The Trophy Wives Club Read online

  “I’m complaining because if it’s true what you tell me, that the old is washed away, there’s got to be a major clog in the sink! Because the old doesn’t go anywhere. Debbie Reynolds is still the woman that Eddie Fisher left for Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Rachel is no Elizabeth Taylor,” Ron says.

  “All I can tell you, Haley, is that God isn’t His people. And you’ve got to make your peace with Him and yourself. You won’t ever find complete acceptance here. This is not heaven.”

  “I think Gavin accepts me for who I am.”

  “That’s because Gavin hasn’t lived with you and gets to play Superman when you need him, what, once a decade? Even Jay could probably muster up the commitment that requires.”

  “He calls and checks on me since the divorce. That’s more than Jay ever did.”

  “It’s still how you use him. He’s not God, Haley. Gavin has expectations of you; they just aren’t very high. He’s probably completely emotionally stunted and can’t handle relationships, so talking to a beautiful woman is payoff enough for him to believe he could get married anytime, and there’s nothing wrong with him.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Laura.” I open the oven and set out the warmed dishes on the table and give the salad a final toss. “I still feel like a piece of furniture. Jay and Hamilton redecorate, and I am no longer a part of the décor.”

  “Stop using Hammy’s name in the form of manhood. It’s emasculating poor Ron.”

  Ron has my check and his calculator. He hasn’t heard a word of this. “Huh?” He looks up at the sound of his name.

  “I can’t trust someone who will stomp on my heart again, and because I can’t read Hamilton, I can’t ever trust myself again. Don’t you see? It’s not Hamilton. It’s that if Gavin is my only option for trustworthy, I am doomed to being single because he bores the very life out of me.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted. To stay single.”

  “So did I until I got in this house with all your crabby, old lady neighbors and realized that’s what I’ll become. A woman with cats, and the cats won’t even eat my food! What is wrong with this picture?”

  “All I’m saying is that you really need a better test subject than Hamilton Lowe.”

  “It’s not about Hamilton. Lindsay, you’re not hearing me.”

  “That’s because I’m smelling lamb chops, and I’m hungry. They smell Greek.”

  “They are. Focus with me here.”

  “I am. You’re telling me that Hamilton Lowe was your test rat in your laboratory of love, and he didn’t respond properly to the bell. Do I have it right? How did you have time to make lamb after work?”

  “Lamb doesn’t take long, just the marinating does. I did that this morning. Could I have your full attention?”

  Ron guffaws. “Good luck with that. I don’t think Lindsay ever did one thing at a time in her life.”

  She smirks at her husband. “I’m listening,” she says softly, like a bad counselor. She puts her elbows on the counter, and her chin rests on her fists. “Lay it on me.”

  “This spark. The chemical combustion that happens with only a handful of certain people—I’m very particular that way, and—”

  “Maybe you just had indigestion. Hammy will do that to a girl.”

  “Would you not call him that? I can’t take this conversation seriously if you’re calling him Hammy.”

  “It’s because he’s not kosher. Get it?” Lindsay slaps her own leg. “Seriously, I can’t take this conversation at all. He flirted with you, Haley. Now, maybe you’ve been married too long, perhaps you’re clueless to the effect a nearly six-foot blonde has on men in general, or maybe you’re feeling desperate for attention and admiration. Whatever it is, this too shall pass. And so will your obsession with why Hammy, the self-righteous, does anything. In the meantime, you need to teach me to cook like this.” She grabs the pot holders again and put the chops on the table.

  “I’m going to watch the news,” Ron deadpans. “All this girl talk makes me nervous.”

  “You want a beer, Ron?” I ask.

  “No!” Lindsay pulls my hand off the fridge handle. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Lindsay, let the man answer for himself.”

  “Haley, Hamilton can’t date you, so what does it matter? It’s not personal.”

  “Why not? Jay’s not his client anymore.”

