“He delivers our mail by hand?” I ask Erin.
“Only Georgia’s.” Erin leans in to whisper in my ear. “She must offer him some incentive. It’s not hard to guess.”
“She’s sleeping with the—”
“Shhh,” Erin says.
“It’s no problem,” Georgia says kindly, taking the envelope. “Thanks, Malik.”
Malik. That’s right. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember his name. He looks like a sweet man who tries to please, with a soft smile, and squinty eyes hidden behind his unfashionably square glasses. His uniform—a collared polo shirt and khaki pants—is faded a bit on the edges. I can’t imagine Georgia sleeping with the guy. What could he possibly offer her that her fiancé—or her previous two husbands, for that matter—couldn’t?
As we continue our trek down the sidewalk, Georgia tears into the envelope and pulls out a piece of cardboard, smooth and white, the size of a wedding RSVP card.
“What the ever-loving-fuck?” She stops and covers her mouth with her hand. The color drains from her face as she turns the card around. “Another one?”
TIME IS RUNNING OUT. PAY WHAT YOU OWE is scrawled in thick, black ink.
CHAPTER SIX
BROOKE
As Georgia takes a call just outside the front doors, a waiter escorts Erin and me to seats near the window overlooking a wide lawn and gravel flower beds filled with potted hydrangeas. Beyond the grass, sidewalk, and narrow lane, gigantic houses bathe in the orange-red glow of morning sunlight, their pillars long and smooth, their hues vibrant.
“Is it hot in here?” Erin asks, fanning herself with the menu. “No? Just me. My temperature is off lately. Not sure what’s happening—and don’t you dare say menopause.” She laughs nervously and glances up at the waiter, who’s staring at her quizzically. “Mimosa with light strawberries for me. Nothing to eat. For Georgia, a mimosa with raspberry, sugar rim, and a warm bagel—lightly toasted—with pepper and cream cheese. Brooke?”
“Sure.” When the waiter disappears, I say, “I don’t think anyone has ever ordered for me before, the way you just did for Georgia.”
“That’s what friends do. Your husband doesn’t order for you?”
“No,” I say, nor would I want him to. “Never.”
Her eyebrows hitch as if she can’t believe it. “Mason doesn’t either. I just didn’t think Georgia would want us to wait. Here she comes.”
“Sorry,” Georgia says, relaxing into her chair and flicking the card into the center of the table. “I needed to report the threat to the police. Can you believe it? I mean, I have no idea what the person is referring to. I don’t owe anyone anything.”
“And I’m sure if you did, you would pay it,” I say, trying to comfort her. “When you first saw it, you said ‘another.’ How many threats have you gotten like this?”
“What would you say, Erin? Five? Six?”
Erin thanks the waiter as he drops off our drinks and Georgia’s food. “Has to be over ten by now. Started shortly after her second husband died.”
“Ten?” I squeal.
“Erin, I didn’t know you ordered for me,” Georgia says, dismissing my shock. She takes a quick, sloppy bite of her bagel, smearing cream cheese onto the corners of her mouth. “You’re the best. Pure gold.”
“No, if I were the best,” Erin says after a long sip, “I would’ve been camped out at the police department, demanding they find whoever is responsible for sending all those things.”
“That wouldn’t help,” Georgia says, dejected. “The threats would keep coming.”
“The police have to be able to do something.” Tipping back the mimosa, I think about what I would do if I were in Georgia’s shoes. “You should take this in and have them check for prints.”
“I did that for the first few, of course,” she says. “Nothing ever came of it. They’re clean. Every one. At this point it’s a waste of my time to keep going down to the station. Now they say, as long as the threats aren’t escalating, I shouldn’t be concerned.”
“You’re being harrassed,” I say, incredulous. “If they don’t act, when will it end?”
