Gold Coast Wives: Love Through the Lens of a Reality TV Show

by Bernadette Walsh

Genres: Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Marriage & Divorce; Later in Life Romance; Second Chance Romance

Synopsis

Three skinny socialites should be a pushover after the rough and tumble world of Wall Street. Right?Kate Ryan may be au fait with making high-powered legal decisions, but she's about to submit to the rules of reality TV, where nothing is what it seems. Who'd have thought a few days with the cameras rolling for a low-rent cable show would be so challenging, or that the claws of a former homecoming queen, a washed-up soap star and a whiny cat-lover would be so sharp?

Release date: April 16, 2019

Publisher: Bernadette Walsh

Print pages: 190

Sample

Chapter 1

Six months ago, I had confidence, I had security, I had a marriage. A lot can happen in six months.

Six months ago, I was a practicing lawyer and my husband, Jim Ryan, a Managing Director at a Wall Street investment bank. We were happy living the American dream in our five bedroom home on the North Shore of Long Island, tooling around in our matching BMWs. Life was good. Then Wall Street imploded.

Within weeks, Jim’s investment bank dissolved into bankruptcy, taking with it not only Jim’s job but our entire life savings, thanks to the leveraged investments Jim had made without my knowledge or consent. Jim was distraught, and I was distracted by my home situation, so distracted that I hadn’t noticed when a younger lawyer, Martina Campbell, stole most of my clients. Since my law firm was an eat-what-you-kill kind of place, the Executive Committee fired me, and I think that was the last straw for Jim because before I knew it he had taken off for a two week trip to visit his sick grandmother in Ireland. Those two weeks became five months. Aside from a few emails, I hadn’t heard from him. According to his last missive, he was in Australia.

So I had no job, no husband and a drawerful of bills when I ran into my old high school friend, Angela Mascaro Rosetti. Through her I reconnected with her brother, Chris Mascaro, a stylist for Gold Coast Wives, a new reality show based on Long Island. He thought I would be a perfect cast member and put me in touch with the show’s producer, Elaine Rogers. She loved me, and while I didn’t exactly love Elaine or the thought of exposing my personal life on TV, I did love the seventy-five thousand dollar stipend the show paid. I really felt like I had no choice. Wall Street was dead, my bank account non-existent and my monthly forty-five hundred dollar mortgage payment wasn’t exactly going to pay itself. So I held my nose and dived in.

Tom, the twenty-something nose-ringed director’s assistant, had called me earlier with directions to the first Gold Coast Wives group event, a cocktail party. The party was at the home of one of the Wives. He hadn’t given me her name because Elaine didn’t want us Wives to Google each other before meeting.

I carefully blew out my hair, somehow managing to tame my unruly red curls, and applied the new makeup Chris had insisted I wear. Apparently, I had appeared too ghostly in my test shots. The makeup looked darker than anything I’d ever used, but my mother and I had thought it looked okay. “It looks like you, only better,” she’d said as I got ready, which I chose to take as a compliment.

Wearing one of my less boring pants suits and a pair of funky high heels I’d borrowed from my sister, I drove the BMW I’d saved from repossession through the winding roads that snaked through Huntington Bay, past the upscale sub-divisions to the ten acre estate on Lloyd Neck where the cocktail party was being held. A long driveway led to an imposing stone Tudor where three Channel 45 trucks were already parked, along with an assortment of foreign luxury cars I assumed belonged to the other Wives. Well, at least my car would fit in.

I climbed the ornate stone steps, wobbling slightly in my sister’s heels. I stood on the doorstep, suddenly paralyzed with fear. Ever since I’d signed my Gold Coast Wives contract, I’d told myself that appearing on reality TV was no big deal, just a way to make a few bucks until Jim came to his senses, came home and somehow solved all our problems, financial and otherwise. I told myself, hell, it’s only local cable. No one would probably see the stupid show anyway. I had numbed myself, really, unable to face what a train wreck my life had become. Me, Miss Class Valedictorian, Miss Most Likely to Succeed, had become Miss Unemployed, Miss Fat Ass, Miss Loser. But once I walked through that door there would be no turning back. If I Googled myself after today, it would not list Kathleen Griffin Ryan, Georgetown Law School Class of 1992. It would list Kate Ryan, overweight, over-forty, reality show freak. I said a quick Hail Mary and rang the doorbell. An elegant woman near my age with dark, shoulder-length hair answered the door. She looked oddly familiar.

“Hello. You must be the final Wife. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Pamela Kruger.”

