Happy Wife: A Read with Jenna Pick

Happy Wife: A Read with Jenna Pick

Chapter 1

The Night of the Party

It’s just a party, Nora. All you have to do is make it through the next couple of hours. Make it through a party. That’s the whole job.

Our nine-thousand-square-foot house has never felt smaller, filled up with hundreds of Will’s friends and colleagues. Various shades of pink streak the late afternoon sky, and I can hear the distant hum of conversation coming from the veranda. Guests have spilled out into our manicured backyard to sip cocktails and watch the sun slip beneath the horizon beyond the lake. There’s plenty of room to socialize. The yard stretches from the house to the water, broken only by a huge pool and sweeping lawn that sprawls down to the boathouse and dock at the bottom.

And here I am, huddled in the corner. Hiding.

Este walks up to me and nudges my side. “Beau brought a weed pen,” she whispers. “Want me to find him?” She scans the partygoers in my living room for her husband.

“Jesus. Do I look that nervous?” I try to sound offended, but Este nods without hesitation. “It’s just a stupid party,” I say, more to myself than to her.

The irony of dreading such a frivolous activity after all of the truly grueling jobs I’ve had in my life is not lost on me. For a brief second, the entry-level dues, mundane tasks, and menial labor of my past life spin through my mind like a shitty highlight reel. Babysitting unruly neighborhood kids, serving up ice cream in sticky Florida summers, lifeguarding on the weekends, and burning my fingers on hot plates as I waited tables.

You name it, I’ve probably done it.

But that was all before Will Somerset swept me off my blistered feet and retired me from minimum-wage jobs forever. Before everything changed. Now, I no longer mentally visualize my bank balance before swiping a card at the grocery store or dread the first day of the month and looming bill payments. And the blisters on my feet? Nonexistent thanks to regular spa days and pedicures.

I have no real problems. I know this.

Everything I’ve ever wanted is right here. A handsome, successful attorney husband. A sprawling lakefront estate. His influential circle of friends. The only thing I don’t have is the respect of the crowd of people gathered here tonight.

As Will’s twenty-eight-year-old second wife, I’m something between arm candy and dinner theater to most of his friends. A spectacle to be sure. At best, I am a strange interloper, someone new who doesn’t know any of their inside jokes. At worst, all the wives jeer at me like I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future, a harbinger of younger second wives yet to come. Never mind that Will’s divorce from his first wife, Constance, is well behind him—a divorce she initiated.

But this party, Will’s forty-sixth birthday, is meant to change Winter Park’s perception of me. After tonight, I won’t feel like an outsider anymore. After tonight, they will see I’m not just the interloper. After tonight, I will be one of them.

But first, I need my hands to stop shaking.

Este nudges me again, reaches into her McQueen clutch, and produces a small white pill. “Xanax?”

I gently push her hand back into the bag. “Are you just keeping loose pills and weed in there?”

“Nooo,” she says, drawing out the word. “I told you. Beau brought the weed. I brought pharmaceuticals, but only in case you needed them. And stop looking at me like I’m crazy. A whole pill bottle would never fit in this bag.” She holds up the black leather pouch as if that should be obvious.

“I love you, but I’m not taking drugs six feet away from the mayor.”

“The mayor’s here? I should offer her something.” Este looks past me to search the crowd. “I bet she fears the country club moms more than you do. They’re always worked up over something inane like adding more quinoa to hot lunches.”

“Please don’t offer the mayor drugs.”

“Prescription drugs aren’t real drugs,” she fires back.

Here’s the thing about Este: If anyone else spoke to me the way she does, I might cry. But with her, somehow dismissive and aloof are part of a breezy, no-f***s-to-give charm.

Este assures me that the mayor attending isn’t headline news. I should know that by now. We’re talking about a town small enough to fit in your pocket. Spanning a mere ten square miles, Winter Park is known not for its footprint but rather for its sweeping mansions, brick-paved streets, meticulously curated lawns, and wealth per capita. Founded as a sunny escape for well-heeled New Englanders, Winter Park is now a haven for the affluent. And the estates established by snowbirds a century ago have been taken over by anyone willing to pay the steep housing prices in exchange for access to the tax shelters Florida has to offer—from professional athletes to hedge fund managers and old-guard sugar barons.

When I decided to host this celebration, my brilliant idea was that a party might help nurture stronger connections with some of Will’s friends. I had visions of a small dinner party and good conversation. But when I asked Autumn Kensington—the “it” girl of all things event planning in this part of the world—to help, she made it clear that in Winter Park, gossip and party invitations are social currency. The party rapidly ballooned from an intimate gathering to something more closely resembling a state dinner.

“I don’t fear the country club moms, by the way,” I say under my breath. “I just see them for what they are: status-obsessed social snipers who hate me.”

“You worry too much about what people think of you.” Este swipes a flute of champagne off a passing silver tray and hands it to me like a jaded parent soothing a rowdy child with a toy. “Here. Calm down.”

Again, dismissive and yet somehow not offensive. She silently raises her red wine, and we clink glasses before I take a measured sip so as not to appear unhinged. This crowd can smell fear.

In smaller groups, I can rely on Will to shield me from the unfriendly wives and unwelcome questions about his first marriage. He always changes the subject and then pulls me close to whisper a compliment in my ear. But as the party got started, the crowd swelled and engulfed him in a sea of backslapping and handshakes, leaving me standing alone. Thank God Este found me.

“So, you’re just going to white-knuckle it through this soirée? No narcotics? What about hallucinogens?” She looks a little disappointed. As a California transplant with a relatively new, but massive, fortune, Este has not even attempted to fit in among the country club set. We became fast friends once we realized we were both outsiders. But for her, the on-the-fringes lifestyle was by choice.

“I’ll stick to wine. I should keep my wits about me.” I shake my head, thinking Will might actually kill me if I got high. What a gift that would be to all of his judgy friends.

“Well, the food is incredible. Have you tried Marcus’s ceviche? That man is a f***ing genius. He must have driven to the coast this morning for fish that fresh.”

I smile. “At least they won’t be able to complain about the food.”

I still can’t believe Marcus closed his restaurant to cater the party tonight. Even though he and I aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye these days, I’m relieved he’s here.

“Let’s take a lap,” Este says, grabbing my hand and guiding me toward the terrace.

The gossip is in high supply tonight, and I’m thankful this means shit-talking me is off the table. For now, Winter Park’s morbid curiosity is focused on something other than my marriage. The topic du jour is a car accident that happened just up the street around two the previous morning. Someone ran off one of the brick roads that curl through Winter Park’s most extravagant estates and crashed their Buick into Carol Parker’s wrought-iron fence. The driver of the Buick was life-flighted to the nearest hospital, leaving a gnarled vehicle at the scene for almost a day before a tow truck could come and collect it. Carol has been beside herself about the damage to her lawn and her grandfather’s prized wrought-iron fence—purchased at the World’s Fair in 1893 and transported here to adorn the house. As hors d’oeuvres circulate through the party, so do second- and thirdhand accounts of the accident. Guests speculate over whether the driver was drunk, whether Carol came out in her house robe to render aid, and whether Will should be hired as the attorney to represent Carol in a civil suit against the driver.

Petty gossip, small-town intrigue, and fresh-caught ceviche. By all accounts, it’s a perfectly normal night at a Winter Park party. I can’t believe I pulled this off unscathed. Este notices the success of the event, too.

“I almost hate to say it, but this is a proper Winter Park fête.” She raises her glass and beams. “Hear, hear.”