“The problem is, they don’t have a thread to start pulling.” Erin leans over the table, anxious, fingers twirling around one another. It’s as if she’s getting ready to play Clue. “If only they had an idea of who it could be. You have tons of enemies. Your ex-husbands’ families, for starters. They hate you.”
Georgia drinks heartily. “Let’s not dig up the past.”
“What about the hermit on the corner who glares from her living room window every time we walk by?” Erin asks. “It was probably her.”
“It wasn’t anyone who lives in the neighborhood,” I say quickly.
Georgia looks to me. “How do you know?”
“Because they didn’t leave the note on your doorstep. They left it with that Malik guy. That means they couldn’t get in to deliver the note themselves.”
“She’s clever,” Erin says to Georgia. “All of them have come through the mail, haven’t they? Well except for the one that was left on your car when you were out shopping.”
I can’t help but smile. “The message is disturbing, but at least you can sleep easy knowing whoever it was can’t get in.”
“Deep down, I’ve always had suspicions about Penny—you know, the woman two houses down who cuts her grass with scissors?” Erin fans herself with her napkin. “She’s always wound so tight. Wouldn’t take much for her to snap. I appreciate her adherence to the rules on keeping up the lawns, of course, but damn, no one has to go to those lengths.”
“She’s not the first person on the terrace you’ve driven crazy,” Georgia says, laughing loudly. “Remember Veronica?”
“Ohhhh, I loathed her,” Erin says, crinkling the napkin in her fist.
“Who’s Veronica?” I ask.
“A woman who lived right over there.” Georgia points to a gray house that looks exactly like the others on the street. “She had a mad crush on Mason, Erin’s husband, and when she discovered he was a plastic surgeon, she went to see him as much as possible. She must’ve had twenty surgeries last year alone.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Erin says quickly, but the bite in her tone gives away her jealousy. She takes a long, hard drink, draining her second mimosa. “Her marriage was on the rocks, but mine was solid. Always has been. She tried to get my man. She failed. And then she and her husband moved away because there were better insane asylums in Texas, apparently. End of story.”
“What else should I know about the neighborhood?” I ask, feeling nervous for the first time since I sat down. I’m not even sure why my insides have gone all jittery. “Anyone I should stay away from?”
“Honestly?” Erin raises her empty glass. “Us.”
And we all laugh.
“Truer words were never spoken,” Georgia says. “We’re not the best influences. Everyone in the neighborhood would agree.”
“I think you’re both great,” I say. “I wasn’t in Virginia long enough to make friends. I was only there a month when I ran into Jack at some random bar outside of D.C. Once we met, we were pretty much inseparable.”
Erin’s smile falters. “What about family?”
“Not in Virginia,” I say. “My dad died right after I graduated high school, so it’s really just my mom, and she still lives in Louisiana, in the house I grew up in. I talk to her on the phone as much as I can, but with Jack’s career, we don’t really have time to see her very often. I have a brother who lives in Florida, but we have very different views on life.”
This is not entirely true. We have time to fly down to visit my mother, but I don’t really have any interest in going back. I think that’s partially thanks to the way my parents raised me. Growing up, moving so often, I never really felt like
I could get my footing in any one place. I left behind friends, boyfriends, schools. After a while, I started to enjoy the endless possibilities of a new place. I could put a period at the end of one sentence and move on to another, brighter, better one. I could become anyone I wanted—a character from a story even. I think that’s what made me want to become a writer. Watching ordinary characters living out their extraordinary lives became a weird little pastime that I absolutely loved. The other reason I don’t want to go back home is the way my father died, and the way my mom looks at me. But I doubt Georgia and Erin are ready to hear that story yet.
I glance around the quaint shop, which smells of coffee and baked goods. The tables are empty, save for a woman sitting in the corner feeding pieces of her biscotti to the teacup Yorkie tucked under her arm. Now there’s a character I could develop into someone amazing…
“Oh my God,” Erin says under her breath. “I can’t believe she brought that thing in here. Do you recognize who that is?”
