Chapter Two
April, 2009
The gray-haired, tiny bathroom attendant at the Troon North Clubhouse watched Stephanie Rollins fling open the door and burst into tears, and she quickly led her to a corner of the sitting room with a box of tissue. No doubt she’d seen her share of crying wives after their catty friends had revealed over Blood Mary’s that their husbands were having affairs.
Steph dabbed her eyes, determined not to ruin her makeup. She took a deep breath and stared at the expensive paintings that adorned the little sitting room filled with deep cherry wood settees and stuffed chairs. Classical music muffled the unrefined toilet flushes and the gossipy whispers of the trophy wives huddled over the granite sinks reapplying their lipsticks. It was amazing they could outline their lips and simultaneously stab a non-present club member in the back.
She leaned against the wall, listening to pieces of their conversations—the sudden chuckles and droll remarks, all at the expense of someone else. No one mentioned her, so at least her news from the dining room hadn’t traveled that fast. After nearly eighteen years of living as a doctor’s wife, she’d heard and said it all. She’d learned quickly that there wasn’t a high road to take and survival in the upper social stratosphere was reminiscent of Roman gladiators—only these warriors sported three hundred dollar haircuts and hundred dollar manicures.
She needed to focus on the facts. Lawrence was having another affair, according to her tennis buddies. It had taken three rum and Cokes to pry the information from Leslie, her doubles partner, but she finally admitted that she’d seen him and Steph’s Bosnian twenty-something domestic, Marta, naked and humping like rabbits in the Rollins’ Olympic-size pool. Apparently Leslie had wandered into the house looking for Steph the day before and got an eyeful from the living room window. When she started to describe their antics under the beautiful waterfall that Steph had designed, Steph excused herself to the restroom, which she now decided was the nicest public restroom she’d ever entered.
She thought about leaving but the chaise lounge seemed to wrap its arms around her, coaxing her to stay. More than likely the real culprit was the three whiskey sours she’d consumed with lunch. She was pleasantly toasted and had no desire to rise; however, she knew that her window of opportunity was closing. She checked her Rolex and verified that it was two thirty, still an hour before Eric arrived home from school.
The thought of her son embroiled in the family drama was enough to drag her to her feet. She sought out the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. She’d never had one in her bedroom when she was a kid, Debbie decrying vanity as the root of all evil. But after years of living with a plastic surgeon in an environment where attention to physical beauty was essential to proper breeding, she automatically assessed her appearance, like a complex mathematical equation, the answer to which verified her worth.
She saw a thirty-five-year-old woman who still got carded when she went on a “girls’ night out.” Plus. She had a great haircut and her hair was free of gray. Plus. She remained a size six and her long legs were still her best feature. Plus. The boob lift she’d given Lawrence for his thirtieth birthday present was losing to gravity. He’d hounded her to go back under the knife but she refused. Minus. Tiny varicose veins peeked out from under her tennis dress, threading their way down to her ankles. Minus. And speaking of her ankles, they’d soon be cankles. Minus.
Not bothering to do the vanity math, she rushed out of the bathroom, ignoring her friends who were probably ordering their fifth or sixth cocktail. The hunky valet waved at her approach and went to retrieve her Beemer.
“How are you today, Mrs. Rollins?” he offered as he pulled up.
She noticed his eyes probing her body as she slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m fine, Curtis, and you?”
“Never better,” he said with a model-like smile. “Anything else I can do for you?”
She shook her head. “No thank you.”
She sped away and recognized the irony of the situation. Curtis had indeed done many other things for several of the bored club wives—but not for her. After Lawrence’s second affair, she’d thought turnabout was fair play, but sleeping with the head waiter didn’t make her feel better about his cheating and it made her feel worse about herself. And in the end, when she’d announced her affair to Lawrence, he’d had the poor guy fired. She decided then that affairs weren’t her style—at least with men.
A year later the club hired a new tennis pro, an incredibly attractive redhead whose personality was as powerful as her serve. They flirted for weeks but Steph was too chicken to do anything until she happened to attend a luncheon in downtown Scottsdale one afternoon and Lawrence walked past the restaurant’s front window, his arm wrapped around the waist of a very young woman. Steph knew she was a temp in the billing department but it was clear from their groping that the relationship wasn’t professional.