Three Single Wives: The devilishly twisty, breathlessly addictive must-read thriller

by Gina LaManna

  “Eliza?” Harold pressed. “Say something, doll. I know this is a shock, but I need you to tell me you understand. Please don’t stand there in silence.”

  “Very well, then.” Eliza cleared her throat, smiled sweetly at her boss. “Fuck you, Harold.”

  “Come on now. Don’t do me like this. You and I have been friends for ages.”

  “You know as well as I do that I deserve that promotion.”

  “We’re cutting costs. The publishing industry isn’t what it used to be. You’ve seen the changes coming. We have to survive.”

  “The publishing industry is thriving,” Eliza said through gritted teeth. “You still have your job, don’t you?”

  “Doll—”

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Harold.” Eliza’s entire body shook, but she took a deep breath and moved her hands behind her back to cover the tremble. “You could have saved my job if you wanted, but you didn’t. At least have the balls to be honest.”

  “Now, Eliza—”

  She was already gone. Eliza had turned on her shiny new heels and stomped down the hall. She didn’t bother to clear out her office. Her assistant could do that for her later and ship her any personal items left behind.

  Eliza frowned at the thought. She wasn’t big on personal items. That was for the other 98 percent of women who bought books like Marguerite Hill’s Take Charge. Books that Eliza helped shepherd into the world, books she helped shove down consumers’ throats with their messages of Happy, happy, happy! and You can do this!

  It was all bullshit. Bullshit on a silver platter that she expertly placed on airport bookshelves so that working moms and jet-setting women could select a feel-good read to display proudly on their tray tables during flight. She sold a promise.

  A promise, Eliza thought as she pounded her finger against the elevator button, that will always end up crushed beneath the feet of someone bigger, bolder, richer, stronger. All these women would ever gain from buying self-help crap were fragments of hope.

  Eliza hopped into her convertible, a luxurious white thing that the bonus from her last promotion had bought her, before pulling out of the parking lot and easing onto the streets of Beverly Hills. Flicking down her mirror, she swiped on an extra smudge of blood-red lipstick to fortify her defiance.

  Let them fire me, she raged internally. They don’t know what they’re missing. To hell with Harold, to hell with her assistant, to hell with them all.

  She would show them. Not in the rah-rah-rah ways of Marguerite’s book but in the ways of Eliza Tate. Let the battle begin, and let it be raw, bloody, and brutal.

  She smiled at herself in the rearview mirror, her lips bleeding bright, and settled a pair of oversize sunglasses over her eyes.

  Yes, she thought. This is only the beginning.

  _______________________________

  Eliza noted the absence of her husband’s vehicle when she arrived home. She wasn’t surprised to find she’d arrived first, seeing as he taught acting classes at his studio several nights a week.

  The Tate house was located in a rich development not a mile north of Beverly Hills. Eliza could have easily walked to her office, but that would have defeated the purpose of her expensive car. She glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t see the road through a tall fence that blocked most of the tourists from peeping into the sweeping, open windows that lined the front of their home.

  Once inside, Eliza kicked off a pair of gorgeous shoes that Roman had given her to celebrate something or other. She basked in peaceful silence for a long moment before climbing the stairs to her bedroom. She changed out of her pantsuit and hung it carefully, like a thin piece of tissue paper, to preserve for another day.

  After changing into a set of yoga pants and a tank top she’d picked up at T.J. Maxx, she headed back downstairs. Grabbing a bucket, mop, and gloves, Eliza armed herself for a whole new battle as she set to work scrubbing the floor of her shiny, mostly stainless-steel kitchen.

  It was fascinating, even to Eliza, how quickly she could shed one layer of herself and slip into another. Work Eliza and Home Eliza were two very different people, and she kept both personas on tap, ready to dispense either when necessary.

  In the professional environment, Eliza naturally excelled. She’d always been good at work, work, work. Rules, rules, rules. Things that made sense. She’d grown up as the straight-A, extra-credit-obsessed, quietly serious student. Those skills had helped her develop into a no-nonsense, capable employee all bosses loved. Eliza thrived on friendly competition and fat, twinkly gold stars.

