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not even sure I want a divorce.”
    “You’re kidding,” Rochelle said. “You caught Ben having sex in your garage with your assistant, who he’s surely been screwing at your house all these months, and you’re not sure it’s over?”
    “I don’t know,” Grace wailed. “This is not the way I thought my life would go. I don’t understand any of this. I thought I would have a forever marriage, like yours and Daddy’s.”
    Rochelle considered this, started to say something, then changed her mind. Now was not the time.
    “Have you talked to Ben since last night?”
    “No.”
    “Any plans to talk to him?”
    Grace shrugged. “I’ve got to go over there and pick up some more clothes pretty soon. And I’ll have to figure out what to do about the blog, and the HGTV pilot and all the rest of it.”
    Rochelle busied herself putting together her daughter’s sandwich. She popped two slices of bread into the toaster, slapped some bacon on the griddle, and picked up a fat red Ruskin tomato from a bowl on the back bar. She had the knife poised to slice it when Grace spoke up.
    “Could you peel that, please?”
    Her mother shot her a look of annoyance. “I fixed you a million BLTs in your childhood, and now, suddenly, you have to have your tomatoes peeled? La-de-damn-da.”
    Grace stood up and came around the bar. “Never mind. I’ll make it myself if it’s that big a deal.”
    “It’s not a big deal. I just don’t get why it’s necessary. The peel has the most vitamins.”
    “That’s not true,” Grace said flatly, taking the knife from her mother and proceeding to pare the skin from the tomato.
    Rochelle stood back with her hands on her hips. “Who says it’s not true? It’s absolutely true.”
    “According to who?”
    “I forget,” Rochelle said stubbornly. “Maybe I heard it on one of those cooking shows.”
    Grace shook her head and reached into the refrigerator for a head of lettuce. She peeled a leaf from the head and gave a martyred sigh.
    “What now? You don’t like my lettuce?”
    “I’m just not crazy about iceberg,” Grace said. “Romaine is so much tastier. And prettier, not to mention better for you, since we’re talking about vitamins.”
    “I like iceberg,” Rochelle said, her tone frosty. “It’s what I’ve always bought. It was always good enough for you up until now.”
    Grace fixed her with a look. “Are we going to get into this again? I’m sorry, Mom, if I like nice things. Sorry if it somehow offends you that I outgrew my childhood taste for Kraft macaroni and cheese and frozen Tater Tots and casseroles made with cream of mushroom soup and canned onions rings. And Asti Spumante.” She shuddered involuntarily at this last listing.
    “That chicken casserole used to be your favorite,” Rochelle said. “You insisted I make it for your birthday dinner every year.”
    “I was a kid,” Grace said. “I grew up and my tastes changed. Refined, if you will.”
    Rochelle rolled her eyes and built the sandwich. She placed it on a plate, deftly cut it in half on the diagonal, and handed it to Grace.
    “Thanks,” Grace said. She took the sandwich and moved back to her barstool, chewing slowly.
    Rochelle wiped the bread crumbs from the cutting board. “This split-up could get pretty messy, pretty fast, you know. Ben is involved in every aspect of your business. You can walk away from him, but can you walk away from everything you’ve built up in the business? Not to mention the house?”
    Grace shrugged to indicate she had no answers, and kept chewing.
    “Counseling?” Rochelle offered. Grace shook her head violently and took another bite of her sandwich, and then a sip of her iced tea.
    “All right,” her mother said, glancing meaningfully at the neon Budweiser sign that hung over the mirrored bar back. “It’s after eleven now. My lunch trade is gonna start trickling in here pretty soon.”
    “I can take a hint,” Grace said, finishing off the last of her