Chapter 1 #2
Usually when the husband cheats, there’s an outpouring of sympathy toward the wife. In this case, it must’ve been my fault
he was driven to such a decision.
Not attentive enough. Not social enough. Just plain not enough. I was Princess Di in Buckingham Palace, at least the version depicted in The Crown.
Sure, there was plenty of pity, but mostly what this affair taught me about my social circle is that it’s full of people who are really interested in staying in the good graces of John Sr. and Marilyn Wellesley.
I can practically hear Marilyn’s posh tone: “I warned him this would happen if he married that girl, but did he listen? No.”
She was pretty forthcoming with her disapproval from the start. She didn’t know about Amelia at the time, of course, but I
have to wonder if it would’ve made a difference. She never made much of an effort to know her granddaughter, and when she
did find out, my pregnancy only gave her “proof” that I was trying to trap John.
I wish I’d been trying to trap him. All of this might’ve been less horrible if my feelings hadn’t been involved. Back then,
John and I were smitten with each other. He made me feel wanted and loved. He didn’t care that his mother didn’t approve;
he was committed to me. When did that change?
Up until that fateful night a year ago, I’d been doing a pretty good job of fitting in. At least I thought I was. I had the
right clothes. The right shoes. I attended the right dinners and events. I drove the right car and I knew all the right people.
But still . . . deep down . . . I knew the truth.
I never belonged here.
The doors open again, and I wish I had a pair of binoculars so I could get just a tiny peek inside. Did Marcie play it safe
with the dusty-pink roses?
Maybe you should go and find out, my lunatic brain prods. Just quick—no one will even notice.
And I’m convinced.
The sun has begun to set, I reason. The impending dusk will provide enough cover for me to sneak around the back of the building
and take a quick look inside. The back wall of the ballroom is all windows that open to a two-story deck and patio leading
out to the golf course. Holes one and eighteen have plenty of trees and bushes for me to go undetected.
I grab the handle to open the door when I look down at my feet.
I’m wearing flip-flops.
Because gas station. Because milk. Because mac ’n’ cheese.
Hmm. This could be an issue. It’s February, and it snowed yesterday.
You’ll be so fast, your toes won’t even have time to get cold, I think to myself.
I pull the baseball cap down lower and shove my oversized sunglasses on my face, making it twice as dark as I step out of
the car, lock it, and dart off into the trees.
I channel my inner Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible, crouching as I move.
If I were self-aware, my movement would be more Bond and less baboon.
I quickly move from one tree to the next, feet slipping in the plastic shoes. I stop with my back against the tree and peek
around to make sure the coast is clear before racing to another when the back of the building comes into view.
Yellowish light spills out onto the brick patio, illuminating the big stone fountain John’s parents donated to the country
club a few years ago. The waitstaff weave their way through formally dressed men and women milling around, and I squint to
try to see what they’re serving.
Probably shrimp. They always start with shrimp.
I never liked shrimp.
I see the string quartet on the small stage, and I’m glad Marcie decided to hire them again this year. The violinist is a
sweet young mom I met a few years ago at a wedding, and I was so happy to give her foursome a little more exposure. I know
they’d booked several holiday parties as a result of this gala over the years, and it made me feel good that I got to pass
that on.
I miss that part of this life. Having the means to help other people was huge to me.
I huff out a breath as I move in a little closer.
If I angle myself just right, I might be able to see what big-ticket items Marcie was able to score this year.
Last year we had two sets of Nuggets tickets and a pair of box seats to a Broncos game, but those had been my contributions.
Maybe it’s wrong, but I want to believe that the gala is a little worse off without me.
From where I stand, though, it doesn’t seem to have missed a beat.
Which is good, Claire. This event is about sick children, not your pride.
I see John and the other woman standing in a group with Roxie and Garrett and two other couples I can’t make out from here. The men are on one side, and
the women are on the other. And everyone seems perfectly comfortable with my replacement.
I dart out from behind my hiding place and run in the direction of a small patch of bushes, wondering how often my old friends
see this woman socially. Do they invite her to spa day? Do they go shopping together?
I squat down and look at the group just as one of the women, who I now see is Lainey Russell, reaches out and takes the other woman’s hand the way you do when . . .
My stomach clenches.
The women lean in, and the other woman—Misty—throws her head back and laughs. She reaches her right hand out, and John takes it, sharing with her a knowing look
that anyone could see from a mile away.
Is my ex-husband engaged to this woman?
Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I saw.
There’s still a lot of commotion around their group. Marcie—who was my friend, not John’s—walks up to them as Bill Russell moves toward his wife, blocking my view.
Instinctively, I rush onto the patio and hide behind the fountain, certain that with the light of the ballroom, nobody looking out into the darkness is going to be able to see me out here.
I inch out from behind the fountain, but as I do, the motion lights from up above come on, lighting up the whole patio like searchlights from a helicopter.
The sudden burst of light is like an instant shock, and without thinking, I hide in the only place I can think to hide.
The cold water of the fountain is another shock, and it almost burns as I dunk myself down behind the statue. My right foot
slips on the slick, wet floor, and I topple over, losing a flip-flop. I instinctively let out a yelp as I splash, and I flounder
to stand up straight, slipping again. I find my footing, slap my hand over my mouth, and press my body into the back of the
stone statue, hoping it’s big enough to keep me hidden, even in my oversized sweatsuit.
I screw my eyes shut as I hear the door of the ballroom open. Heels click on the brick patio as someone steps outside.
Cold water seeps deep beyond my sweatpants, and I’m struck by a frigid wave of panic and the sudden urge to pee.
“Claire?” I don’t have to open my eyes to recognize John’s voice, but when I do, I see he’s not alone.
He’s standing there with a small group of my once-closest friends, staring at me in a frumpy sweatsuit that’s soaked from
the waist down as I stand with flip-flops in a fountain at a formal function in the middle of February.
Even alliteration has given me an F.
I close my eyes, wishing with every fiber of my being to be whisked away like Dorothy Gale or teleported like Marty McFly—zapped
back in time to right before I made the decision to follow the Lexus here.
I wait. I wince. I mentally plead. But nothing happens.
I open my eyes and see that now a larger crowd has gathered.
Their expressions range from disgusted to amused to horrified, and I can’t even blame them. Because if I didn’t know it before,
I know it now—this is what rock bottom feels like.