Epilogue: The DOMs
The La Feria bar is far seedier than I expected. When I open the door, it’s so dark inside that I can only make out the colors on the jukebox and a blinking red exit sign in the back.
When my eyes adjust, I look over the tables. I expect to see Camellia Walsh. Actresses. Society women. I don’t expect to see Winnie.
Now I know how the DOMs figured me out.
She holds out her hands as she comes forward. “Arianna,” she says. “You made it.”
She wears a loose floral outfit that flutters as she walks. Her hair is not as blond as before, as if she’s transitioning it back to her natural color. She grasps my hands and leads me to a tall table with a half dozen other women.
Camellia isn’t there. I recognize a few faces from press photos back when I was stalking Dell.
“We’ve sent you six invitations over the past four months,” Winnie asks. “What made you accept it this time?”
I slide onto a stool. “Morbid curiosity,” I say. “I’m surprised you’re still meeting.”
A slender brunette speaks up. “We assumed he’d come back around eventually. We never thought your single motherhood would be such a draw. But Dell gets bored quickly.”
I’m amused that the world has fallen for that ruse. My obscurity made it easy to pretend Grace was mine first and Dell’s second. This ensured no one ever connected the dots back to the Duchess. Nobody cared who my baby daddy was. I wasn’t interesting enough for speculation.
And as for Dell getting bored, not happening anytime soon. We just discovered the dark thrill of spreader bars. On him.
“You might want to find another bachelor,” I say. “Or membership is going to die off.”
“Oh, really?” the brunette says. “You think you’ve landed him?”
I pull my left hand out from beneath the table and casually tap my nails against the surface. The diamond solitaire from Paris catches the neon from a beer sign on the wall.
“Shit,” whispers a fortysomething woman with boobs that rival mine. “A wedding will keep him off the market for at least six months.”
The brunette holds up a palm. “This group is not about Dell Brant per se,” she says. “Our mission continues.”
Now she has my interest. “What is the mission of the DOMs? What does it even stand for?”
“Dirty Old Mistresses,” Winnie says. “Isn’t that a hoot? We’re all discarded lovers of powerful men. We help each other get invitations to events where we can stay in contact with the right sort of prospects.”
My jaw falls open. “And Dell was your quality control?”
“Exactly,” Boob Woman says. “Not all of his exes made the cut. His track record isn’t perfect.”
“But he met women in the right places,” the brunette says. “Between all of us, we could get into most any charity event or fund-raiser. Where the big fish swim.” She glances down at my ring. “Sadly, you are currently not eligible for membership.”
Fine by me. “Isn’t this whole thing sort of manipulative?” I ask.
Winnie picks up her drink. “It’s tough out there, Arianna. We’ve been discarded.” She holds up her glass to the others. “But we will stick together.”
“‘Till marriage we do part,” a blonde says.
“And divorce gets us back together,” Boob Woman adds.
They clink their glasses.
“Don’t forget about us,” the brunette says. “We’ll find another method of recruiting members while you have your hold on Dell.”
“But remember, we’ll be here if you need us,” Winnie says.
“When you need us,” the brunette amends.
I smile at them and slide off the chair, then turn for one last question.
“Camellia Walsh,” I say. “Is she in your group?”
There’s a collective groan.
“Girls like Camellia make the rest of us look bad,” Winnie says. “We’re not gold diggers. We just want to make sure we can survive and flourish, no matter the whims of the men.”
“Well, good luck,” I tell them. I guess it’s good they have each other. I know most of what they say is true. I see it at the child spa all the time. Last month, for the first time, we had two couples marry each other’s exes. The kids didn’t even have to switch rooms. Only the billing information changed.
So the DOMs are right about that. It can be tough out there. Happiness is rare. True love even rarer.
I exit the bar, blinking in the bright light of a brilliant fall day. Two blocks down, I turn and head to a small park. There’s a figure there in a ball cap, Mets jacket, and jeans.
Dell. My lover. My future husband.
He’s pushing Grace in one of the bucket swings. She laughs in a bright blue coat with the words “Future CEO” across the front. It’s a sample. He bought a children’s line from some manufacturer and made them change all the logos on the girls’ wear.
Max bounds around the park, chasing birds and leaping around like a squirrel. Every time Grace sees him, she lets out her little baby laugh.
Dell spots me. “How did it go?”
“I got kicked out,” I say. “It’s only for single ladies looking for their next love affair.”
“Huh,” he says. “That figures.” He leans down to kiss me. “You feel better now that you know?”
“Sure.” I watch Grace’s beaming face as she moves forward and back in the swing.
“You going to the spa now? It’s your day to work.”
Dell and I have both gone part-time, alternating days off so we don’t need a nanny. “It’s nice outside,” I say. “I think I’ll just stay here with you two.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dell says.
Grace babbles a little more. According to the birth certificate, she is eight months old today. We have kept her middle name Galina to honor the family who holds her secret. We hold out hope that one day, when she is grown, the Duchess will be able to acknowledge the daughter we have raised on her behalf.
But for now, it’s just the three of us.
A beautiful baby.
A much more chilled-out mom.
And the single dad who taught me to dream big, love hard, and never be afraid to create your own definition of being on top.