The Nick Of Time. San Culberson
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Also by San Culberson
IN BETWEEN MEN
THE NICK OF TIME
SAN CULBERSON
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Girlfriend,
as you know,
I’ve been through a lot of shit this year.
But I’m writing to tell you the end is here.
The divorce is final and that man is gone.
So now it’s time for me to get my party on!
Thursday at Ray’s, at a quarter past 7.
Plan to be there until way past 11.
Food and drink…everything’s on me…
It’s all to celebrate the fact that I’m free!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
The invitation was a little bold, I admit, but it was the start of a new beginning for me, a new life, like my girl Patti sang, “A New Attitude!” I was 29 years old and newly divorced. Played and put off by a man who had stood with me before God and my family not six years before and promised to love, cherish, and honor me….
This may be a little off the subject, but I think the grooms are not really grasping the true meaning of the marriage vows. It may prove beneficial to all interested parties if the wording was a tad more specific; something like, “Do you promise to bring your paycheck home? Do you promise to consult me before you spend $400 on DVDs at Best Buy? Do you promise to at least try and wash your ass properly?” And most importantly, “Do you promise to fuck me and only me for as long as we both shall live?” I’m just saying a little clarity would be nice.
So anyway, I decided that I was not going to let one big D adjective (Divorced) allow a lot of other little d adjectives to define me. Words like “disheartened,” “disillusioned,” “down,” “dirty,” “destructive”…you get my drift. I refused to be those things.
I knew the papers were coming—the final divorce papers. I thought I was ready for them, so I was surprised at the lump that had worked its way to my throat when I opened the envelope. I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time that evening, holding the papers and thinking about Fiona and Wilson Lawson (me and my ex), the way we used to be. By the way, in the future, he (Wilson) will only be referred to as my ex-hole (a combination of ex-husband and asshole). I made that word up, and I’m really thinking about contacting Webster’s to find out how I can get it included in their next dictionary.
Like I said, I sat there for what seemed like hours reminiscing about the way we were; then suddenly, I remembered how that asshole looked me straight in the eye not two days before I found out for real that he was fucking that whore, excuse me, that woman…no, actually, ho is a more accurate description.
Time out. In case you haven’t noticed, some aspects of my marriage and divorce continue to be a sore spot, so I’m going to do us all a favor and get some things off my chest so that I can get on with it.
First of all, every woman knows that one of the easiest things to have in this world is another woman’s man (at least temporarily), and one of the hardest things is to make it work with your own man once the first petal has fallen off of the rose. Therefore, I can only conclude that she is a lazy bitch and that my asshole ex-husband is easily had. I’m through. That’s all I have to say about them. I have better things to talk about.
On with the story. I stood up from the bed, went to the mirror, and thought about the good in my life. What I concluded was this: I still had my good looks (Angela Bassett arms and a Halle Barry waistline), my law degree, an excellent chance for advancement at the law firm that I had been with for two years, money in the bank, a new condo in Case City right outside of Durham, my good health, and friends and family who loved me to no end. I had more than one reason to have a party.
With the help of my best girlfriend, Nicole, I planned the party in twelve days. We found the spot, hired a caterer, and invited the twenty-six most fabulous women that we knew. Nicole and I had been friends since before we stopped playing hopscotch, and during the past year she had kept me from doing all kinds of crazy shit.
The day before the party my mom called my office and asked me to stop by after work. She told me that my sister had told her about “some party” that I was having. There was a question in her voice that I didn’t want to answer. I knew I shouldn’t have invited Ramona. Remember I said that we invited the twenty-six most fabulous women that we knew…Well, my sister was number 27. She had moved back to Durham only five months before.
We didn’t have anything in common except our parents and our failed marriages. But I had to invite her because she was my sister. I don’t know what Ramona had said to my mother, but whatever it was, I could tell by the tone in my mother’s voice that she had some advice for me.
Dutiful daughter that I am, I got to my parents house around seven o’clock, even though I was drop-dead tired. My mother opened the door for me and pulled me into the hallway. She looked me up and down before speaking, “I made a cake for your party, carrot, your favorite, though I don’t know why a bunch of women would get together and have a party because your marriage failed. I hope these women are not a bunch of bull daggers.” She said what she had to say with an even mixture of concern and disgust.
I followed her to the kitchen at the back of the house and sat down at the table. I was not offended. I was amused. There are two inarguable facts about my mother: one, she’s beautiful, and two, she’s a loony toon. The first has undoubtedly kept my father from having her committed at some point during their thirty-six-year marriage.
“Well…?”
“Well what?” I asked her.
“Are they bulldaggers?”
“Mom, I believe the more appropriate term is lesbian. And to answer your question, I assume that they’re mostly heterosexual women, but I couldn’t swear to it in court. Thanks for asking.” I looked appreciatively at the two cakes on the counter. Another thing that had probably kept my father from committing her was his sweet tooth. My mother’s carrot cake was so good that it was almost otherworldly.
My mother took milk from the refrigerator and poured a glass. She cut into one of the cakes and placed