Ladies' Night (60 page)

And then nothing, except the pounding of his own blood in his ears, as he saw the car skimming into the jade green waters of Palma Sola Bay.

*   *   *

Wyatt was out of the truck almost before it stopped, with the only tool he had at hand, the heavy Maglite flashlight he kept under the front seat. He ran through the jagged opening in the fencing left by the BMW and waded into the warm, shallow water. The BMW was immersed up to its hood ornament. He cursed himself for not removing the thick-soled leather work boots that made his trek to the car take what seemed like hours.

Finally, he reached the car. The windshield was shattered, and water was seeping in. He could see that the air bags had deployed and were already deflated. He splashed over to the passenger side, and his heart leapt when he saw Grace’s brown hair. He yanked furiously at the door, until he remembered that Ashleigh had locked it.

“Grace!” he shouted. “Grace. Are you all right?” She turned her head slightly to the right, and he could see a thin trickle of blood oozing down her face.

“Turn your head away,” he shouted, and began hammering at the center of the window with the butt of the flashlight. He slammed it against the glass again and again, until finally the window seemed to crinkle into a million pieces and fall away.

“Give me your arms,” he told her, but she stared at him, dazed or in shock; he wasn’t quite sure. “Your arms!” he repeated. “I’m going to pull you out. Come on, Grace. I need to get you out of this water.”

“I can’t,” she said, her voice weak. Wyatt grabbed her by the shoulder. “Come on, honey. You can do this.”

She shook her head violently, fumbling with something in her lap. Wyatt stuck his head in the window and saw that her seat belt was still fastened and that water had reached her knees. He leaned in until his torso was in the car and, with shaking fingers, managed to unbuckle it.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. You’re good now. Let’s go, Gracie. Let’s get you out.”

Finally, she nodded, turned, and knelt on the seat, reaching her arms for him. He wrapped his own arms under hers. “Put your arms around my neck,” he urged. He tugged while she wriggled, and, finally, she came free of the car, collapsing against him in the waist-deep water.

Wyatt stood there for a moment, holding her tightly against his chest, unwilling to let her go. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Your head, legs, arms, anything?”

“I’m okay,” she said shakily. And then, unbelievably, she laughed a little, whispering in his ear. “But I think maybe I peed my pants.” He laughed, too, then. “Don’t tell anybody, but I might have peed mine, too. Just a little, when I saw the car go airborne.”

“Ashleigh,” she said urgently. “Get Ashleigh out.”

“I need to get you to the shore,” he said, starting for the beach, but she pulled away.

“No. I can walk by myself. Get Ashleigh. Please, Wyatt.”

He nodded grimly and turned back toward the BMW.

Ashleigh was slumped over in the driver’s seat. He broke the window out with his flashlight, calling her name. “Ashleigh? Ashleigh? Talk to me. Come on, Ashleigh. It’s Wyatt. Talk to me.”

He reached in and touched the base of her neck. She was warm, and he could feel a pulse, but her breathing was shallow. Water was up to her lap and streaming in through the windshield and the passenger window. He wriggled halfway through the window and saw that, unlike Grace, Ashleigh hadn’t fastened her seat belt. Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He grasped the unmoving woman under the arms, in the same way he had grabbed Grace, but she was a dead weight. He backed out a little, trying for the door handle, already knowing it wouldn’t open.

The water was still rising. It was chest-high. He grabbed Ashleigh again and tugged, inching her body in an agonizingly slow process. At some point, he was aware of the sound of sirens, of voices coming from the beach.

Finally, a rough arm grasped his. “We got this, buddy.”

He turned and saw a pair of uniformed paramedics. “She’s breathing, but she’s unconscious.”

“Thanks,” one of them said. “You can step away now.”

*   *   *

He found Grace sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket. A Band-Aid had been applied to the cut over her eyebrow. Sitting beside her, also wrapped in a blanket, despite the August heat, was a stunning brunette, who was shaking and crying uncontrollably.

It was Suchita, the driver of the Audi.

A female EMT had fastened a blood-pressure cuff to Suchita’s upper arm. “You’re all right,” the woman said in a soothing voice. “Your blood pressure’s a little high, but not off the charts. And your baby should be fine, too. But we can transport you to the hospital, if you’d like to get checked out.”

“No!” Suchita said. “I want to wait for my fiancé. Boyce is on the way. He should be here soon. He’s a doctor; he’ll take care of me.”

