"You know, this looks a lot like the picnic you packed for my twenty-first birthday," I said, tilting my head against his shoulder.

"Well, let's see how many colors we can get you to throw up this time," he said, patting my back.

"Will you be joining me in this neon-colored hooch fest?"

"Ugh. Even I'm not gay enough to drink that swill." Emmett winced, putting a case of Heineken in my fridge to chill. He reached into the cabinet over the sink to unearth Gammy's ancient turquoise blender. "This is the one area where I proudly reject the stereotype. But I will gladly mix up a batch of my frosty, frothy c.o.c.ktails for you."

As he measured out just the right amount of ice with a flourish, he gushed, "Lace, you wouldn't believe how many people are talking about you back home. It's like you're Princess Di or Britney Spears or someone more interesting and less tragic than you.,, "I onestly don't know how to take that."

"Your husband moved his secretary into your house the night you left town. That's practically Shakespeare territory," he told me.

My jaw dropped. "He moved her into our house?" I repeated.

"I was going to break it to you gently," he said. "But the kindest version I could come up with involved an obscene limerick."

I shook my head. The emotional emptiness I briefly enjoyed was replaced with a dull ache in my chest. I rubbed at it with the heel of my hand. I tried to make light of it. "Oh, screw it. Let Beebee deal with the d.a.m.n earth tones."

"Well, that's good to hear," he said. "Mama said I shouldn't tell you. She was afraid you were going to freak out again and do something stupid, like shave your head or give Mike's boat a Viking funeral."

The moment the words left Emmett's lips, he cringed. It was probably because of the way I stopped in my tracks, face alight with interest at the prospect of setting Mike's boat aflame. "Oh... no," he murmured.

I'd almost forgotten the boat was stored just a few yards away. I turned, a sly Grinch-ish grin spreading over my face as I focused on Mike's little workshop. Short of actually setting fire to Mike, burning his would-be vessel would be the best way to get under his skin. That pile of wood represented his hopes and dreams, the best imagined version of himself. I wanted to take that from him, to make him doubt himself. And, best of all, he would never, ever be able to talk about the d.a.m.n thing again.

"Lacey!" Emmett hissed. "Forget I said anything! It was just a joke! You cannot possibly be thinking of setting Mike's boat on fire."

"Technically, it is on my property," I murmured, chewing my lip. I mean, it's just an idea. I mean, a joke. I'm just joking."

"You don't sound like you're joking," Emmett objected as I walked out the back door toward the workshop. "Besides, I think you need flaming arrows and a virgin for a Viking funeral."

"I just want to see it," I told him as we approached the workshop, which was difficult with him dragging on my elbows.

Emmet's voice broke into a panicked pitch. "Look, I have a better idea. We'll break into your house, take a bunch of Mike's stuff, and I'll sell it online for pennies. We'll start a website called TakeMikesStuff.com. Or h.e.l.l, we'll give it away."

Emmett waved my cell phone in my face. "Mama said your lawyer told you to call her before you made any rash decisions. Call her. Let her talk some sense into you."

I forced the workshop door open and was a.s.saulted by dust.

You would think it would smell of sawdust or pitch, but this was the dust of dead s.p.a.ce. A damp, mildew-spotted canvas was slung over the hull frame. I swear, my mouth just about watered at the thought of lighting that first match. I could almost smell the smoke, hear the explosion as the varnish ignited. Dialing my cell phone, I shook my head as if waking from a strangely satisfying fog. I muttered, "We could say it was an accident... Like I tripped and the gas just spilled out of the -"

"Samantha Shackleton." My lawyer picked up on the first ring. And from the tone of her voice, I could tell I was taking her away from valuable after-hours downtime.

"Hi, Sam, it's Lacey," I said. How exactly did one broach this subject with their attorney, I wondered. "So ... uh, that thing they say about possession being nine-tenths of the law ... if something's in my possession, I can't really get in trouble for damaging it, right? Because nine-tenths of it is mine anyway."

"Oh, Lord," she muttered. "Lacey, whatever you are thinking of doing, first of all, don't tell me about it. And secondly, just don't. I want you go into your bedroom, get a pillow, and punch it. It will make you feel better."

"It would just be a little fire."

"Am I going to have to declare you a danger to yourself and others?" she demanded. "Lacey, I can't represent you if you're going to do things like this. Destroying Mike's property particularly with arson, is what we call, in legal terms, a bad thing, all right? It won't make you feel better in the long run and it will just make things more difficult for us. Mike could get all kinds of injunctions and damages and there's the chance you could hurt someone -"

"I was speaking in the hypothetical!" I protested.

She was silent on the other end of the line.

"Okay, it wasn't entirely hypothetical," I admitted in a small voice.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked.

"Not ... yet."

