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Authors: Virginia Kantra
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really felt. Her therapist’s voice played in the back of her head.
Children of alcoholics are taught to perceive their own emotions as being wrong and bad. Which is why you frequently minimize and ignore your feelings.
Whatever. Kate wasn’t paid for her feelings. Only her legal advice.
“Why don’t you come in tomorrow,” she suggested. “I can answer all your questions then. No obligation.”
Tammy’s voice quavered on the other end of the line, offering a familiar litany of excuses.
“I know he doesn’t want a divorce,” Kate said. “The question is, what do
you
want?”
The problem, Kate thought as Tammy talked and wept, was that the other woman didn’t really want a solution. She wanted sympathy.
Kate felt for her predicament. She did. Chad Blakemore was scum. But there was a small, hurt, childlike part of Kate that found it difficult to empathize with women like Tammy, wives more worried about protecting their status than their children, more determined to preserve their privileged existence than their self-respect.
Women like her mother.
Kate rubbed absently at the scar on her cheek, fingering the edges over and over like braille.
Every case was different, she reminded herself. She shouldn’t take any of them so damn personally.
You’re welcome to stay
, Luke had said to her last night. But she knew better. She was more effective when she kept her distance.
“Eleven o’clock,” she told Tammy firmly. “Let me explain your options before we discuss your next move.”
And maybe Tammy would even keep her appointment, Kate thought hopefully after she hung up. The Blakemores had children. Daughters. Surely Tammy would consider what kind of example she was setting for them?
Kate stood to stretch the kinks from her spine, ignoring the five e-mails that had popped up while she was on the phone. She circled her head on her shoulders, listening to her neck snap and pop. She needed . . . something, she decided. Caffeine. A break. She went to grab a Diet Mountain Dew from the refrigerator in the kitchen.
The carpet squished underfoot.
Kate yelped.
A puddle spread from beneath the powder room door into the hall.
She lunged forward, ignoring the ringing of her office phone. “Shit. Damn it.”
She splashed through an inch of water toward the tiny half bath, trying frantically to remember the last time she’d used it.
The front door buzzed.
What now?
“Coming!” she yelled. But first . . .
Not a toilet overflow, she saw with relief as she opened the powder room door. The water flooding the floor was clear. She gasped. And
cold
. Her toes curled inside her soaking shoes. Water rattled through the pipes, hissed in the bowl. She sloshed forward, bending down to turn the shutoff valve behind the toilet.
“Spud washer,” a male voice said behind her.
Kate jumped, narrowly missing smacking her head on the underside of the sink. She turned, her heart pounding.
Luke Fletcher stood on her sopping hall carpet, tall and lean with his straight, bleached hair and hunky arms, appealingly male and annoyingly dry.
She was immediately conscious of her frizzing hair and wet shoes. Embarrassment made her stiffen. “I beg your pardon?”
He raised one blond eyebrow. “You said to come in.” He nodded toward her flooded bathroom. “Your tank’s leaking. You need a new spud washer. Maybe bolt gaskets. And some plumber’s putty.”
“Are you a plumber?”
“My parents own a bed-and-breakfast. There’s not a lot I can’t fix.”
How about my life?
Kate’s mouth went dry.
Not a good thought
. She stared at him, her heart thumping in her chest.
His mouth curved, hardly smirking at all. “Want me to have a look?”
She liked that he offered. Liked more that he asked, instead of shouldering her aside. “Thanks, but I can handle it.”
Her whole life, if there was a problem, she was the one to handle it. She did everything herself, because that was easier—
safer
—than counting on
Children of alcoholics are taught to perceive their own emotions as being wrong and bad. Which is why you frequently minimize and ignore your feelings.
Whatever. Kate wasn’t paid for her feelings. Only her legal advice.
“Why don’t you come in tomorrow,” she suggested. “I can answer all your questions then. No obligation.”
Tammy’s voice quavered on the other end of the line, offering a familiar litany of excuses.
“I know he doesn’t want a divorce,” Kate said. “The question is, what do
you
want?”
The problem, Kate thought as Tammy talked and wept, was that the other woman didn’t really want a solution. She wanted sympathy.
Kate felt for her predicament. She did. Chad Blakemore was scum. But there was a small, hurt, childlike part of Kate that found it difficult to empathize with women like Tammy, wives more worried about protecting their status than their children, more determined to preserve their privileged existence than their self-respect.
Women like her mother.
Kate rubbed absently at the scar on her cheek, fingering the edges over and over like braille.
Every case was different, she reminded herself. She shouldn’t take any of them so damn personally.
You’re welcome to stay
, Luke had said to her last night. But she knew better. She was more effective when she kept her distance.
“Eleven o’clock,” she told Tammy firmly. “Let me explain your options before we discuss your next move.”
And maybe Tammy would even keep her appointment, Kate thought hopefully after she hung up. The Blakemores had children. Daughters. Surely Tammy would consider what kind of example she was setting for them?
Kate stood to stretch the kinks from her spine, ignoring the five e-mails that had popped up while she was on the phone. She circled her head on her shoulders, listening to her neck snap and pop. She needed . . . something, she decided. Caffeine. A break. She went to grab a Diet Mountain Dew from the refrigerator in the kitchen.
The carpet squished underfoot.
Kate yelped.
A puddle spread from beneath the powder room door into the hall.
She lunged forward, ignoring the ringing of her office phone. “Shit. Damn it.”
She splashed through an inch of water toward the tiny half bath, trying frantically to remember the last time she’d used it.
The front door buzzed.
What now?
“Coming!” she yelled. But first . . .
Not a toilet overflow, she saw with relief as she opened the powder room door. The water flooding the floor was clear. She gasped. And
cold
. Her toes curled inside her soaking shoes. Water rattled through the pipes, hissed in the bowl. She sloshed forward, bending down to turn the shutoff valve behind the toilet.
“Spud washer,” a male voice said behind her.
Kate jumped, narrowly missing smacking her head on the underside of the sink. She turned, her heart pounding.
Luke Fletcher stood on her sopping hall carpet, tall and lean with his straight, bleached hair and hunky arms, appealingly male and annoyingly dry.
She was immediately conscious of her frizzing hair and wet shoes. Embarrassment made her stiffen. “I beg your pardon?”
He raised one blond eyebrow. “You said to come in.” He nodded toward her flooded bathroom. “Your tank’s leaking. You need a new spud washer. Maybe bolt gaskets. And some plumber’s putty.”
“Are you a plumber?”
“My parents own a bed-and-breakfast. There’s not a lot I can’t fix.”
How about my life?
Kate’s mouth went dry.
Not a good thought
. She stared at him, her heart thumping in her chest.
His mouth curved, hardly smirking at all. “Want me to have a look?”
She liked that he offered. Liked more that he asked, instead of shouldering her aside. “Thanks, but I can handle it.”
Her whole life, if there was a problem, she was the one to handle it. She did everything herself, because that was easier—
safer
—than counting on
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