  When evenings rolled around, Eliza would slink home and, like a chameleon, peel off her first skin and sink into her second. She admired those individuals who could be themselves all the time, regardless of their audience. Genuine people—that’s what they were called. That wasn’t possible for Eliza, not if she wanted to survive.

  “Honey!” The front door opened in sync with Roman’s greeting, startling Eliza from her spot on the floor. He came around the corner, his face changing to an expression of surprise. “Did Andrea forget her cleaning day again?”

  Eliza directed a weak smile toward her husband. Her darling, naive husband. She’d been bewitched with the stunning Roman Tate the first time she laid eyes on him. Football star, theater major, well-dressed man in her English class—Roman had been an anomaly. One flash of his charming smile and Eliza had fallen head over heels for her husband before she’d even known his name.

  The man still had a presence. Tall and broad-shouldered, Roman had the windswept, dark hair of a movie star. His skin was a glorious shade of tan. Roman liked to let people think he was Italian, but Eliza knew the only genuine Italian flare Roman had in him was the hint of fresh basil she had added to the previous night’s pasta dish.

  “No, Andrea didn’t forget to come,” Eliza said. “I thought I told you—I had to fire the cleaning lady.”

  “Are we talking about the same girl?” Roman frowned. “Curly hair? I liked her. What happened?”

  “My grandmother’s china disappeared.”

  “Ah, well.” Roman flashed a quick smile. “We never used that china anyway. Would you like me to hire someone else?”

  “No, no,” Eliza said. “Don’t waste your time. I’ve already taken care of it.”

  “Very good.” Roman gave a happy nod. “Where did you get that shirt? Is it…new?”

  “Oh God. How embarrassing.” With a flushed face, Eliza looked down and noted her shirt had a stain above one breast, and worse, her pants had a hole in them. She’d have to be more careful. “I didn’t expect you home so soon, or I’d have changed into something nicer.”

  Roman moved into the kitchen and set his briefcase on the counter. His hands reached for Eliza and pulled her to her feet, then spun her around. They began to work their magic on Eliza’s shoulders. She rolled her neck back and forth, closed her eyes. She could almost pretend that life was perfect in moments like this.

  “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing,” Roman whispered in her ear. “You’re still gorgeous. I’ve been thinking of you all day.”

  Eliza squirmed out of his grasp, giving a reluctant giggle against the tickle of his breath on her skin. “I’m in the middle of tidying up. We have the neighbors coming by for dinner tomorrow, remember?”

  Eliza inched her way to the sink and busied herself washing dishes left over from breakfast. She paused when she came to a knife covered in peanut butter. It was a beautiful knife that had come as a special gift from a special friend. Anne Wilkes, Eliza’s college roommate and current best friend, had given her the knife, along with a matching cake server and two spoons, on her wedding day. Each had Eliza’s and Roman’s names carved into the handle along with their anniversary.

  “I thought we agreed to save these utensils for special occasions,” Eliza said, not quite meeting Roman’s eyes. “They’re so beautiful; it’s a shame to get them caked with peanut butter.”

  “Why have beautiful things if you don
’t use them?”

  Roman stepped behind Eliza and inched closer still, sliding his arms over her belly. His legs were clad in dark jeans, and he wore a white V-neck shirt underneath a zip-up black sweater. He smelled familiar, sweet, expensive. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

  As if sensing the change in Eliza’s demeanor, her husband reached for her rubber gloves and peeled them from her arms. Tossed them into the sink. Spun her around, pressed his lips to hers.

  Eliza felt her breath sigh out as he molded his body to hers and deepened the kiss, settling into a lovely, familiar rhythm. When his fingers hooked over the edge of her yoga pants, her entire body sizzled.

  He teased her with his fingers through the soft fabric, dipped his head as his tongue flicked against her skin and sent shivers racing across her body. Then he pressed into her, took her against the kitchen counter, and sent Eliza’s mind into a black spiral as they moved together until finally, she called his name as they collapsed into one another.