"Are you alone?" she asked. "Is there at least one sane, sober adult with you?"

I handed Emmett the phone. "She wants to talk to you."

With Emmett occupied, I wandered toward the boat. After my Realtor related hissy fit convinced Mike that I wouldn't budge on selling the cabin, he tried to talk me into replacing the dock with a huge boathouse /workshop. His buddy, Charlie, had just added something similar to his lake house. Mike figured that if he couldn't get the cabin he wanted, he would have a brag-worthy place to house his future seaborne p.e.n.i.s replacement. While my refusal was rooted in my attachment to Grandpa's dock, I appealed to Mike's money sense. What was the point of having a waterfront cabin without a dock? How would that affect the potential resale value?

So Mike built the workshop around the dock, grousing about the added expense the entire time. He was unhappy about the cost, but got what he wanted. I was unhappy about having a pretentious faux Cape Cod mini-building ruining my view, but I got to keep my dock. And somehow both of us felt that we'd proven our points.

While I hoped that putting the workshop near the cabin would encourage Mike to want to go there more often, the cabin's location and undesirability gave Mike yet another reason not to work on the boat. And according to Mike, it was my fault, because if we had a better lake house, he'd want to go to the lake more often, and he would be finished with the boat by now.

"No problem, Sam," Emmett was saying. "I'll keep an eye on her. I look forward to meeting you, too."

"You, eat this and think happy thoughts," Emmett said, shoving the ice cream back in my hands. "Sam says you are not to be left unsupervised for at least twelve hours or until your destructive urge pa.s.ses. She said chocolate should speed that process along."

Behind us, I heard the rumble of Monroe's truck as he pulled up to his cabin. I looked out the window to see him pause and watch Emmett dragging me toward liquor and, hopefully, improved sanity. Monroe rolled his eyes and began hauling his groceries into his cabin, as Emmett, distracted by the sight of my grumpy, rumpled neighbor, gasped, "Oh, my G.o.d, who is that?" He screeched to a halt and stared after him. "I don't normally go for the scruffy, taciturn lumberjack type but - wow!"

"That's Wolverine," I said, my words garbled by a mouthful of ice cream.

He grinned at me. "What?"

"That's my neighbor, Lefty Monroe," I said as Emmett shoved me onto my couch. "Despite the hotness, he's a jerk. I think he's got an internet p.o.r.n addiction, possibly online gambling. In a choice between his being over-s.e.xed or broke, I think I'm rooting for gambling."

"I can work with either," Emmett said, shrugging. "Wait, did you say 'Lefty'?"

I swatted at his hand as he attempted to dig a chocolate chunk from my ice cream carton. "Yeah."

Emmett grinned. "I wonder where he got that name. Oh, the possibilities are endless."

"I don't know, but if you start to make guesses, I will leave," I told him.

"He's just got so much potential," Emmett told me. "Lacey, I think that tall drink of water is exactly what the doctor ordered."

"For what?"

"To help you banish the memory of Mike the Moron. You know what they say, 'The best way to get over one man is to get under another one," Emmett said, bowing his lips into a pert moue as he poured the makings of his famous chocolate vodka milk shakes in the blender. "It's a life philosophy I whole-heartedly embrace."

"That's because you're a man-wh.o.r.e," I told him.

Smiling sweetly, Emmett hit the frappe b.u.t.ton. The grinding noise of the decrepit motor covered the stream of profane insults he sent my way. I could read his lips well enough to tell he was denigrating my intelligence, wardrobe, general hygiene, and ability to color coordinate a room. I let him vent. After all, he was providing the liquor.

"Believe me when I say you deserve a piece of that cranky beefcake across the way there," he said, cutting the blender off with a metallic groan. "It will be like therapy, only without the couch. Or, use the couch. That could be a learning experience for you."

"I don't think more bad s.e.x is the solution to my problem. Besides, he could be a serial killer for all you know," I cried. "And he's a potential serial killer who has zero interest in me. He's made that abundantly clear."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the other night he made it very clear that he has no interest in seeing me naked ever again."

13 * Even Jesus Hates Miley Cyrus.

I lifted my face from the pillow and immediately regretted it. Someone had let a polka band loose in my cranium.

I groaned, rubbing my hands over my eyes to shield them from the unforgiving sunlight pouring through the window. I smacked my lips, cringing at the dry, sandpapery sensation of my tongue sc.r.a.ping the roof of my mouth. It tasted like a small rodent had nested there overnight. Given the cupcakes and circus-colored candy I had consumed, I suspected Mickey Mouse.

I rolled on my back, exhausted by the monumental effort that seemed to entail. Something felt wrong with my head, and not just the ma.s.sive hangover. It felt too light. There wasn't enough dragging weight between my head and the pillow. I gasped, reaching up to lace my fingers through my hair and finding nothing but sheet.