Wyatt nodded in Grace’s direction, catching the EMT’s eye. “Is she all right? Nothing broken?”

“She’s good,” the EMT said. “You’re gonna want to watch her overnight, make sure she’s not concussed, but otherwise the cut over her eye is the only thing. She was damned lucky.”

Suchita turned and stared at Grace. “You’re her friend? Why? Why did you let her come after me? She tried to kill me. She wanted to kill me and my baby.”

“I didn’t,” Grace said, her voice a whisper. “I tried to stop her. But she’d been drinking…”

“She’s crazy,” Suchita said flatly. “I told Boyce she was dangerous. After she painted my house? I wouldn’t stay there again. Not by myself. But she wouldn’t leave me alone. She followed me, watched us if we went out together. And then she got my phone number, and she started leaving me messages. I told Boyce. I played him the voice mail messages she’s been leaving me. He thought she was just trying to intimidate me. He said she wasn’t dangerous.” She shivered. “I only went home today to pick up my mail. And that’s when she showed up.”

Grace looked up at Wyatt. “Is Ashleigh…?”

“She’s breathing, but she’s unconscious,” Wyatt said. “She wasn’t wearing her seat belt. I think maybe she hit her head.”

“It all happened so fast,” Grace said. “And I was so scared. I kept looking back, hoping you were there.”

“I got there as quick as I could,” Wyatt said. “But that damned SUV had the street blocked, and then, once she got out on Manatee and she was speeding, my old truck couldn’t keep up. The whole thing starts to shimmy and rattle after I hit sixty.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grace said, clutching his hand. “You got here. You got me out of the car. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“I’m here, and I’m staying,” Wyatt said, his voice choking with emotion. He looked over at the EMT. “Okay if I take her home now?”

Just then, a short, balding, middle-aged man came rushing up to the ambulance. Wyatt stepped back, but the EMT put out a hand to stop him from coming any closer.

“I’m a physician,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Dr. Hartounian. This is my fiancée. Have you checked her vital signs? Did she tell you she’s five months pregnant?”

“She checked out perfect,” the EMT said. “Not a scratch on her. Physically, anyway.” And she stepped aside.

“Suchita? My God! Are you all right?” Hartounian gestured toward the pair of EMTs who were bundling a stretcher into the second ambulance. “Is that really Ashleigh?”

“I’m … I’m…” Suchita’s voice trailed and broke off into sobs as she threw herself into Boyce Hartounian’s arms.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Boyce is here,” he crooned tenderly, rubbing her back and arms. She was two inches taller than he, but his arms were tanned and muscular. He glanced over at Grace and his eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?” he asked, all business. “You’re Ashleigh’s friend? I just spoke to one of the police officers. They say the two of you had been drinking. What the hell were you thinking letting her get behind the wheel of a car? If anything happens to our child…”

“My name is Grace Davenport,” Grace said, feeling her temper flare. “I wasn’t the one who was drinking. That was all Ashleigh. And I didn’t let her drive. In fact, I was trying to talk her into letting me take her home. She called me earlier, upset after your lunch with her…”

Suchita looked up. “You took her to
lunch
? Without telling me?”

Wyatt took Grace’s arm and gently steered her away from the ambulance. He meant to take her home, get her in some dry clothes, let the shock wear off. But two uniformed police officers stood beside his truck, waiting for answers.

*   *   *

An hour later, after giving her statement to the cops—and agreeing to a Breathalyzer test to prove she hadn’t been responsible for any of the half dozen empty wine-cooler bottles found in the BMW, Grace finally climbed into the front seat of Wyatt’s truck.

He’d changed into the spare clothes he kept in a gym bag in the truck—his Manasota Maulers coaches’ shirt, shorts, and a pair of baseball cleats.

“What do you think will happen to Ashleigh?” she asked, as Wyatt pulled slowly back onto the roadway.

Wyatt shrugged. “I know you feel sorry for her, but at this point, I hope they throw the book at her. Ashleigh very nearly killed three people today—four if you count Suchita’s baby. She’ll be charged with drunk driving, for sure. And it sounds like if Boyce Hartounian has his way, I guess they could add attempted homicide, or whatever you call it.”

Grace grimaced at the mention of Hartounian. “What a pompous jerk!”

“He must have something the ladies love,” Wyatt observed. “To have two hotties like Ashleigh and Suchita fighting over him.”

