Summer?
“You want to get married?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.
“You’ll like her, sugar britches.”
I’ll hate her.
“Where did you meet?” I tried to sound bright.
“At the Selwyn Pub. She looked sad. I bought her a beer. Turned out a puppy had been euthanized that day. She’s a veterinary assistant.”
“How long have you and Summer been dating?”
“Since March.”
“Jesus, Pete.”
“She’s very bright, Tempe. Wants to go to vet school.”
Of course she does.
“How old is Summer?”
“Twenty-nine.”
Pete would soon be waving hello to fifty.
“Three months is pretty quick.”
“Summer wants to tie the knot.” Pete laughed. “What the hell? I’m an old bachelor, kicking around on my own. Don’t forget. You turned me out, babe.”
I swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I’ll handle the filing. Irreconcilable differences. All we need is an agreement on the spoils of empire. We can do the actual dividing later.”
“Not many spoils.”
“North Carolina is a no-fault state, no need for accusations of anything.”
“How soon?” I gave up all pretense at brightness.
“You and I haven’t cohabited for years, so there won’t be any mandatory separation period. Assuming we agree on finances, the divorce should be granted quickly.”
“What’s your time line?” Lifeless.
“We’re thinking about spring. Maybe next May. Summer wants a mountain wedding.”
I pictured Summer. Barefoot, tan, head garlanded with daisies.
“Have you told Katy?”
“Not a topic for the phone. We’ll have a heart-to-heart when she returns from Chile.”
“Has Katy met Summer?”
A slight hitch. “Yes.”
“Not good?”
“Katy finds fault with any woman I date.”
That was untrue. On occasion my daughter talked of her father’s exploits. For some, she felt the attraction was boobs. For others, it was garbonzas. Melons. Jugs. Hooters. A few of the ladies she liked very much.
“It could be awkward,” Pete said. “Summer wants kids. Katy may find that difficult.”
Merciful God.
“I’d like your blessing, sugar britches.”
“Whatever.” The numbness was dissolving like fog in a hot morning sun. I had to hang up.
“You’ll like Summer. Really.”
“Yeah.”
I sat motionless, the dial tone buzz in my ear.
My estranged husband loves women in the way moths love a back-porch bulb. He likes to flirt and hover, drawn, but never willing to settle. I’d learned the hard way. And been burned. Marriage, any marriage, seemed out of character for him. When we’d been in Charleston, before the shooting, he’d seemed to want to explore reconciliation. But now Pete wanted to divorce me, marry Summer, and have babies.
Sad Summer. Very bright Summer. Twenty-something Summer.
Slowly, carefully, I placed the handset on the base unit.
Slid down the pillow. Rolled to my side. Tucked my knees to my chest.
And lost it.
I don’t know how long the tears flowed or when I drifted off.
Again, a phone jolted me awake. This time it was my cell. I glanced at the clock. Nine forty-three.
