Page 8 of Happy Wife

“You’re spicy this morning. Who hurt you? Did someone atthe party try to tell you the Morse Museum is better than the MoMA again?” The small art museum is a long-lauded Winter Park landmark best known for housing the most comprehensive collection of Louis Comfort Tiffany’s stained glass.

“It’s just a bunch of glass!”

“It’sTiffanyglass,” I counter.

This earns me a deadpan glare. “Thankfully, no one tried to gaslight me with another ‘I’ll never leave Winter Park because everything I could ever need is right here’ speech last night. But Beau did get hammered and hurled in your jasmine bushes on the walk home.”

There it is. Este is salty because she likely spent part of the evening getting Beau to bed. I pull a face in her direction. “My jasmine? He puked on my jasmine? Damnit. I like those flowers.”

“I know. They’re going to smell like whiskey for like a month.”

“Gross.”

We go out through the garage, and I see Will’s car parked neatly in its space. Maybe his car being here when he’s gone would be suspicious for anyone else, but I know that Will hates to drive when he’s deep in trial mode. He thinks it’s a waste of time. He’s always Ubering.

I double-check inside the sports car. I don’t know what I think I am going to find. All I see is a coffee cup from last Friday that is probably growing mold. I’ll tackle that petri dish later.

Just as soon as I figure out where the hell Will is.

Chapter6

As we pull out of the driveway in Este’s electric Mercedes SUV, I open the Find My app and search for Will’s location. After watching the “loading” wheel spin as we drive a few blocks, I look over at Este.

“Does your cellphone service suck? I’m trying to find Will, and it’s taking forever to load.”

“Want me to ask Beau to jailbreak your phone? If you want to start a bar fight in Silicon Valley, ask them about jailbreaking devices. But he swears it improves processing speed.”

I stare down at my screen, watching the hash marks illuminate and dim as absolutely nothing loads. “No. It’s fine.”

“Last night, he was talking to Beau about some big trial coming up. Do you think he work-widowed you again?”

Work-widowed. This is what Este calls it anytime Will has a trial to prepare for and he basically falls off the grid. Holing up in a room at the Ritz-Carlton—somewhere out of the Winter Park bubble to avoid distractions—he works twenty-two-hour days and survives on room service while he storyboards opening statements and talks to his experts and witnesses.

“Despite his inability to document anything in our shared calendar, usually he has the decency to tell me before he fucking disappears.”

We pull onto Park Avenue, a street at the heart of Winter Park.The shopping hub—with its oak-shaded walks and brick-paved roads—spans less than a few blocks. It’s about as old as the city itself, dating back to the late 1800s, when the train station that ran parallel to Park Avenue served as the arrival point for travelers. The influence of the New Englanders who settled here can be seen in the architectural style and street names in the Park Avenue district. There’s even a miniature Central Park, an eleven-acre green space that’s home to art and jazz festivals, which sits between Park Avenue and the train tracks.

The quaint provision shops from Winter Park’s founding era have given way to Rolex dealers, but the shopping district has withstood the pressure of big-box stores, shopping malls, and supercenters. Small businesses line the shopping strip—independent restaurants, including Marcus’s, and the charming local shops and boutiques that sell high-end clothes, books, and home goods. Like a lot of Winter Park’s history, Park Avenue is fiercely protected by people who believe the community stands a cut above.

Este parallel-parks her car next to the fountain in the center of the park, and we walk to our favorite yoga studio, tucked down a narrow redbrick pathway. Hoping my phone will pick up a better signal on the studio’s Wi-Fi, I outpace Este slightly to grab a mat and sit down. When I open my phone, the network connection seems stronger, but when I try again to search for Will’s location by way of his phone, the processing wheel spins for what feels like an eternity. I know his work can be all-consuming, but I’ll feel better if I know where exactly he’s disappeared to.

“Just call the Ritz after we’re done,” Este offers, setting up her mat next to mine.

“Yeah.” I lay out a towel over my yoga mat to keep from slipping when we start to sweat. “Good idea.”

When Aliyah comes in, dims the lights, and starts the gonging spa music, Este doesn’t seem to notice that I’m getting concerned about Will’s whereabouts.

—

“I’m sorry, but we are not able to share any information about the guests staying on the property without a confirmation number for your stay,” the front desk employee at the Ritz-Carlton advises when I call from Este’s car on the drive home.

Este rolls her eyes at my phone, which is on speaker.

“Ma’am,” she says to the phone. “We just want to know if my friend’s husband is Beautiful-Minding his way through some legal prep in one of your suites. You don’t even have to tell us the room number. Is there a guest that keeps ordering, like, an alarming amount of coffee? Someone you might describe as ‘Howard-Hughes–level sequestered’?”

“I’m very sorry. But I’m not able to discuss guest activity.”

“Don’t you know someone there? Can you be transferred to the concierge or something?” Este says to me.

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