What You Mean "we" Paleface?

What You Mean We, Paleface? Part 1

By Qhml1

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It was the first of ten counseling sessions, and the only thing that made me endure listening to his blathering was that once the sessions were over, it was over. I was never so glad something would be over in my whole life.

I couldn't believe the counselor as she talked about forgiveness and how it could strengthen our marriage if we just used it as a learning experience. She and my soon-to-be ex were droning on and on about how WE could make it better, how if WE worked hard, it would soon be behind us. We, We, We! I finally snapped, jumping up and pacing back and forth.

"I've got to ask. Whatcha mean WE, Paleface?"

"WE didn't have an affair! We didn't lie and cheat for months! I can't believe that low-rent whore thought you'd divorce me and marry her. Then again, right now, that might be your best option.

"And most importantly, WE didn't knock the stupid bitch up! That was all you, and I don't remember ever being present when you banged her while she encouraged you to put a bun in the oven. More importantly, WE aren't on the hook for child support for the next eighteen years, Kemosabe. That's going to be all you all the time. Between what you're going to have to pay her and what it's gonna cost you in maintenance and child support for our two kids, your disposable income just took a big hit. Heads up, here, the appliance store on Madison sells huge refrigerators; maybe if you get down there early in the morning, you can score a box to put under the overpass. That's probably all you can afford, so I'd be quick if I were you."

I paused to catch my breath, enjoying the look on their faces immensely. The counselor must be horrible at her job to not see how I was reacting as they blathered on, the minimalist answers or participation. I was doing the bare minimum to get through, and this was the first session, so I had no qualms about sharing my opinions.

I whirled on the counselor. "And you, Joane, are probably the worst counselor in the history of counselors. You didn't care the least little bit about what kind of pain I'd been in; you just wanted to notch up another reconciliation to boost your percentage. Has anyone ever challenged you on your numbers? Do you have definitive proof to back your claims? I don't think so. Thank God this is almost over, and don't look for a good review. I'm leaving now. My Grease Monkey, as you disparage him, is at the 4,000-square-foot house he just bought, helping the kids pick and decorate their rooms. Believe it or not, Doctor Dick, owning a string of auto repair shops is far more lucrative than doing nose jobs. He no longer works on them; he's more of a CEO. Now it's just a hobby for him, and the boys go crazy when he lets them help."

I paused at the door, grinning. "I expect you to turn in your report before the door shuts on the last session, stating the marriage is beyond resurrecting, Joane. You hear me?" With that, I exited, the grin about to split my face. I got into my new car, a gift from my new and improved life partner, and drove off into the sunset.

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The divorce had been dragging on for almost three months when my car started making a funny noise as I left court, so I was not in the best of moods when I pulled into the first garage I came to.

I was crying because I couldn't help myself, not because of the vehicle but because of the situation. The service tech was young and out of his element with someone as distraught as I was, but he got me into the building and found me a seat in the waiting room. I sat there and sniffled for a while before I felt a presence and looked up. And up until I looked into the smokiest brown eyes I'd ever seen, just over a brilliant smile.

"Please don't cry, ma'am. It's just a car."

That made the tears flow once again. "It's not just a car! It's my whole life!"

"What's wrong with your life?"

I sniffled and tried to smile. "If you've got four or five hours, I'll tell you."

He smiled again and gently placed his hand on my arm. "Sorry, I don't have that kind of time. Why don't you come into the office and give me the abridged version? It's not a good look to see pretty women crying in the service lounge; they might think you're crying because I gave you your bill."

I smiled for the first time in about a month out of the presence of my boys. "Thanks, that would probably be for the best."

His office was more of a suite on the second floor. He grinned at my reaction. "Pretty opulent for a grease monkey, huh? I bought the building as it was, and this came with it. I removed all the old office equipment and furnished it to suit my taste. It even comes with a small suite; sometimes, I spend the night here."

"What does your wife think of that?"

"When I get another wife, I'll ask her. The last one would have welcomed it because it got me away from her so she could pursue her hobby of having sex with other men." He said it without emotion, so it had been a while, or he did a good job covering the pain.