  “He’s a believer. You’re not. The Bible says that is a no-go, and Hammy loves the rules, doesn’t he? He probably wants you so badly, he’s ready to pluck his own eyes out, but you’re off-limits, and if I know anything about Hamilton, it’s how he does love the law. He always errs on the side of it versus grace.”

  “I believe in God.” I grab the plates from the cupboard. “Sort of. I just believe in being a good person and that He loves us all as His children.”

  “It’s different. I know sometimes it doesn’t feel different, but it is.”

  “He’s not a better person than me. For crying out loud, he’s really sort of a jerk. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do. I think he’s an incredible jerk, in fact. If I had a dollar for every jerk sitting in the pew, I’d be a rich girl.”

  “She loves you. She preaches at those she loves.” Ron moseys to the table, and I place the plate in front of him.

  “Because I want to see my friends in eternity! What kind of friend would I be if I believed this were the way to heaven and didn’t tell you how to get in? It’s like I didn’t put you on the waitlist for a party at Sky Bar.” Lindsay scratches her head. “You’re not getting in without your name on that list.” She stares at me. “Okay, well you’d probably get in because you’re hot, but if you were normal, you would totally be standing out on the street without my say. Get it?”

  “That’s a terrible analogy.”

  “I know, Ron!” Lindsay says, clearly frustrated. “I haven’t been a Christian very long, I’m not that good at this. I only know it changed my life, and I want it to change yours too, Haley, because I love you. I see my former self in you, and it makes me want to cry.”

  “I’ve prayed for what you have, Lindsay, but I’m a slow learner, all right? But we need to feed your husband.”

  She nods.

  “Oh, I forgot to let the wine breathe.”

  “No wine, Haley,” Lindsay says gruffly.

  “With lamb?”

  “What she’s trying to tell you, as subtly as a freight train, is that she’s married to an alcoholic, and I can’t have a beer and I can’t have any wine or I will officially fall off the wagon and perhaps have another stroke.”

  I look at Lindsay, and she nods. I stare at Ron like a monkey in a cage. “You, Ron? I think of you as the epitome of sober.”

  “You’re confusing sober with boring. I am boring.”

  “He’s sober, too. Been so since the stroke. Sixty-three days and counting.” Lindsay beams proudly at him.

  “Congratulations. But I thought you were a womanizer.” I place a lamb chop in front of him and grab for the salad. Sheesh. “Speaking of subtle.”

  “I sort of implied that,” Lindsay says in a voice barely audible.

  “Why would you do that?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why? That’s why I get all those dirty looks from those women when I drop you off at church. They probably think I’m hitting on them.” Ron rolls his head to his chest. “Do I look like a womanizer, Haley?”

  “Is there a type, really?” I ask.

  Lindsay breathes in deeply. “I never said why we separated, Ron. They just assumed, and I never corrected them.” She looks at me for support. “Beautiful women attract men who care too much about beauty, less about substance. Right, Haley?”

  “I thought we just picked badly.”

  “Lily’s in the class, Ron, and I didn’t want it to slip that you were a drunk or you’d never get work with Hollywood big money again. You had a lot of business at her agency. It was selfish, but I’ve grown accustomed to the lifestyle. I didn�
��t think you could lose your job and be all right.”

  Ron takes his wife’s hand, and he looks deeply into her eyes. The love they exchange in that momentary gaze is more than I ever shared with my own husband in eight years of marriage. My heart tightens at the thought that no one will ever love me like that. I am a third wheel at my own dinner party.

  “I know why you did it,” Ron says. “You’re not fooling anyone; you were protecting me.”

  “No, it was solely for me.” She smiles at him. “There was a sale at Gucci.”

  “I know better, Lindsay. Don’t I, Haley?”

  “I guess.” I shrug. “Let’s eat. Before I puke on the both of you.”

  Later that night when I’m lying in my bed, I realize I just need to find a new lab rat. I stare up at the ceiling and think about the men at work. There has to be somebody out there.