Oh no. It couldn’t be. “Pamela Reynolds?”

“My maiden name is Reynolds.” She looked at me for a moment. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“I’m Kate Ryan or rather, Kate Griffin,” I stammered. “From Queen of the Rosary Academy?”

“I attended Queen of the Rosary. I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.” She didn’t remember pushing me off the cheerleading pyramid and breaking my ankle? The coach had called an ambulance. “I remember a Kathy with red hair. I think she became a comedienne.”

“I think you mean Kathy Griffin, and she didn’t go to our school. I went by Kate, and I’m a lawyer.”

“How very wonderful for you. Why don’t you come in and meet the rest of the girls and the husbands. Did you say you were married, Kathy? Is your husband joining us?”

“Unfortunately, no. He’s traveling at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Is he a lawyer too?” she asked as she led me through a marble entranceway, not seeming at all interested in my answer.

“No, he’s an equities trader.” Well, he was an equities trader.

“He might know my husband. Don does something like that.” Pamela smoothed her jade green, beaded cocktail dress and led me into a living room decorated in shades of gray, blue and silver. The room was serene and soothing, almost like sitting in a cloud. “Everyone,” she announced, “here’s our final Wife, Kathy Griffin.” The other two women stared at me since I was about forty pounds heavier and six inches taller than the real Kathy Griffin.

“Actually, my name is Kate Ryan,” I said to the two women perched on matching silk teal blue chairs, also wearing stylish cocktail dresses. The three of them looked like they were attending a swanky opening or charity event--the blonde even wore an up-do. I looked like I was going to court.

“Oh, yes, sorry, my mistake,” Pamela said. “Can I get you a drink, Kathy?”

“It’s Kate, and yes I’ll have some wine, red if you have it.” And some arsenic please.

A petite bird-like woman with red, almost magenta, hair walked up to me and chirped, “I’m Rachel Finley. It’s nice to see another redhead join the group. I’m usually the only one!”

I’m sorry, but if you had been called Pippi Longstocking when you wore pig tails, if you had suffered third degree burns when you went to the beach, if every time you had gone into a bar some drunk yelled Hey Red, then, in my book, you had the right to call yourself a redhead. But if you had become a redhead through the miracles of modern science, then you didn’t. Rachel with her tawny olive skin and brown eyebrows, a redhead? I didn’t think so. However, she seemed nice enough and much more interested in meeting me than Pamela, so I gave her what I hoped was a friendly smile.

“Rachel, it’s wonderful to meet you too.” I shook her hand and tried not to crush her tiny fingers.

“And I’m Tina Andrews,” said a blond Amazon in a soft, breathy Marilyn Monroe voice.

“Camilla,” I blurted as I grabbed her hand. “Oh, my God, you’re Camilla Yardley from Hope’s Glen!”

She smiled, as if she received this reaction all the time. “Yes I am. You watch the show?”

“Religiously. My college roommate was a complete addict and got me hooked.”

“Why, Kathy, oh I mean, Kate,” Pamela said, “how would you have time to watch a soap? I thought you said you were a lawyer.”

I adopted Pamela’s sour-sweet tone. “The magic of TiVo.” I turned to Tina. “How long will you be in a coma?” Camilla Yardley had been in a terrible car accident after being run off the road by Miranda, a stalker obsessed with Brad, Camilla’s sixth husband.

“I’m on a three month sabbatical. My agent thought it would be a good time for me to try something new. I’m reading for theatrical roles. And of course I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”

Yeah, right. Who would walk away from a soap on ABC to appear on Long Island cable? According to Soap Opera Today--which I swear I’ve only read on the supermarket check-out line--Hope’s Glen’s ratings were down and the producers had needed to fire the more expensive cast members. As a longstanding cast member, Tina probably had earned one of the higher salaries. Also, it had been rumored that there had been some tension on the set when the actor who played Brad--Tina’s boyfriend in real life--had conducted a hot, not-so-secret affair with the twenty-five year old actress who played Camilla’s half-sister, Raine. Okay, I used to check out SoapDish.com whenever I was on a particularly boring conference call. Sue me.

“Tina, that sounds absolutely fascinating,” Pamela said. “Why don’t we take our drinks and join the boys in the great room?” At first I thought Pamela was being her old alpha dog, captain of the cheerleading team, controlling self, but I soon realized it was a scripted statement because the camera men had already lined the hallway leading to the great room.