I turn around completely, and Erin smacks my arm. “Don’t look at the same time as Georgia. Too obvious.”
“It’s Pam—the labor and delivery nurse who moved into the neighborhood last month,” Erin explains, and snaps a picture of her mimosa before diving in. “She lives around the corner. Married to a lawyer who defended that guy who killed someone last year—I don’t remember the name. Anyway, she’s certifiably insane. Maybe she’s the one who wrote that card.”
“You don’t know that she’s insane,” Georgia snaps. “I think she’s sweet.”
Making a dismissive sound, Erin leans closer and motions for us to do the same. “I hear she thinks that dog is a human. Takes it everywhere—even to bed with her, if you know what I mean.”
I stifle a laugh by smothering it down with my drink.
“This gossip is as cold as my first husband’s grave,” Georgia says. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Fine,” Erin asks. “Have you talked to Robert about Maxine yet?”
“Before you assume my husband’s having an affair,” Georgia says, leaning toward me, “you should know that’s his yacht. They have a special relationship. And no, Erin, I haven’t brought it up.”
“You need to fight for a place in his life,” Erin says fondly. “He should be waxing your ass as much as he waxes that boat.”
I’ve spent only one morning with these women and I love them already.
“Does your husband have a yacht?” Georgia asks me.
“Or a hobby you absolutely despise?” Erin adds quickly.
I shake my head. “No to both.”
“Lucky you,” Georgia says, breaking off a chunk of her bagel. “I hear your husband is quite the computer geek.”
“Thank you?” I say with a chuckle as I fiddle with my hands in my lap. I’m always so nervous when the conversation starts to veer toward Jack’s business. I don’t know much about technology and find myself tuning out when Jack rambles on about this person needing that information for this meeting, and that guy needing money for this investment. It’s not so much that I’m not interested as that I’m afraid of sounding stupid. “News really travels fast around here.”
“It’s the neighborhood,” Erin offers. “You can hardly sneeze without hearing ‘bless you’ come from half a dozen surrounding houses.”
“It’s no secret how we found out,” Georgia says. “I used the same real estate agent when I bought my place ten years ago. She called to fill me in on the details after your walk-through. She said your husband bought the house for you…not with you. Interesting choice of words, I thought.”
My insides squirm like I’ve swallowed worms. She smiles but takes a swift drink before she laughs. Erin giggles, the high-pitched sound like daggers to my ears. When Jack said we’d be house hunting, I started researching neighborhoods from Sacramento to San Francisco, all within driving distance to Silicon Valley. From the moment I spotted Presidio Terrace, I knew it would be a perfect fit. Yes, he bought it for me. It was his final decision, as the moneymaker in our household. But our home was my absolutely first choice. Its location is prime. I wouldn’t have moved into any other home in any other neighborhood.
“Not like you can judge,” Erin fires at Georgia. “You bought your house for no one but yourself. Andrew didn’t mind moving into the house you lived in with Eli.”
“That’s true,” Georgia corrects. “And Robert doesn’t mind either.”
Suddenly, the stories I’ve heard about Georgia begin to take shape. Eli, her first husband, had fallen down the stairs. Cracked his head open. Andrew, her second, had shot himself in their office. How could Robert be comfortable living in the same home where her previous two husbands had not only lived but died? How could she?
“It all boils down to loyalty,” Georgia says quietly, and Erin stills beside her. “It’s important to make sure the ones you keep closest to you are the people you can trust wholeheartedly, and that includes those who live within earshot. I trust Erin with my life. I enjoy having her close to me. Each of my husbands knew they’d have to wheel my lifeless corpse out of this neighborhood—I’d never leave willingly.”
I look to Erin and expect her to smile cheekily or gush about how much she trusts Georgia as well. Only, she doesn’t. She’s watching me carefully, and I’m suddenly keenly aware that Georgia’s conveying a message, and I’m supposed to be paying attention.
