“I can’t discuss that right now,” Grace said, staring moodily into her iced tea glass. “It makes my head hurt.”
Rochelle reached behind the bar for the industrial-sized bottle of ibuprofen she kept there, shook two into her hand, and handed them to her daughter.
“Thanks,” Grace said, swallowing the pills. “Have you got any food around here? I’ve always heard that heartbreak kills your appetite, but I haven’t eaten in twelve hours, and, I swear, I could gnaw my arm off right now.”
Rochelle pushed one of the plastic laminated menus across the bar.
Grace looked down at the Sandbox menu, which, as far as she knew, hadn’t changed in at least fifteen years. “Buffalo wings. Stuffed potato skins. Stuffed potato skins with Buffalo-wing sauce. Onion rings. Fried oysters. Fried shrimp.” She looked up at her mother. “Seriously? How are you still alive, eating this stuff all this time?”
“I don’t eat this crap,” Rochelle said, nonplussed. “You kidding me? I’d be big as a damned house.”
She allowed herself a satisfying glance in the mirror over the back bar. At fifty-nine, Rochelle was proud of her still-trim figure. She took good care of herself, slathered herself with sunscreen before taking her two-mile walk along Bradenton Beach every morning, colored her hair a soft brown at home, and allowed herself a single glass of heart-healthy red wine or the occasional beer most evenings. She’d quit her pack-a-day smoking when Grace was still a baby, and her doctor said she had the bone density of an eighteen-year-old.
“I microwave myself a nice Lean Cuisine for dinner, usually. And for breakfast, I juice.”
“You juice? As a verb?”
“Don’t get snotty with me,” Rochelle said. She nodded at the oversized Oster blender on the back bar. “Felipe, this real nice Mexican guy, comes in here with his soccer team on Sundays, his mom runs a produce stand at the Red Barn, and he brings me all kinds of fresh produce. Spinach, kale, chayote, strawberries, pineapples, mangoes. Herbs, too. I like mint and ginger. I put it in with everything.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad, actually,” Grace admitted. “You got anything like that you could fix up for me? Not kale,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But any of that other stuff?”
“Sorry,” Rochelle said. “I used up the last of the fresh stuff this morning. I could maybe make you a sandwich. Would a BLT offend your delicate sensibilities?”
“That’d be great,” Grace said, resting her cheek against the bar and folding her arms over her head. Her shoulders heaved, and she let out a muffled sob. It was the first time Rochelle had seen her cry since she was a teenager, and it wrenched her heart just as it had back then.
Rochelle hesitated, but then reached over and smoothed her daughter’s mussed hair. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll fix this. We’ll figure it out.”
Grace raised her head and looked at Rochelle, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Fix it? That’s exactly what Ben said, ‘we can fix this.’ And then he admitted it wasn’t the first time. How do we figure this out, Mom? I loved him. I thought he loved me. But it was all a lie. Everything was a lie. What do I do now?”
Rochelle handed her a paper towel. “Blow your nose. Dry your tears. Eat something. And then we’ll call your Uncle Dennis and take the bastard to the cleaners.”
“Uncle Dennis is a real estate lawyer,” Grace said, sniffling. “He doesn’t do divorces.”
“No, but he’s been divorced twice himself, so he’ll know who we should call, and who we should avoid.”
Grace took a gulp of tea. “I’m not even sure I want a divorce.”
“You’re kidding,” Rochelle said. “You caught Ben having sex in your garage with your assistant, who he’s surely been screwing at your house all these months, and you’re not sure it’s over?”
“I don’t know,” Grace wailed. “This is not the way I thought my life would go. I don’t understand any of this. I thought I would have a forever marriage, like yours and Daddy’s.”
Rochelle considered this, started to say something, then changed her mind. Now was not the time.
“Have you talked to Ben since last night?”
“No.”
“Any plans to talk to him?”
Grace shrugged. “I’ve got to go over there and pick up some more clothes pretty soon. And I’ll have to figure out what to do about the blog, and the HGTV pilot and all the rest of it.”
Rochelle busied herself putting together her daughter’s sandwich. She popped two slices of bread into the toaster, slapped some bacon on the griddle, and picked up a fat red Ruskin tomato from a bowl on the back bar. She had the knife poised to slice it when Grace spoke up.
“Could you peel that, please?”
Her mother shot her a look of annoyance. “I fixed you a million BLTs in your childhood, and now, suddenly, you have to have your tomatoes peeled? La-de-damn-da.”
Grace stood up and came around the bar. “Never mind. I’ll make it myself if it’s that big a deal.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just don’t get why it’s necessary. The peel has the most vitamins.”
“That’s not true,” Grace said flatly, taking the knife from her mother and proceeding to pare the skin from the tomato.
Rochelle stood back with her hands on her hips. “Who says it’s not true? It’s absolutely true.”
“According to who?”
“I forget,” Rochelle said stubbornly. “Maybe I heard it on one of those cooking shows.”
Grace shook her head and reached into the refrigerator for a head of lettuce. She peeled a leaf from the head and gave a martyred sigh.
“What now? You don’t like my lettuce?”
“I’m just not crazy about iceberg,” Grace said. “Romaine is so much tastier. And prettier, not to mention better for you, since we’re talking about vitamins.”
“I like iceberg,” Rochelle said, her tone frosty. “It’s what I’ve always bought. It was always good enough for you up until now.”
Grace fixed her with a look. “Are we going to get into