"Ouch! Been there, doing that, right now. He knocked up his Barbie Bimbo and expects me to get over it. He's 33. She was 18."

He sighed as he poured me a glass of water. "Sucks. At least I've had a few years to recover, but I'm guessing it's all brand new for you. I'm not going to spout a bunch of platitudes here, and time doesn't erase the memories, but it does ease the pain. At least I didn't end up a part-time father."

"I've got two boys, twins. They're eight years old, and the divorce doesn't hurt them as much as I thought. Of course, he was mostly an absentee father anyway. Too busy doing nose jobs and boob enhancements to bother."

He looked off into the distance or the inside of his head. "I don't think I could have taken it if children were involved. I'm glad she refused to discuss it before she hit thirty. I'm still single, but I'm 36, and the window is closing. But enough, you sit here and relax, calm yourself. I'll be back when I know something about your car."

I watched as he walked away. Tall, well built, moving with a confident stride, he seemed to radiate power. I sat for a minute before I got restless and roamed around. I opened a door that led to that suite he told me about. If he stayed there often, he was either a neat freak or had a cleaning service. His desk was massive, and I examined the photos, one of an older couple draped over each other in a way that made me suspect you'd never know when one stopped and the other began. A photo of an attractive younger woman on a beach, looking over her shoulder as the wind twirled her long hair. Love interest or relative? She looked a lot younger, but judging by my husband, it was not an insurmountable obstacle.

There was original art on the wall, mostly depicting Western themes. Well, we were in New Mexico. I was an East Coast girl, used to cityscapes, and where open spaces seemed to stretch to the horizon was still unnerving. I was looking at a ranch scene titled Roundup. It was a busy portrait of cowboys, cows, calves, dust, and horses. One man stood holding a branding iron, The tip glowing red, while another was holding up the leg of a struggling calf. I was so engrossed I didn't realize he was back.

"It's a Wallace from 1912. He's a famous artist of his genre. Not in the league of Remington or Russell, but he was still talented."

I jumped, surprised by his voice. "I can almost smell the dust and burnt hair. Are you a cowboy?"

He chuckled. "No, not at all. That kind of life has no appeal to me. I still like horses but don't want to make my living off them. Iron horses are just fine and a lot more lucrative."

"Did you fix my car?"

He frowned, and I knew it was bad news. "It won't be a matter of fixing, more of replacing. Your engine is shot. If it were a horse, we'd have to put her down."

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That was not the news I expected. "I can't be without transportation! I have to work and transport my children! What am I going to do?"

He had me sit and take the other chair. "Well, there are few options. You can put a new engine in, which I don't recommend. If you do, it's still a six-year-old vehicle, and who knows what may go next. If you'll excuse me, your vehicle doesn't seem well cared for, making me suspect the transmission and one of your catalytic converters need replacing. The best option is to purchase a newer vehicle. If you buy used, try to find one with comprehensive service records."

I held my head in my hands. "This comes at a horrible time. My husband uses the starve her until she folds ploy, so money is tight."

"I don't know your situation or your husband, but I can't see a man putting his children in a precarious situation."

"You've never met my husband. Thank you for being honest with me. Do you know any reasonable rental agencies?"

"I do, but it's late in the day. If you would like, I can give you one of our loaners. We keep four or five for customers who have to leave their vehicles in the shop."

"I couldn't impose on you like that."

"Nonsense. After all, you're technically a customer. Just stop by the front desk and ask for Gloria. I'll call and tell her you're coming."

He rose, and I surprised him with a hug, feeling the firmness of his muscles. "Well, since we're in a professional relationship, we should introduce ourselves."

He grinned, disengaged, and held out his hand, bowing slightly. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Davenport. Your name was on the paperwork. Jim Johnstone, at your service."

I giggled. "My, such a charming introduction. Is this the part where you kiss my hand?"

Jim didn't bat an eye, doing a deeper bow and raising my fingers to his lips. The kiss was soft, gentle, and my fingers still tingled an hour later.

"Alison, but call me Allie. I'll bring the car back tomorrow."

He waved his hand. "In case you didn't notice, the sporting event of the season is happening now. Keep it until Tuesday; things will have calmed down by then."

