#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Mallery delivers a captivating new novel about three sisters wrestling with life, love and the price of being happy.
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Coming February 2019!
by Susan Mallery
“THEY’RE FRYING BACON!”
Finola Corrado tried not to smile at the panic in her assistant’s eyes. “The cooking segment is potato salad five ways. Bacon is the cost of doing business.”
Rochelle’s horror morphed into indignation. “Yes, and right before that is the ‘What’s New in Sundresses’ segment. I’m very familiar with the schedule.” She set down her tablet, put her hands on her narrow hips and leaned forward, as if stressing the importance of her point. Her long, dark braids moved with her. “Finola, we have models in the building. Tall, skinny, hungry models. They’re starting to look feral and turn on each other. I’m convinced it’s the smell of bacon. Can’t they cook it somewhere else?”
And people assumed television was glamorous, Finola thought, still trying not to laugh.
“Move the models to the backup greenroom and tell them we have a humidity problem on set so they need to use extra hair spray. They won’t be able to smell the bacon after that. Tell the food prep person to clean up when the bacon is finished so there won’t be any more odor.”
“Oh, that will work.” Rochelle, a smart, ambitious communications graduate, relaxed. “I should have thought of that myself.”
“You will soon enough.”
Her dark-haired, dark-eyed twenty-five-year-old assistant would soon be capable of running the show, Finola thought as Rochelle left. In a few months, Rochelle would move on, taking a job that would give her more responsibility, and Finola would hire a new assistant, to begin the process again.
Getting your foot in the door in the TV business wasn’t easy. There were plenty of crap jobs, but not all of them gave the right kind of experience. Finola prided herself on hiring the best and the brightest. She was very clear with her demands—she expected a killer work ethic, absolute loyalty and 100 percent of their focus. In return, she would teach them about the business, introduce them to the right people and throw them a big party when they moved on to greener pastures.
Finola’s dressing room door opened again. One of the production assistants stuck her head in and whispered, “She’s here! She’s here. I can’t believe it. I’m so excited. Aren’t you excited?”
Before Finola could answer, the assistant was gone, no doubt to spread the joy to others.
Finola wanted to be cynical, but even she had to admit she was looking forward to meeting Treasure. AM SoCal was a successful show in a crowded media market. Being based in Los Angeles meant more access to celebrities than most shows like theirs, but even they didn’t expect to land a massive country-pop star like Treasure.
At twenty-three, Treasure was a music phenom. Her last single had a million downloads in the first six hours after release and her YouTube videos all had over a billion views. She was appearing on the show this morning for a ten-minute interview followed by a live performance of her new single “That Way.” The hungry models’ fashion show and the potato salad segments would follow.
Except for Treasure being such a big star, today’s rundown was pretty typical. Finola greeted her audience—both live and on television—with a bit of chitchat and a few jokes, then she invited her first guest onto the set. By eleven, the show was over and by noon, everyone on staff would be focused on doing it all again for the next show. Everyone but her, she thought with a smile. She was off next week.
“Hawaii, here we come,” she murmured to herself.
She and her husband needed the time away. They’d both been so busy lately, caught up in their respective careers. The week would give them time to focus on each other and their marriage. And maybe something just a little bit more.
She was ready, finally ready, to get pregnant. Nigel had been eager for them to start their family for a couple of years now. She’d been the one dragging her feet. But turning thirty-four, listening to her mother complain about having three grown daughters and no grandchild, not to mention the realization that there would never be a perfect time, had convinced her they should go for it now. In honor of the decision, she’d packed a present for Nigel to open when they checked into their suite in Maui. She had a feeling the gift of sex toys and baby booties would get the message across very clearly. Nigel was nothing if not a man of action—they were going to have fun.
She heard a knock on her door, followed by a loud, “Thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes until showtime, she thought, settling into her makeup chair and closing her eyes.
She was already dressed and made-up, she knew her topics, had listened to enough of Treasure’s music to qualify for fan club membership, and she’d skipped carbs at breakfast so she could taste-test potato salad to her heart’s content.
“Good show,” she whispered to herself as she slowed her breathing for her preshow relaxation ritual.
She had fifteen minutes of quiet. Fifteen minutes when no one would knock on her door or burst into her room. She would collect herself and then head to the set where she would be miked and given a final dusting of powder before starting her show.
She inhaled to the count of four, held her breath for a count of eight, then exhaled—
She heard her door open, followed by, “Finola, we have to talk.”
Her eyes popped open. Nigel was standing in front of her. He grabbed her chair by the arms and stared at her intently.
“Nigel, what are you doing here? I go live in less than thirty minutes. What’s going on?”
