The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  Gripping my shoulders, Jack leans in and smatters a line of kisses down my neck, taking my mind off what happened. My skin covers in gooseflesh as I tilt my head so he can continue his trek. I’m wearing one of his favorite dresses today—a simple black, spaghetti-strap number with clear stiletto heels. I always thought it looked more like a slip than a dress, but it’s not about what I think. It’s about what others think. And when I wear this to what is supposed to be Georgia’s wedding, they’ll think Jack is married to a woman who is a little wild and carefree, someone who isn’t afraid to dress risqué. They might think I’m kinky, and Jack would love that.

  The truth is, we haven’t had sex all week. He’s been working long hours each day, and I’ve been sucked into my manuscript and the drama of this place. Presidio Terrace is like a vortex, where negative energy and drama cling to the air like fog, swirling round and round our little cul-de-sacs.

  I love Jack, I do. We work when we’re together, because without saying a word, we understand the roles we’re supposed to play in this marriage. Expectations are clear, understood, and executed. However, given all that, there are days I want to strangle the man. Maybe that’s just what happens when we live with another human being, entwining our money and hearts and the stress of daily life.

  I wonder if other couples have the problems we do.

  “Can I ask you something?” But even as I say the words, I know I should keep my mouth shut. Maybe it’s the dress, and the boldness I have to adorn myself with when I wear it. “Do you think marrying for money produces a different outcome than marrying for love?”

  He removes his lips from my skin, leaving me cold. “You know what they say: love and money get people killed.”

  “That wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for,” I say, applying a second coat of lipstick. “And I don’t think that’s the actual saying.”

  “What are you looking for, Brooke? A philosophical discussion about the reasons people get hitched?” He dabs on my favorite cologne, a spicy musk I’ve always loved on him. “Is this because of Georgia’s wedding later? You know she’s only going through the motions because she’s obligated. Robert’s not coming.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps saying,” I say, feeling bad for her, “but I think some part of her is still hoping for a miracle.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I know. But do you think people who marry for money, instead of love, have the same kinds of problems we do?”

  He leaves the bathroom, and from the sound of his footsteps, he’s left the bedroom and headed downstairs. I’m expected to follow if I want to continue the conversation. I fluff my hair, grab my purse, and trail close behind. Only he doesn’t continue the conversation at all. He doesn’t say a word as we pull out of the driveway and pass a catering truck parked in front of Georgia’s house. He doesn’t mention the crews moving things in and out, busying themselves by preparing for an intimate reception that probably isn’t going to happen. He doesn’t speak a word until we’ve turned onto California Street, stopped in front of the Merchants Exchange Building, where Georgia is supposed to get married in a few short hours. Sometime during the night, it began to rain, and it hasn’t stopped since. Puddles mar the sidewalk, and tourists run for cover beneath awnings of financial district buildings. Jack turns off the engine but doesn’t get out of the car. He looks straight ahead, hands on the wheel, staring at the rain-dimpled windshield. It’s just before noon, but with the clouds lumbering so low in the sky, blocking out any trace of the sun, it could be after nightfall.

  “You think we have problems?” he asks finally.

  I almost laugh, but when I see the steely glare in his eyes, I force myself to remain calm. There are times I wish he would chew more quietly. Hell, sometimes if I’m sitting too close to him, he breathes too loudly. He can snore and work long hours and not appreciate the work that I do to make our life beautiful. I’m sure I drive him crazy too, but we still love each other. We love each other despite our problems, and I was only wondering if he thought other couples, ones who marry without love, fight over the same things.

  Taking his hand, I stroke the wedding ring I put on his finger almost a year ago. “Of course we do, sweetheart. No one is perfect.”

  He makes a strange, apathetic sound. “Up until this moment, I thought you were. Thanks for the enlightenment.”

  I’m gaping, watching him exit the car, shielding his face from the rain as he strides around the hood to open my door. Does he not think we have problems at all? Could he really have been oblivious to the strain his work has put on our marriage? More than that, does he really think I’m completely, blissfully happy being a wife who sits at home and stares at her computer all day?

  He escorts me across the slippery sidewalk, using his coat over my head as a cover. Always the gentleman. He watches my steps carefully, matching my pace.

  Squeezing my arm, he says, “Talk about this later?”

  We can’t start up this conversation now, when we’re about to enter the Julia Morgan Ballroom and be swarmed with wedding guests. I nod and walk inside the building because the air is still caught in my throat and the words won’t come. The building resonates elegance. I can see why Georgia picked this location, because she and the building are alike in that way. Past the foyer, bar, and lounge, we’re led into the grand ballroom with floor-to-ceiling arched windows. The city glitters beyond the rain-smattered glass and I’m holding my breath as I take in the honeycomb ceiling, the rich paneled walls, and the stone fireplace at the end of the room. The space is alive with laughter and smiles and glasses clinking and light jazz wafting from the overhead speakers.