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He escorted me to the service desk and disappeared into the bays of a massive operation. Gloria smiled and took me to another section. "This is yours."

It was a Mercedes SUV, gleaming brightly in the lights. "I can't take that!"

Gloria shrugged. "Boss said give you this, you get this. Go take it up with him, but you'll get nowhere. This is the last of the bunch, so I don't know what else he could give you." Twenty minutes later, I pulled into traffic, marveling at the smoothness of the ride. I got home, hugging my boys while they brought me up to speed on their fun with Aunt Simone. She had been my best friend since we'd moved here. More importantly, she had been in the same boat I was now. Her husband had also been a doctor and traded her for a newer model.

She came from New Mexican-style old money, and her Mexican heritage is plain for all to see. She was also beautiful and brilliant and had insisted on a prenuptial before marriage. When she threw him out for cheating, he tried to get her house and whatever alimony was called in the state. The Judge almost fell off the bench laughing.

"Three words, Dr. Halsey. Prenuptial, prenuptial, and oh, yeah, prenuptial. Every portion of your wife's wealth and property is well protected. Remember that you're a doctor with a good income stream, so you shouldn't need maintenance. Be glad you didn't have children, Doctor, or you'd be on child support as well. Next case."

He was still practicing in the area, but his lifestyle took a hit when he had to pay his own bills. He gained 25 pounds and was shunned by the social elite of the area, constantly seeing pictures of his ex-wife in stunning gowns or business attire on social media, the news, or print. She always had a handsome man attached to her. Simone eyed my new wheels. "Impressive. I thought hubby was squeezing you."

"He is. My car imploded right after court, and this is a loaner."

Her eyebrow arched. "You got an auto shop that gives you a Mercedes? What place would that be?" I showed her the card, and she was impressed. "I know that company. They have repair centers in every major city in the state and more than a few in Arizona. It's an LLC owned privately by James Johnstone. Nobody knows where he came from; he was just there one day, but he's rumored to be loaded. Bit of a recluse, though. No one knows what he looks like.

"He has brown eyes, sandy blond hair, is over six feet tall, and is built like a gym rat. He's the guy that loaned me the car."

She grinned. "I get the feeling he's pretty."

"Very, for a man. Well-mannered as well."

"Single?"

I blushed. "Yes."

"You found this out how?"

"He volunteered it when I gave him an overview of my current situation."

"You should pursue him. Your ex would have a fit if you married up."

I grinned, thinking about how he would react. " That would only happen in my wildest dreams. Rich and handsome, he'd be my Prince Charming. I ought to do that to piss him off, but it's way too soon to even think along those lines. I need time to be stable and not bring baggage when I start dating again. I need to figure out how I will afford a new car."

"No, you don't, sugar. Come by the house and pick one of mine. I've got four, so it's okay with me. That'll be one more thing you don't have to worry about."

I hugged her. "I wish I were a lesbian; I'd have my tongue so far up your vagina it would tickle your stomach." Simone had discovered she was bi on vacation to one of those islands that cater to the indolent rich, seduced by a tall Swiss woman with an incredible body. They overindulged and ended up in bed together. Simone had a minor meltdown when she woke up, and to her credit, Brit cuddled her, telling her not to stress over it; what happened there stayed there. It took two more days before Brit moved into her suite for the last eight days of her vacation.

When she got home, she didn't see anyone for a while, but she decided one day that it was no one's business but her own, and now she openly dates both sexes. "I'm going to find a couple one day, one secure enough to add another to the mix, and settle down." I wished her luck, but I couldn't hold on to one.

Simone grinned and rubbed my cheek. "One day, baby."

N

ever gonna happen, I thought, as she drove us to her mansion to take our pick of cars. There was a mid-sized Lincoln SUV that suited my needs. If I had to guess, it was north of a hundred grand. My boys and I hugged her, the boys kissing her cheeks. Her smile couldn't have gotten any bigger.

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On Tuesday, I brought the Mercedes back to the garage, with Simone following to drive me home. We got out, and work almost stopped as they gawked at Simone and me, I hoped. I didn't resemble the wet, crying mess that had walked through their doors last time. I took a little extra care in my appearance. Simone noticed and grinned, but thankfully, she didn't comment. I turned in the keys, and Gloria made a call. Jim came through the door a few minutes later, grinning. "I see you made it home all right."

