Chapter 1 #3
Like a lot of people in their thirties, Winnie had long ago grown weary of social media.
She had an account for her business, but not a personal account, because most of her family and friends were local.
If she wanted them to see a picture of the sunset, she’d text it.
And she thought posting pictures of herself and Mitchell was kind of tacky.
Bragging. Look at me and my boyfriend! I have a partner!
Do you??? Plus, she hadn’t even been ready to share the news with her family, who had a tendency to swarm and assume and start making wedding plans and all that.
But if she had…damn it, if she had posted pictures on social media, someone would’ve instantly told her who Mitchell really was.
She’d Googled “Mitchell Preston, chef,” and read all the articles.
Not one had said the words wife, married, children, kids.
Never. She’d stalked Mitchell Preston’s social media sites (all food-related).
Did one of those background checks to see if he’d been arrested or divorced, and no, Mitchell Preston, because he was a fake person, had not been.
The M. Preston who owned his condo turned out to be Margot Preston, his mother.
She had done her best to vet him. Hadn’t she? The Mommy Mafia didn’t think so, and maybe she agreed with them. People saw what they wanted to see, after all.
But no. She had tried. Even so, the horror of being the other woman—and the shame of falling for a married man and father who had no problem lying for months—made her want to go down to the beach and howl into the wind.
“Let’s do this,” Rosie said, snapping Winnie’s fuzzy head back to the moment. They went into the Ice House, the restaurant where trivia nights were held. “Head high, shoulders back, screw the haters.”
“Right,” Winnie said. One good thing about a big family—safety in numbers. Plus, no one would dare say anything about her when Grandpop was around.
They sat at the team’s table, and Winnie said yes to another glass of wine. A few people looked their way, eyes gleaming with gossipy glee. Gleaming with gossipy glee. That was fun to think. A few hellos were called out to other Smiths, but no one said anything specifically to her.
So what? She didn’t care. Well, of course she did, but she didn’t, right? Gleeful gleaming gossips, that’s what they were.
The game got underway, teams huddled at their tables, half the patrons just there to eat and drink and watch.
As the DJ, Robbie’s job was to read the questions and then play songs that sort of matched the answers.
He did it well and with gusto. Everyone loved Robbie.
Everyone loved Harlow and Lark. Grandpop practically had a statue in the center of town, he was so beloved.
Lark was a minor celebrity just because she was so nice and sweet, and a doctor.
Her parents, super popular, Dad a retired nurse, Mom the owner of a popular art gallery and gifted artist. Addie wasn’t adored as much, but definitely envied and powerful.
Winnie…she had never made much of a mark.
Until now. Until making the scarlet letter A.
Oh, the irony! The irritating, ignominious irony!
She laughed, tried to say those words to Grandpop, but saw he was deep in discussion about a trivia question she hadn’t heard.
She took another sip of wine. Or a slug. It was actually a slug.
Winnie didn’t need to actually participate in the game because Harlow’s team took this shit very seriously, pouncing like a great white on a wounded baby tuna.
Anything science-based, Lark and Grady had down pat.
Grandpop was the history buff, Rosie knew everything pop culture, Harlow nailed current events and literature.
How many elements are in the periodic table?
A hundred and eighteen, apparently. (Robbie played She Blinded Me with Science by Thomas Dolby).
Who played Mrs. Robinson in the movie The Graduate?
Anne Bancroft (Robbie blasting the Simon and Garfunkel song).
Name Henry VIII’s six wives. Katherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Catherine, Katherine.
(Marry You by Bruno Mars.) Robbie really was a good DJ.
Winnie listened and toasted Harlow and her teammates and drank more wine, as was her right. She even relaxed a little. The nachos were excellent. Did a person need more?
And then…then came the question that sank her leaky boat.
“Which of these actors allegedly had an affair with his child’s nanny?
” Robbie read with gusto. “Your choices are A) Robin Williams, B) Ethan Hawke, C) Tom Hanks, or D) Arnold Schwarzenegger. Wow, that’s a lot of cheating husbands, am I right?
” Robbie said. He hit a button on his keyboard, then got up and headed to the bar with his empty water glass. From his speakers began the song.
The song that brought on her doom.
Jolene by Dolly Parton, in which a loving wife begs Jolene not to steal her man.
And suddenly Winnie remembered that last week she was so in love that it felt she’d ingested pure sunshine.
Mitchell had nuzzled her neck, murmured about how good she smelled, and she’d thought, so this is love.
It’s all true. Instead, she’d been a Jolene.
She jolted onto her feet. Where was Robbie? That song needed to stop immediately. He was chatting at the bar, blissfully unaware. “Robbie!” she shouted. “Robbie!”
He didn’t hear her.
“I’m sure it’s not intentional,” Harlow said. “Robbie’s just doing his job, Winnie.”
