Page 73 of The Wife Upstairs
But Eddie is nothing like Tripp, and we’ve just been at a party, for fuck’s sake. Of course he smells a little like nice booze. I probably still smell like those glasses of sauvignon blanc Emily pushed on me.
The house is lit up as we pull into the driveway, and I wonder if there will ever be a time when I get used to the idea that I live here. That this gorgeous house is all mine.
Well, mine and Eddie’s.
I have another glass of wine when we get in while Eddie answers some late-night emails, and then I decide I’m going to take a bath. I can’t get enough of that giant tub, of being able to use it whenever I want.
Walking into the bathroom, I’m already shucking off my dress, letting it hit the marble floor without a care in the world even though it costs more than my rent at John’s place did.
I’d brought a smaller clutch with me tonight, holding just my phone, lipstick, and some mints—and now, Landry’s bracelet—and as I toss it to the counter, I hear my phone chirp.
Frowning, I pull it out of the bag, some little part of my mind wondering if someone noticed the bracelet, but when I see who the message is from, my stomach lurches.
We need to talk.
It’s Tripp.
I sag back against the sink, staring at the screen as another text comes in.
I understand if you want to tell me to fuck off, but I didn’t do this.
And for some reason, I feel like you might believe me.
I wait the space of three breaths, then four, and the last text comes in.
Which means you’re in danger.
“Janie?”
I startle as Eddie appears in the doorway, his tie undone around his neck. “What’s wrong?” he asks, then frowns. “You’re pale.”
Tell him,I think.You lied to him about John and look how upset he got, don’t lie about this.
“Too much wine,” I say, sheepish. “And Emily just texted me about some stuff for the NBC,” I add, waggling my phone at him.
Eddie shakes his head. “‘The NBC.’ For all that talk about moving, you’re sounding like one of them.”
His smile is fond, and I give him by best flirty one in response. “You know you love it.”
“I love you,” he counters, and my smile falters just a little, but thankfully, he’s already turning away.
“Love you, too,” I say.
And then I text Tripp.
Tell me when.
PART VIII
BEA
The party is held at the Tutweiler, an old hotel in Birmingham that Bea has always loved. Blanche had her wedding here just six months ago, and Bea had known then that she’d have to host some kind of event here herself.
The launch of the latest Southern Manors line plus the celebration of the company going public seems like the perfect occasion, and Bea spends months planning every detail. When the time finally arrives, the reception is even better than she’d hoped for.
The ballroom is decorated with Southern Manors items, each table holding a sterling silver apple, or a crystal pig, or a blown glass vase decorated with a gingham ribbon. It’s classy and elegant, but warm and friendly, the exact brand Bea has worked to cultivate over the past few years.
She tries to be the embodiment of that brand herself, her dress beautifully made and outrageously expensive, but not overly dressy, her jewelry understated.
