Молли Харпер - And One Last Thing...

“Well, I went into town and hung out at the White Hat Café until I heard someone bring you up. It took a grand total of three minutes. When someone brought your letter up, I asked where you were staying. Everybody had a different story. You’d fled to Mexico. You were holed up at a spa getting Botox. You were on your way to Vegas to be a showgirl. But then I ran into someone who was more than forthcoming with good information. Your brother says hello, by the way.”

“Resourceful and very creepy.” I nodded. “Look, if this is one of those lure the unsuspecting desperate divorcée into a secluded place and kill her scenarios, I feel I should warn you that I have nothing left to lose. I will take you down with me.”

Maya laughed. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk to you. Urn, you wouldn’t happen to have a few extra egg rolls you could throw my way, could you? It’s been a while since that tuna melt at the White Hat.”

Mama had pounded Southern hospitality and good manners into my bones since birth. Being a gracious hostess was practically a genetic imperative, like salmon spawning or swallows flying to Capistrano. So before my better judgment could win out, I sighed, “Come on in.”

Fortunately, the amount of food that was sinful for one person was just enough for two. Although I did deeply resent sharing my egg rolls, frozen or not. Over the pot stickers, Maya explained that she’d received an e-mail with my newsletter the week before and decided she had to meet me. Maya ran a greeting card company called Season’s Gratings. She provided clever, customized cards for people who were getting quickie annulments, were taking time off for a nervous breakdown, or had kids come out of the closet. You know, all of life’s little surprises that Hallmark didn’t quite cover.

“So you came all this way to sell me some divorce announcements?” I said as I tossed the paper plates in the garbage. “I admire your tenacity, but I think most of the people I know took the e-mail I sent out as the announcement.”

Maya grinned. “I don’t want to sell you cards. I want to hire you. I want you to write newsletters. Hundreds of them.” She opened her laptop to show me a prototype of a website called, And One Last Thing…

She cleared her throat and used what was obviously her “professional voice” to give me her pitch.

“This site would allow the customer to order completely customized newsletters tailored to their unique marital situation. They fill out an online form and select a number of design options. You would take the specific information provided by the client and do what you do best, write a fantastically snarky newsletter. We distribute it to a list of e-mail addresses provided by the client, routing through their personal address. I don’t think it would be hubris to say that we could retire before we even started operation. I’ve done some test marketing on the card site and I’ve already got enough preliminary orders to keep us busy for the next year.”

“I think you need to leave now,” I told her. “But I may call you if I need some ‘I’ve gone into hiding because I lost my mind’ cards.”

Maya was clearly caught off guard by my not immediately jumping on board and thanking her for such a golden opportunity. Or that such a seemingly nice person was rudely tossing her out on her ass. “You don’t think it would work?”

“No, I’m sure it would make us both temporary millionaires!” I laughed. “It’s crazy. Brilliant, diabolical, inspired. But there are some serious flaws in this plan.”

She shrugged. “Such as… ?”

“We would be sued,” I cried. “There would be no way we could guarantee any of what the client said was true. And I’m already being sued for the first newsletter I wrote. If I write another, my lawyer will hurt me. She’s short, but I’m pretty sure she works out.”

“Which is why I had my lawyer draw up an ironclad release form where the client swears the information is true and takes sole responsibility. We’re not disseminating the information, we’re just formatting it in a pleasing manner,” she said. “Plus, we would be completely anonymous. We would be ghosts.”

When I sat staring at her, unmoved, she grunted. “Aren’t you even curious as to how I came up with the name And One Last Thing?” she asked.

“That’s really not the biggest concern for me -”

“It’s from the last line of your e-mail!” she cried. “’And one last thing, believe me when I say I will not be letting Mike get off with ”irreconcilable differences“ in divorce court. Mike Terwilliger will own up to being the faithless, loveless, spineless, shiftless, useless, dickless wonder he is.’ It was the best part!”

I chewed my lip. “That’s not a tribute I deserve. In the negative or positive sense of the word.”

“Promise me that you’ll at least think about it,” she said. “I’ve e-mailed the mock-ups for the website to your address.”

“How did you know my e-mail address? Wait, I don’t want to know, do I?”

She shook her head. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m looking for the interlocking triple sixes,” I said, surveying her scalp. It seemed a fairly intimate act, poking a chopstick at the head of a woman I barely knew. But Maya was so laidback, so open, she sort of exuded this instant closeness vibe, once you got past the piercings and hair dye. She was someone I could see myself being friends with.

It struck me that I was free to have friends like Maya now that Mike wouldn’t be screening them for acceptability. Mike refused to shop at the mall anymore because he couldn’t stand the thought of crossing the paths of “those weirdo Goth freaks.” It would have been high entertainment to invite Maya to dinner just so I could watch Mike squirm.

The weird thing was that I didn’t miss Scott or Allison or Brandi or Charlie, people who were supposedly my closest friends when I was married. I hadn’t even thought to call them in my post-Beebee period, and that said something. I think Mike got them in the divorce anyway.

Maya popped the last bite of sweet and sour chicken into her mouth. “Even though I feel compelled to mention once again that this venture would be incredibly lucrative, I just want you to know that I’m not in this for the money. I had something similar happen to me.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out her car keys. In a glittery black-frame key chain, there was a photo of a smiling girl with light brown hair posing with a football-player type. Her hand rested on his broad, manly chest, a whopper of an engagement ring glinting on her finger.

“Cute couple,” I commented, handing the picture back to her.

“I call it my young Republican phase,” she said, regarding the picture with no small amount of disdain.

“Holy shit, that’s you?” I cried, snatching it back to get a closer look. Yep, underneath the thick eyeliner and the silver studs, there was the same chin, the same twinkling green eyes.

“Why does everyone react that way?” she demanded.

I grinned. “So where is the other Future Business Leader of America now?”

“Hopefully, rotting somewhere in the seventh circle of hell,” she snorted. “Brock -”

“Brock? Oh, come on, his name was B rock?”

“Do you want me to tell this story or not?” Maya demanded. I threw up my hands. “Once upon a time, there was a sweet, simple girl named Brooke who had dedicated her whole life to keeping her parents happy. Brooke majored in marketing, because her father wished that he had majored in marketing. Brooke joined a sorority because her mother had always wanted to pledge a sorority. She wasn’t particularly interested in either of these things, but she was interested in making as little fuss as possible. Telling her parents she’d rather major in graphic arts would have caused a large fuss. When Brooke arrived in that magical land known as college, she met a handsome prince named Brock in her freshman seminar. Brooke’s parents approved of Brock, which meant no fuss.”