We obeyed and picked up our drinks, following Pamela and the line of cameras through the formal dining room into a great room the size of my parent’s entire house. The great room, clearly her husband’s domain, was decorated in hunter plaids and dark reds. Antlers hung over an enormous stone fireplace.

Three men sat in leather club chairs next to a roaring fire. A bald man rose from his chair, walked over to Pamela and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

Pamela turned to us. “Girls, this is my husband, Don Kruger.”

“Ladies,” Don said in a deep baritone with a slight mid-western twang, “welcome. Let me pour you all a glass of champagne.”

“This is my husband, David,” Rachel said in her high, nasal Queens whine. She grabbed the heavy-set man’s hand and dragged him to his feet. “David Finley, of Finley’s Fine Furnishings.”

“Hello,” David whispered.

“Finley’s on Gerard Street in Huntington?” I asked. “My husband loves window shopping there.”

Rachel beamed. “Next time you just have to stop in when I’m working. We have quite the selection of furniture, fabrics, oriental rugs and lighting!”

The third remaining man smiled. He was tall with broad shoulders, mid to late fifties I thought. “Hi, I’m Paul Goodman.”

“Oh, yes, this is my brother-in-law and good friend, Paul,” Don said, slapping him on the back. “Sorry about that, Paul, I didn’t mean to forget about you.”

“Oh, you’re Pamela’s brother?” I asked, surprised. I had only remembered her having sisters.

“No,” Pamela snapped.
“My older sister Suzanne was Don’s first wife,” Paul added. “Everyone raise your glasses,” Pamela said, ignoring Paul. The camera men moved in to get a close up of Pamela. “Don and I are pleased you could join us this evening. I would like to make a toast to Channel 45’s first cast of Gold Coast Wives.” We sipped the champagne. “Now,” continued Pamela, “I think we should all take a moment to introduce ourselves.” Hadn’t we already done that?

“I’ll go first. My name is Pamela Kruger. I am thirty-nine years old.” Unless she had skipped three grades, she was forty-two like me. “I’m married to the most wonderful man in the world,” she said with a saccharine smile, “Donald Kruger, founder and CEO of DTK Advisors.” Holy shit! DTK was a legend on Wall Street. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him. “I have a beautiful six-year-old daughter, Diana, who will join us after dinner, and two wonderful stepsons. My passions, aside from my family of course,” she said looking at Don who didn’t seem to react, “are charity work and entertaining.” She held her hand over her heart. “I believe that it is my obligation, no, it is my duty and privilege, to serve those less fortunate.” And with that she gave the camera a modest little smile. Thank you, Miss America.

“Now, Rachel,” said Pamela, the apparent mistress of ceremonies, “please tell us about yourself.”

Rachel took a deep breath and looked into the camera. “Well, uh, my name is Rachel. Rachel, uh, Finley.” She looked up at us, paralyzed with stage fright. “I’m, I’m so happy to be, you know, part of the show.” Her voice broke, and her eyes teared. God, this was painful. David Finley rubbed his wife’s shoulder. That seemed to calm her down.

“I was lucky enough to sit next to this lovely lady in our freshman English class at Queens College.” David smiled at her.

In a stronger voice, she said, “You only sat next to me because you needed someone to cheat off of.”

“I sat next to you because you were the prettiest girl in the class.”

“Well, we got married the June following graduation,” Rachel said, gaining confidence, “and we’ll be married twenty-five years this summer.” “Congratulations,” Don said. “That is a true accomplishment. My late wife Suzanne and I were married twenty-four years. Not too many people can say the same.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pamela shoot daggers at Don, but he seemed oblivious. He was too caught up in the Finleys’ love story.

“True, Don,” Rachel said, her whine reasserting itself. “Very true. Of course we have two beautiful sons. Our oldest, Nathaniel, graduated from Tufts and works with us at Finley’s Fine Furnishings. He’s just a wizard with numbers. Our youngest, Jonathan, is a second year med student at George Washington.”

“You must be very proud,” Don said. “My oldest also works with me in my business.”

“We are proud. We’ve been so lucky in this life, what with the extraordinary success that David has made of Finley’s Fine Furnishings, the premier furniture store on the North Shore. We even sell over the Internet, and there’s no tax for orders outside New York.” Rachel seemed to be feeling better since she was able to work in a plug. “That’s why I also feel it’s important to give back. My charity, LICKs, is holding its first annual charity ball in six weeks, and I would be honored if each of you would serve as chairwomen on the LICKs Charity Ball committee.”