“I think it’s nice that you allowed your husband to purchase your home for you,” Georgia goes on. “It shows the level of trust in your relationship.”
“Or the level of control,” Erin says under her breath.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you,” someone says from across the restaurant. It’s Nurse Pam. She’s left her table and is walking closer, her slip-ons silent over the tile floor. She stops only when she bumps against the table with her thighs. “You’re Georgia St. Claire, aren’t you?”
With a little flip of her hair, Georgia looks up and beams. “I am. We met last month when you moved in, remember? I brought you over a welcome basket. Erin, my friend here, had her personal chef bake the cookies.”
Pam frowns. “I know about you—after we got settled, I Googled your name and read all about how your husbands were killed. I’ve been sitting over there minding my own business, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t say something—the way you sit here talking about your ex-husbands is revolting. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Yet you RSVP’d to my prewedding party tonight,” Georgia says sweetly, her smile not faltering. “You said you were coming.”
Pam’s chin lifts confidently. “Harold and I are attending to show support for your husband-to-be, the poor man. It’s not assigned seating, is it?”
At that, the light in Georgia’s eyes dims. For the first time since I’ve met Georgia, I feel bad for her.
“Pam,” I say, interjecting before this conversation completely derails. “If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make sure one of them is pretty.”
Cursing, Pam spins around, collects her things from her table, and pushes out the café doors. Erin smothers her laugh with her hand while Georgia simply stares at me with a smile on her face.
Once she’s gone, Erin lets loose. “Brooke, you’re gold. Solid gold. I can’t believe you just said that. Georgia, can you believe she just said that? Oh, that was too good. I wish I’d snapped a shot of the expression on her face so I could look at it again and again. I always had a strange feeling about Pam, from the moment she took those cookies and didn’t even say thank you. Georgia…there’s no way she’s coming now, which means you have two open seats for your party.”
“I do, don’t I?” Georgia says after a pause. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me the whole time. “It’s a sunset cruise around the bay tonight at six. A little dinner and dancing. Your husband is invited too, of course. It�
��ll be perfect. The men can run off and talk about golf or boats or whatever, and we can stay behind to drink and gossip. You in?”
Jack’s going to be exhausted, if he can come at all. The entire time we’ve been together, I don’t think we’ve ever been invited to something because of me. IT and tech conferences? Sure. He’s been the keynote speaker plenty of times. But we’re being invited to this because of me. I’m not sure how he’ll respond.
“Sure,” I say coyly. “Sounds like fun.”
“I wish we didn’t have to be stuck on Robert’s yacht,” Georgia says, “but we’ll deal with it the best we can.”
“Enough about Robert’s yacht…” Erin groans. “Something has to be done, Georgia. Frankly, I’m just tired of hearing you complain about it.”
“I should just light the bitch on fire,” Georgia says darkly. “After the wedding, of course.”
“You’re not serious.” I let my gaze flip between them. They’re unreadable. I can’t tell if they’re malicious or simply have dark senses of humor. “You must be joking.”
“Oh, I want to help.” Erin bounces up and down in her seat and claps her hands. “You know how I like reconnaissance missions. I could sneak out there at night to make sure the job is finished. Just say the word.”
“Done deal,” Georgia says, raising her glass. “Bonus points if the captain goes down with the ship.”
I’m taken aback, gaping at the casualness in her tone. She’d just put a very informal hit out on her soon-to-be husband in a very public place. Does she realize that? Anyone could have heard her just then. She could be in some serious trouble. Or is her sense of humor so dark that she simply doesn’t care who overhears?
Georgia and Erin clink their glasses together and wait for mine to join theirs. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m thinking about characters and plots and I’m excited about going out and meeting new people. And it’s all because of these two sinful women. I clink my glass against theirs as Erin pulls out her phone and takes a photo of our hands lifted high, morning light reflecting off the rims of our empty glasses. She hashtags it #3Musketeers and #SinkingLikeTitanic.
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 6