Burning Down the Spouse
you do, uh, Maxine? Are you a divorce coach or something?”
    Maxine laughed, her bright face crinkling with a smile. “Uh, no. Though, that is a service we offer. We have a support group run by a retired therapist who once specialized in family counseling. I’m not a therapist. I have no official degree—”
    “Yet,” Gail interrupted with a grin, reaching over to stroke Kiki’s back. “Maxie here’s come a long way since she got the big D. She’s going to college to get her business degree.”
    The pride in her aunt’s eyes for Maxine made Frankie slink farther down in the chair. There’d once been the possibility of a degree in her future. Until she’d met Mitch, and he’d given her the perfect excuse to bail.
    “Right. What your aunt says is true. Though, that didn’t happen overnight. It took me a long time to get my act together enough to take courses. So it’s like I said, I’ve been where you are.”
    Divorced. Right. So what? “I don’t want to be rude, Maxine, Aunt Gail, but if you’re just here to talk me off the ledge with your ex-trophy wife divorce story, I’m good. I like the ledge. In fact, I’m considering pitching a tent here.”
    Maxine’s laughter, light and airy, once again filled the small dining area. “Bitter. Now that you’re awake, and we’ve forced you out of your cave, you’re pissed. That’s a good sign. It means you still have life in you.”
    “Let’s cut to the chase and stop beating around the proverbial bush. Just tell me why you’re here, and then I can go back to bed.”
    Maxine and Gail gave each other sidelong glances.
    “What?” Frankie fought a yelp in her frustration. “Hold on. Is Maxine some kind of hit woman? I know you hated Mitch, Aunt Gail, but we can’t afford bail,” she halfheartedly joked.
    Gail barked a laugh. “I’d figure it out. I bet everyone in the village’d chip in. That Mitch deserves a good slap in the kisser and some ceee-ment shoes.”
    Because all the seniors had been witness to Gail Lumley’s pathetic niece freak out on television while they ate their tuna casserole from TV trays. Oh. God.
    “I’m not a hit woman, Frankie. I own an employment agency, one specifically geared to help women just like you.”
    “You mean ones who’ve aired their dirty laundry on a live cooking show?”
    Maxine’s expression turned pained. She blew out a breath of air, making her cheeks puff outward. “That was a lot.”
    A lot? A. Lot? She let her head sink into her hands. To say what she’d done was “a lot” was like calling the Titanic ’s sinking a little mishap in the water.
    “Look, Frankie, you’re going to be recognized. That’s a fact.”
    No siree. Not if she didn’t ever leave her aunt’s retirement village ranch, she wouldn’t.
    “Deal with it. Head-on. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Who wouldn’t threaten to, and I’ll paraphrase, ‘mash her husband’s testicles if—’”
    “Cubes,” Gail said with a firm nod. “Frankie said ‘cubes.’”
    Maxine nodded back. “Right—her husband’s cubes with a potato masher after finding out he was unfaithful? I can think of ten women offhand who’d give their eyeteeth to do it on national television. I’d bet there are a million women all over the nation still smiling over that particular broadcast of Mitch in the Kitchen . But it’s over. You can’t hide from it. And before you say it, you have to leave the village sometime.”
    Wasn’t it funny all the things she had to do? Where was this universal rule book that had all these requirements located anyway?
    “Not only do you have to leave the village, but your checking account says you have to work,” Maxine reminded her.
    Frankie’s cheeks stained red, a hazard of her fair skin. “Doing what? I have no skills other than being someone’s bitch.” She was quick to cast an apologetic glance in her aunt’s direction for her language, but it was the truth. She prepped food for a television show, and
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