8

 

Annabeth drove toward town, toward her father's law office, a knot in her stomach. Going over financial things was just a formality, nothing to worry about.  It wouldn't be that bad.   She rode past Hawkins Auto, speaking aloud, "Oh, my!" She'd been meaning to get that seat belt check for two or three weeks and kept forgetting.  She was just so busy with work, yet she made so little money.  She thought briefly of her finances.  There was enough for food and to pay the electric bill, the water bill, but just barely.  And when she had a few dollars saved something needed fixing, as was usual in the upkeep of an older house.  Annabeth sighed, then pulled into a parking spot outside Will Copeland's office.

Although the rest of the world was sliding into fall, in the Florida panhandle the summer heat still raged.  Annabeth touched her cheek with hands still cool from the car's air conditioning.  She was flushed, but that was probably worry.  She walked toward the three story brick building, wishing she could turn around and go in some other direction.

"Annabeth."

She turned toward the voice, knowing whose it was.  The knot in her stomach tightened.  "R.J."  She looked into her husband's eyes.

"Sam called me, you know.  He got some laugh on me."

She wanted to say, Oh you look so tired and to reach out and touch his cheek, but she did not.

"He was pretty damn happy to steal my collection of classic cars. Brought up that whole card game thing."

"He accused you of cheating again?  How silly."

"Yeah well, he paid you like five hundred bucks less than the cars were worth.  I hope you're proud of yourself."

"I'm sorry about Sam, R.J., but what choice did I have?  My car wouldn't run anymore."

"Probably just needed plugs."

"No, it needed thousands in repair."

"So you go out and buy yourself a new car?  Why didn't you buy a Mercedes?"

Annabeth's eyes narrowed.  She had never participated in a scene in public, and in fact had rarely even argued with R.J. in the past.  She lowered her voice, but spoke with an intensity that was uncharacteristic for her, "I don't see you driving a car that breaks down every two blocks."

"Hey, babe, I work for a living."

Annabeth was about to reply so do I, but thinking it was pointless, she turned and walked away from her husband.

Annabeth exited the elevator and walked into her father's offices, bumping into Hugh McGraw, who had stopped at the front desk to speak to the receptionist. 

"Annabeth" he said warmly, opening his arms and offering her a hug.

"Hugh!  It feels like ages since I've seen you.  How are you?"

"Fine."

"You?"

"I'm here for this legal meeting, you know, the divorce."

Hugh nodded.  "Don't worry.  Quentin will take good care of you.  Kyle Sennet is no match for him at all."

"How's Maggie?"

"She's fine."

"I'm just so upset about this whole thing with her.  I've been by the house a bunch of times and I've called.  She won't speak to me.  It's crazy.  Sally and Jackson got back together last week."

"I know.  Doesn't make any sense to me either.  I'm sure she'll come around.  She's been spending time with Louise Watkins.  That sure can't last."

Annabeth laughed then became serious.  "I just don't know what else to do.  We've been friends for nearly forty years.  My God.  Forty years."

"Now I feel old."

Quentin Asprey appeared in the hallway, and walked over to introduce himself.  "Mrs. Welner, I'm Quentin Asprey."  He was a slender man of about six feet, his hair sandy and streaked with highlights caused by all the sun he got on the weekends.  He had the typically freckled complexion of people in the sunbelt and a large beaky nose that curved toward his mouth.  A mustache would have done wonders for his looks, but his upper lip was bare.

"I'll talk to Maggie," said Hugh, smiling sympathetically, then turning toward the younger attorney, added, "If you need any help with this divorce, I'm available."

Annabeth followed Quentin into his office where they sat down at a round table in the corner.  This small firm was successful by local standards, but they had no need of a meeting room or a big conference table that could seat twenty.  Business was usually handled in a more informal manner.

"How are you doing?" 

"I'm fine," answered Annabeth.

Quentin nodded, "Good, I'm glad there are no immediate problems.  Today we're going to go over financial statements.  It's probably very routine, so don't worry."  Reaching for a document already on the table, Quentin continued, handing it to Annabeth, "Sennet sent over this statement.  Take a look.  This is your husband's version of your assets.  Eventually we'll come to an agreement on what everything's worth and then we'll decide how to divide it all up."

"I didn't know our house was worth this much."

"Is R.J.'s income accurately represented?"

"Yes, that seems right."