We all murmured that we would be honored, but it didn’t seem as if we had much of a choice. I’d bet the invitations with our names on them were already in the mail.

“Very impressive, Rachel. What does LICKs stand for?” I asked. “Long Island Cats and Kittens. Get it? LICKs! Isn’t that cute!” “Excuse me?”
“It’s a charity for cats,” Rachel explained. “Do you know how many cats and kittens are abandoned on Long Island?”
“No, how many?”
“Oh, there are so many of them,” Rachel said, waving her hands. “Ilove kittens and cats, so I felt compelled to do something about their plight.”

“Oh,” I said. AIDS, hunger, homelessness, cats--I could see the connection now.

“That sounds like a very worthy cause,” Pamela said, and Rachel gave her a big smile. Brother-in-law Paul winked at me. “Now, Kate,” Pamela said, “why don’t you tell us about yourself.”

I put down my flute of champagne and cleared my throat. “My name is Kate Ryan, I’m forty-two years old. Pamela and I graduated from the same high school, Queen of the Rosary Academy, in 1985.” Ha! Thirty- nine, my ass. Explain that one to old Donny. “I attended Georgetown Law School and was recently a partner at Fowler, Sherman & Potts, a New York City law firm. I’m currently on sabbatical in order to spend more time with my daughter.” Hell, if Tina could be on sabbatical so could I.

“And your husband, Kate?” Pamela asked. “Where is he?”
“He’s traveling.”
“For work?” she pushed. I think Pamela smelled blood.
“For business and for pleasure,” I countered, which wasn’t an outright lie. For all I knew, Jim could have gotten a job by now: crocodile hunter, kangaroo wrestler, male stripper.

“Will he be back in time for the LICKs charity ball?” Rachel asked.

What was with all the questions? No one else had been asked this many questions. “I hope so, Rachel,” I said. Again, another true statement. At least I thought it was true.

“How wonderful, Kate,” Pamela said. I suspected Pammy was more than a little disappointed I hadn’t fallen apart like Rachel. After ten years running hedge fund seminars, a few housewives were not about to rattle me. Brother-in-law Paul winked at me again. At least, I think he winked at me. Either that or he had some type of facial tic. I decided to go with wink and smiled back.

Pamela noticed, scowled at both of us, and then plastered on a fake smile. “Now, Tina, why don’t you tell us something about yourself.”

Like a pro, Tina faced the camera. Her hair, swept in an elaborate updo of which Ivana would have been proud, was platinum blond. Her cheekbones were razor sharp, through surgery or starvation I wasn’t sure, and her eyes were ice blue. By far, she was the most attractive woman in the room. “My name is Tina Andrews, and since a lady never tells her age, let’s just say I’m over twenty one.” The men chuckled, and Pamela glared. “I’m on a temporary break from ABC’s Emmy award-winning daytime drama Hope’s Glen, where I’ve won two daytime Emmy awards.” Okay, her producers should have been happy with that plug. “Aside from acting, which is of course a passion of mine, my other passions are yoga and step class. I believe rainbows are free, and laughter is priceless.” And with that she sat down. Okay, maybe her producers wouldn’t be so happy after all.

“Wonderful, Tina. Really,” Pamela said. “Dinner is ready. Please join us in the dining room.” Again, the camera men were a step ahead of us and preceded us to the dining room which, like the living room, was subdued yet sumptuous in a melody of grays, blues and silvers. I was seated between Don and Paul.

“Kate,” Don said as we both started eating our wild greens salad, which tasted like a plate of grass to me, “I thought you looked familiar when you first walked in. I sat in on your hedge fund structuring seminar last year.”

“You did? Usually only other lawyers and compliance staff took my seminars.”

Don buttered an enormous piece of bread, spreading crumbs all over the table. “I like to keep up to date on all aspects of the business, to the extent that I can.”

“And you didn’t fall asleep during the tax discussion?”

“That was hard going, I’ll admit.” He laughed. He had a friendly, easy laugh. “The rest was interesting though. You even made parts of it entertaining.”

“Thank you,” I said, a little flustered to be receiving compliments from an icon like Don Kruger. Hell, last year he had been on the covers of both Fortune and Time. I reached for the bread. My crystal goblet tipped over with a heavy thud, spilling red wine onto the pearl gray tablecloth--it looked like a pool of blood. “Oh, oh, I’m so sorry!” I threw the matching napkin--probably not a smart move--over the stain. Paul threw his napkin over the stain as well.

“Kate, please calm down,” Don said. “It’s all right, nothing’s broken. No harm done.”

