Dorothea Benton Frank
New York Times Bestselling Author
Dorothea Benton Frank
"Something about her novels just seems to say Summer" —USA Today
Experience the sultry Southern atmosphere of Atlanta and the magic of the Carolina Lowcountry in this funny and poignant tale of one audacious woman’s quest to find the love she deserves, from New York Times bestselling author Dorothea Benton Frank.
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Preview of The Last Original Wife

Chapter One - Leslie and Wesley's Present Situation

Atlanta, September 2012

W elcome to Saint Magnolia's Wounded Theater. At least that's what I called it. Within these slick walls reside Atlanta's pish-posh team of premier psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, and relationship counselors who specialize in the broken hearts/crushed egos of the privileged and renowned. Their lavish confessionals, perched high above the city, are, well, breathtaking. I was here because my husband, Wesley, insisted this was the only place he'd even consider receiving, as he was loath to say, therapy. And as it was on my first visit, the vast waiting area was packed.

Just for the record? Wesley needed therapy. I. Absolutely. Did. Not.

The circular reception area held a large round workstation of bird's-eye maple. The countertops of deep brown granite were chiseled and polished. Behind them stood two young women who appeared to have fallen from the pages of Vogue magazine. Above them hung a chandelier worthy of an opera house that I imagined sailed right to America directly from the lips of the finest glassblowers of Murano. Every square foot of their offices was as beautiful as a session was insanely expensive, leaving me to wonder where exactly was this much heralded recession?

"I'm here to see Dr. Katz," I said.

"And you're Mrs. . . . ?"


"Thank you." She pecked around on what looked like a keyboard from the Starship Enterprise and smiled when she found my name among those on his appointment calendar. I was officially entered into the captain's log.

"Please make yourself comfortable in the waiting area. There's bottled water . . ."


My heels clicked across the beige marble flooring that was shot with veins of black and gold. When the veins of gold caught a stream of afternoon light, they sparkled like the proverbial streets of paradise. Perhaps some people thought all this grandeur was a comfort; you know, they must be good at what they do if they can afford all this? Not me. The whole drama was a grand demonstration of conspicuous consumption and their complete disregard for carbon footprint. I shuddered.

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