The bill was on the table.

"He stuck me with the bill!" I said. "Perfect!"

"Oh, no he didn't!" Abigail said. "This goes straight to Harry Albright with a letter!"

"Nope!" Louis said, coming up behind us and snatching it from Abigail's hand. "This is on the house! Darlin'? I don't know you," he said to me, "but anytime you want to talk or have a quiet moment, you come on back here and see me. Now, how about some dessert?"

Huey said, "Thank God you're all right! Did y'all see the chocolate pecan pie?"

"Oh, Huey," Abigail said.

"What?"

She looked at me and then at him. "I adore you! That's all."

TWELVE.

ABIGAIL SAYS, TRUTH BE TOLD.

I took myself down to Charleston for a number of reasons. One, my golf wardrobe was significantly more up-to-date than my street clothes. Two, I had a ton of papers to pick up from Harry Albright's office, which I could have had shipped or had sent by messenger to Pawleys but didn't because I wanted them in my hot little hands ASAP. And three, I had more business at the courthouse.

Mr. Albright had not been pleased to learn about Nat's outburst at Louis's or that I was filing an order of protection, because that meant we would have to have a hearing. Or that it would be served to Nat at work, Saturday afternoon, his busiest day.

"See here now," he said, "do you really think Nat Simms is the kind of man who would hurt someone?"

"For a man who's been practicing law as long as you have, you don't know much about spousal abuse, do you Mr. Albright? You should see my client. Thankfully, her jaw wasn't broken, but she's very bruised. I have pictures and witness statements that I intend to use as evidence if we go to court. I still think the smart thing to do would be to tell your client that he may as well open his wallet and divide by two. There's nothing really spectacular about this divorce. You and I see this kind of thing every day. Just tell Mr. Simms to move out, return custody to my client and give her a fair settlement."

"We may come to some settlement, Ms. Thurmond, but your client is an abusive and negligent mother. No family court judge will ever allow her to do psychological damage to those children again. Or put them in harm's way. No, no. It's clearly in the best interest of the children that custody and possession of the home stands as it is."

"Your case is as thin and as shot full of holes as a piece of Swiss cheese, and you know it. But you want to rack up hours? Be my guest. I'm in no hurry. And the law, Mr. Albright, the law is on our side. By the way, we're having the house appraised this week. Thought you might want to inform your client."

I was never so glad of anything more than the fact that I had kept up to date with my CLE hours. Otherwise, they'd never let me in the courtroom. I still hoped it wouldn't come to a trial but if it did, I'd be ready.

It turned out that Harry Albright's office was not actually a sewer, but it certainly was quiet. After all, let's be honest here, Harry's client pool was probably composed of Roman clergy and guys like Nat. Sure enough, his mother was at the reception desk working on a book of Find the Hidden Word puzzles. Immediately, my dislike of Harry Albright was transferred to her. It gave me pause to halt this intense intellectual pursuit, knowing that she may have harbored some secret desire for the international crown of Find the Hidden Word junkies, but I had a job to do.

"Ahem," I said.

She looked up with all the deliberateness of someone who had been watching me in her peripheral vision from the second I had opened the office door. How dare I have the audacity to interrupt her? Ooh, bad vibes abounded.

"And, you're...?" she said.

I felt like saying, Listen, you old witch, you're only supposed to work on October 31. But my inner pro whipped out my new business card and said, "I'm here to pick up the subpoenaed documents in the Simms case."

She gave me a long look, read my business card, rose from her ancient chair, embossed with the crest of a fifth-rate undergraduate school, and picked up a cardboard box, holding it out toward me. "Running your own errands, are we?" She snickered.

This old goat actually snickered at me.

"Thank you," I said, taking the box from her. "And you're working for your son. At least his client got a job from his daddy. Have a nice day."

I didn't close the door behind me. Let the old bitch do it herself, I thought and smiled as wide as the Cooper River.

I threw the box in my trunk and zoomed off to the courthouse on Broad Street. I parked and was racing up the steps when I saw him. Julian Prescott was coming down the steps with someone. But I couldn't see his friend's face. My vision tightened on Julian's eyes like a hawk. He was beautiful. It was almost as though he could feel me there because he took a deep breath long before his face found mine.

"Abigail? Can it be you?"

"Yes. It's me. How are you, Julian?"

He hugged me, I smelled him and, oh, God, he smelled like heaven on this earth. I mean, what was this smell thing anyway? Why did it excite me that the son of a bitch who dumped me smelled good? Well, I'll have none of this again, I thought. I was fine by myself and if I felt the need for a man it surely wouldn't be Julian Prescott.

"Well, I'm fine! I am absolutely delighted to see you."

"You are?"

Every bit of shame and humiliation came rushing back.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Judge."

"Okay, yes, of course!"

Judge? Well, that was some fast-breaking news to me. "Judge?" I said, finding my voice.

"Yeah," he said, "after Lila left me for another lawyer..."

"She left you? You're divorced?"

Julian looked across the street trying to think of what he wanted to say. "Yes. I'm divorced. How do you like that? I mean, I could understand leaving me, but for another lawyer?"

I smiled at that. He was the same Julian, witty, handsome...single.

"You're right. Who would be crazy enough to choose two lawyers in one lifetime? Go find a basketball player or some other, uh, what are you looking at?"

"I'm just looking at you, Abigail. How's John?"

"John passed away three years ago. Heart attack during knee surgery."

"Oh! God, I hadn't heard that. I'm so sorry."

