Chapter 1 : Part 4

Hot Wheels and High Heels
By Jane Graves

(Page 4 of 4)

Darcy's hands shook as she started her car and backed out of the driveway. She drove down the alley and swung back onto Briarwood Lane just in time to see the cops take a left onto Thornberry. As soon as they were out of sight, she did a one-eighty in the cul-de-sac and headed back down the street, stopping at the curb to have one last look at her house.

Her house? It wasn't her house.

It had never been her house.

At that moment, she wished Mercedes-Benz had taken luxury one step further and installed a corkscrew in the dashboard. Then again, it was probably a good thing they hadn't, or she'd be chugging that two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine like a can of Old Milwaukee.

Okay. She had to get a grip. Talk to Warren. Find out why he'd done this to her. She pulled out her cell phone and called Warren's office to talk to his secretary. If anyone would know where he was, Lucy would. She was an earthy little woman utterly lacking in fashion sense, which gave her that much more room in her brain for things like efficiency and professionalism and organizational skills. So Darcy was surprised when the woman greeting her sounded a little befuddled. She told Darcy she hadn't seen Warren for the past two days, and he had a client presentation this afternoon. Did she have any idea where he was?

Stunned, Darcy hung up the phone. This couldn't be happening. Warren had kissed his job good-bye, along with that big, beautiful paycheck?

That led her to another thought that made her even queasier than before. Warren could subsist a long time on the profit from the house, but not in the style to which he was accustomed. But if he piled a few more assets on top of it . . .

Darcy called information, who then connected her to their bank. She asked about their checking accounts. The perky little clerk on the other end informed her that all three of them had been cleaned out and closed two days ago.

Darcy's stomach did a slow, sickening heave, and she had to swallow hard to get rid of the feeling that she was going to throw up. She yanked out her credit cards, flipping one of them over so she could dial the 800 number on the back. The customer-service rep informed her that recent large purchases plus a big cash advance had run the card right up to its limit.

No. Not her credit cards. Please, God, not her credit cards.

She knew it was pointless, but she called about the others, too. Same story. Now she knew the whole ugly, painful truth: Warren was a one-man demolition team hell-bent on destroying her life.

Darcy gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers ached, and she took deep breaths to drive oxygen back to her brain so she wouldn't keel over onto the passenger seat. Not one dime of cash was left, not one dollar of open credit. Warren had all kinds of other investments, but she didn't have a clue what they were.

As if he'd left any of them for her.

Glancing back at the house, she saw a tear-clouded image of the new homeowners peeking out the plantation shutters, clearly wondering if she was on the verge of going nuts and taking hostages. That led her to yet another revelation. They would be sleeping in her bed tonight. She wouldn't.

Despair edged into panic. Where was she supposed to go now?

She thought about her friends, only to realize that most of them weren't really friends at all. They were women she went to lunch with, women she shopped with, women she went to Cancún with while her husband was yanking her life out from under her. But they weren't really friends if she was afraid to not show up to something for fear she'd be the one they talked about. Carolyn was the only one she'd even consider staying with, but Carolyn's husband didn't like her friends dropping by for coffee, much less moving in.

Finally she realized that, outside of a homeless shelter, there was only one place she could go that wouldn't cost her money or cause unnecessary gossip in the circles she and Warren ran in. And the thought of it made a shudder undulate down her spine.

You've got no choice. It's that or share a bathroom with forty other women.

She wiped her eyes so she could see enough to drive, then started her car. She left her neighborhood and drove down Preston Road. When she reached Park Boulevard, she gritted her teeth, turned left, and headed toward east Plano.

Ten minutes later, she drove into Wingate Manufactured Home Park, her eyes still so clouded with tears that the place almost looked habitable. She pulled to the side of the road in front of the double-wide on lot 38G, a vinyl-clad structure with plastic shutters and a limp metal awning. A pot of pink geraniums sat beside the front door, wilting in the heat, and Christmas lights drooped over the picture window in the living room. "Clayton, take down the damned lights," her mother would say, and her father would say, "Not if I'm gonna have to put them up again next year."

Darcy sat in the car a long time, unable to bear going inside, overcome by the most terrible feeling that she had come full circle when all she'd ever wanted to do was stay put halfway around.

Copyright © 2007 by Jane Graves

About the Author

At age five, Jane Graves wrote and illustrated her first book, Padre the Mexican Mouse. It was a hit among family and friends, but failed to make the bestseller lists. And when she realized she'd named her dashing young mouse hero "Father," she was crushed.