First things first, though.
I get to work putting things away. Vodka, champagne, and orange juice. Coconut water, honey, and tea. Enough vegetables to fill the drawer in my new high-tech refrigerator. Fruit for the counter. Oranges piled into a gorgeous citrus pyramid. Premade salads.
The house echoes with my every step over the tile, every click of the pantry door. The house is furnished, but empty—the way Jack likes it. Couches, but no decorative pillows or blankets to encourage comfort. End tables, but no lamps or candles or magazines. Pictures on the walls, but nothing too personal. I would’ve preferred to set out pictures of us on Cape Cod, or preparing to board the private jet, but Jack wouldn’t care for it. Instead, the pictures are abstract. Colors splashed here and there, dotting the canvas. Nothing to attract the eye.
“Minimal clutter keeps the energy clean,” Jack had said, draping his arm around my shoulder before he left. “There’s nothing worse than walking into a house and feeling choked by the crap people call ‘decorations.’ People should make the home, not the things they put in it.”
I completely agree. When Jack thinks about our home, he should think of me in this peaceful space, waiting for him with open arms. He shouldn’t be worried about the lawn that needs to be mowed or the things that still need to be put away on his side of the bed.
This is the first place we’ve had together, and I need to make sure that when he walks through the front door, he feels as if he can breathe here. I want him to feel relaxed, to want to come home to me. I don’t want to be like Patricia, his first wife, who put her needs above his. She was so busy trying to build a career in politics, she left their house a disaster. Rather than support Jack’s ambition to make his search engine a household name, she would delete important events from his calendar and erase missed calls from his phone. Even after all the lies and sabotage, despite what the media would have people believe, Jack had wanted to work on their marriage. But Patricia had been unresponsive. Cold as ice. It’s no wonder Jack had been starved for affection when we met.
Sunlight washes through the dining room, over the white-marble table that can seat ten. I doubt there’ll ever be more than two people eating at any one time, but Jack insisted we be prepared to serve ten at all times.
It must appear that we entertain often, he said. Even though we won’t.
I’m still getting used to what it takes to be a billionaire’s wife, and I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand. I’m well accustomed to the lengths people go to in order to reach perfection. My mother, determined to get me out of the house, had signed me up for beauty pageants starting at the age of twelve. One pageant turned to a half dozen, and soon we were driving all over the country. It wasn’t until my dad started hitting the bottom of the bottle seven nights a week that I realized the pageant trail was not only for my benefit. It got my mother out of the house as well.
I couldn’t have known it at the time, but my pageant training prepared me to be married to Jack. It’s as if I never left the spotlight. It’s all about the image of perfection, keeping up the charade, even if things are melting down behind the scenes. A comment or move that may seem insignificant at the time could blow up years down the road and ruin a future business partnership that could be worth millions.
I can’t imagine the weight Jack must bear.
I’m about to steal upstairs and start writing when someone knocks on the back door—the one leading to the garage. Who would come through that way? It could only be one person.
“Jack,” I push out nervously.
God, he’s going to be so upset if he forgot something and had to turn back.
I turn the handle cautiously, and peer into the space between the door and the jamb. Erin, the woman from across the street, and a dark-haired woman stare back at me.
“Brooke?” Erin says, her wide smile showing a set of straight teeth too large for her mouth. “Can we come in? I wanted to introduce you to Georgia. It’ll only take a second.”
“Sure, I—I’m sorry, you startled me.”
“I told you we should’ve gone around front, but you had to make a statement,” Georgia whispers to Erin. Her shirt is so fluorescent pink, it’s nearly blinding. “If this is a bad time, we can come back later.”
“No, no, it’s fine, but…” Had I put the grocery bag away or was it still resting on the counter? Is everything in order? “Come on in,” I say, but they’ve already wormed their way inside. Erin and Georgia spill into the kitchen, smiling and full of noisy energy. Georgia is stunning in bright shades of pink and purple, blue, and green—seems magazine-worthy, with ocean-blue eyes that pop against the fairness of her complexion. She’s carrying a paper bag and sets it on the counter.
