Page 2 of Happy Wife

Este nudges me again, reaches into her McQueen clutch, and produces a small white pill. “Xanax?”

I gently push her hand back into the bag. “Are you just keeping loose pills and weed in there?”

“Nooo,” she says, drawing out the word. “I told you.Beaubrought the weed. I brought pharmaceuticals, but only in case you needed them. And stop looking at me like I’m crazy. A whole pill bottle would never fit in this bag.” She holds up the black leather pouch as if that should be obvious.

“I love you, but I’m not taking drugs six feet away from the mayor.”

“The mayor’s here? I should offer her something.” Este looks past me to search the crowd. “I bet she fears the country club moms more than you do. They’re always worked up over something inane like adding more quinoa to hot lunches.”

“Please don’t offer the mayor drugs.”

“Prescription drugs aren’t real drugs,” she fires back.

Here’s the thing about Este: If anyone else spoke to me the way she does, I might cry. But with her, somehow dismissive and aloof are part of a breezy, no-fucks-to-give charm.

Este assures me that the mayor attending isn’t headline news. I should know that by now. We’re talking about a town small enough to fit in your pocket. Spanning a mere ten square miles, Winter Park is known not for its footprint but rather for its sweeping mansions, brick-paved streets, meticulously curated lawns, and wealth per capita. Founded as a sunny escape for well-heeled New Englanders, Winter Park is now a haven for the affluent. And the estates established by snowbirds a century ago have been taken over by anyone willing to pay the steep housing prices in exchange for access to the tax shelters Florida has to offer—from professional athletes to hedge fund managers and old-guard sugar barons.

When I decided to host this celebration, my brilliant idea was that a party might help nurture stronger connections with some of Will’s friends. I had visions of a small dinner party and good conversation. But when I asked Autumn Kensington—the “it” girl of all things event planning in this part of the world—to help, she made it clear that in Winter Park, gossip and party invitations are social currency. The party rapidly ballooned from an intimate gathering to something more closely resembling a state dinner.

“I don’t fear the country club moms, by the way,” I say under my breath. “I just see them for what they are: status-obsessed social snipers who hate me.”

“You worry too much about what people think of you.” Este swipes a flute of champagne off a passing silver tray and hands it to me like a jaded parent soothing a rowdy child with a toy. “Here. Calm down.”

Again, dismissive and yet somehow not offensive. She silentlyraises her red wine, and we clink glasses before I take a measured sip so as not to appear unhinged. This crowd can smell fear.

In smaller groups, I can rely on Will to shield me from the unfriendly wives and unwelcome questions about his first marriage. He always changes the subject and then pulls me close to whisper a compliment in my ear. But as the party got started, the crowd swelled and engulfed him in a sea of backslapping and handshakes, leaving me standing alone. Thank God Este foundme.

“So, you’re just going to white-knuckle it through this soirée? No narcotics? What about hallucinogens?” She looks a little disappointed. As a California transplant with a relatively new, but massive, fortune, Este has not even attempted to fit in among the country club set. We became fast friends once we realized we were both outsiders. But for her, the on-the-fringes lifestyle was by choice.

“I’ll stick to wine. I should keep my wits about me.” I shake my head, thinking Will might actually kill me if I got high. What a giftthatwould be to all of his judgy friends.

“Well, the food is incredible. Have you tried Marcus’s ceviche? That man is a fucking genius. He must have driven to the coast this morning for fish that fresh.”

I smile. “At least they won’t be able to complain about the food.”

I still can’t believe Marcus closed his restaurant to cater the party tonight. Even though he and I aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye these days, I’m relieved he’s here.

“Let’s take a lap,” Este says, grabbing my hand and guiding me toward the terrace.

The gossip is in high supply tonight, and I’m thankful this means shit-talking me is off the table. For now, Winter Park’s morbid curiosity is focused on something other than my marriage. The topic du jour is a car accident that happened just up the street around two the previous morning. Someone ran off one of the brick roads that curl through Winter Park’s most extravagant estates and crashed their Buick into Carol Parker’s wrought-iron fence. The driver of the Buick was life-flighted to the nearest hospital, leaving a gnarled vehicle at the scene for almost a day before a tow truck could come and collect it. Carol has been beside herself about the damage to her lawn and her grandfather’s prizedwrought-iron fence—purchased at the World’s Fair in 1893 and transported here to adorn the house. As hors d’oeuvres circulate through the party, so do second- and thirdhand accounts of the accident. Guests speculate over whether the driver was drunk, whether Carol came out in her house robe to render aid, and whether Will should be hired as the attorney to represent Carol in a civil suit against the driver.

Petty gossip, small-town intrigue, and fresh-caught ceviche. By all accounts, it’s a perfectly normal night at a Winter Park party. I can’t believe I pulled this off unscathed. Este notices the success of the event, too.

“I almost hate to say it, but this is a proper Winter Park fête.” She raises her glass and beams. “Hear, hear.”

But as her arm goes up, a misstep from a nearby guest causes her hand to jerk back, sending the entire glass of red wine hurtling toward me. The glass shatters on impact as it lands at my feet, and the room falls into a tense hush. The wives do a lackluster job of hiding their amusement as they take in the Jackson Pollock splash of wine trailing down the front of my white silk dress.

Disaster. Of course.

“Oh,shit,” Este says.

I catch my reflection in the window, the red stain bleeding across the white silk. I look like I’ve survived a massacre.

Chapter2

Autumn materializes out of thin air, waving a white napkin. “Go change. Leave the dress on your bed, and I’ll stain-treat it before the end of the night. You might have a shot at wearing it again.Might.I’ll have someone bring a broom for the glass.”

This is why everyone in Winter Park trusts Autumn. Everyone but Este, who rolls her eyes.

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