by Josie Brown
Praise for Josie Brown
Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives
“I loved this juicy-as-it-is-heartfelt novel about love, marriage, friendship—and sharp, manicured claws. Could not put it down!”
—Melissa Senate, author of The Secret of Joy
“Brown proves that a story with suburban bodies can be just as suspenseful as one with dead bodies! A probing, entertaining fishbowl of married life in a well-heeled, wayward neighborhood. Loved it!” —Stephanie Bond, author of Body Movers
“Poignant and funny! Josie Brown’s protagonist is strong, resilient and unflinchingly honest; she has all the skills she needs to navigate the ‘mean streets’ of the gated community of Paradise Heights. A great read!” —Wendy Wax, author of Magnolia Wednesdays
Impossibly Tongue-Tied
“Brad, Angelina, Britney and Kevin may want to check out Josie Brown’s new novel for its ripped-from-the-headlines plot.”
—New York Post, Page Six
True Hollywood Lies
“Brown captures the humor of working for a megalomaniac. . . . [A] well-paced, entertaining story.” —Publishers Weekly
“The tone is confessional, the writing laced with venomous humor.”
—Wall Street Journal
“A fine piece of literary work.” —New York Post, Page Six
Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives is also available as an eBook
SECRET LIVES OF
HUSBANDS AND WIVES
JOSIE BROWN
Downtown Press
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Josie Brown
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First Downtown Press trade paperback edition June 2010
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For Martin
Always my first reader, always my first love
Acknowledgments
I will always appreciate those who have been so generous in their support.
To those dear friends and family who are there to listen to me, love me, and cheer me on: my deep appreciation to Darien and Don Coleman; Helen Drake; Austin Brown; Andree Belle; Allyson Rusu; Poppy Reiffin; Patricia Steadman and Mario Martinez; Bonnie and John Gray; Sheryl and Richard Levy; Sharon, Tim, and Rob Conn; Holly Cless; Paula Santonocito; Rita Abrams; and Sharon and Bill McKeon.
To those who are both my pals and my mentors: Karin Tabke, Tawny Weber, and Stephanie Bond, you are always there for me, and I love and appreciate you for that.
Very special thanks to Anna Brown and Allison O’Connor, whose invaluable insights shaped this book’s characters and provided fodder for some of its zanier incidents.
My editor’s thoughtful consideration is felt on every page of this book. Megan McKeever, not only are you a brilliant editor, but you were the book’s uncompromising advocate. I feel blessed to be writing for you.
And finally, to my agent, Holly Root, who has been my tireless cheerleader from nanosecond one: Holly, thank you for your honesty, for the diligence with which you guide my career, and above all for your friendship.
Halloween
1
“Getting divorced just because you don’t love a man is almost as silly as getting married just because you do.”
—Zsa Zsa Gabor
Thursday, 7:32 p.m.
You know how I hate to gossip, but . . .”
That is how Brooke Bartholomew always begins before she launches into a piece of hearsay. She knows and I know (for that matter, everyone knows) that she is the most notorious gossipmonger in our gated community of Paradise Heights.
So, yes, this will be juicy.
“Don’t be such a tease,” I answer. “Just spill it.”
“It’s about DeeDee and Harry Wilder,” she whispers. “They’ve split up. For good!”
Her tone has me looking around to see if the leads in Brooke’s drama are within hearing distance. But it’s hard to tell because it is dark, and everyone, even the adults, is in costume. Witches, Harry Potters, Shreks, and vampires zigzag across Bougainvillea Boulevard, lugging king-size 300-count pima cotton pillowcases filled with all kinds of individually wrapped miniature candy bars. For Brooke, it is not just Halloween but Christmas too: her husband, Benjamin, is Paradise Heights’s dentist and will reap what Hershey’s has sown.
I check to see that my daughter, Olivia, is out of earshot but still within sight. To my chagrin, she and her posse of five-year-olds are racing up the circular staircase of the Hendricksons’ New Orleans–style McMansion. All the girls are dressed as fairies, which in Halloweenspeak translates into gossamer wings and long tulle skirts over leotards. It is inevitable that one of them will slip, fall, and cry, so I cannot take my eyes off them, even to gauge the veracity of Brooke’s raw data. For the first time tonight I notice that Temple, DeeDee and Harry’s younger child, is not one of the winged creatures flittering in the crush in front of me.
The nickname given the Wilders by my very own clique, the board of the Paradise Heights Women’s League, comes to mind: the Perfect Couple. Until now, it fit like a glove. Both DeeDee and Harry are tall, golden, patrician, and aloof. They are Barbie and Ken dolls come to life. Rounding out the family is their thirteen-year-old son, Jake, the star of the Paradise Heights Middle School basketball team. Our older boy, Tanner, is part of his entourage, as is Brooke’s son, Marcus. Temple is exactly Olivia’s age. With those gilt coiling ringlets and that dimpled smile, Temple is not just the kindergarten set’s unabashed leader but beautiful as well, which is why all the other little girls aspire to be her.