Nigel, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, didn’t see patients on Fridays and they were leaving on their trip in the morning. What was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the show?
He looked at her. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t the words that got her attention so much as the tone, and maybe the stricken expression on his face. Her stomach clenched.
“What happened?”
Visions of her sisters or her mother lying prone on the road filled her mind. Or maybe there had been a fire. Or a—
“I don’t know how to say it,” he began, only to stop.
Bile rose in her throat. Her heartbeat jumped a thousandfold and there was a ringing in her ears. Someone was dead—she knew it.
“I’m having an affair.”
As he spoke, Nigel released the chair and paced the length of the room. He was still talking—she could see his lips moving—but for the life of her she couldn’t hear anything. The roaring, rushing sound was too great.
The words repeated over and over in her head until their meaning sunk in. Years ago, she’d fallen off a tall porch onto the grass below. She’d landed on her side and all the air had been forced out of her lungs. This felt like that. She couldn’t inhale, couldn’t stop the surge of panic that swept through her as her body began to tremble. The lack of breath was followed by a sharp gut-wrenching pain in her heart.
How could he? When? With who? Why? They were married. They loved each other. He was her best friend. She was going to get pregnant on their trip to Hawaii.
No, there had to be a mistake. He couldn’t have. Only as she watched him watch her, she knew he wasn’t lying and that he really had, with four simple words, shattered her and their marriage.
“You have to understand,” he said, his voice low. “I’m sorry to have to tell you now. I know the timing is less than optimal.”
“Less than optimal?” she shrieked, then had to consciously lower her voice. “Less than optimal? I’m about to go on live television. It’s not enough to dump this on me, but you had to do it right this second, to screw with me even more?”
“I’ve tried to tell you so many times over the past few weeks, but you’re too busy to listen. There’s always another show.”
She felt a flicker of rage and reached for it with both hands. At least anger would provide temporary strength.
“You’re blaming this on me?” she demanded. “You waltz in here and announce you’re having an affair and it’s my fault you waited until just this second to tell me?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh, really?” She brushed away tears. “What’s it like?”
He turned away. “I thought you needed to know.”
Before she could figure out if she was shaking too hard to stand, he walked out. Just like that. She was alone with the nausea, the aches, the broken life and a ticking clock that warned her she had eighteen minutes and twelve seconds until she was live.
None of this is real, she told herself frantically. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t happening and Nigel hadn’t just told her about an affair. He couldn’t have. Not her Nigel. Not the wonderful, warm, loving husband who was always there for her. She knew him, not the cold stranger who had just left.
If only her ears would stop ringing, she thought desperately. If only she could breathe or cry or scream or run. An affair. Another woman had been in his life, his heart and his bed. Their bed. No. No! He’d slept with someone else, had whispered to someone else, had touched someone else, had orgasmed with someone else.
Her mind refused to believe even as her heart began to bleed. Betrayal and sadness and disbelief churned together until she choked. She had to get out of here. She had to go home and—
Her gaze settled on the clock. No, she told herself. She couldn’t leave. She had a live show in fifteen minutes. She had to go on the air and act as if nothing was wrong, as if she were fine and the world hadn’t just fallen off its axis and into a black hole from which it would never escape.
She sucked in air, being careful not to hyperventilate, then hurried to the mirror. After flipping on the harsh, unforgiving lights, she studied herself for a second before reaching for a tissue, then concealer. She looked wide-eyed and shell-shocked. As if she’d just seen something horrific. Or maybe just experienced it. Dear God, she couldn’t do this.
“Finola?” Rochelle knocked once before entering. “They need you on set.”
Finola nodded without speaking. She added a little more powder, then took one more breath before forcing a smile. “I’m ready.”
Her assistant frowned. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“It’s something and it’s not fine.”
Finola faked another smile and hurried past her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She made her way along the corridor toward the studio. She wove her way around false walls, backdrops and cables. The show’s producer smiled at her.
“Have you met Treasure yet? She’s gorgeous. I only saw her from a distance, but wow.”
Finola didn’t bother to say she had yet to meet the star. She’d been too busy watching her marriage collapse around her. Not that Treasure had asked for an intro—her request had been that they meet in front of the live audience so the experience “was more spontaneous.” As far as superstar demands went, it was easy and doable, and it beat one singer’s request for “six snow-white kittens to play with before I sing.”
Gary, the sound guy, handed her a small microphone. She clipped it on her jacket’s label while he snaked the thin cord over her shoulder. He clipped the battery pack to the waistband her skirt.
Usually she joked about him touching her. Their friendly banter was a regular part of her “get ready” ritual. But today she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. And in eight minutes, that was going to be a big problem.