  The women in the Trophy Wives Club all deal with something intense, I’ll give them that, but they’re not trophy wives. If the definition is a younger woman who married an older, affluent guy for security and became little more than a bauble, taken out and polished up for the right moments in life, then I may well be the only true Trophy Ex-Wife, present. And that? Well, at the risk of sounding sixteen again, that just sucks, quite frankly. I’m deathly tired of being in relationships of one.

  Chapter 16

  Running along the beach in the morning hours is my solitude, my place of rest, my only break from the voices that tell me how incredibly hectic and altogether pointless my existence has turned out to be. It used to be cooking, but now I have no one to cook for, and that too, feels futile. Maybe I should start feeding my neighbor’s cat. He looks a little scrawny.

  Here, on the beach, with a destination of two and a half miles, I am in control with the wind at my back.

  Until…that poorly placed piece of driftwood.

  “Are you all right?”

  If I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question! That has to be the number one introduction line of my life.

  “I’m fine,” I say with annoyance, but as I rise, I feel that isn’t quite true and fall back into the damp, morning sand with a grunt.

  “You don’t look fine. I saw you fall. You may have twisted something. Do you mind?” He reaches for my ankle.

  I look up against the sky and capture a vision of a man who looks as though he’s surrounded by a halo of sunlight. He’s got short, cropped hair and baby blue eyes, nearly Bahama blue by any account. He’s wearing running shorts and a breathable, muscle T-shirt with tiny vents and a solid chest—and most importantly, no wedding ring.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, just a former soccer player. I’ve broken everything in this lifetime, and if not, I’ve watched it be broken on someone else.”

  He rotates my foot, and I squeal. “Yowza, that hurts!”

  “It’s not broken,” he says plainly.

  “Tell that to my aching ankle!”

  “Sorry about that, but you couldn’t rotate it like that if it were broken. But it’s going to swell. Badly. I don’t think you fell hard enough to do anything hairline-wise.” He shakes his head. “If you don’t want to trust a stranger on a beach, you might want to get to a clinic for an X ray. A sprain can hurt as bad as a break, depending on how you do it.”

  I still can’t move. “Yeah, thanks.” I size him up and wonder what kind of lab rat he’d make, but the truth is, I don’t have the strength to try flirting. My only peace of the day has been wrecked by driftwood. I look around and see not one other piece on the beach. I should have odds in Vegas at my rate of failure. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “If I were to flirt with you, and this is a hypothetical question, but if I were to flirt with you, would you flirt back?”

  “Aren’t you flirting with me?”

  “No, I’m in too much pain to flirt. I’m much better when I flirt purposely.”

  “Give me an example. What is different about when you flirt versus now, when you’re just hypothetically flirting?”

  “Oh I’m nicer, and I shake my hair a little bit, maybe touch your arm—you know.” I shrug. “Girl stuff.”

  “When’s the last time you did that?”

  “Can you tell I’m rusty?” Disappointment flares in my chest. “I told you, I’m not flirting, this is only hypothetical.”

  “Maybe you meant to trip on that piece of wood so I’d come to your rescue?”

  “No, I’m just klutzy. That part is real. Flirting doesn’t include game playing, I was never into that. Besides, life on my feet is too tenuous ever to toy with for a man’s attentions.”

  “Well, Miss–”

  “Adams. Haley Adams.”

  “I think I should ask you first, if I were to flirt with you, would you flirt back?”

  “That’s not fair. I asked you first.”

  He shrugs. “A guy has to protect himself. You could be after me for my money.”

  “How would I know that you had money?”

  “I don’t know; don’t you women smell it or something?”

  “So you do have money.”

  “If I didn’t, would you flirt with me?”

  “If you did, I wouldn’t flirt with you. Rich men have issues. I’m looking for a poor man with a heart.” I stare at his cocked eyebrow. “Not that I’m looking. As I said, this is a hypothetical scenario.”

  “It’s not often I get to rescue a gorgeous blonde off the beach and have her ask me questions about flirting.” He bends down and lifts me off the ground. “Wait a minute, you’re not asking me because I have that ‘friend’ look. Do I look innocuous to you? No harm, no foul?”