"Are the business assets listed accurately?"

"Gosh, I guess so.  How much can those old vending machines be worth?"

"Do you know how many he has now?"

"No, not really.  He was gone for days at a time on his route," her voice lowered and she spoke with sadness, "But who knows how much of that travel was business."

"It says here he's partners with his mother."

"She loaned him some money to buy the first couple of machines.  Oh--Mr. Asprey--"

"Call me Quentin.  Yes?"

"There was some money in our bank accounts--the ones he closed.  That's not listed here."

Quentin nodded.  "All right."

The buzzer on his desk rang and Quentin stepped over to answer the phone.  "Send them back," he said, and then to Annabeth, "They're here."

Kyle Sennet looked like the sort of lawyer who advertised for business in the classified section of the local paper, the type to work out of a small office outside of town and handle whatever cases that came his way for fees as high as he could wrangle, things like bankruptcies, divorces, an occasional accident case or drinking, drug and misdemeanor charges.  In short, he was the sort of attorney her father scorned.  He was a slight man with too-long hair and an ill-trimmed beard that drooped, giving him the air of a disenchanted elf.  Annabeth wondered if he wore a business suit when he appeared in court, because now he sported jeans and a T-shirt featuring a sports car with Daytona Beach printed over it.  He carried an inexpensive attaché case, which he placed with a thud on the table at which Annabeth sat.  He nodded toward her as though she were nobody indeed then reached out to Quentin, who shook the offered hand in a way which was friendly yet managed to convey the sentiment that the man was no colleague at all and was lucky to be allowed in the office.

R.J., who followed his lawyer in, offered a hand to his wife's attorney, but instead of taking it, Quentin nodded toward a seat at the table.  "We have your little document here," he said, looking down at R.J.'s financial statement as though it were a trashy novel.

Annabeth looked toward her lawyer.  He was totally imperious!

"Good," said Sennet, apparently unaware of Quentin's disdain.  "We all want the same thing here, a fair distribution of marital assets and a speedy divorce.  My client has moved forward with his life and so has yours."

"Why be so hasty?  We're talking about a long marriage here.  Perhaps a legal separation is all that's needed right now."  Quentin's voice was calm.

"What?" interjected R.J., his voice growing louder,  "You jerkin' with me?"

Sennet placed his hand briefly on his client's shoulder, calming him.  "We were thinking an immediate divorce.  We file the papers today or tomorrow and both these people have their freedom in thirty days.  That's the beauty of our system here in Florida."

"I just don't see that happening.  You have incomplete, inaccurate financial records.  No effort has been made to pay maintenance.  It's a complicated, messy, situation."  Quentin shook his head, his voice remaining calm.  "We intend to file a motion for temporary support.  These things take time."

"There are no minor children, and your client is perfectly able to work."

"I am working," interjected Annabeth.

R.J. laughed.  "I heard about your soda jerk job."

"The job she has now is temporary, simply because her husband abandoned her after stealing their joint funds.  You and I both know that in a marriage of this length, the judge is likely to grant support for life."

"For life?"  R.J. grew livid.  "Even convicts get paroled."

"And," continued Quentin, bestowing on his opponents a withering glance that caused R.J. to hold his temper at bay, "The fact that your client is currently living in an adulterous relationship with a woman young enough to be his daughter isn't likely to grant him any favors with the court."

R.J. and his lawyer looked helplessly at Quentin as he continued to speak, "Thus it seems quite likely to me that this case will go to court.  Why should we sign away any of our rights?  This is no simple divorce.  Could take years."

"Years!" exploded R.J., "All right, look, what do you want?"

"First of all, we want the funds stolen from the bank accounts to be restored."

"I don't got that money no more.  I had expenses."

Annabeth glanced at her attorney. What a scary guy he seemed.  So combative. 

R.J. swallowed hard.  "Annabeth stole my classic cars and sold them behind my back."

"We have listed her automobile as part of the assets we expect to claim.  Your van is worth more than twice what her car is worth."

"That don't make up for a collection of cars it took years to get."

"As I said before, divorce can be messy.  Can string along for years.  And of course lawyers bill by the hour."

Sennet squirmed in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with this line of reasoning.  "Well, we can surely come to some agreement regarding maintenance.  And your client will be entitled to a lump sum when the house is sold."

"And we will be selling the vending machine business as well?" countered Quentin.