  I know the role Jack wants me to play, the parade he wants me to put on. That’s the thing about coming from a home with an alcoholic father: I know how to gauge people, how to read the energy in the room; I know what’s expected of me, and I play my role well. Jack, for example, expects perfection. That’s all. No more, no less. But only the façade of perfection, which I can handle. Because if people are envious of my nails and my hair and thinking about how our marriage is perfect, they’re not asking about my childhood, about the way my father died, and how I learned to survive on my own for so many years. They’re not asking about my brother, how he took the fall for my father’s death, or the way he spent his life in and out of prison. If they’re staring at my smile and my figure, they’re not probing to see the worthless soul lurking beneath.

  Drinks in hand, Jack and I work the room, introducing ourselves to Georgia’s other guests. As I pass a couple I’ve never met before, I hear the woman say she saw Erin King from “the special last night” chasing away a news crew outside. I’m about to head out and talk to Erin when Jack seems to notice someone near the bar. Just as he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me there, I catch sight of Mason, knocking on a door attached to the ballroom. When it opens a crack, he slips inside, and then Georgia peeks her head out, a long veil draped down her back. She looks both directions and stands up on tiptoe to search through the crowd.

  “I’ll meet you over there,” I tell Jack. “I’m going to see Georgia first.”

  I should ask how she’s holding up. She can’t possibly go through with the initial parts of the wedding for the sake of some stupid show. She’s certainly not going to walk down the aisle without a groom there to meet her. While I don’t mind enjoying the reception at her home afterward without having suffered through the actual ceremony, it’ll feel a little morbid if Georgia’s strutting around in a wedding dress waiting for her missing fiancé to show up.

  I knock softly on the door and wait to be invited inside.

  Nothing happens.

  The volume in the bar heightens as I turn the handle and crack the door open. Sticking my head in gives me a clear shot of the room. Ornate, gold-rimmed mirror against the back wall. Curtains used to separate the space—pro
bably put up with the express purpose of giving the bride a place to have some privacy. Georgia sits on a stool in front of the mirror, silk wedding dress slinking down her body, her hips swiveled around so she’s facing Mason. He’s standing in front of her, still as stone, hands hanging lifelessly from his sides. If he moved a step closer, his legs would be straddling her lap, his inner thighs touching the outsides of hers. As it is, they could be touching. I can’t really be sure.

  Whatever they’re talking about is important, and very private.

  I listen hard.

  “I’ve been trying to get you away from Erin for days,” Georgia says, desperation lacing her tone. “We don’t have long…”

  She motions for him to lean in, and mumbles something in his ear. I can’t pick up what she’s saying. Mason nods, turning toward her as if to kiss her cheek. She looks up at him, batting thick false eyelashes. Something passes between them. Shock pummels me hard, a fist to the gut.

  Mason and Georgia…

  “I didn’t know how to tell you without Erin finding out…it’s so hard to get you alone.” Gazing up at him, Georgia clutches at his arms desperately. “You deserve better, Mason. You deserve to be happy.”

  He shakes his head. “There may have been a point when I thought I could leave her, but realistically, it’s not going to happen. She’ll lawyer up so hard, I’ll be robbed blind. I’ll be left with nothing. My practice…everything I’ve worked my whole life for. She’ll take it all.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand so my breathing doesn’t give me away. How could Georgia even think about moving on to someone else—Erin’s husband, no less—when she hasn’t even married Robert yet?

  “And that’s better than the alternative?” She places her hands on his thighs, a gentle motion. “Mason, I care about you, deeply, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. You have to leave her.”

  Something brushes my arm, tickling me. I swipe away the sensation.

  Then I see the sleeve of Erin’s coat, draping over me as she leans in to listen. She stares at the crack in the door, mouth open slightly, eyes glinting with disbelief before flipping to rage.

  She heard.

  “Erin,” I whisper. “Maybe you should—”

  Swallowing hard, she seems to compose herself by pulling back her shoulders and adjusting the minijacket over her arms. And then, blowing out a deep breath, she pushes open the door. I follow her inside, ready to break up a fight.

  “Mason, honey,” she says sweetly. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

  He jumps, his gaze flipping between Georgia and his wife. “Of course. Thanks for the talk, Georgia. I’ll come by sometime next week and trim that unseemly tree in your front yard. Wouldn’t want Erin to fine you for being in violation of the association’s code.”

  As he walks out of the room, taking Erin’s arm along the way, I’m reminded of secondary characters I wrote in my latest book. Matthew is cheating on his wife with their neighbor. Has been for years. His wife knows. Has known from the first transgression. But she puts up with his cheating because deep down, she doesn’t believe that she deserves any better.

  They split in the end, after a hellish divorce. They wind up losing their house, their dignities. Matthew gets violent, his wife gets even. I don’t know how Mason and Erin’s story will end, but I get the feeling it’s going to be just as nasty.

  Georgia turns back to the mirror, fluffing her veil. “How much do you think she heard?”

  “Enough,” I say softly. “Enough.”

  Her phone rings from the table beside her. She picks it up on the first ring, holds it to her ear, and then lets out a soul-cringing wail as she slides helplessly to the floor.