Breathe, she told herself. She would breathe and trust herself to know what she was doing. She’d done this show for nearly four years. She was good at it. She loved her work and she would be fine. If only she didn’t hear the echo of the screams she didn’t dare give in to.
Gary smoothed her jacket into place, winked at her and smiled. “You’re good to go, Finola.”
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Testing, testing.”
The mike would have already been checked, but she always confirmed it was working.
Gary gave her a thumbs-up before handing over the earpiece that would connect her with the control room. Theirs wasn’t a news show, so she wasn’t getting breaking information, but she still needed to be linked to the control room in case a major story broke. Then she would be able to smoothly transition her viewers to the fact that New York was going to interrupt the show.
She adjusted the earpiece then heard the soft voice of Melody, the director. “Finola, good morning. We’re at five minutes. Good show.”
“Good show,” she said automatically just as someone touched her on the shoulder.
She turned and came face-to-face with Treasure. The country-pop star was about Finola’s height, with long, dark red hair worn in cascading ringlets. Her eyes were deep green and even with heavy TV makeup, her skin was amazing.
Finola blinked in surprise.
“Hello. I thought you didn’t want to meet before the interview.” She managed a smile and held out a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Treasure. I’m a big fan.”
The twenty-three-year-old smiled at her. “No, you’re not,” she said softly. “Or if you are now, you won’t be.”
She ignored Finola’s outstretched hand. “You’re older than I thought. Thirty-four, right? You couldn’t be my mom, but you wouldn’t be an older sister, either. Maybe an aunt.”
Finola had no idea what she was talking about. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I need to go out and greet the audience. Everyone is so excited to see you and watch you perform.”
Before she could turn away, Treasure grabbed her upper arm. Her fingers dug in just enough to be uncomfortable.
“It’s me,” she whispered, leaning close. “I’m the one he’s sleeping with. I’m the one who’s done things with him you can’t even imagine. It’s not just the sex, you know. It’s all of it.” She rolled her eyes. “He didn’t want to tell you about us, like he could hide me, but I had my manager book me on your show so he didn’t have a choice.”
Treasure’s smile turned cruel. “And now you know.”
Finola could only stare at her, even as her mind rejected the words. This isn’t happening, she thought desperately. It can’t be. Nothing the other woman was telling her could be true. Before she could react in any way, Treasure released her and walked away. Finola pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to slow the bleeding just enough to not die that very moment.
She had to run, she told herself. She had to get out of here. She had to—
“Finola?”
Melody’s voice competed with the very loud buzzing in her head.
“Finola, you need to get on set now.”
The show. She had to do the show. It was live, so there was no second chance. She had to walk out there and face the two hundred people in the audience, not to mention the million or so in their homes. AM SoCal was hugely popular. She was well liked in the community and today they had on a massive star. Ratings would be huge.
“Finola?”
“I’m here.”
She drew in a breath and dug as deep as she could for every ounce of professionalism, not to mention self-preservation, she’d managed to accumulate in her life. She had to survive sixty minutes. Just sixty minutes and then she would be able to collapse. Just the next hour. That was all.
She walked out to face her audience. They immediately burst into applause. She waved and smiled at them, focusing only on the people in the first few rows. Near the center aisle were what looked like three generations—grandmother, daughter and granddaughter, all clapping happily. There were a few of her regulars—those who always came to tapings, but the rest of the audience was filled with teenagers.
The Treasure fans, she thought grimly. How was she going to survive? She glanced at the teleprompter and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God.
Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the show. We have something very special in store for you today, although based on the demographics of my audience, word has already spread—Pause for laughter.
She stepped into place and waited for the countdown to live. Normally she would have chatted with the audience a little, but not only wasn’t there time, she couldn’t have done it. Not today.
“Five, four, three.” She watched the fingers indicate the silent “Two, one,” then thought of puppies and kittens playing and how drunk she was going to get later. When the red light on the camera illuminated, she was fairly confident her smile was something close to genuine.
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the show.”
Finola worked the introduction. She never fully felt like herself, but the shock and pain faded just enough that she could inhale. She consciously relaxed her body and focused on what she had to get through.
“Here she is, and I’ll confess I’m a little starstruck myself. Treasure!”
Finola turned to where the singer would enter. Treasure sauntered across the set, her familiar coltish walk and easy smile bringing the audience to their feet. There were plenty of screams and whistles. Treasure waved at everyone, then looked at Finola. For a second something dark and evil seemed to turn her face into a sinister mask, but then it was gone, leaving Finola to wonder if she was imagining things or if, in fact, the superstar was about to discuss her affair on television.