  Roman winked, then backed away. He broke into a low whistle as he turned on a heel and sauntered out of the kitchen. With flushed cheeks, Eliza looked and saw the window open. The neighbors, she thought briefly before she adjusted her bra strap and set the coffee maker to brew.

  When it was done and she had two cups in hand, she followed Roman’s path from the kitchen and found him in his office. He closed his laptop when he heard her enter, slamming it shut a bit too swiftly before swiveling to face her.

  “What is it?” Roman accepted a mug of coffee from Eliza. “When you look at me like that, I know you’ve got something on your mind.”

  “I quit my job today.” Eliza leaned against the wall, feigning nonchalance.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve decided to start my own company.”

  “I thought you liked your job?”

  Eliza ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “If I’d stayed where I was, I would always be second to Harold. It’s time I started something of my own.”

  “Well, you know I support you.” Roman paused to consider, then shook his head in time with a deep chuckle. “If anyone can succeed at starting their own company, it’s you.”

  “Thank you,” she said briskly. “I hoped you’d see things that way.”

  Roman turned back to his computer, signaling the conversation was complete. Trembling from the anxiety of it all, Eliza dragged herself upstairs into their bedroom, straight into their beautifully remodeled shower. She studied the eye-wateringly expensive bottles of soaps and shampoos from high-end boutiques, knowing that she’d filled them with knockoff replacements from Target. It was all a façade. Everything was a façade.

  Flicking the shower on, Eliza climbed under the stream of hot, hot water. She scrubbed and scrubbed, her fingernails raking angry paths down her arms. She washed herself until her skin was red and raw and she was cleansed of the lies. Then she climbed out of the shower and studied her bedraggled, bare face in the mirror.

  Sick with the weight of secrets, Eliza plodded barefoot and naked into her walk-in closet. She selected the fluffiest robe in her collection and wrapped it around her body. Then she knelt and very carefully pulled out a box.

  She fingered her grandmother’s fine china. One of the teacups was broken, chipped. She’d dropped it in her haste to hide the collection from Roman just before she’d fired Andrea.

  Eliza ran a hand over the sharp edge, let it prick at her skin. And she wondered with a heavy heart when the rest of her life would shatter into pieces and the lies behind the curtain would pour forth into the world.

  TRANSCRIPT

  Prosecution: Ms. Sands, when did Eliza Tate discover that you were having an affair with her husband?

  Penny Sands: I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her.

  Prosecution: What if you had to guess?

  Penny Sands: I suppose she probably knew the night I met her at the Pelican Hotel.

  Prosecution: Did you and Eliza become friends at any point over the past year?

  Penny Sands: I thought so.

  Prosecution: And you didn’t think that was odd? That Mrs. Tate would befriend her husband’s mistress?

  Penny Sands: Maybe a little. I just assumed she didn’t know about me and Roman.

  Prosecution: But you just stated for the court that you suspected Eliza Tate knew about you and Roman at the Pelican Hotel.

  Penny Sands: I said I didn’t know for certain, but you made me guess. In retrospect, I think Eliza knew a lot more than she let on. Eliza always knows more than she lets on.

  Prosecution: What makes you say that?

  Penny Sands: When Eliza Tate invited me into her home, I suspect she knew exactly what she was doing.

  Prosecution: Why did you go?

  Penny Sands: Because I was curious. Curiosity killed the cat, I guess.

  Prosecution: Interesting choice of words, Ms. Sands. On February 13, whose idea was it to discuss murder at book club?

  FOUR

  Eight Months Before

  June 2018

  Penny hunched forward in her seat, scribbling notes in cramped handwriting to preserve the pages of the notebook her mother had sent to celebrate her twenty-seventh birthday. As an actress, a creator, a writer, an artist, there was nothing Penny loved more than the sight of a fresh notebook or the accompanying gleam of ink when pen touched virgin paper. The options were endless in that split second before ideas were ruined by reality.