"Thanks to you," I said, taking his hand. I noted he didn't try to let go.

"It was nothing any other decent human being would have done."

"I'm afraid your experience with decent human beings is more recent than mine. It makes me happy there are still a few good men out there." Simone cleared her throat, and I suddenly remembered she was there, so I quickly introduced her. Anyone who had read the local paper's social section or went on Facebook, TikTok, or X knew who she was in this town at least.

"I hear you have a Wallace hanging in your office."

He smiled, "Yes, I do, and if I remember right, you have two Remington bronzes, a Russell painting, and a few more from noted Western artists."

Simone was pleased he'd heard about her collection and invited her to see the Wallace. She looked it over with the eye of an expert before congratulating him. He grinned. "Would you like to go into my bedroom and see my etchings?"

He laughed at the look on her face and led us into the living room. Simone gasped. It didn't mean anything to me then, but it impressed her. "Is that an Alfonso Pena Mural?"

He was happy someone recognized the artists. There was also an Anthony Thieme, a portrait of a village in the late afternoon, viewed through a patina of dust, but when she got to the last one, she just stopped and stared. "Is that..." It was a portrait of a stunningly attractive Mexican woman in her thirties or early forties, but the eyes drew your focus. Dark, smoky, with just a hint of a sensual smile playing on her lips.

"It is."

"I thought I knew her work, but I've never seen this one. How did you acquire it?"

"I had a great uncle who lived in Mexico for the last fifty years of his life, and he'd acquired them from his father, who was a bit of a collector. Of course, he got them for next to nothing in that time frame. My great uncle was gay and never had children, and I was the only member of his family who admired them, so he gave them to me, along with a Remington portrait and matching bronze statue, which disappeared shortly after he died. It was registered and documented, so they'll be flagged as stolen if they ever come on the open market."

Then she shocked me by inviting him to her home so he could admire hers. She had suddenly started batting for the home team again, and I didn't know how to feel about it. Besides, I had no interest in men right now other than getting rid of the one who became the bane of my existence. Then she iced the cake, and I knew what she was doing. "Have Allie come with you so you can find the house. Any time it's convenient for you."

He smiled bigger. "I'd love to see them whenever it suits you."

Then he turned to me. "Allie, what do you want me to do with your vehicle?"

"Sell it for what it is, junk, and apply the money to my bill. Then let me know the difference, and I'll cover it.

He waved his hand dismissively. "It took roughly twenty minutes to figure out it was beyond saving, so we'll waive the bill. I'll dispose of it and send you the salvage price."

"How about we do this instead? Take whatever money you can get and donate it to a good cause. I'm sure you know someone who can use the money."

"That is both generous and kind. I'll see it's donated in your name."

I waved my hand. "There is a hook in my generosity, Jim. I insist you call me Allie."

That pleased him. "Thank you, Allie. Please excuse me, but work calls. It was nice to meet you, Ms. Gomez."

"If you can call her Allie, I insist you call me Simone. Please come over and see my etchings quickly. Oops! Paintings, I meant paintings. Maybe."

Jim was still laughing as we walked away. I looked back, and you could almost see his eyeballs go up and down in synchronicity with Simone's cheeks moving. I put a little extra sway in my walk--a competitive thing, I guess.

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Simone couldn't contain herself as we pulled out. "A Frida Kahlo! He has an uncatalogued Frida Kahlo! I'd bet my Remington on it! We just saw something very few people ever aspire to."

I couldn't see the excitement. "It's just a picture of a pretty woman."

She snorted. "I ought to throw your ignorant ass out of the car! Look her up." I did and was suitably impressed. It would seem she had some pretty rough times in her life, but then again, so did most all painters of note. It must be a professional hazard.

I went to court the next week to see just his lawyer there. My very socially conscious husband had decided to volunteer for a six-month commitment in a third-world country. My lawyer tried to use his absence as a reason for a quick resolution, saying if he wasn't interested in trying to work on his marriage, the divorce should be granted.