They sat angled toward each other. Finola was grateful her overly efficient team had loaded questions into the teleprompter. She didn’t have to think, she reminded herself. She simply had to look engaged and ask the prewritten questions.
“Your new album is doing incredibly well,” she began. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m really happy with the way my fans are responding. Especially to the first single.” She flashed the audience a smile. “That Way.”
“It’s a provocative song.”
Treasure leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “It’s about sex.”
The audience laughed.
Finola couldn’t tell if she was blushing or if she’d gone totally white. She was light-headed and hoped she wasn’t swaying in her seat. The potential for disaster was massive and if Treasure said anything...
Treasure sighed. “You know, there are men who just get how to please a woman. The way they touch you and kiss you—it’s magic.”
There was more laughter. Finola did her best to join in.
“You’ve always played with unexpected topics in your songs. This album continues that tradition.”
“I know.” Treasure winked. “I’m not a sweet person. I’m not mean, but when I want to talk about something, or have something, I make it happen. So what was your favorite sexual experience, Finola?”
The question hit her like a slap. Finola managed to hang on to her composure enough to chuckle and say, “Treasure, I’m old enough to be your aunt. No one wants to hear about that from me. You’re going on tour in a couple of months. What does it take to get ready for a show as big as yours?”
“I need to be rested and happy. You know what that’s like. To be with the right person. It’s such a good place to be.”
Tell us about the man in your life.
Finola stared at the teleprompter and knew God had moved on to helping someone else. She couldn’t do it, she thought grimly. She couldn’t keep talking, couldn’t keep it together. She was going to fall apart on live television and then the whole world would know everything. She would be a laughingstock, she would be pitied, she would go viral in the worst way possible and at the end of the day, her husband would still have cheated on her with Treasure.
“All this talk about your album makes me want to hear you sing,” she said, not caring she was two minutes early for the transition.
“Finola?”
Melody’s voice was questioning in her ear, but Finola only motioned to the other side of the set where they’d set up a microphone in front of a screen. Treasure’s music video would play behind the singer.
“Okay,” Melody murmured. “We’ll go early.”
The spotlight came on and the music cued.
Treasure hesitated just long enough for Finola’s stomach to cramp. Go, she thought desperately. Just go sing your damn song and get out of here.
Treasure stood and walked toward the microphone. Finola knew she had four minutes for the song, then two minutes more for the commercial break. Six minutes to figure out how on earth she was going to get through the rest of the show.
She waited until Treasure started to sing before standing up and quietly slipping off the set. Rochelle met her in the corridor.
“Are you all right?” her assistant asked, looking worried.
Finola pressed both hands to her cheeks, trying to physically hold herself together.
“I think I have food poisoning,” she lied. “My stomach is writhing.” It was the only explanation she could think of and had the added benefit of explaining why she was off.
“Is that what’s going on?” Melody asked in her ear. “I wondered. Honey, I’m so sorry. Can we get you anything?”
“Just some cold water,” she said. “I’ll hang on through the show and then I’ll be fine.”
Another lie. The bigger of the two but at this point, honestly, who cared?
Rochelle looked sympathetic. “I’ll go get it right now. And some ginger ale. I think we have it in one of the vending machines. Let me check. I hope you feel better soon. You and Nigel are flying to Hawaii tomorrow. You wouldn’t want to miss your flight.”
Finola lowered her hands to her sides without saying anything. Fortunately Rochelle didn’t seem to expect her to answer. Instead she hurried off to get ice water and ginger ale. Not that either would help, Finola thought, doing her best not to give in to tears. Nothing could help. Nigel had cheated and destroyed their marriage and possibly their lives.
She pressed her hands against her stomach as acid churned and she fought against the need to vomit. While that would make the food poisoning fib more believable, she would prefer to avoid it as long as possible. She had—she glanced at the countdown clock—forty-three minutes left. Just forty-three minutes. Then she would be alone and have the time to figure out when, exactly, she’d lost everything.
OH GOOD, YOU’RE still here, were not words Zennie Schmitt wanted to hear eight minutes before the end of her shift. She’d been on her feet for ten hours already. The relatively light day had included two angioplasties that had gone surprisingly well considering the age and physical condition of the patients. She’d been on her way to the locker room to grab her things when she’d heard herself being paged over the intercom.
Dr. Chen had expressed his relief that she was still in the hospital. “I have an emergency bypass surgery. Are you up for it?”
Zennie understood the question. She’d already put in a full day. She was tired and if she didn’t think she had the stamina to assist Dr. Chen through a coronary artery bypass operation, then she was expected to tell him. She was more than a perioperative nurse—aka scrub nurse—she was part of an elite nursing team that worked in one of the country’s most prestigious and busy cardiac care hospitals. They saw some of the sickest patients in the world and when someone was on their table, it was often a life-or-death situation. Giving less than 1000 percent wasn’t permissible.