"What?" exclaimed R.J., "No way I'm gonna sell my business.  How else can I provide maintenance?" he asked sardonically.

"My client wishes to remain in her home."

"It's our home, not her home," said R.J., a tinge of desperation in his voice.

"I spent twenty years fixing it up," said Annabeth softly.

"And I paid for all them repairs," countered R.J., turning and looking angrily into her eyes.

"Look," said Sennet, "There is a way out of this.  What's the difference in the value here?"  He ran his finger along the columns, adding figures that Quentin had already totaled. Your client can simply pay the difference and then my client will let her have the house."

"We'll consider that possibility.  What we need to do now is to settle the maintenance issue."

"What about four hundred a month?  There are no children at home and there's no mortgage on the house."

"Don't insult us."

"You know what my client earns."

"I intend to find out."

Annabeth was astonished to hear R.J. say, "Look, I'll pay a thousand a month.  Probably break me, though."  He didn't have that kind of money to spare, did he?

"We're all too well acquainted here.  It's a shame, really."  Quentin's voice was deceptively calm.  "I think we should just let a judge sort all this out.  A judge would be far better able to determine what's fair and for how long.  We'll set a court date, you'll have your hearing by the spring, the divorce sometime later and it'll be lots easier for us all."  He paused for a long moment, then turned toward Annabeth asking, "Do you mind waiting a bit?"  

"No," she answered softly, feeling intimidated not only by the proceedings but by her own lawyer.

"Are you outta your mind?" raged R.J., "I want this divorce now, not who knows when down the road."

"Yes, I can see that," conceded Quentin.  "We'll just have to work harder to cooperate then."

R.J., surprised by this comment, nodded.  "That's right.  Okay, look, twelve hundred, but that's really it.  Won't do nobody good if I go bankrupt."

Quentin nodded, his face serene.  "That seems fair, based on your current earnings.  And of course Annabeth keeps the house."

"What!" exclaimed R.J., "Are you out of your mind?"

"You keep your business, she keeps the house.  And you pay maintenance for twenty-five, no twenty years.  Unless of course she remarries."

"This is bullshit," replied R.J., who rose then and stormed out of the office.

Sennet rose afterwards, offering his hand to Asprey.  "We'll be in touch."

Both Quentin and Annabeth watched as he walked from the room.  "I thought that went very well," said the attorney.

Annabeth looked worried, "Now R.J. is mad.  He never cooperates when he's angry."

"That wasn't anger, it was frustration.  He learned that he can't have what he wants so easily."

"It doesn't seem fair to hold him up though.  It is half his house too."  He was so desperate to be rid of her quickly he'd put himself in financial peril.  It seemed so sad.

"So what!  I can only be on one side and that's yours."

"Do you think he will actually give me the house?"

"All I can do is try."

There had to be a way to save her house. As she drove away from her father's office, Annabeth looked at her watch, something that had become a habit since she began working.  She was late! Annabeth tensed then relaxed.  It was her day off.  How odd it was always to have to be somewhere at a certain time.  When would she be used to it?  Maybe they could strike a bargain.  Maybe she could find a better job, a way to make more money.  And then she could get a mortgage for the rest. 

She drove for a bit, intending to stop at the auto dealership, but on impulse turned the car back around toward the center of town.  There was a convenient space and she pulled into it and walked into the bank.  Sally looked up in surprise as she saw her mother approach.  "Who do I talk to about mortgages?" Annabeth asked.

"Mortgages?"

"I just want a little information."

Sally gestured toward a woman seated at a desk toward the front of the bank.  "Tell her you're my mom."

"That would give me an unfair advantage, I'm sure."  Annabeth winked at Sally then walked over to the woman, and said, "Excuse me…"

"Hello," she smiled, "Can I help you?"

"I'm Sally Welner's mother.  I wanted some information about mortgages, if you have the time."

"I'm Bridgett Spieler.  It's so nice to meet you.  We all love Sally here.  Have a seat."

"Thanks."  Annabeth sat down opposite Bridgett's desk.

"How can I help you?"

"I'm getting divorced but I was hoping to keep my house.  So I was wondering what it would take to buy my husband out."

"Is there a mortgage on it now?"

"No, we own it."

"And have you had it appraised?"

"Not officially, but I think I'd need quite a bit to pay to my husband, um, well, ex-husband.  I mean, I don't earn very much.  And I've never had a job before, till now, that is."  Annabeth looked down nervously and back toward Bridgett who was scribbling on a pad of paper.