“Except to my grandmother’s tablecloth. It’s a family heirloom,” Pamela said.

“Pamela, I’m sorry,”

“It looks like you got wine on your blouse. Why don’t you go to the powder room and clean up. And you’d better check your face, something appears to be happening.”

Happening? I touched my face and could feel lumps forming on my chin and across my cheeks. I shot toward the door, catching my heel on the Persian rug--probably another family heirloom. I stumbled a bit but was able to catch myself and make it to the bathroom without further mishap.

God, this was hell.
And we were only on the first course.

*** *
The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful, except that angry red

welts covered my face--it looked like I’d been attacked by a swarm of bees. Apparently Chris’s makeup was not so hypoallergenic after all. When I returned home I scrubbed the makeup off my face, took four Benadryl and hoped for the best.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of rain pelting the skylight in my master bath. I felt groggy, either from the champagne or the Benadryl, and my mouth was dry. I dragged myself downstairs to the kitchen where my mother sat at the table pounding away on her Mac. “There’s coffee in the pot, and I put your breakfast in the warming drawer.” She didn’t even look up from the screen.

Breakfast made and ready--living with the parental units conferred some advantages. Once my mother had heard about the TV show, she claimed a kitchen fire had made her home uninhabitable, despite the fact that my retired fireman father had installed the latest and greatest smoke detectors in almost every room of their small house. She’d arrived on my doorstep with her laptop, copies of her last five published romance novels and my embarrassed father in tow. Wimp that I am, I let them move in.

I took my nicely warmed plate over to the table and dug into scrambled eggs and bacon. My mother might not have liked making roasts or pies, but like most Irish mothers, she cooked a mean breakfast.

When I’d finished, she looked up. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

“I had an allergic reaction to the makeup.”

Bernadette Walsh

“During or after the party?”

“During, of course. I turned into the elephant woman at the end of the first course after I spilled red wine all over the table.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Of course I wasn’t drunk! I was having a nice conversation with Don Kruger, one of the best hedge fund managers alive, and I guess I was so star-struck I wasn’t paying attention. Before I knew it there was red wine everywhere.”

“You must have made some first impression.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” I scratched my cheek.
“Don’t scratch. Wait, let me make you some oatmeal.” My mother got up and walked to the stove.
“No, Mom. I’ve had enough.”
“For your face, not your stomach.”
“I’ll take some more Benadryl.” I finished my coffee.
“And you’ll put this on. It will take that swelling right down. Thenyou can take a shower and change. You look like an unmade bed in those sweats.”

“Oh, I just feel like lounging on the couch today,” I said with a yawn.

“They’re turning on those blasted cameras in an hour. Didn’t you read your schedule?”

I knew allowing Elaine to install remote cameras in my kitchen for a more natural feel was a bad idea. Man, I really had to get my act together before I was fired from this gig. “Oh God, that’s today?”

“Yes, and we’re making brownies with your sister and the kids. Your father’s gone to buy the ingredients. Thank God we’re here, Kate, or you’d be thrown off that show.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” I moaned as my mother slapped hot, slimy oatmeal onto my face.

“Lie back and don’t get any of this on my clean floor.”
“Don’t you mean my clean floor?” I mumbled.
“Quiet, madam. Now, I’ll pop upstairs and change into something a

little more colorful.”
After ten minutes I shuffled to the sink and wiped the oatmeal off. I

didn’t know whether the welts looked any better, but they definitely felt less itchy. Not that I’d admit that to my mother. I’d headed up the stairs to shower and change when the doorbell rang.

“What happened to you?” Angela Rosetti said after I opened the front door. Decked out in black leather pants that screamed expensive, she was a tad overdressed. After three kids, Angela dressed as if she were in a Whitesnake video. Lucky for her, she was still so gorgeous she could almost pull it off.

“Your brother’s makeup is what happened to me.”

“The LeBonne? Why, I use it all the time.” Angela picked oatmeal out of my hair. “What did you do to your hair?”

“Listen, I’ve got to take a shower. We start taping in less than an hour.” “I know.” What? Did everyone know my taping schedule except me? “That’s why I brought you some of my newest pieces.” Angela shook

an owl necklace at me. Angela had recently started a jewelry line. She made owl necklaces, owl earrings and owl bracelets. Well, she didn’t quite make them. Her uncle arranged to have them shipped in from Indonesia. Angela claimed to have designed them, but I had my doubts. She probably picked them out of some Illegal Sweatshops ’R Us catalog. I suspected that part of the reason she’d pushed Chris so hard to cast me was because she wanted to find an excuse to get her jewelry on TV. As a family member of a station employee, she wasn’t allowed to be a Wife. Over the years we had stayed in touch sporadically. Since I’d joined the show, I’d seen her at least three times a week. Interesting, right? But, perhaps I was being cynical.