Zennie took a second to close her eyes and breathe. Yes, she was tired, but not exhausted. With luck they would only have to replace one artery, but odds were more were involved, stretching a three-to-four-hour surgery into something much longer. Still, she and Dr. Chen worked well together and she enjoyed being a team player.
“I’ll swing by the café, then be right there,” she said.
“Excellent.”
Dr. Chen hung up without saying anything like Hey, that’s great or the somewhat expected but rarely heard thank you. He was a gifted, brilliant surgeon who practically worked magic, reviving hearts others thought past saving, but when it came to his people skills...not so much with the glibness. As Zennie hurried to the café, she wondered if they’d ever had a single conversation that wasn’t about a patient.
She bypassed the coffee and went straight to the espresso machine. She knew exactly how long a double shot would take to ramp up her alertness. She would crash toward the end of surgery, but by then adrenaline would be pumping, so she would be fine. Tomorrow she would be extra nurturing with her diet to make up for the abuse her body would take in the night.
Eight hours and forty minutes, not to mention one double bypass later, Zennie finally made it to her car. She was beyond tired and she ached all over. The bright lights of the parking garage were at odds with the quiet and darkness beyond. It was well after midnight, and the good news was she wouldn’t have to worry about traffic on the drive home. In fact the normally twenty-five-minute trip took all of twelve minutes. She stumbled into her bedroom just after one.
She stripped off her scrubs, then washed her face and brushed her teeth. Before sinking into the welcome softness of her bed, she grabbed her phone and checked for messages.
She had a reminder for her 5:00 a.m. running date. No way that was happening, she thought with a yawn. Not that anyone would be surprised. She was always a firm maybe on Fridays, but a for-sure yes on the weekend, barring her being on call. She also had a ten-thirty appointment with her baby sister, Ali, to get fitted for her bridesmaid dress.
Zennie did her best not to groan as she thought about the upcoming nuptials. Not that she didn’t love her sister, but weddings were a pain and to be honest, Zennie wasn’t a huge Glen fan. He just didn’t seem to ever look at Ali with undisguised love and affection. Nigel, her sister Finola’s husband, was totally different. When he looked at his wife, you could feel the heat.
Speaking of heat... Zennie shoved her heating pad under her back. Her muscles were tight from hours spent in surgery.
There was a text from her dad showing his sailboat anchored in a gorgeous Caribbean bay. Wish you were here.
She smiled. Wish I was there, too. Miss you, Dad.
She knew she wouldn’t hear from him for a few hours. Between the time difference and her father and stepmother living on “island time,” texts could take a while to be answered. Still, the thought of a couple of weeks on a sailboat somewhere like the picture was nice.
Her last text was from her mother. Zennie held in a laugh at her mom’s offer to set her up on a blind date with “a handsome young man that you will absolutely adore,” before ending the text with, I’m not getting any younger and I expect grandchildren before I die.
Zennie was still chuckling when she fell asleep.
* * *
MORNING CAME EARLY, despite the lack of an alarm. Zennie showered, drank a protein-packed smoothie, then did about a half hour of stretching before heading off to meet Ali.
The bridal shop in Sherman Oaks was by appointment only and very elegant. Zennie thought maybe wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt had been a mistake, then told herself it didn’t matter. She would be undressing anyway.
Ali was already there, practically dancing with excitement as Zennie entered the store.
“Hi. The dresses are here and they’re so beautiful. You’re going to look great. Probably better than me. Finola will, for sure. It’s hard having beautiful sisters.”
Zennie hugged her. “You’re going to be the bride. The bride is always the prettiest one.”
Ali rolled her eyes, even as she grinned. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see. I tried on my dress last week. It’s good I didn’t get the smaller size. I seem to be the only bride in history who didn’t bother sticking to her diet.”
Zennie didn’t know what to say to that. When Ali had first gotten engaged, she’d come to Zennie and asked for a diet and exercise program. Zennie had done her best, but Ali had never been one for either. She’d carried an extra twenty pounds since puberty and claimed spending a day working in a warehouse was enough exercise for anyone. Zennie had tried to point out that being on her feet wasn’t the same as exercise, but Ali would never be a believer. Still, she had a wholesome, girl-next-door kind of beauty, with brown hair and brown eyes. She was the shortest of the sisters, and the curviest. Finola was the tall blonde beauty who kept herself TV-thin by eating sparingly and avoiding carbs. Zennie had tried to convince her of the importance of variety in her diet, but Finola had refused to listen.