"Let's see what amount you'd qualify for."

"You mean you'd consider loaning me money?  Even at my age and with no real job history?"

"There's something called the Community Reinvestment Act.  We want our neighbors to own their homes.  And you already have your house--it's good collateral."  Bridgett scribbled as Annabeth answered her questions, then handed her the results, which Annabeth regarded with surprise.  "And of course if you have alimony, we could consider that and you'd qualify for a bit more."

"I can't believe it.  I figured you'd just laugh at me.  I hardly earn anything."

Bridgett laughed, "That's not such a bad thing.  At your salary we figure you could easily get another job paying just as much.  It's not like you're an out of work space engineer."

Annabeth shook her head.  "No chance of that.  And my income from painting--that wouldn't count?"

"Sure it would--after two years and with some tax returns to prove your income."

"And I wouldn't need a down payment?"

Bridgett shook her head.  "We could even add the appraisal and the closing costs into the mortgage.  And then all you'd need to do is have your husband sign over the deed."

"I'll keep all this in mind.  You've been so nice and so helpful.  Thank you so much."

"It was nice meeting you.  I hope we see you again soon."

Annabeth waved to Sally and walked outside to her car, this time driving toward Hawkins Ford.  She couldn't believe it.  She could get a mortgage! Amazing.  It felt like a giant brick had been lifted from her heart.  Her home.  Her whole life was there and it felt as though part of her would die if she lost it.  That Quentin was one scary guy. She was lucky to have him on her side.  Now it was just a question of her coming up with the money she'd need--the bank couldn't give her all of what she'd need to buy off R.J.   Of course if she got maintenance from R.J., she could borrow more.  That's what that nice woman at the bank said.  She sure could never earn that much.  But there was hope, lots of hope.  Somehow she would find a way; she would save her home.   She sighed then, relief coursing through her body. 

Grady Hawkins sat at his desk, looking out the window at the car lot beyond as Annabeth entered.  "Excuse me?"  Her voice was soft and tentative. 

He gave her a beguiling smile, "Hello!" 

She smiled back, asking, "Is Doug around?"

"No, I'm sorry.  I hope there's nothing wrong with your car?"  Grady looked at Annabeth in an appraising way that made her feel uncomfortable.  She could imagine his assessment of her: an ordinary middle-aged woman, medium sized, a bit overweight, kind of a dumpling really.

"Doug asked me to bring the car in.  Something about the seat belts."

"Oh yes, of course." He rose from his seat and walked over to where she was standing.  "You know, I remember you from high school."  Annabeth was sure he was lying, but she couldn't imagine why.

"Long time ago, huh?"

"It was the best time of my life."

"You liked being a football star, didn't you?"

Grady moved a little closer. "Yes, I liked it very much.  You know," he said improbably, "I always wanted to ask you out." 

Annabeth was perplexed.  What was the purpose of this flirtation?  She had already bought a car after all.  "You had lots of cheerleaders around you then."

"Yes, I married one of them.  Big mistake!"  Grady laughed then.  "You married?"

"Yes, no...oh...um...I'm...um...separated.  Getting a divorce."

Grady gazed deeply into her eyes.  He reached out and placed a hand gently on her shoulder, "Don't worry, this is going to be the most exciting time of your life.  It sure was after I got divorced.  Both times."

Annabeth opened her mouth to say something then closed it without speaking.

"You'll have lots of dates.  A beautiful woman like you."

Annabeth leaned away from Doug's brother.  He was awfully forward and he made her very nervous.

Grady reached out and touched Annabeth's hair, saying, "Your hair is so silky.  Listen, why don't you let me take you to supper tonight?"

Annabeth, feeling awkward and confused, lied "Oh, I promised my sister I'd stop by her house."  She leaned another degree away from Grady, pressing her back against the doorjamb.

He took his hand and drew it across her cheek, trailing it down to her jaw, along her neck to the base of her spine, then Grady leaned down and kissed her deeply on the lips.

