Page 3 of Happy Wife

“Go change,” Autumn repeats.

I know better than to challenge the doyenne of parties in Winter Park. Heading toward my room, I slip through the scullery, where dishes and lipstick-stained wineglasses are being quietly rinsed and wiped clean by two cater-waiters. I try not to think about the wine that’s dripping into my underwear and fake a smile as I pass them and enter the kitchen.

But the kitchen frenzy I expect to find—a crowded scuffle of dishes being plated—isn’t here. The only person in the kitchen is Marcus, and in spite of myself, I exhale a sigh of relief.

Maybe he notices the softening in my posture at the sight of him, because his lips bloom into a boyish smile as he says, “What’s up, boss? Dinner’s running on time, and I’ve got a plate of sea bass if you want to give it a try.” His cheer gives way to concern as he takes in my appearance. “What happened?”

“This is what I get for wearing white.” I gesture at the crimescene on my dress, and he is already in motion, grabbing a clean towel, but I wave him off. “Marcus, it’s an entire glass of red wine on white silk. The only thing that’s going to fix this is lighter fluid.”

“Have you considered the fact that arson is a dangerous stress behavior?” He raises an eyebrow.

“This isn’t funny.” My voice cracks, and I fan my eyes to keep the threatening tears from smearing my mascara.

Marcus puts his hands up in mock surrender as the air falls silent between us. An unspoken tension fills the kitchen. I know why it’s there. I treated him terribly the last time I saw him.

“Marcus, about what I said…”

“Hey.” Marcus’s voice tightens a little. “Tonight isn’t about that. We’re good.”

The tears I have been holding at bay spill over, blurring my vision. I wipe at my eyes as Marcus takes a step toward me. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and his gaze meets mine, concern etched in his features.

“Are you still worried about winning this crowd over?” I can tell he’s trying to hide the thrum of frustration in his voice. “These people are not your friends, and what they think of you is none of your business. At best, they’re a pack of drunken fakes, and that’s the nicest thing I could say about them. Some of the people out there are truly vile human beings. Sociopaths. And that’s just the stay-at-home moms from the country club. Don’t even get me started on the career politicians.” Then he adds with conviction, “Fuck them, Nora.”

A genuine, albeit faint smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

“You’re better than all of them. I’d bet my life on that. So, don’t let them get to you. They don’t deserve it. And besides, you’re throwing thebiggestparty with thebestchef in town, so all is right in the universe.”

His brown eyes are so intensely kind that it almost breaks my heart. “I’m sorry, Marcus,” I whisper. Because he deserves to hear me say it, and when he’s looking at me like this, the regret is so heavy I can barely stand it. “I made such a mess of things.”

He shifts on his feet. Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can place it. “You want to leave?” He smirks, lightening the mood and changing the subject, closing the door thatkeeps unlatching. “We’ll let your husband take it from here, then Thelma and Louise our way across the country before they even realize we’re gone.”

“What a weird way to tell me you have a thing for Brad Pitt.”

“Cute. But I’m just disappointed I’ve made it thirtysomething years and never properly carried out a crime spree.” Marcus winks before he practically chucks me on the chin. “Go change your dress while I tamp down my itch to go out in a blaze of glory by driving a car over a cliff.”

I let out a weak but grateful laugh. He gently releases his grip on my shoulders, giving me the space to collect myself. I choke down my self-pity and plaster a coy half smile on my face. My eyes are still watery as I say, “It’s last year’s dress anyway.”

From the corner of my eye, I try to catch another glimpse of the damage to my dress in the bay window. That’s when I see Will, standing outside, and—is he watching us?

No. You’re just being paranoid.

I shake my head and go upstairs to change.

Chapter3

Twenty minutes later, I reemerge, heading outside in a fresh dress—black this time. The neckline of the long-sleeved bandage dress gives away the sunburn on my shoulders from this morning’s boat ride with Will and his daughter, Mia. In my head, my mother chides that tan lines are gauche. But at least the dress is clean.

Down at the dock, I spot Will engaged in what looks to be a relatively heated conversation with his law partner, Fritz. As in Frederick Hall III, a descendant of one of the founding families of Winter Park.

A hundred years ago, the Halls split their time between textiles in Chicago and lakeside retreats in Florida, patronizing Winter Park’s artists and pulling strings in every kind of circle that matters—political, social, and the like. Sometime in the 1940s, they became full-time mainstays. In other words: The Halls are hard-core Winter Park royalty.

I watch as Will and Fritz’s argument goes quiet, and they turn back toward the house to rejoin the party. Will picks up his pace toward me as Fritz sidesteps, half nodding in my direction, looking flushed. Probably from too much bourbon.

“Why’d you change?” Will murmurs in my ear, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I liked the white.”

“Unfortunately, white silk and red wine are natural enemies,” I quip, hoping to drop it.

Before Will can react, Fritz loudly starts to tell the story of a recent weekend he spent at his family’s hunting camp on the St. Johns River, sucking up all the attention within a hundred-yard radius as he is known to do. Fritz is the quintessential example of Florida wealth, an avid hunter with a designer wardrobe. Golf and guns by day with a crisp Brioni tux always at the ready.

---