“Ready to see your dress?” Ali asked. “Finola had her fitting with me last week.”
“I’m excited,” Zennie lied, then chided herself for not being more with the program. The wedding was a big deal—she should be happy and a willing participant.
It was just the whole getting married thing, she thought as Ali led the way into the dressing room. No, she amended. It was more than that. It was the two-by-two expectation. She’d grown up with the assumption that when she was an adult, she would pair up, just like the animals on Noah’s Ark. Falling in love followed by marriage followed by family. Only it hadn’t happened and to be perfectly honest, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to.
“Ta-da,” Ali sang as she pushed open the dressing room door.
A long navy dress hung from an ornate hook on the wall. The dress had cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, and was fitted to the waist before gently falling to the floor. Finola’s dress was the same color but a different style. Ali had been determined to find styles they both liked, which was a lovely quality in a bride-to-be. One of Zennie’s friends had gone full-on bridezilla, dressing her crew in hideous frilly, lime green concoctions.
Ali had requested they wear navy and had otherwise left the decision up to them.
“It’s beautiful,” Zennie murmured, thinking it was perfectly fine and actually nice for a bridesmaid dress.
“Did you bring your shoes?” Ali asked.
Zennie patted her tote bag. “Right here.”
She was sure Finola would have picked a designer something with a four-inch heel. Zennie had gone with a simple ballet flat. No way she was wearing heels, even for her sister.
She toed out of her slip-on athletic shoes, then pulled off her yoga pants and T-shirt. She hadn’t bothered with a bra, so didn’t have to worry about straps showing. After unzipping the dress, she stepped into it and pulled it up. Ali moved behind her and took care of the zipper, then Zennie slipped on her shoes. They both stared at her reflection.
“Perfect,” Ali breathed. “Come on. Let’s look at you in the big mirror. The dress fits great. I doubt there’ll be many alterations.”
The sales associate met them in the main room. Zennie found herself stepping up onto a platform in front of a huge mirror that was more than a little intimidating. As she stared at herself she thought maybe she should have put on a little mascara or fluffed her hair or something.
Instead she looked as she always did. Fresh-faced, with short, spiky hair and not a lick of makeup. She pushed the guilt away, telling herself she put in the effort when she was on a date and wasn’t that enough?
“Are you happy with the look?” the saleswoman asked Ali, as if Zennie’s opinion didn’t matter. “Is this what you imagined?”
“Sadly, yes.” Ali laughed. “See, I told you both my sisters were fabulous. No one is even going to notice me.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be the bride.” The woman climbed onto the platform and started pulling pins from the pincushion strapped around her wrist. “I’ll do a little tucking to give you an idea of the look, then we’ll get our seamstress out here to do the final pinning.”
The two women discussed everything from lowering the neckline—Zennie said no to that—to the length of the dress.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wear some kind of heel?” the salesperson asked.
“Very.”
Ali sighed. “Zennie won’t budge on that. Good thing her boyfriend isn’t that much taller than her or they would look weird together.”
Zennie looked at her sister in the mirror. “Boyfriend?”
“Duh. Clark.”
Zennie stared blankly.
“Clark. You’ve been seeing him awhile now. He works with the zoo. He’s a primate specialist or whatever it’s called.”
“Primatologist, and he’s not my boyfriend. We’ve only gone out three times.” She barely knew him and had no idea if she liked him or not. Boyfriend? As if. She hadn’t even told her mother about Clark, which explained the evening text offering to set her up on yet another blind date.
“You said you were bringing him to the wedding.”
“No. I said I might bring him to the wedding.”
“Zennie! I planned on you and a plus-one. You have to bring a date.”
Why? That was the question, Zennie thought as Ali was distracted by whether or not to shorten her sleeves. Why did she have to bring a date? Was she less socially acceptable without a date? Was her conversation less sparkly, her love less welcome? She had no idea why she’d even mentioned Clark, let alone discussed him as her plus-one at the wedding. She wouldn’t want him there, regardless of the state of their nonrelationship. For one thing, people would ask too many questions. For another, her mother would go totally insane at the possibility of Zennie finally settling down with someone and giving her grandbabies. No one could survive that much pressure.
The pinning and tucking finished, Zennie stared at the dress. She would never admit it to her sister, but to her everything looked exactly the same. Of course she had the pins poking her to prove it wasn’t.
“Can you finish up here without me?” Ali asked, glancing at her watch. “I have to stop by the florist before I need to race back to work for a meeting.”
“I’m fine. I will stand here until they release me.” Once again she thought about how Nigel looked at Finola and how Glen didn’t look at Ali. “Shouldn’t your hubby-to-be handle some of this?”