Annabeth tensed at the kiss.  Grady was the only man ever to kiss her other than her husband.  How odd it felt.  His hand encircled her neck, his long fingers resting easily on the bare skin above the neckline of her knit top.  The other arm went around her waist, expertly pulling her closer to him, all the while his lips pressed against hers in a way which was insistent and forceful, but not unpleasant.  She wanted to pull back, knew she should stop the kiss, and she reached her hands up against his chest, ready to push him away, but her head began to swirl and amazingly, her arms wound round his neck, the fingers on her right hand twisted into his hair, and she opened her lips, accepting his kiss and returning it.

She moved away then, stepping sideways and backward, so she was no longer pressed against the doorjamb.  "Gracious," she said, blushing.

Grady said again, "Let me buy you supper."

Annabeth, still flushed, looked into his eyes.  What should she do now?  "I can't, really," she replied.

"Tomorrow, then."

"I can't.  Anyway, I work tomorrow."

"After work.  Where do you work?"

Not having the slightest sense of guile, she replied, "Gleason's Drugstore, but still I can't.  Please."

"Annabeth."  His voice was faint, but grew louder as he approached.  "You finally remembered about those seat belts."

Doug.  Thank goodness.  She turned toward him.  "Yes I did.  Will it take very long?"

Doug scrutinized Annabeth and his brother, and seeing his eyes on them, Annabeth blushed.  What had she been thinking?  Annabeth turned to follow Doug toward the lot, but she realized he was holding his hand out for the keys, which she extracted from the pocket in her skirt and handed over.  She hoped he wouldn't leave her there with his brother.

"Grady, would you mind taking the car to Jock?"  Doug handed the keys toward his brother, who scowled briefly then smiled.

"It was so nice to see you, Annabeth," he said, looking triumphantly at Doug for a reason Annabeth couldn't fathom.

"Come and sit with me for a bit," said Doug.  "Jock won't be a minute with your car, I'm sure."

Annabeth followed Doug to his office and took the seat opposite his desk.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

Not knowing what to make of what had just happened and not wanting to mention it, she said, "Oh, I'm fine.  How are you?"

 "Good," he said nodding his head.  "You seem a little tense."

Flustered and worried that somehow he knew what had happened, Annabeth changed the subject.  "Could I ask you a personal question?"

He nodded.

"Did you sell your house after you divorced?"

Doug shook his head.  "Robin kept it.  Although it's up for sale now since she's remarried and living in a new house."

"So you just let her keep it?"

"No, she bought me out."

Wanting to ask how his wife had acquired the money, but realizing such a question was impertinent, Annabeth remained silent.

Observant as ever, Doug answered the question that she hadn't phrased.  "Robin had family money.  The social whirl of Atlanta is the only career that ever interested her."  He paused for a long moment, then continued, "Is that what you want to do--buy your husband out--keep your house?"

Annabeth nodded.  "Oh, yes.  I can't bear the thought of losing my home.  Just depends on if I can make enough money.  I spoke with a woman at the bank and it seems quite positive."

"You could work here, in the office I mean.  Entering data into the computer.  We ran an ad in the paper.  It'll be out Friday."

Thinking of Grady, Annabeth replied immediately, "No, I don't think I'm a computer person.  You'd be better off with someone who knows how to use one."

"How's your furniture painting business?"

Annabeth nodded, "Not bad.  I was thinking that maybe I'd check into stores in the area.  See if I could sell to more of them.  I talked to a woman at the art show and she suggested that I could sell at shows like she does.  I keep meaning to call her."

"Ever paint on canvasses?  They'd be a lot easier to transport than chairs and tables."

"Oh no.  I'm not a real artist."

"Sure you are."

"Annabeth," said Grady, leaning into the room, "Car's fine."  He held the keys toward her, then touched her shoulder as she took them from his hand.  "I had the boys wash the car for you, since you had to go to the trouble of coming all the way in for nothing."

"Why, thanks," said Annabeth.

It was just a little white lie, not the truth, and she didn't really have to visit Julie, but she drove in that direction anyway.  Her mind was a jumble.  She touched her lips, then blushed again, alone in her car.  Thrilling, something thrilling about that, there with Grady.

"Mommy!" trilled little Bobby, opening the door, "See!  Aunt Annabeth can come with us.  I thought so."  He nodded sagely, impressed with his own wisdom.

"Where can I go with you?"

"To the mall for the pictures."

Julie walked into the room, accepting a hug.  "You're not working?"

"I do have an occasional day off.  I'm sorry I've had so little time for you lately."

"It's all right.  We're going to the mall now.  Actually I had wanted to ask you to come along to help with little Bobby, but I didn't want to be a burden."