  “Not in the least. Very handsome. Strong flirtation potential with devastating good looks, so I wouldn’t call you harmless.”

  He grins. “Put your arm around my shoulder, and we’ll hobble to your car. Can you drive?”

  “It’s not my driving foot, but I’m parked that way.” I limp to my car, alongside my new, I’m guessing six-foot-three, lab rat and I do my best to sway my hair and touch him on the forearm without completely losing my balance.

  “Are you a Brit then?” he asks, upon seeing my Union Jack car.

  “No, it used to be Rod Stewart’s. So they say. He bought a Prius,” I embellish. “Sorry to have broken up your run, but it was a pleasure to meet you. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sam Jacobsen at your service. Always glad to help out, and if you have any klutzy friends looking for poor flirtation partners, please send them my way.”

  “So aren’t you going to ask for my phone number?”

  “Of course. I’m looking forward to really being flirted with because we’re still in the hypothetical flirting scenario.”

  “But you’re not rich, right?”

  “Do you want to see my W–2s?”

  “I don’t think a poor man would know what that was.”

  “On the contrary, us poor guys have to pay taxes too. It’s the law.”

  I narrow my eyes warily. “How old are you?”

  “This is L.A., that information is more private than my W–2s. How old do I look?”

  Oh no, I’m not getting caught in that trap. “I’m twenty-eight,” I announce. “You’re not more than ten years older than that, are you?”

  “What if I’m younger?”

  “Perfect!”

  “Haley, I feel as though I’m in some odd experiment for you, but you do have the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and I’m a sucker for blue eyes and legs that go on forever.”

  “Tell me what you do for a living, Sam.”

  “I’m a soccer coach. Is that poor enough for you?”

  “Absolutely. When I get back on this foot maybe we can run a few laps?”

  “So it sounds as though I’m flirtation-approved. Do you have a pen?”

  I hand him one, and he writes my phone number on the palm of his hand. I don’t even remember the last time a guy took my numbe
r, but it feels very, very nice. I’m giddy, in fact. My ankle is killing me, but not for one second do I let my guard down and stop smiling. Everyone should have a lab rat that looks this good.

  I settle into my Mini, feeling quite pleased with myself, when my cell phone rings. No one ever calls me, except Lindsay, Bette, and Lily and I don’t recognize this number as any of theirs. “Hello?”

  “Haley, it’s Hamilton Lowe.”

  My stomach actually churns. I will never learn. I am sitting in my car watching my new lab rat run up the beach, and yet, here’s my body reacting to the old, and desperately confused old lab rat. I haven’t seen him in weeks, maybe months. Why would I obsess about a man who I haven’t seen in months and who helped rip my life from me?

  “I’m not getting stuck in this maze again, Hamilton.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Haley, I need to talk to you. Do you think you might be able to meet me for dinner?”

  With every fiber of my being I want to jump at the chance, but my voice of reason speaks first. “I can’t do that, Hamilton.”

  “You don’t have to answer right now, just—”

  “That’s my answer. Have a good day.” And I snap my phone shut. Exhibit A is getting smaller as he disappears down the coastline, but somehow I don’t have the same rush of excitement I did five minutes ago. I think I’m perfectly untreatable. I will run the same maze for the rest of my days. I stare down at the phone clutched in my hand. What have I done?

  Looking out over the crashing waves, I realize how much my life has changed in the past few months. Lily, Lindsay, Bette, Penny, and Helena have become integral in my life. They’ve taught me that people don’t always abandon you when you don’t do things correctly. And more important, that God will never abandon me, no matter how much I screw up.

  Watching the soccer coach disappear into a speck along the shore, it dawns on me that Mrs. Kensington had it right all those years ago. No Prince Charming ever did come along to rescue me. Only the King.

  I want my faith to grow ever stronger. As the man disappears from sight, I realize how tentative my belief system is. How willing I’ve been to hand over my power to someone else. Not to the One who matters.