“I would never trust Glen with the flowers. He’s a red roses kind of guy and that would be all wrong.” Ali stepped up on the dais and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for doing this. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Ali raced to the door, then looked back. “Bring a date!”
“Bite me.”
Ali was still laughing when she ducked out of the store.
Zennie looked at her reflection and tried not to think about the wedding. It was four, maybe five hours out of her life. Yes, they would be torturous hours, but they were for a good cause. In the name of sisterhood and all that.
As for a date, well, that might be a problem. Because Clark was a nonstarter for sure.
* * *
FINOLA GRIPPED THE steering wheel so hard, her fingers ached, but she didn’t dare relax. Not until she was home. She drove slowly, careful to stay under the speed limit as she turned into her exclusive Encino neighborhood. As she approached the gate in front of their small community, she felt her control beginning to slip.
Almost there, she chanted silently. Almost there, almost there, almost there.
She made two rights, then a left before pulling into the driveway and pushing the button to open the garage door. As she eased forward, her hands slipped and the car veered a little to the right. She jammed on the brakes and started to back up, only to realize that she didn’t have to. Who cared if she wasn’t fully in her own section of the garage? It wasn’t as if Nigel was going to be pulling in next to her anytime soon. Of that she was sure.
She turned off the engine and collected her tote bag and purse. Once she closed the garage door, she walked into the house.
She was greeted by silence. She and Nigel had never wanted a housekeeper. There was a cleaning service that came twice a week and a meal delivery service, but both had been put on hold because of the upcoming Hawaii trip. As of two hours ago, the plan had been for her to meet Nigel at home after the show so she could finish packing. They would leave for the airport first thing in the morning. Only none of that was going to happen now. Not the packing, not the trip, not them being together and making a baby.
She dropped her handbag and tote to the floor, then kicked out of her shoes. She needed a plan, she told herself. She had to figure out what to do first, then second, then third. Only with each step she took, the blessed shock faded, leaving behind pain and disbelief and humiliation. The tears came first, then the sobs. She stumbled before sinking to her knees where she covered her face with her hands as she screamed out the agony.
Finola cried until her chest hurt and her throat was raw. She cried until there was nothing left but emptiness and the knowledge she would never be whole again. She stretched out on the cold, hard tile and wished she could be anywhere but here. Anywhere that wasn’t—
“No,” she said aloud as she sat up and wiped her face. “Not anywhere.” Not on television, she thought. Being here, alone and confused and sad and angry was better than staring at that stupid camera, waiting for everyone watching to figure out what was going on.
Nigel had done that to her, she thought as she scrambled to her feet. The bastard had come to her dressing room to tell her about his affair.
No, it was so much worse. He’d told her about the affair, aware his mistress was going to confront her seconds later. That was why he’d chosen today, right before the show. That was why he’d needed her to know. He’d softened her up, knowing Treasure was going to try to take her down. He’d cheated her on and then he’d thrown her to Treasure.
He could have told her who it was. He could have warned her, given her a second to catch her breath, but he left her to be blindsided. He hadn’t just cheated, he hadn’t had her back. He’d exposed her. There’d been no thought of her job or her career or what would happen on live television. What if she’d fallen apart? What if Treasure had said something to the audience?
Possibilities paraded in front of her like a nightmare. Thank God she was strong, she thought grimly. Strong enough to survive Nigel.
She fished her phone out of her purse. No text from her husband. Hardly a surprise, she thought, tears flowing again. What did she think, that he would apologize and beg to come back to her? Even she wasn’t that much of a fool.
She walked barefoot through the quiet house before going upstairs. The master bedroom was large with French doors leading to a balcony. She ignored the beautiful space that she had, until this moment, loved. She ignored the big bed, the linens she and Nigel had picked out together. She fought the feeling of being exposed, she fought the pain and sense of betrayal. She had to keep breathing, keep moving. She had to figure out what on earth she was going to do now. Wait? Did she just wait to hear from him? Was he gone forever? Was this just a fling? How long had he been sleeping with Treasure? Were there other women? How long had he been lying, emotionally setting her on fire, while laughing with his mistress?
The tears returned. She ignored them and walked into Nigel’s part of the his-and-hers closet. Entire sections of his closet were missing. Shirts and suits, jeans, T-shirts. She reached up, as if the clothes weren’t really missing, they were just invisible to her.
Her fingers grasped nothing. There was only the space where her husband’s clothes had once been. She closed her eyes and sank onto the small bench in his closet. Just last night they’d gone to dinner, she thought desperately. Just last night they’d been talking about Hawaii. They’d been at their favorite little bistro on Ventura Boulevard, at their favorite corner table. They’d talked about their previous trips and he’d made her laugh, as he always did. He’d made her feel loved and special, because that was who he was. Or who he had been.
