And One Last Thing ... by Molly Harper

By Molly Harper

"If Singletree’s purely florist didn’t bring her posies half-drunk, i would nonetheless be married to that floor-licking, scum-sucking, receptionist-nailing hack-accountant, Mike Terwilliger." Lacey Terwilliger’s surprise and humiliation over her husband’s philandering suggested her so as to add a few bonus fabric to Mike’s corporation e-newsletter: lovely Technicolor descriptions of the detailed model of "administrative help" his receptionist provides him. The special mass email to Mike’s relatives, neighbors, and consumers blows up in her face, and earlier than one could say "instant city legend," Lacey has turn into the pariah of her small Kentucky city, a media punch line, and the defendant in Mike’s defamation lawsuit. Her likely ideal lifestyles up in flames, Lacey retreats to her family’s lakeside cabin, basically to come across an irritating neighbor named Monroe. A hunky crime novelist with a low tolerance for drama, Monroe isn't really delighted a couple of newly divorced girl relocating in round the corner. yet with time, beer, and a monitor door to the nostril, a wary friendship develops into whatever infinitely extra enjoyable. Lacey has to make your mind up approximately her long term residing preparations, although. should still she take a role writing caustic divorce newsletters for paying consumers, or stream on together with her personal lifestyles, pursuing extra literary aspirations? Can she locate happiness with a guy who tells her what he thinks and never what she desires to pay attention? and may she ever have the capacity to face up to announcing one . . . final . . . factor?

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He called after me. I could hear the barely contained laughter tightening his voice. ” I yelled, not bothering to look back at him. ****** The good news was that my being angry at Monroe gave me a break from being angry at Mike. It was like my ears had been ringing for weeks and suddenly it had stopped. I showered, using well water to wash lake water out of my hair, which had never made sense to me. I shampooed in anger, which is never smart as you tend to go through about half a bottle of Paul Mitchell before you realize what you’re doing.

Swimming alone at night in a secluded area? Why didn’t I just send up a “naked unchaperoned woman” flare for every sex predator in the county? Hadn’t I been through enough? Hadn’t my dignity already been smacked all to hell? Now I was going to die in some sort of horrible John Carpenter-esque slaughter. ” My father would probably skip my funeral for the annual Phi Rho CM Horseshoe Tournament. Mike would get widower’s sympathy and get everything I owned since I hadn’t changed my will yet. I would not allow that to happen.

Gammy was a pistol. m. Many people say she’s where I get my special unladylike mastery of “bluer” language, which my Grandma Vernon never managed to cure. Gammy and Grandpa built the family cabin almost fifty years earlier, back when even the richest of the rich didn’t have air-conditioning. Going to the lake was the only escape from the sticky, humid heat. The whole house was decorated in early American Coca-Cola. Old signs, posters, glasses, plaques, everywhere you looked there were rosy-cheeked young citizens trying to sell you the most delicious caffeinated beverage known to man.

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