“You left it in the trunk,” Georgia says, pushing it toward me. “Thought you might’ve forgotten it.”
She must have balls of steel to grab my groceries and bring them in for me. Or maybe that’s just what California neighbors do. It was probably a kind, welcome-to-the-neighborhood gesture that I quickly mistook as being pushy. Erin’s probably the envy of everyone at her news station. I bet she often acts first and thinks second, and easily commands the attention of her peers at KFOG—or was it KHOP?
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” A giant bottle of Baileys, enough to put me into a deep coma, stares up at me from the brown bottom of the bag. “I’ll put this away later. I’m Brooke,” I say to Georgia, extending my hand. “You are?”
But I already know. How could I not?
“Oh, I’m such an ass.” Erin smacks her forehead. “I suck at introductions.”
“Georgia. Nice to meet you.” Smiling sweetly, Georgia scans the dining table set for people who’ll never come, and the ninety-inch television we’ll never watch mounted above the fireplace we’ll never light. “Love what you’ve done with the place. It’s minimalistic. Peaceful. Energy’s clean.”
So this is Georgia. Rumored black widow and husband-killer. Next-door neighbor. A woman who’s somehow managed to harness the colors of the rainbow and pull them off without looking tacky. She’s petite, maybe a size four. Narrow waist. If she doesn’t have breast and butt implants, she’s certainly blessed with natural voluptuousness. She doesn’t appear to be wearing much makeup, but her eyes are bright, her skin smooth, and her mouth tilts up at the edges with the hint of a smile.
She reminds me of one of the girls I would’ve seen at pageants when I was young, someone who truly loved the spotlight, who sought it out. Someone very much the opposite of myself. I never wanted the attention. I was only using it to cast a light where I wanted people to look at the time. If people ogled my silky hair extensions, my nails, my tan, or the lightness of my eyes, they weren’t looking at the rest of my ugly life that was ripping apart at the seams.
“It’s a work in progress,” I offer.
“Aren’t we all?” It’s clear from the hitch of her eyebrows that her question is rhetorical. She strolls through the living room and stops in front of a red and white abstract painting with blue threads attached to the surface. “What do you have here?”
“Forgive the intrusion, but I must ask,” Erin says, setting her cell on the table before sliding onto the nearest stool. “Did the real estate agent give you the Presidio Terrace homeowners association handbook? I was curious if you’d had a chance to read it yet?”
“I’m sure she gave us the book, yes.” Though I have no idea where I might’ve put it. “But I haven’t had a chance to look through it yet.”
“Here she goes,” Georgia says from the living room. “This painting is good, Brooke. It makes me think I’m locked in some kind of dream state.”
Erin glances into the living room. “Looks like a painting of sticky fog, to me.”
Georgia won’t let it go. “Did you purchase it new from the artist or from an auction?”
“It was a wedding present
from Jack,” I say. “I’m not sure where he picked it up. It’s called Reflection. There’s supposed to be a bunch of faces in there or something, but I can never find them.”
“There’s something about it.” Georgia kinks her neck in the opposite direction like a confused canine. “I think I’ve seen it before, but you know how these abstract paintings are—study too many, and they all start to blend together. Maybe—I’m not sure, but Andrew might’ve had a print just like it in our office at some point. He changed things around so much, it’s hard to be sure, but it’s familiar…”
“Her ex-husband was shot in their home, in his office,” Erin declares without lowering her voice. “Georgia was home in bed. Didn’t even know there was an intruder until the gunshot. You must sleep like the dead!”
Georgia waves her off as if she’s annoyed.
“Oh, that’s…” I don’t know what to say. “Terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Georgia glances at me over her shoulder. “You didn’t kill him.”