She’d nearly told him her plan. She’d nearly mentioned that she’d gone off her birth control and was ready—no, eager—to start a family with him. But she’d waited because she’d wanted to surprise him.
It had all been a lie. Every gesture, every word, the way he’d held her. They hadn’t made love, but he’d held her and told her he loved her. All the while he’d known what he was going to do to her today. He’d planned it.
She wrapped her arms around her midsection and rocked on the small bench. She cried out, the keening sound echoing off the empty spaces. Why had he done it? Why had he hurt her? Why had he—
Her phone rang. The sound startled her, then she jumped to her feet, searching for the phone. She spotted it on a shelf and lunged for it, knowing it had to be Nigel. He’d realized his mistake and he was sorry.
“Hello?”
“You were off your game this morning. Are you all right?”
The familiar voice should have comforted her, but didn’t. While Finola’s mother had always been supportive, she wasn’t exactly nurturing. Nor would she understand how her oldest daughter had managed to lose her husband to some country-pop star tramp. In the split second before she spoke, Finola considered blurting out the truth, then knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ve been, ah, fighting food poisoning,” she lied, thinking it was easier to stick with what she’d already told Rochelle and Melody. “I just threw up.”
“Oh, that explains it because you were really stiff with that Treasure person. I didn’t like her song, by the way, but then I’m not her target audience, am I? Are you going to be well enough to fly to Hawaii tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan.” Finola did her best to keep her voice light even as tears poured down her cheeks. “Going to Hawaii with my husband.”
“You should talk to him about getting pregnant. It’s long past time, Finola. More important, I want grandchildren. All my friends have them. Most have several. A few of them have so many they complain about it. You’re the only one who’s married, so it’s up to you.”
The words were meant to induce guilt. Finola doubted even her mother would want to know how much pain they caused. She sank back on the bench and tried to stem the emotional bleeding.
“Ali’s getting married.”
Her mother made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. “Oh, please. She’ll wait at least a year before getting pregnant. I want grandchildren now.”
“Too bad you can’t order them off Amazon. You’re a Prime member. You could have one by Tuesday.”
“Very funny. All right, I can see you’re going to ignore me, as per usual. Regardless, I love you and I hope you and Nigel have a wonderful time. Once you’re back from your vacation you can help me get the house ready to sell. There’s a lot to go through and I expect you girls to do a lot of the work.”
Not anything Finola could deal with at that moment. “Sure, Mom. I’ll call you when I’m home. Bye.”
She hung up before her mother could say anything else, then dropped the phone on the carpet.
Now what? She had no idea what to do or how to make the pain at least bearable. She wanted to crawl into a dark space and hide like a wounded animal. She wanted to go back in time so she could stop the affair from happening.
How could he have done this to her? He was supposed to love her forever. They were a team, a partnership.
Her phone buzzed as a text message flashed on the screen. She pushed the button to make it appear again. Her heart pounded when she saw it was from Nigel.
We need to talk. I’ll be by Sunday around noon and we can figure out what happens next. There’s the Hawaii trip. You have all the paperwork there. Can you cancel it?
A second text filled in below the first one.
I’m sorry.
“That’s it?” she shrieked at the screen. “That’s all you have to say? Just that? Where’s my explanation? Why aren’t you making this right?”
There was no answer, no sound, nothing but her phone screen slowly fading to black.
Finola stood. Nigel was gone and she didn’t know if he was coming back. He’d always been there for her, loving her, making her feel amazing and now it was all gone. Just gone. Worse, she didn’t know how much of their marriage had been a lie.
She walked into her own closet and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. After she washed off her makeup, she went into her small study and booted her laptop. Thank God for the internet, she thought bitterly. It only took a few clicks and zero conversation to undo their trip. Once that was done, she went into the guest room and closed the blinds before crawling into bed and pulling the covers up over her head.
She curled up as tightly as she could and told herself to keep breathing. That was all she had to do. Everything else would take care of itself. Nigel wasn’t an idiot—he would remember how much he loved her and how good they were together. Treasure was just a fling. He would get over her and come back where he belonged. They’d go into couples therapy where he would realize how much he’d hurt her and he would beg for forgiveness. She would refuse at first, but then he would win her over with his love and kindness. The break in their marriage would be healed and they would go on, slightly scarred, but wiser and more in love than ever. They would grow old together, just like she’d always imagined. It was going to be fine. It had to be.
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Copyright © 2019 by Susan Mallery, Inc.