"Oh, honey, you're not a burden.  What help do you need?"

Julie smiled shyly, "I'm getting my picture taken, you know, Glamour Poses." She laughed, embarrassed to admit it.  "For Bobby, for his birthday."

Annabeth smiled.  "Well!  How exciting!"

"So you want to come, watch little Bobby while I pose?"

"Sure I do."

"This is exciting, isn't it," whispered Julie as they walked through the door of Glamour Poses, a little storefront in the mall which offered makeup professionally applied, dress up clothes of all sorts, and photographers trained to help the client imagine she was as beautiful as Cindy Crawford, at least for an hour.  It was as far from a real modeling session as imaginable, but still it was fun.  Even if the makeup artists were just girls barely out of high school who'd taken a short class to turn their natural interest into a marketable ability, it was more help than most of the local housewives got with their appearance.

"What do you think?" asked Julie, turning toward Annabeth, who was reading a book to little Bobby.

"You're gorgeous!" enthused Annabeth.  "You look just like a movie star!"

Julie smiled, pleased with herself.  "I like this makeup.  They're good colors for me."

"Yes, you look great."

"We sell the makeup, if you want to buy any."

"You know, I think I will," enthused Julie.  "We should do you too," she commented to Annabeth, suddenly inspired. 

"Me?  Nah!"

"Yes!  We can take some pictures together, for Dad, and some alone.  Come on, let's!  My treat."

"Oh I don't know."

"I've already decided."

The makeup girl walked over to Annabeth, then led her toward the wardrobe room, where she chose a low-cut gold lame top that was little more than a piece of fabric that was designed to drape over the chest of a woman of any size.  "This will look wonderful on you.  You have a lot of gold in your skin and hair."

"Gracious!"  Annabeth reached for something far less dramatic, a simple white blouse, but the girl took it right out of her hand.

"This is it, really.  Trust me."

"You certainly have a lot of confidence," laughed Annabeth.

"I have a good eye.  Now let's get you made up."

Annabeth followed her once again to the makeup bar, where she was seated beside her sister.

"You have excellent skin," proclaimed the girl.  "Nice, small pores."

"Soap and water," laughed Annabeth.

"Put some of the violet on her," commanded Julie.  "We have the same blue eyes."

Annabeth watched silently as the girl made her up, and indeed she did have a good eye.  Instead of the harsh contrasts most of the girls chose for a pseudo-theatrical look, Annabeth was painted with subtle colors, pinks and violets, and some shading in the hollow of her cheeks which accented her cheekbones and had a slimming effect.  In a matter of a few minutes, the girl stood back and admired her work, nodding to herself.

"You ought to wear makeup," insisted Julie.  "You look fantastic.  Ten years younger and twenty pounds thinner."

"I do wear makeup."

"Okay, then, you ought to wear more makeup!" laughed Julie, "Now let's get those pictures taken before we turn into pumpkins."

"I saw that in a movie," mused little Bobby.

The pictures taken and their adventure over, Annabeth drove back to her house, where she sat at the kitchen table for a quick bite as Rogers the cat wolfed down his dinner.  Thinking she'd finally call that woman from the art show, Annabeth rummaged in her purse for the card she'd been given, but instead found the three Polaroids the photographer had taken as preliminary test shots.  She sat for a moment, looking at each shot, then spreading them out on the table in front of her.

How amazing.  It looked like someone else entirely.  She reached in her purse again, this time pulling out the satchel of cosmetics her sister had bought for her as a treat.  Annabeth gathered up the photos and the makeup and she walked toward the hallway, where a mirror hung.  She scrutinized her own face.  The bones weren't bad.  She was pretty, well, not bad. 

In search of better illumination, Annabeth climbed the stairs then walked into her bathroom.  She noticed how the slight shading in the hollow of her cheeks gave more definition to her face, how the violet at the corners of her eyes created a deeper twinkle.  "Just like painting a bird on a chair," she mused.  Setting the bag of cosmetics down on the vanity top, she walked into the bedroom and opened the drawer by her side of the bed, and there she deposited the pictures.

Back in the bathroom, Annabeth let the warm water run in the sink.  She repeatedly lathered her hands, then lifted them to her face, the makeup dissolving from her skin and flowing down into the basin, a silken spume of color that lasted for but a moment then disappeared down the drain.