Does Georgia talk about her exes often? I wonder. Do their names spill off her tongue effortlessly or does she keep their secrets tucked close to her heart?
“Brooke, what I was going to say before Georgia derailed the conversation with talk of her dead ex is that we have a strict rule about not leaving garage doors open for more than five minutes at a time.” Erin checks something on her phone, her lips downturned in a puzzled sort of frown. “Wouldn’t want the other neighbors to get the wrong impression of you from the start. We want everyone to know that you care about our neighborhood, as I’m sure you do.”
“Yes, of course.” The transition from Georgia’s ex-husband’s murder to my garage door startles me. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. I wouldn’t imagine that you did it on purpose.” Erin reaches across the island as if to soothe my anxiety. “You’ll need to pull your car in and close the door as soon as we leave. It’s not like we’re going to penalize you or anything if you don’t. I simply thought you could use the reminder.”
“She will fine you though,” Georgia says darkly, returning to the kitchen. “Don’t respond quickly enough and you’ll find a fee envelope in your mailbox. She takes her job very seriously. This job, that is. As for the one she just walked out on, that’s another story.”
“You quit your job?” I startle. “At KHOP?”
“It was KFLAG, thanks for listening, but yeah, I did. Well sort of.” Erin snaps and the crisp sound echoes through the kitchen like the crack of a whip. “I wanted a sabbatical, so I took it. I had an epiphany yesterday: I couldn’t put up with Ted’s condescending attitude for another minute—he’s my coanchor, damn him, and he could’ve at least treated me as his equal. Anyway, I walked out and am taking today off. Maybe the week. Perfect timing for Georgia’s wedding and all. I absolutely expect them to call any minute and grovel to get me back.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will.”
“Erin and I were headed out for a walk,” Georgia says, beside me. “And then we planned on hitting up Grounds & Greens. Want to come?”
I’m still trying to process why a woman like Erin—so professional and composed—would walk out on her job. “Grounds & Greens? Wha—what is that?”
“If the neighborhood’s built like a nest, with the houses swirling round and round, it’s smack in the center—the egg, as it were,” Erin says. “Each morning they serve mimosas so strong you’ll be able to put up with anything the rest of the day…even your husband. Not that you have to do that, of course. You’re one of the lucky ones—your husband is a workaholic.”
“Oh, he used to be, but now that we’re closer to his offices, I imagine he’ll spend more time at home.” They’re staring at me strangely, as if expecting me to go on. “He’ll travel to the satellite branches in Seattle, Sacramento, or Los Angeles now and again, but for the most part he’ll be here.”
“You sound happy. How lucky for you.” Georgia groans softly. “I need a drink. Thank God Grounds & Greens serves the best mimosas.”
Erin and Georgia exchange a quick glance as Erin’s phone pings. Erin slides her cell out of the side pocket of her leggings and swipes her finger over the screen. Her eyes track quickly as if she’s reading a text message.
“They want to see me first thing tomorrow morning.” She smiles smugly. “They can’t run the show without me, and now they know it. I bet they’re going to beg me to come back immediately, and be so disappointed when I request the week off.”
Georgia gives her a high five that echoes through the house. “They can’t live without you.”
“I’m happy for you,” I say. I know how thrilled I’d be if I had a job that valued my expertise. Instead, I’m suffering from a serious case of impostor syndrome. “Now we have cause to celebrate. First round of mimosas on me!”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Georgia grins. “But don’t mention it to Erin’s husband. He doesn’t like it when she drinks this early in the morning. He’d kill her if he found out.”
“Not like you killed your husbands,” Erin retorts, and for the first time I sense a bit of animosity between them. The tension in the air thickens.
Georgia rolls her eyes. “Of course not. No one can kill with the finesse that I do.”