Cursing spectacularly, I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked the light switch. Squinting into the mirror, I screeched, "d.a.m.n you, Emmett!"

Obviously, my brother had cut my hair at some point during the evening, which he was wont to do when his sister was smashed. I should have known better. I woke up the day after my twenty-first birthday with sa.s.sy layers. I cursed the years Emmett spent dating the head stylist of The Right Tangle Salon. It had convinced Emmett that he knew more about my follicles than I did and he had just enough skill with the scissors to be dangerous. Now, instead of long curls that settled between my shoulders, I had a short, sunny cap of blond with a fringe of bangs across my brow. I looked like a pixie, a hungover pixie, but a pixie all the same After plying me with an indecent amount of vodka, carbs, and fats, my brother had tucked me into bed and slunk away into the night. Emmett, ever practical, had cleaned up the mess before he left. When I woke in the morning to the sound of inhumanly loud jet Skiers whooping their way across our little cove, the only evidence that Emmett had been there was a collection of movies that he left to keep me entertained. The Strangers, Friday the 13th, Cabin Fever, Evil Dead, Sleepaway Camp - all movies about people who isolate themselves at cabins and end up horribly, horribly dead. Emmett said the idea of me scaring the c.r.a.p out of myself appealed to his puckish sense of humor. Emmett was a twisted little man.

There was also a reminder note on the counter that read, "The best way to get over a man is to get under another one. Love, Em.... P.S. Stop cursing my name. Your new hair is a huge improvement over the frumpy suburban Stepford zombie thing you had going. Embrace the pretty and move on."

I didn't have the energy to process my new 'do just yet. But I did, for some reason, feel hungry for the first time in weeks. In college, I'd learned that the only way to fix a hangover was wonton soup. Fortunately, Lockwood had a pa.s.sable Chinese place called Wok'n'Go. I was pretty sure their egg rolls were from the frozen food section, but they had the best sweet and sour chicken in this end of the state. Since I hadn't eaten out in weeks, I decided to spoil myself with the chicken, a double order of pot stickers, and extra fried rice. I was looking forward to a truly gluttonous late lunch followed by a nap with a cold washcloth over my face.

When I came back to the cabin, MSG in hand, I found a girl lying in my hammock, listening to her iPod and reading a copy of David Sedans's When You Are Engulfed in Flames. She had about fourteen piercings in each ear, a nose ring, jeans with more tears than material, and a black T-shirt that read "Even Jesus Hates Miley Cyrus." Her long legs were crossed over the edge of the hammock, her feet encased in purple Chuck Taylors. I'd seen wine stains that weren't as red as her hair.

Was it possible that this was some castoff girlfriend of Monroe's? She looked just antisocial enough to be his type. I wasn't sure whether to get her attention or whip out the pepper spray. This wasn't an issue as she looked over the edge of her book and grinned broadly "Lacey Terwilliger?" she asked, sitting up and yanking her earbuds out "Yes," I said, stepping back and keeping the bag of Chinese up like a shield She let out a breathy laugh. "Wow, I'm just so glad - I drove, like, nine hours to meet you.

She seemed nice. I hoped we could still be friends after I called the cops "Maya Drake," she said, tucking her card into my hand. "Internet entrepreneur and devoted fan.

"Of what?" I asked.

"Of your work," she said. "A friend of mine forwarded your e-mail to my account last week. Plus, it's on like thirty different websites, a bunch of legal blogs, women's health forums. And some woman claiming to be you is doing angry readings of the newsletter on YouTube. You are the voice of p.i.s.sed off, betrayed housewives of your generation."

"Well, that's both flattering and upsetting," I told her, hitching the increasingly heavy bag against my hip. "How did you find me? Seriously, doesn't anyone respect the whole 'in hiding' concept?"

"Well, I went into town and hung out at the White Hat Cafe until I heard someone bring you up. It took a grand total of three minutes. When someone brought your letter up, I asked where you were staying. Everybody had a different story. You'd fled to Mexico. You were holed up at a spa getting Botox. You were on your way to Vegas to be a showgirl. But then I ran into someone who was more than forthcoming with good information. Your brother says h.e.l.lo, by the way."

"Resourceful and very creepy." I nodded. "Look, if this is one of those lure the unsuspecting desperate divorcee into a secluded place and kill her scenarios, I feel I should warn you that I have nothing left to lose. I will take you down with me."

Maya laughed. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want to talk to you. Urn, you wouldn't happen to have a few extra egg rolls you could throw my way, could you? It's been a while since that tuna melt at the White Hat."

Mama had pounded Southern hospitality and good manners into my bones since birth. Being a gracious hostess was practically a genetic imperative, like salmon sp.a.w.ning or swallows flying to Capistrano. So before my better judgment could win out, I sighed, "Come on in."