While the Wilders seem friendly enough during the social gatherings that put them in close proximity to the rest of us mere mortals, they never engage, let alone mingle. In Harry’s case, I presume he thinks his real life—that is, his office life—is too foreign for us to grasp: he is a senior partner in the international securities division of a large law firm, where every deal trails a long tail of zeros. But DeeDee has no such excuse. She doesn’t work, yet she pointedly ignores our invitations to lunch, preferring to spend the precious hours between school drop-off and pickup gliding through the posh little shops on Paradise Heights’s bustling Main Street. Heck, even the Heights’s working mommies try harder to fit in. The overflow crowd at the Women’s League Christmas party is proof of that, as are the numerous corporate sponsorships the
y secure for the school district’s annual golf tournament fund-raiser.
Proving yet again that mommy guilt is the greatest of all human motivators.
And now that the Wilders’ crisis has been exposed to the masses, DeeDee’s force field will stay up permanently, for sure.
“No way! The Wilders?” I say to Brooke. “Why, I just saw them together last weekend, at the club. He didn’t leave her side even once. And I know for a fact that DeeDee was at the school yesterday, for the Halloween costume contest.” Although I wasn’t there, Ted, my husband, mentioned seeing her. I stayed home with our younger son, Mickey, who has a nasty case of head lice, the scourge of the elementary school set. Not fun at any time, but doubly distressing to a nine-year-old boy on a day in which all class work is suspended in honor of a candy orgy.
To get his mind off what he was missing, Mickey and I spent the morning carving two more pumpkins to join the family of five already displayed on our steps and spraying a spiderweb of Silly String on the porch banister. Ted, who is too fastidious to appreciate our haphazard handiwork, has elicited promises from us both that all of this sticky substance will be pulled off first thing tomorrow morning, before it has time to erode the nice new paint job on our faux-Victorian.
Now, as I keep watch over Olivia’s raid on the neighbors’ candy stashes, Ted is at home with Mickey, parsimoniously doling out mini Mounds bars. Despite having purchased forty bags of the stuff, neither of us will be surprised if we run out long before the last trick-or-treater has come and gone. That is the downside to having a house that is smack-dab in the middle of Bougainvillea Boulevard, where all things pertaining to Paradise Heights begin and end. Because of this, poor Mickey will have to share whatever goodies Tanner and Olivia bring home. I don’t look forward to the fight that breaks out over who gets the Godiva candy bar and who is left with the smashed caramel apple.
“Yeah, well, apparently it happened yesterday morning. From what I heard, he came home early from work so that he wouldn’t miss the Halloween parade—and found her in bed with another man.” Brooke waves her little hellion, Benjamin Jr., on toward his older brother, Marcus, who has been trying all night to ditch the kid. Having been an only child, Brooke cannot accept the notion that a thirteen-year-old wouldn’t want to hang with his only sibling, especially one seven years his junior.
Frankly, I think all of Brooke’s energy would be better spent on some therapy over her own traumas. “My God! That’s horrible! Do you think it’s for real?”
“Who knows? For that matter, who cares?” Brooke arches a cleanly plucked brow. “Anyway that’s the rumor, and it’s too good not to be true, so I’m sticking with it. Besides, Colleen was behind Harry in line at Starbucks this morning. She overheard him bickering with DeeDee on his cell. Seems she’s asked for a divorce, but he’s fighting her for everything: the kids, the house—even the dog! In fact, he also told one of his partners that he planned to cut back his hours at work to prove he should be the one to get full custody. Look, I say where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
And they say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Bullshit. What guy wouldn’t go for the throat, particularly one who’s just been made a laughingstock in the neighborhood?
Frankly, I can’t really blame him, since I’d do exactly the same thing. Still, I wonder what he’ll do if he does get it all. I’m of the theory that househusbands are born, not made. And they are certainly not made from high-powered corporate attorneys like Harry Wilder, who live for the thrill of the deal.
But I don’t say this to Brooke, who wears her sistah solidarity on her silk Cavalli sleeve. If what she says is true, then there is no reason to feel sorry for DeeDee in the first place. Harry is the one we should pity, since he has no idea what he’s in for. I’m willing to bet he’ll reconsider his stance the first time Jake needs to be carpooled to basketball at the same time Temple has to be at ballet and it’s not until they are halfway there that she tells him she’s forgotten her tights.
“So, who is DeeDee’s boyfriend?”
Frustrated because her reconnaissance is incomplete in this one very important area, Brooke’s perfect moue of a mouth turns down at the sides. This is what passes for a frown when your social calendar revolves around standing appointments for Botox and collagen injections. “Since neither of them is talking, your guess is as good as mine. But don’t worry, I’ve got my spies working on it.” She winks broadly.
That trail might be cold right now, but she is a good enough gossip hound that I’ve no doubt we’ll know the answer by the end of the week.
