachel A.’s mom and Holly’s mom go to that new Pilates center together. Dad’s secretary was in one of the classes.”
Shit. Seems reliable.
“Huh. What about the ‘at this rate’ comment? What’s that all about?” I stare back at her.
“I don’t really know what ‘at this rate’ means. That’s just what Rachel said at lunch.”
I peel through the gates of our neighborhood, anger simmering in my gut and my skin itchy.
“Colty, what about you?”
“Huh?” he asks, not moving his eyes from the screen.
“What have you heard? Is anyone bothering you about me and Dad?” I don’t like the panic in my voice.
“Scooter said the secretary was a fox, but I didn’t really get that. I’ve seen her before and she doesn’t even have a tail.”
I snicker, then slam on my brakes as the info filters into my brain. “You’ve met her? When?”
“Last weekend, when we went to the baseball game with Dad. She was in the box with us.”
What in the actual hell? This was definitely not part of our agreement. When Harry moved out — initially to be closer to downtown Atlanta, then as part of the divorce proceedings — we had an agreement. No contact with a potential love interest, at least not until the ink is dry.
Dirty rotten bastard.
But what did I expect? He’s not exactly known for keeping his word these days.
“You two run in and get started on your homework. I have to make a call; I’ll be there in a sec.”
Cami and Colton burst from the car, lugging their backpacks and lunchboxes behind them. I speed-dial Nate before they even get through the front door, nearly hyperventilating.
“Hey, Elise, what’s up?” Nate’s voice is calm and smooth as caramel.
“Nate. I heard from the kids that Harry’s marrying his secretary before Christmas!” I wail into my phone. Rage and sorrow mix in my chest, an unpleasant coupling.
“How’d the kids know that? Did Harry mention it to them?”
“I don’t know, but Harry’s already breaking our deal. We agreed not to introduce the kids to anyone new, at least until we’re officially divorced, and that assistant he’s banging was at the baseball game with him last weekend. In the corporate box, no less!”
“Take a deep breath and calm down, Elise. Yes, he’s not keeping his end of the bargain, and believe me, I’ll hammer him on that—”
“Good,” I say, swiping at a hot tear streaking down my cheek.
“But honestly, try not to get caught up in all his bullshit. You’re lucky to be getting out. We’re almost done with the legal stuff and then you can move on.”
I take a shaky breath, squinting my eyes shut, trying to drown out the image of Harry boinking his size-zero secretary on his oversized mahogany desk. I make a quick wish for impotence on the house of Harry, then say, “Okay, you’re right. I hate that the kids are going through this.”
“I know, it sucks. We’ll be sure to put therapy for the kids as a line item in the agreement.”
Sadly, this doesn’t make me feel any better.
“I thought you were calling about the new intel,” Nate says.
“Oh, right. What’s that about?” I ask, killing the ignition.
“Your Aunt Gin died.”
“Oh. Sad. I didn’t really know her. What’s that have to do with you, me, and Harry, though?”
“Well, she left you her house.”
“What? Why? I met her one time when I was like five years old.”
“You apparently made quite the impression. And you’re the only remaining relative. I have to disclose this to the courts, but Harry can’t touch it. There’s a specific clause that the house goes to you and no one else.”
“Let me get this straight. An aunt I met one time left me her house?” I gnaw on my bottom lip, digesting this new info. I only vaguely remember Aunt Gin, let alone her house. Why me?
“It’s a beach house. Worst case, you fix it and flip it. Nice little asset,” Nate says.
“For sure. It’s in Florida, right? Atlantic coast, a barrier island, if I remember correctly.”
“Exactly. I’ll shoot you the address and you can look it up, decide how you want to handle it.”
“Great. Thanks.”
We disconnect and five seconds later I have Aunt Gin’s house address, along with a funny home renovation meme from Nate.
I laugh at the meme, wishing I’d made better life choices. Nate would’ve made a way better husband than Harry the Horrible. Too bad he’s ten years younger than me, or I might be interested…
Clicking on the Zillow app, I type in the address of Aunt Gin’s house and up pops a picture of a small beach bungalow, best described as ‘quaint.’ Translation: a real fixer-upper and probably a money pit.
Three bedrooms, one bath, with a wooden deck off the back directly facing the ocean.
Honestly, it could be a helluva lot worse.
Maybe this beach house is exactly the change of scenery I need. A reboot, the beginning of Elise 2.0.
I click out of the app and scroll through my calendar, already planning a road trip to Seaglass Beach.