Page 3 of Whispers and Wildfire

I took a breath. I was going to answer the call calmly and rationally. My voice would remain steady. I wasn’t going to yell, not even a little bit.

I let my breath out, then answered, purposely using my maiden name. “Melanie Andolini.”

“Hello, Mrs. Davis… Excuse me, Ms. Andolini.”

I let that slip go even though I was convinced he did it on purpose. “Mr. Traver.”

“I’m calling to confirm you’ll be out of the house by this afternoon.”

I glanced at the chaos. It didn’t look good, but I also didn’thave much choice. “Why? Is Jared afraid I’ll be here when he finally comes to get his things?”

“That is a concern.”

I rolled my eyes. “And he says I’m dramatic.”

“Ma’am, the last time you two were in a room together, you called him… a bulbous pustule of duplicity.” It sounded like he was reading from his notes. “As well as a deceitful scumbag. And you made it clear if he were to enter the home in question, he would, and I quote, 'regret it with every ounce of his maggot-infested soul.’”

“So what you’re saying is, my ex-husband is afraid of me.”

He sputtered. “No. I wouldn’t say that.”

“Can that be added to the divorce decree? I don’t care where, even a side note. I’d like that to be on the legal record.”

“Ms. Andolini, the issue is whether you are vacating the house and what time Mr. Davis can arrive to retrieve his share of the belongings.”

This wasn’t about Jared’s stuff. He’d moved out a year ago. There was nothing in the house he actually needed. He was mad that I hadn’t rolled over and capitulated to his ridiculous terms and was trying to make me pay for it.

I hadn’t wanted anything extraordinary. Just half. He was the one who’d walked away from our marriage and then had the audacity to suggest he should get the majority of our assets. Why? Because he was a high and mighty attorney who thought the years he’d spent in law school made him special. And more important than the woman he’d married.

The worst part was, most of the value of those assets had already been eaten up by debt—his, not mine—and the rest was going to the never-ending legal fees. I was freaking broke.

“I have until four. And if he’s so terrified of seeing meagain, tell him not to get here at three fifty-nine. I’m going to need every minute.”

“Noted. Thank you for your time.”

I wanted to sayyou’re not welcome because you’ve been awful to deal with, and I hope I never have to hear your slimy voice again. But he hung up.

Slightly disappointing, but probably for the best.

Slipping my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I looked around again and took another bite of my pickle.

I’d met Jared when I was living in LA, but his career had taken us to Seattle a few years after we got married. Not my first choice of cities, but the house had been a dream. It was big, airy, and beautiful. But its pretty exterior and expensive finishes were just a facade. The reality of my life in it had been anything but a dream.

A nightmare? That was a little much. It hadn’t been a nightmare, but it hadn’t been good. Especially when Jared had declared that he was leaving me to shack up with one of his twentysomething paralegals.

Wives weren’t usually cast aside until they were middle-aged, right? I was still in my thirties. Hardly the frumpy and sadly underappreciated woman who’d given her best years to a man who decided to go through a midlife crisis and trade her in for a newer model. We hadn’t even gotten that far.

Obviously, it was for the best. I wasn’t sad about my marriage ending. I wasn’t even angry—not anymore. I had been at first, but a few weeks into life on my own, I’d realized how inevitable—and necessary—the end of our relationship had been.

So there I stood, in the middle of a giant mess of boxes, half-sorted and half-packed stuff, on my last day in the house we’d shared. And I laughed. Hard.

I burst out in a fit of laughter that shook my shoulders and made my stomach cramp. Clutching my middle, I doubled over, gasping for breath. I probably looked ridiculous, but Ididn’t care. No one was watching. And I would have laughed just as much either way.

The heady sense of freedom almost made up for the fact that I had days’ worth of work to do before the movers arrived and only a few hours in which to do it.

Pushing aside the temptation to just burn the whole house down and be done with it, I finished the last bite of my pickle, then gathered my long dark hair into a ponytail and cinched it with a hair tie.

I hadn’t meant to procrastinate so much. I’d honestly thought I could sort and pack everything in plenty of time. It was possible time management wasn’t my best skill. But hey, I was an actor. Weren’t creative types supposed to get a pass when it came to organizational skills?

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