As we pass DeeDee and Harry’s authentic-looking Tuscan villa, I notice that all the lights are off and the bougainvillea-wrapped wrought-iron gates are locked. The Wilders did not even leave out the requisite consolation: a plastic pumpkin filled with candy and sporting a sign that begs visitors to TAKE JUST ONE AND LEAVE THE REST FOR OTHERS.
Once again, Brooke is right: there is trouble in Paradise Heights.
2
“The great question . . . which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?’”
—Sigmund Freud
Friday, 1 Nov., 11:08 a.m.
As of lunchtime today, Mickey’s head has a clean bill of health. Not a louse in sight. Monday he’ll be back in school.
To celebrate—and to rid ourselves of the cabin fever we’re experiencing—Mickey and I sneak out with our Labrador, Harvey, to Paradise Park while school is still in session. I figure this is okay, since there will be no one there to infect anyway.
I’m wrong. Little Temple Wilder is playing alone on the swing set. Even before we are spotted, we can hear her plaintive plea: “Daddy, you said you’d push me! Please! PRETTY PLEASE, WITH SUGAR AND WHIPPED CREAM AND SPRINKLES ON TOP?”
Harry, the sleeves of his crisp oxford button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, is mumbling authoritatively into his Bluetooth headset. Sunlight brings to life the glints of gold in his gently tousled hair. He places a fingertip to his lips in the hope of willing her into silence, but Temple isn’t buying it. Patience is a virtue rarely found in five-year-olds.
Spotting us, he gives me a look that promises the world if I can guarantee him a few minutes of her silence, not to mention that of their Airedale puppy, Lucky, who’s barking at Harvey. Harry is a novice when it comes to negotiating with a mommy who has been housebound with an antsy boy for almost a week. But knowing his plight and feeling his pain, I give Temple a push that sends her giggling skyward, and then I do the same for my son. Harry bows in gratitude.
A half hour later, Harry pulls off his headset for good to find Temple and my son playing nicely together on the climbing gym. Mickey has gotten over his wariness of girl cooties (imaginary), and Temple is reassured that Mickey’s cooties (real, but gone) won’t be invading her full head of sun-kissed sateen curls. All is right in the world.
Harry smiles his unabashed gratitude. “Sorry. East Coast,” he says, by way of explanation. “Had to catch those guys before they go home for the day.”
I nod understandingly, and then stick out my hand. “Lyssa Harper. We’ve met before.”
Vagueness clouds his eyes. “Sure, I remember. You’re the Stuckeys’ au pair, right?”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or miffed. True, both the au pair and I have long dark hair, although mine is somewhat curlier. Okay, make that frizzy. And yes, it strokes my ego to be compared to a mere woman-child some ten years younger (not to mention ten pounds lighter). But it’s more likely that he’s suggesting that I don’t seem worthy to live in Paradise Heights—unless I’m in someone’s domestic employ.
Only in my wildest fantasies would I assume that this was his way of hitting on me. Still, the thought of being picked up on the playground by the neighborhood DILF (the Dad I’d Like to—well, you get the picture) does give me a cheap thrill.
Then it hits me: what if he’s asking because he thinks he ca
n buy my services, which would leave the Stuckeys high and dry? Ouch! And those twins of theirs are a handful. . . .
Gee, I wonder how much he’s offering, anyway?
Turns out he’s not offering at all. He just doesn’t remember meeting Ted and me at the Crawleys’ Christmas party last year. Or sharing a picnic table with us this past summer at the Paradise Heights Annual July Fourth picnic. Or that we were the ones who found Lucky after he escaped under their fence in order to chase after the Corrigans’ tabby.
My God, as oblivious as this guy is, I’m surprised he remembers his way home.
Then again, maybe he doesn’t. That might be why DeeDee had an affair in the first place.
“Um . . . no. I’m just a mom here in the Heights.”
As my black-and-white image of the Wilders gradates to chiaroscuro in the harsh light of reality, Harry tries to make amends for forgetting how many times our paths have crossed by complimenting me on how well my son plays with Temple.
Now it’s my turn to blush. I’m not used to hearing compliments about Mickey from other parents, only pointed remarks about how much more “rambunctious” he is than their own perfect progeny. “Thanks,” I stammer, then add, “I think his patience comes from having a younger sister.”
“Oh yeah? My son isn’t half that great with Temple. Of course, he’s somewhat older, a teenager.” He gives a conciliatory laugh. “You know how they are.”
“I know your son.” Surprised, he blinks, then leans away slightly. He seems wary of what I might say next, so I continue gently, “Jake, right? He’s a sweet boy. He and my other son, Tanner, play together on the basketball team. Very few of Tanner’s friends let Mickey join in when they come over to shoot hoops. You know how they can be—snubbing kids who are younger, or not as well-coordinated. But Jake doesn’t seem to mind.”
Harry nods uncertainly. “Well, I’m glad to hear he’s not so—so judgmental all the time.”