  The gift was more cherished by Penny than ever because she no longer had the luxury of purchasing a new notebook every time the whim struck. She couldn’t run to the local art store and browse the rainbow selection of pens. She couldn’t choose several at random and add them to her credit card tab, knowing it would be paid off at the end of the month by a steady salary.

  Over the past month, Penny’s credit card had become a revolving door, never quite in the black, her bank account never quite plump enough to provide any sort of cushion. Everything Penny made, she scrimped and saved and spent on her education. Writing courses— everything from stand-up comedy to TV pilots to a Second City sketch class—acting workshops, directing classes, any and all free seminars she could find.

  Meanwhile, her cupboard was thinly stocked with a bag of dry white rice. She’d learned the hard way that it took ages and ages to boil the cheap bag of red kidney beans from the store. She’d also learned that beans gave her awful heartburn, a symptom she’d grown intimate with because Tums were alarmingly expensive and didn’t fit into her new budget.

  “Stop.” A hand reached down, fingertips coming to rest on her notebook.

  Penny vaguely became aware that the voice washed over her from above. The voice of her favorite instructor. He spoke with a staccato, slightly accented tone that lilted with passion and had become comfortingly familiar over the past six weeks.

  When Penny had found this class amid a sea of others, she’d glommed on to it, immediately knowing that this time, it was different. He was different. She was different because of him. She couldn’t hand over her credit card fast enough to pay for more sessions from the marvelous Roman Tate.

  She glanced at the male hand that covered her paper, noted the sturdiness of it. The dark hair that crept up his arm, slid under his shirt, and peeped out the collar of his V-neck.

  “S-sorry,” Penny stuttered. “I didn’t realize—”

  “You’re missing everything.” Roman didn’t seem to be chastising.

  Merely disappointed by her lack of understanding. “Come.”

  “Where?”

  “With me.” He beckoned for Penny to follow him onstage. “You won’t learn anything by scratching notes on that pad of yours. You learn by doing.”

  Penny felt the eyes of twenty-plus students watching as one foot moved forward. Nerves flicked around her peripheral, but she battled them back. She raised her chin higher. It was now or never. She hadn’t moved out to Los Angeles to soak in a tub of mediocrity.

  “What now?” Penny asked once o
nstage.

  Roman’s face melted into a smile as if he sensed there’d been a change in Penny’s attitude. He seemed to like it.

  “Good girl,” he murmured, but only for her ears. Before turning to face the class, he gave her a private wink. “I’d like everyone to learn a valuable lesson from Ms. Sands. Taking notes, reading from a book, watching films—while these practices are essential to becoming a strong actor, they are just the beginning.”

  He strode with long legs over to the side of the stage and flipped a switch. The theater went dark, and the stage gleamed under the spotlights. Penny couldn’t see anything but stars. Stars, stars, stars, she thought. Not the sort she’d been hoping to find.

  “Take a look at this scene.” Roman approached her, gave her a short page. “Get the gist of it.”

  “I can’t memorize anything that fast.”

  “Aha. I don’t want you to memorize. I want you to take what’s written and make it your own.”

  Penny’s heart pulsed against those thin little seedlings growing in her chest. “I’m not good at improv. I prefer to get comfortable with a script before I act.”

  Roman contemplated this, resting his hands behind his back as he faced the class. “Tell me, Penny, have you ever experienced a time while acting onstage, writing in your journal, or simply daydreaming where you completely and utterly lost yourself in the moment?”

  She cleared her throat. “Um—”

  “Where the world blacked out around you? Maybe you had the music turned up so that it pulsed through your veins. Your eyes might have closed, your breathing stopped, your heart raced.”

  He paused, letting the words soak in as Penny shivered in anticipation. His voice was like liquid sex. Smooth and sultry, mesmerizing. She’d never met a man quite like him, and as he continued to speak, she found her eyes closing, her core pulsing, as she drifted away on the silky river of Roman Tate’s words.