I watched his mind move along and remember that he had heard about it-first Ashley died, then John, then I dropped out of sight. Surely he remembered. It was the buzz of Columbia for a year or more. But it was such an awful story to even think about and he had trouble of his own at the time. Maybe he was just trying to be polite by feigning ignorance. Glossing things over so that we didn't relive our past right there on the steps of the courthouse. But the troubling point was that he knew and preferred not to acknowledge it.

"Hey!" I said, looking at my wristwatch. "I have a few minutes. Do you want to grab a cup of coffee? Catch up a little?"

"Maybe some other time. I've got to be somewhere right now. In fact, I'm already late." He looked at me for a few seconds, during which I remained cool and tried not to let my disappointment show. "But it is great to see you again, Abigail. You look wonderful!" He gave me a peck on my cheek and hurried down the steps, turning back to wave, knowing I was just standing there watching him like a schoolgirl. I was furious.

I listened to the click of my heels of the hard floor of the courthouse. I couldn't stop thinking about Julian and how embarrassed I was that he didn't even want to have coffee with me. I had not seen him in years! He couldn't deny that he was still attracted to me. Why didn't he say, Give me your phone number or Do you have a card or Are you practicing law in Charleston now? No. He just said, see you around, great seeing you, girly girl, gotta go. He didn't ask for my phone number because he didn't want it. He was not interested in my marital status. He was not interested in me. Period. Screw him, I thought; he was probably shacking up with some stupid idiot twenty-year-old who had a daddy thing.

I filed an answer and counterclaim on Rebecca's behalf to request full custody, fifty percent of the assets and alimony and the order of protection, detailing Nat's behavior. Then I went to see the docketing clerk to see if there was a court date available near Labor Day. I wanted this disaster straightened out as soon as possible so that Rebecca could get her children home from camp, back in school and into some counseling, which I knew they desperately needed.

Still upset by my encounter with Julian, I did the only logical thing. I went to Saks to buy some "lawyer clothes." I looked in the mirror and decided I needed some "lawyer armor." This was a case for Armani. One black suit, one navy suit, and three pairs of pumps later, I had a gaping wound in my wallet, but I was ready for battle.

"How short do you want this skirt," the gal from alterations said.

"Shorter," I said. Let's see Judge Julian Prescott drool a river on Broad Street, I thought. In my war chest of depreciating assets, I still had great legs.

"Can you ship this to Pawleys?"

"Sure thing," Rosalie, the clerk, said. "As soon as the alterations are done, and that should be by about next Friday, we'll ship them right out."

"Any chance of getting them before then?"

"Sure! If you need them, I'll put a rush on it."

I gave her my card and said, "Could you call me when they're ready?"

"Sure."

"Listen. I haven't bought clothes in a long time, so if anything comes in that looks like it could do the job in a courtroom, please call me."

"Oh, are you a lawyer?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." I thought about it for a minute. I liked hearing myself say that I was a lawyer. I had missed it.

"What kind of lawyer are you?"

"An undertaker."

We both laughed and she said, "I'll bet you are!"

On the way back to Pawleys, I called Everett Presson.

"Everett? Abigail here. Got a minute?"

"Sure! How's it going?"

"Slow but sure. Listen, what else have you got in your bag of tricks?"

"What do you mean? Like surveillance equipment? New gadgets?"

"Yeah, that and something else."

"Like what?"

"I want Nat Simms's computer. If I include it in the request for production part of discovery, he's just gonna..."

"Erase the hard drive?"

"You got it."

"You want me to go get it?"

"Yep."

"Abigail! Are you asking me to actually go in this guy's..."

"I don't want to know how you do it. I just want the computer, and I don't want him to know we're coming to get it. Don't get caught!"

"Well, let me see what I can do. Anything else?"

"Yeah, it would be great if you could get an undercover cop to sell him some pot."

"That's a piece of cake. Maybe."

"And Everett? If there's a way for you to track his whereabouts..."

"Are you kidding? I have this new GPS deal. All I have to do is stick the button under his car and I can tell you how many times a week this bum goes to church. Hell, I even just bought myself a briefcase with a camera in it, and I can film him having dinner in a restaurant."

"The Gadget King! That might come in handy," I said. "You wouldn't believe his table manners."

Everett had no idea what I was referring to, but he was astute enough to read between the lines. "You really want this guy, don't you?"

"I'm gonna nail his tail to the battery wall, Everett."

"And, I'm gonna help. Jesus, I hate guys like him."

"Me too."

We hung up, and all the way back to Pawleys I fantasized about what I would find in Nat's papers. I walked in the house and dumped the box on the dining room table. The late afternoon light streamed in through the windows, highlighting a haze of millions of particles of dust. Truly, something had to be done about the state of my house before I developed asthma or black lung disease.

I poured myself a glass of diet soda and began looking at the evidence. I don't know why I was so optimistic, because once I started sorting through everything, I saw I was missing months of MasterCard statements, phone bills and so on. But at least I knew what kind of charge cards he had and I would simply subpoena the records from the banks. It would take more time, but I would get the complete puzzle put together eventually. The missing statements were an annoyance because that would delay my readiness to take Nat's and Charlene's depositions. But I still had a few friends at the banks and maybe they could speed things along for me.

It was time somebody explained to Nat Simms that this was not a joke. When there was a request for production, you were legally responsible to comply.

I called Harry Albright's office and spoke to his witch mother.

"Is Mr. Albright there?"

"No, I'm sorry," she snorted, in her officious manner. "He's gone for the weekend."

I left my name and number and hung up, frustrated, knowing my frustration had just begun. That was the thing about practicing matrimonial law-the danger of losing was hidden in the cloak of tedium.

I could already predict the future of this investigation. I would find the name of a cheap motel on his Visa card statement, one carelessly used early in the relationship, before the affair was fully fledged.