I stare at the sharp angles of Georgia’s nose and chin, at the way her eyes give no hint of the truth away. Why would she joke about her ex-husbands’ deaths so callously? Surely she doesn’t want everyone to think she’s guilty. That’d paint a target on her back. She’s almost larger than life, a character who’s vibrant in the colors she wears and dark in her humor. Deadly beautiful. The hint of an idea niggles at the back of my brain. I could make Georgia a character in my story. A true Black Widow. I’d have to change her name, of course, but it’s been so long since I’ve heard the familiar heartbeat of my muse, I’m eager to keep her alive.
“Let me change into some workout clothes,” I say eagerly.
After I’ve pulled my car into the garage and secured the door, we start off on our walk. We’re not three minutes in before Erin starts gushing about her therapist, Dr. Theresa Wilson. I wonder if Georgia’s ever been to therapy, and if she opens up about her husbands’ deaths. I’m intrigued, my thoughts racing as I breathe life into a character in my head. Does she grieve like a normal widow? Does she take any responsibility for their demises? What type of woman would joke about killing her husbands? I prefer writing about savvy characters, especially women, who think they have the world on a string.
“Where are you from originally?” Erin asks me, her stride eating up the sidewalk. “Virginia, like your husband?”
She’s really thorough in her research. “I don’t know that I’m really from anywhere in particular. When I was growing up, my family moved every six months for my dad’s work—he was in the army. I guess you could say I call Louisiana home, since we were there the longest, but I lived in Virginia most recently. That’s where I met Jack.”
“I love the South,” Georgia says dreamily.
“No, you love southern men.” Erin rolls her eyes. “It’s the accents. You already have one on the line, G. Focus.” She laughs, and then turns her sights back on me. “Were you seeing anyone back home?”
“Other than my husband?”
“No, not a man—a therapist,” she clarifies. “Do you have a shrink?”
“No.” I keep my pace in time with theirs. “Do you?” I ask Georgia.
“I don’t trust therapists,” she says sharply, then points out a dark blue home on the corner. “Senator Baldwin lives there and his wife holds all the power in their relationship. She sleeps with the pool boy every Wednesday afternoon while her husband is at the office. They see Erin’s therapist.”
She nods. “They referred me.”
“We all have issues,” Georgia says. “Some of us need to talk through them,
others are more adept at managing them on their own.”
“And others simply pretend they don’t exist,” Erin chimes in. “Not that I would know about that. The couple in that house with the red door didn’t get approval to have it painted. I don’t care that it’s the same color it was before, they still had to get approval. They thought they could just ignore the issue and it’d go away…so I called them out at the last homeowners association meeting in front of everyone. You should have seen their faces.”
“Three-hundred-dollar fine,” Georgia says, laughing. “Pennies to them, but still. It was the principle.”
“Those people with the gray garage door fight, but only after two a.m. so their neighbors won’t hear,” Erin says. “Apparently if the wind is just right, and Georgia opens her windows on that side of the house, she can hear every word.”
“It’s juicy,” Georgia agrees, nodding. “You should be able to hear it too. Might make you feel a whole lot better about your own marital issues.”
“I don’t have marital issues,” I say, pulse quickening.
“Of course not,” Erin and Georgia say together, and then they giggle.
It’s true. Jack and I are happy. We love each other. I can’t imagine my life without him. What I do have are book issues. Characters who won’t behave. Plot holes that won’t fill themselves. And it occurs to me that not once has Erin or Georgia asked what I do for a living. Our conversations have revolved around Jack and therapy and Erin’s work and Georgia’s dead husbands. Par for the course of my life. I find a strange sort of comfort in being overlooked as just another pretty face.
As we follow the sidewalk toward the guard shack, the attendant runs out the back door waving a small white envelope over his head. “Ms. St. Claire! A delivery for you.”
“Early wedding present?” Erin asks.
Georgia shakes her head as we cross the street. “We said no presents, remember?”
The attendant meets us at the curb. “Someone dropped this off about an hour ago. I was waiting until the mail came to walk it over.”
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 5