“I love this song!” Grandpop said. “‘Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene!’”
“Hey, Grandpop, maybe not right now,” Dante said. “You know?” He gave Winnie a sympathetic look.
The penny dropped for Grandpop. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Winnie.”
“No, it’s fine,” Winnie growled. But the song was a classic, unfortunately, and it seemed like a lot of people were following her grandfather’s lead, begging Jolene not to take their man.
Quite a few were looking at her. Some were now clapping their hands in time.
How did so many people know the words, damn it?
Oh. Robbie’s projector had lyrics, like a karaoke machine.
The song finally registered for her idiot brother, and he leaped for his table. Not fast enough. Winnie stomped toward him and grabbed his mic. “For God’s sake, Robbie! A little solidarity, maybe?”
“Sorry,” he muttered. Laughter rippled through the restaurant.
“As for the rest of you,” Winnie said, turning to face the restaurant patrons.
“Winnie? Winnie! Come sit with us,” Lark said, standing.
“Winnie? Hon? Your food’s here!” Harlow tried, waving a burger at her like Winnie was a dog (a trick which might have worked another night, to be fair).
“No,” Winnie said. In the corner, Beth, owner of the Ice House, was waving her hand across her throat. Cut. Cut. Abort mission. Abort.
It was time to be heard. “You people,” she began, dimly aware that beginning a speech with you people never ended well.
“You people need to hear this. I didn’t know he was married.
Okay? I didn’t. And for two, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person in this room who’s slept with someone else’s spouse, am I?
Not gonna name names, but I’m there in your houses, at your parties, and I see you eyeing each other.
Maybe I see you sneaking into another room with someone who’s not your partner at your stupid gender reveal parties and bridal showers and baby’s first birthday party. Oh, yes, I do.”
“Time for another question,” Robbie called, raising his voice since he was now mic-less. “Where is the aqueduct of Sylvius? A) Rome, B) Peru, C—”
“It’s in the human brain,” Winnie said, though how she knew that, she could not say.
“And shut up, Robbie, I’m not done.” No.
Windsor Eleanora Smith was not finished.
Nuh-uh. Nope. That fourth glass of wine had her back.
“Let’s talk about those parties, since we’re all here.
Can you all stop being so obsessed with your own lives?
Do you really think your baby’s gender needs a party to announce it?
Can’t you just pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, Mom, we’re having a girl!
’ Can’t you? Do you think the world needs to watch you pop your stupid balloons rain down stupid pink powder?
Or how about your kid’s first birthday? I’ve got news for you.
All you’re doing is overwhelming your kid. What baby needs fifty guests?”
There was silence, which she took to be encouraging.
“And Jesus, the weddings!” she went on. “There is nothing more I hate than your weddings. Do you think you’re the first person ever to get married!
” She jacked up her voice to a jus. “‘It’s my day! I’ve been dreaming about this since I was in my mother’s uterus!
What should our hashtag be?’ God! It’s nauseating.
Call me when you’ve been married a couple of decades and can still stand to look at each other, and then we’ll have a party, because then you have something to celebrate other than the fact that you’re an attention whore and—”
Her words stopped as Dante pried the mic out of her hand and practically lifted her away from the center of the restaurant.
“I’m not done,” Winnie protested.
“Oh, you are,” Dante said.
“Okay, then!” Robbie said.
“It was everyone except Tom Hanks,” Rosie called. “Tom Hanks didn’t sleep with the nanny.”
Well, thank God for that. At least something was pure in this shitty world.
“Turning now to, uh, sports,” Robbie said, microphone back where it belonged, “which of the following players won a Heisman Trophy? Was it A) our own St. Brady of Boston? B) Golden Joe Montana, C) Walter ‘Sweetness’ Peyton, or D) Devonta Smith, who my mother finds very attractive?”
Winnie was not sober, she recognized as her brother-in-law dragged her out of the bar and through the main dining room. Grandpop led the rest of them, saying things like, “Our dear Winnie is not at her best. Being accused of adultery has hit her quite hard,” which was not helping.
“By the way, it was Devonta Smith,” Dante said. “But everyone will say Tom Brady.”
“What’s wrong with you people?” Winnie said as he set her down on the sidewalk. “My heart is broken, and you’re still answering trivia questions!”
Crying. She was crying. Harlow wrapped her in her arms and hugged her tight.
“I feel so stupid,” she hiccupped.
“I know, honey, I know. We’ve all made huge mistakes when it comes to other people. It will get better.”
Lark patted her shoulder, sympathy tears streaming down her face, and Rosie joined the hug as Winnie sobbed.
God. She hated crying. She hated this.
The air was damp and salty, the half-moon rising. No one spoke again. Winnie took a breath, then another. She wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands.
If her career hadn’t already been over, it sure was now.