Page 2 of The Hampton Beach Café
“Sorry…” she said, “…that car…I sold that car six months later so that I could buy textbooks. I haven’t driven since.”
“Well, then there’s an argument that those textbooks are also yours,” her lawyer said sheepishly. “But other than that, there’s not really anything to fight for. Unless your name is on the deed to the house?”
“Hardly…” she said, “…but I do have my own savings. My mother always said it doesn’t matter how much you love your husband––you need a nest egg. How long do I have in the house?”
“I don’t know exactly, but you have a good argument for being able to stay for as long as it takes you to find suitable accommodation. I’ll contact the firm today and let you know what’s happening. Do you have someone to be with you today? You’ll need a support system.”
“You’re my lawyer, not my therapist…” Frances said, “…but thank you for the concern.”
She managed to keep it together while they sorted out some other details and plans, but Frances burst into tears the moment she hung up the phone.
Through her wracking sobs, she picked up her phone and dialed once again. Not Malcolm’s disconnected number like she wanted to, but Lucinda’s number. As the phone rang, she sent a message to the same number.
911 pick up
The message was sent and registered as sent. She held her breath. Within two rings, Lucinda answered.
“Are you alright? Where are you?”
TWO
“How can twenty years of savings not be enough for a house?” Lucinda asked, pausing to sip from her frozen slush margarita.
Frances pushed her sunglasses up her nose and leaned back in the pool lounger. “Because we live in a ridiculous town full of ridiculous people who have ridiculous amounts of money.”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Lucinda teased.
“Yes, it is,” Frances said seriously, lifting her own margarita to her face and battling the supposedly environmentally friendly pasta straw.
It seemed like a waste to Frances, but at least it wasn’t soggy paper.
The overpriced, overcrowded, and over-cool rooftop pool bar she and Lucinda favored was mercifully close to the company where Frances worked, her home, and Lucinda’s co-working space.
“So, this bike courier…he let himself in?”
“Yeah. They must have given him the gate code,” Frances said, shaking her head. “I don’t know how to change it, but honestly, once I’m out of there, I don’t care if that courier sells Malcolm’s security code to all the house breakers in LA.”
Lucinda rolled her eyes, and Frances could tell she was waiting patiently for what came next––Lucinda knew her too well.
“Okay, fine, I care…” Frances said, “…but there’s something very satisfying in pretending I don’t.”
“You need another drink,” Lucinda said.
“How can you have finished that thing so fast? I get brain freeze just looking at it,” Frances replied, but Lucinda was already flagging down a waiter.
She handed the frozen drink to Lucinda and gestured for her to drink up. When the waiter arrived, Frances ordered a classic gin and tonic.
“What? I like gin!”
“No one likes gin,” Lucinda retorted.
A woman waved across the pool, flipping her long blond extensions over her shoulder with one of her lime green, double-extra long, and bejeweled acrylic nails.
“Oh, hold on to your house keys. It's Monica,” Lucinda said, strategically placing the frozen margarita in front of her mouth as she spoke.
“Hi, ladies!” Monica cooed in her high-pitched client voice. “What are two of this city’s brightest and hardest working boss babes doing at a pool bar on a Wednesday?”
Frances cleared her throat. Monica was always friendly, but there was a killer realtor under her rhinestone-studded facade.
