Sand Sharks

“I knew he had a mean streak in him, but I didn’t know it was that fu—frickin’ wide. I’m really glad your husband’s going to be okay.”

We chatted a moment or two longer, then Martha paid for the two books she’d found, a biography of John Adams and the collected letters of E. B. White.

Hank and Mel came up behind us and she said, “You know, Judge, sometimes the cleaning people leave things they find in a box in back instead of bringing them to the desk. What did your earring look like?”

I described the red-and-white hoops and she said she’d check on it. “We’re both on duty this evening if you’re over that way and want to stop by.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I might do that.”

After dropping Martha off at the hospital, I drove back to the SandCastle, where I fired up my laptop and made a note to buy an inexpensive copy of Old Yeller next time I was in Raleigh. I found a couple of messages that needed an answer, then checked out the headlines on The New York Times and The Washington Post to make sure the world was still turning on its axis. I always read The News & Observer all the way through when I’m home and keep my car radio tuned to NPR, but when I’m away like this it’s the online Times and Post. If it’s not splashed across their front pages, I figure I’m not missing anything.

And yeah, okay, whenever I’m on the Post site, I read Miss Manners, too. Doesn’t everybody?

I was in the middle of answering email when Rosemary called. “Chelsea Ann’s still on the hunt for that table but I’m tired of prowling through cluttered consignment shops. Want to come down to the beach with me?”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

She told me where she’d set up her umbrella and twenty minutes later I was seated on a towel next to hers, smoothing sunscreen on every bit of bare skin I could reach.

Rosemary had pulled her strawberry blonde hair back from her face with a black hairband that picked up the black leaves in her sarong-styled bathing suit. White flip-flops, white sunglasses, and a chunky white bracelet on her slender arm. She looked pretty fine for a woman entering middle age after dumping her husband.

“You doing okay?” I asked, and she didn’t pretend I was asking after her health.

“I’m doing better than okay,” she said with a genuine smile and showed me the title of the book she was reading: The NC Divorce Litigator’s Manual.

“You’re not going to represent yourself, are you?”

“I’m not that dumb,” she said, and told me the name of the attorney she’d retained, one of the best divorce lawyers in the Triangle. “But I am going to petition for reinstatement in the State Bar even though that means taking fifteen hours of CLE classes. I’ve been thinking about it and I believe family law’s what I want to practice. God knows I’m going to get a lot of practical pointers on equitable distribution of marital property and post-separation supplements in the next few months. Might as well take advantage of the experience.” She gave an evil grin. “Lovely to think of Dave having to pay for my professional training.”

“Too bad you have to start fresh proceedings,” I said, lying back on my towel.

“Actually, I won’t. We’ve agreed to let the original petitions go forward.”

“Even though you technically condoned the first affair by coming down here and resuming marital relations?”

“He’s decided it’d be better all around to get this over with as quickly as possible. After all, with you and Martha as witnesses to his fling with this waitress, it’s going to end up in the same place.”

There was so much complacency to her tone that I couldn’t resist zinging her. “Tell me one thing, girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Why did you condone Dave’s last affair, then turn around and set him up with that waitress?”

“Excuse me?”

“You pushed Jenna on him at lunch Sunday and then you let him think you’d be gone all afternoon on Monday.”

She sat up indignantly and pulled off her sunglasses to glare at me. “We did plan to be gone all afternoon. Airlie Gardens and then the Cottage Tea Room, but Martha got tired. Remember?”

“Oh, please, Rosemary.” I rolled over onto my side and propped myself up on one arm. “The way you kept looking at your watch? The way you persuaded us that tea on the balcony would be more relaxing so that we’d get back much earlier? The way you made sure we were right behind you when you threw the door wide open?”

She stared at me in consternation, guilt all over her face.

“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t help myself. I notice things. And I was always good at simple math. Two plus two and all that.”

“You didn’t say anything to Martha or Chelsea Ann, did you?”

“Not yet.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t, Deborah.”

“Then you did set him up?”

“The bastard set himself up. But yeah, Chelsea Ann was right. I just don’t want to have to listen to her crowing about it the next forty years, okay? I really wanted to believe him, that he wanted to save our marriage, not throw twenty years down the slop chute. But it was all a farce. He didn’t give up his little cupcake. He just put her on hold and she agreed because it would mean less for me and more for her if we had a no-fault divorce. Once he got me to publicly condone the affair by resuming marital relations, he’d be home free. He could claim that we had sincerely tried to reconcile, but ‘O sorrow, sorrow, folks. It just didn’t work out.’ ”