  The police have found Robert.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BROOKE

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  When the police told Georgia that Robert’s body had washed up along the rocks in front of Fort Point, I had to Google the location. Apparently, Fort Point is a masonry seacoast fort tucked beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Built before the Civil War to defend the bay against warships. It’s now a landmark with tours running through it daily, probably every hour. I didn’t even know it existed until we turned just short of the Golden Gate Bridge and wound along Marine Drive, on the edge of the bay. Storm waters crash over the boulder seawall, spraying the road, drenching our car.

  Ahead, in front of the fort’s parking lot, police cruisers line up, creating a black-and-white barricade to stop pedestrians and bicyclists from continuing their paths to the fort. As the wipers sweep over the windshield, Georgia sits silent in the passenger seat, holding her knees. The rain reflects off the windshield, making it appear as if the drops are running down her face and gouging into her porcelain skin.

  “Thank you for taking me,” she says, her gaze landing on the yellow blanket draped over a boulder. “I wouldn’t have been able to drive myself. I’m too shaky.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Everyone will be at my house after this,” she says, smoothing away a wrinkle in her wedding gown. She couldn’t be convinced to change. “I told the wedding guests we’d have the reception no matter what. I can’t be alone right now. Is that normal?”

  “I think when you’re dealing with loss and grief anything is normal. If being home alone is too difficult, it’s all right to ask people to be there with you.”

  “The crews were setting up all morning. There’s more than enough food for everyone.” She pauses, hand to door handle. “Do you think the police know what we did? What really happened?”

  What we did. I shudder at the thought.

  Somehow, I’ve gotten myself linked to the ransom and the fallout of her refusal to pay it. I still don’t understand. If she’d only given Danny Johnson what he wanted, Robert would be in a tuxedo, standing in front of the Julia Morgan Ballroom hearth, his hand in hers. It’s not as if she’s hurting for money, or couldn’t somehow pull it together between all of her investments. But I suppose I shouldn’t judge her or her actions under these intense circumstances. Until I’m walking in Georgia’s red-soled Louis Vuitton shoes, I can’t say what I would do. We each handle stress in our own way. I know that better than most.

  “You keep saying ‘what really happened,’ like there are two versions to the story. The truth is, there’s only one: Danny Johnson kidnapped your fiancé. He tried to ransom him for millions of dollars. When you tried to confront him, he attacked you. That’s what happened, Georgia. That’s the truth.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she says, pointing a shaking finger to the black tarp-like object lying beside the yellow blanket. “What do you think that is?”

  I peer through the rain-splattered windshield. “I can’t tell. Do you need more time, or—”

  “No, I’m fine. Happy wedding day to me.” She shakes her head with a sick laugh. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As we approach the police cruisers, I notice the detectives right away. They order a few officers to bring us umbrellas, which we cower under together, and join us at the edge of the seawall. While the rain’s dropping straight down, lancing into my umbrella, the mist and sea spray are hitting me sideways. We’ll be drenched in minutes.

  “Is that your wedding dress?” Linard asks, surprised.

  She lifts the small train from the back. “Today was our day. This wasn’t exactly the reunion I’d been hoping for.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Ms. St. Claire, but one of Fort Point’s workers found your fiancé about an hour ago.” The detective outstretches his arm to keep us a safe distance back from the waves as they crash and blast through the air. “Currents are strong through here. The storm must’ve pushed his body over the rocks.”

  “Can I see?” Georgia looks up at the detectives, face wet with a mixture of tears and rain. “I have to see him for mysel
f.”

  One of the officers shakes his head as Detective Linard squats near the boulder and lifts the yellow blanket. Robert doesn’t look like the man she was about to marry. His chest, face, and neck are bloated and discolored, and he’s missing his eyes. Georgia moves in close, knees buckling when she’s seen too much. I cradle my arms around her shoulders as Linard replaces the blanket.

  “How—how do you know it’s him?” she asks feebly.

  “We found this in the pocket of his coat.” Linard hands over a silver business card case with Robert Donnelly’s name engraved on the lower right corner. When he catches Georgia staring at Robert’s face, he says, “Birds must’ve gotten to his eyes. He’s also missing the ring finger on his right hand, though from the marks, we believe that was cut or sawed.”

  I wonder what Georgia did with Robert’s finger and ring. Did she keep them? Bury them in her front yard, beneath her rose-bushes? Perhaps he lost his eyes at the same time he lost his finger. Maybe it wasn’t birds at all.

  When Georgia gags, Linard says, “I’m sorry, Ms. St. Claire. I told you not to come. You could have met us at the station.”

  “No, it’s fine, I’m fine.” She sways into me. “I needed to be here to see for myself. I told you I wanted to know everything. Thank you for your candor. May I ask—what is that?”

  She points to a pile of black tubing piled up next to Robert’s body.

  “It’s an inflatable raft. We think it had a motor on it at one point.”

  Now Georgia knows I’d been honest earlier. I’d seen the boat that had taken Robert away.

  Linard turns to me. “During our initial questioning, you reported seeing what you thought to be a boat pulling away from the yacht. Could this have been it?”

  I stare at the deflated pile of black inky tubing. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Do either of you recall anyone following you at any time?”