“What he has is a nice big bank account,” Grace countered. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the seat. A moment later, she sat up again. “What time is it?”

“Nearly seven,” Wyatt said. He closed his hand over hers. “Just rest, okay? I’m going to take you to the condo, let you get changed and showered. I called your mom, just to let her know what happened, so she won’t be worried. And I talked to Nelson, to let him know I won’t be coming home tonight. The EMTs told me you need to have somebody checking you through the night.”

“No!” Grace said. “I mean, that’s sweet and all that you want to take care of me. But everybody’s meeting at the Sandbox tonight. Mitzi’s coming, too. They’re expecting me.”

“Not a good idea,” Wyatt said. “Why don’t you just call your mom back and tell her to let everybody know you’re not coming?”

“I can’t call anybody. Remember? My cell phone is still in what’s left of Ashleigh’s car. Anyway, I have to go, and you need to be there, too. This is important, Wyatt. If we’re going to file a complaint against Stackpole with the JQC, we need everybody to give Mitzi a statement. She’s bringing women from Paula’s other groups, too. And there’s an outside chance Paula herself might show up.”

“You think Paula’s going to turn against her boyfriend?” Wyatt scoffed. “Now I know you’ve got a head injury.”

Grace proceeded to fill Wyatt in on the Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole’s not-so-honorable but very complicated love life.

“I told Paula about the meeting tonight, about what we’re doing,” Grace said. “She’s really conflicted. But I think maybe she’s tired of being victimized by him. I think there’s an outside chance she’ll show up and help us.”

“Doubtful,” Wyatt said, unconvinced.

“I don’t care. Let’s go straight to the Sandbox. I can shower and change there.” She flashed a smile. “Please? I need you on my team.”

He shrugged. “Team Grace? Okay. Sign me up.”

68

Rochelle was carrying a tray of drinks and food to a table of softball players at the back of the room when her bedraggled daughter came scuttling through the side door of the Sandbox, trying not to be noticed.

She dropped the tray on the table, sloshing beer on the shortstop’s cheeseburger and sending the catcher’s order of hot wings sailing off the plate and into the second baseman’s lap.

“Sorry.” Rochelle tossed a dry bar towel to the coach, who was, thankfully, a regular.

“Jesus H!” she exclaimed, hurrying over to Grace’s side. She hugged her daughter fiercely. “You look awful! Are you sure you don’t need to go to the emergency room?”

“I look worse than I feel,” Grace said. “I’ll be fine after I get a shower.” She looked over her mother’s shoulder at the table in the corner, where a dozen women chattered away. “Is everybody here?”

“Everybody except you two—and Ashleigh. If that girl’s not dead already, I’ll kill her myself,” Rochelle said.

“Did you tell the others what happened?” Grace asked.

“Just that there’d been an accident and that you were okay and Ashleigh was taken to the hospital,” Rochelle said. “I’ll let you fill ’em in. If you’re sure you feel like it.”

“Wyatt can do it while I get cleaned up.” Grace leaned over and planted a kiss on Wyatt’s cheek. He blushed, then kissed her back.

*   *   *

“I take it you two patched things up?” Rochelle asked as they watched Grace depart.

“I think so,” Wyatt said. “I hope so. I can’t go through another day like today. When I realized she was in that car with Ashleigh—the kind of danger she was in…”

He ducked his head and swallowed. “If something had happened to her? I honestly don’t know what I’d do, Rochelle. I know it’s crazy—falling in love with somebody you meet in divorce therapy? But I did. And I think she did, too. And when this is all over, I want us to get married.”

Rochelle raised one eyebrow. “You’re asking my permission?”

Wyatt laughed and blushed again. “I guess not. Just maybe for your approval. I know I’m not the best financial risk. She’d be going from that mansion she lived in with her ex to a trailer—literally. But I promise you, I love Grace, and I’ll never hurt her. I’ll spend the rest of my life taking care of her.”

“Grace can actually take care of herself,” Rochelle said. “Just make her laugh and smile and enjoy life like she used to. Be good to each other. The rest will work itself out.”

*   *   *

Mitzi Stillwell dabbed at the beer rings on the tabletop with a paper napkin, then placed a thick file folder on it.

She looked at the eleven women arrayed around the two tables Rochelle had pushed together in a quiet corner of the bar. Camryn Nobles trained a small handheld video camera on Mitzi, then panned around at the other women.