Fortunately, the amount of food that was sinful for one person was just enough for two. Although I did deeply resent sharing my egg rolls, frozen or not. Over the pot stickers, Maya explained that she'd received an e-mail with my newsletter the week before and decided she had to meet me. Maya ran a greeting card company called Season's Gratings. She provided clever, customized cards for people who were getting quickie annulments, were taking time off for a nervous breakdown, or had kids come out of the closet. You know, all of life's little surprises that Hallmark didn't quite cover.

"So you came all this way to sell me some divorce announcements?" I said as I tossed the paper plates in the garbage. "I admire your tenacity, but I think most of the people I know took the e-mail I sent out as the announcement."

Maya grinned. "I don't want to sell you cards. I want to hire you. I want you to write newsletters. Hundreds of them." She opened her laptop to show me a prototype of a website called, And One Last Thing...

She cleared her throat and used what was obviously her "professional voice" to give me her pitch.

"This site would allow the customer to order completely customized newsletters tailored to their unique marital situation. They fill out an online form and select a number of design options. You would take the specific information provided by the client and do what you do best, write a fantastically snarky newsletter. We distribute it to a list of e-mail addresses provided by the client, routing through their personal address. I don't think it would be hubris to say that we could retire before we even started operation. I've done some test marketing on the card site and I've already got enough preliminary orders to keep us busy for the next year."

"I think you need to leave now," I told her. "But I may call you if I need some 'I've gone into hiding because I lost my mind' cards."

Maya was clearly caught off guard by my not immediately jumping on board and thanking her for such a golden opportunity. Or that such a seemingly nice person was rudely tossing her out on her a.s.s. "You don't think it would work?"

"No, I'm sure it would make us both temporary millionaires!" I laughed. "It's crazy. Brilliant, diabolical, inspired. But there are some serious flaws in this plan."

She shrugged. "Such as... ?"

"We would be sued," I cried. "There would be no way we could guarantee any of what the client said was true. And I'm already being sued for the first newsletter I wrote. If I write another, my lawyer will hurt me. She's short, but I'm pretty sure she works out."

"Which is why I had my lawyer draw up an ironclad release form where the client swears the information is true and takes sole responsibility. We're not disseminating the information, we're just formatting it in a pleasing manner," she said. "Plus, we would be completely anonymous. We would be ghosts."

When I sat staring at her, unmoved, she grunted. "Aren't you even curious as to how I came up with the name And One Last Thing?" she asked.

"That's really not the biggest concern for me -"

"It's from the last line of your e-mail!" she cried. "'And one last thing, believe me when I say I will not be letting Mike get off with "irreconcilable differences" in divorce court. Mike Terwilliger will own up to being the faithless, loveless, spineless, shiftless, useless, d.i.c.kless wonder he is.' It was the best part!"

I chewed my lip. "That's not a tribute I deserve. In the negative or positive sense of the word."

"Promise me that you'll at least think about it," she said. "I've e-mailed the mock-ups for the website to your address."

"How did you know my e-mail address? Wait, I don't want to know, do I?"

She shook her head. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm looking for the interlocking triple sixes," I said, surveying her scalp. It seemed a fairly intimate act, poking a chopstick at the head of a woman I barely knew. But Maya was so laidback, so open, she sort of exuded this instant closeness vibe, once you got past the piercings and hair dye. She was someone I could see myself being friends with.

It struck me that I was free to have friends like Maya now that Mike wouldn't be screening them for acceptability. Mike refused to shop at the mall anymore because he couldn't stand the thought of crossing the paths of "those weirdo Goth freaks." It would have been high entertainment to invite Maya to dinner just so I could watch Mike squirm.

The weird thing was that I didn't miss Scott or Allison or Brandi or Charlie, people who were supposedly my closest friends when I was married. I hadn't even thought to call them in my post-Beebee period, and that said something. I think Mike got them in the divorce anyway.

Maya popped the last bite of sweet and sour chicken into her mouth. "Even though I feel compelled to mention once again that this venture would be incredibly lucrative, I just want you to know that I'm not in this for the money. I had something similar happen to me."

She reached into her bag and pulled out her car keys. In a glittery black-frame key chain, there was a photo of a smiling girl with light brown hair posing with a football-player type. Her hand rested on his broad, manly chest, a whopper of an engagement ring glinting on her finger.

"Cute couple," I commented, handing the picture back to her.

"I call it my young Republican phase," she said, regarding the picture with no small amount of disdain.

"Holy s.h.i.t, that's you?" I cried, s.n.a.t.c.hing it back to get a closer look. Yep, underneath the thick eyeliner and the silver studs, there was the same chin, the same twinkling green eyes.

"Why does everyone react that way?" she demanded.