“Then Dawn, her next-door neighbor, called 911.”
Abi and Rachel looked at each other.
“Then what happened?” asked Mom.
“The whole thing was blown out of proportion,” Abi said. “Harriet had to pay a fine and was placed on probation. Her husband had a better lawyer, so he ended up getting custody of the kids. We all thought Harriet had moved out. No clue how she managed to keep the house or why she even wanted to.”
I had some idea, but I kept my feelings to myself—especially since there was Dawn Crawford with her lacquered hair walking up Oregon Trail.
She paused in front of us looking from covered cup to covered cup until her eyes took in Mom’s open glass.
“Don’t start,” I said softly when she opened her mouth. “It’s been a week. I’m about one crisis away from turning into Harriet.”
She cringed at the mention of the name, then her shoulders fell. She had to know that we would all vote for the supposed arsonist before we’d vote for her.
“I don’t even know why I bother,” she said in a small voice.
“You try too hard,” Abi said matter-of-factly. “Have a handful of Cheez-Its and a little wine. You’ll feel better.”
For a second I thought she would take us up on the offer, but instead she walked away. Her gait this time lacked its usual speed and vigor.
“I feel a little sorry for her,” Rachel said once she was out of earshot.
“I don’t,” said Abi. “You reap what you sow.”
“Does her hair ever move?” Mom asked.
“No,” the three of us said in unison. For some reason our answering in sync struck me as funny. I laughed until I cried, even though it wasn’tthatfunny.
If only I could stay in this moment forever, but no. Tomorrow I had to talk with my lawyer.
Chapter 17
The fateful day had arrived: time to meet my lawyer.
“Hurry up!” Mom said, reminding me of back when I was in elementary school and we were always in a hurry. I should feel like a slacker because my forty-four-year-old self picked a lawyer from a list her mother gave her, but I’d never really lived up to the slacker part of being a Gen Xer until recently.
Since reality really did bite, I supposed I owed it to the world to be a slacker at least once in my life. Now seemed particularly good.
Mom barked directions over the GPS, and I drove. We ended up at an old clapboard house with gingerbread trim near Marietta Square. The sign said it was the law offices of Carter, Gadot, and Lawless.
“Lawless?”
“Ironic, huh?” Mom said. “But you wisely chose Carter.”
We stepped inside the older house, where a foyer had been constructed just inside the door. We went to the left into Ms. Carter’s side of the building.
I gave my name to the receptionist. She told me to have a seat, and I whispered to my mother, “I don’t want to do this.”
“I know you don’t,” she said, patting my leg the same way she had back when I was twelve or so and had to get a whole bunch of shots at my checkup.
I’d rather have a shot, or five, than see a lawyer about a divorce.
“I don’t want to think about how much this is going to cost.”
“Then don’t,” Mom said.
“Mom.”