“Okay, great. Help yourself to some coffee. I’ll be down in a few.”

After I showered and put on my trusty Clinique foundation, my skin looked somewhat normal. I squeezed into a faded pair of jeans and joined Angela in the kitchen. My sister Deirdre and my father stood at the center island, organizing the ingredients for the brownies. Angela arranged her owls on the kitchen table. Deirdre, eighteen months my junior, was a Special Ed teacher married to her college sweetheart, the dishy Gordon Pederson. She wasn’t too happy about appearing on the show. Deirdre said she didn’t want to piss off her school board, but I suspected that there was a little bit of younger sister jealousy going on there. But Dee had agreed once I told her she could mention the reading flashcards she’d developed and hoped to sell on her new website. The new website, by the way, which my dear sister had blackmailed me into financing out of my Gold Coast Wives stipend.

Angela looked up from her owls. “Oh, sweetie, you look much better. You had me worried.”

“Worried?” Deirdre asked.

I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Nothing, it’s a long story. Are you really going to wear that thing?”

“It’s an apron, Kate,” Dee snapped. “We’re supposed to be cooking, remember? I have aprons for you and Mom, and I made little ones for

the kids. Sorry, Ang, I didn’t know you’d be here, so I don’t have one for you.”

“It’s an apron with Miss Dee’s Phonics Fun written all over it,” I said. “Along with a website address.”

“So?”

“So it’s not very subtle, Dee. I thought we’d agreed we’d mention your flash cards in conversation, naturally. I didn’t think we’d put up billboards all over my kitchen.”

“They’re not billboards, they’re aprons and totally appropriate for today’s taping. Don’t you agree, Angela?”

“Oh don’t ask her. Angela and her frickin’ owls. She’d make Dad put on the owls if she could.”

“I’m coming out with a men’s line. I can bring some pieces next time, Mr. Griffin, if you’d like,” Angela offered.

“I think that’s my cue to leave. Ladies, enjoy your brownies. And your owls.” My father escaped to Bill O’Reilly in the den.

“Smart man,” I said. “Okay girls, I don’t mind you if you plug your products. Hell, everyone else on the show is doing it. But, let’s just try and be a little bit classy about it.”

“Of course. When am I not classy?” Angela asked.

Not wanting to go there, I said, “Well, let’s be subtle. Do you hear me, Dee? Subtle.”

“Oh, relax,” Deirdre said as she measured the flour.

Looked like we were making these bad boys from scratch. Isn’t it easier to just use Betty Crocker?

“How was last night? What are the other Wives like?” Deirdre asked. “Why don’t you tell her, Angela?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you tell her about the other Wives?”

Angela busied herself by untangling an owl’s gold chain. “You’re the one on the show.”

“First, there’s Rachel Finley who owns Finley’s Fine Furnishings. She’s a little too Queens for my taste, but she’s nice enough. Plus, she’ll probably give me a discount if I’m ever flush enough to buy furniture again. Then there’s Tina Andrews--Camilla Yardley from Hope’s Glen- -who seems somewhat kooky, but harmless enough. And finally, there’s Pamela Kruger.”

“Who’s Pamela Kruger?”
“Angela, tell her who Pamela Kruger is.”
“Oh, for Chrissake,” Angela sniped. “It’s Pamela Reynolds.”

“Pamela Reynolds from Queen of the Rosary Academy? That Pamela Reynolds?” my sister asked.

“Yes, that Pamela Reynolds. And of course, she totally pretended not to recognize me. She even called me Kathy Griffin and asked if I was a comedienne, if you can believe it.”

“Maybe she really didn’t recognize you. High school was a long time ago. Plus you used to be less, well, less large,” Angela said.

“She broke my ankle!” I shouted. “I’d think you’d remember breaking someone’s bones.”

“Oh, it was like a million years ago,” Angela said. “It was an accident, let it go.”

“It would’ve been nice to have a little warning, that’s all. Did you tell Chris about our high school rivalry? Is that why we’re both on the show?” “Rivalry? Are you kidding me? You and Pamela didn’t have any kind of rivalry. I also don’t remember her being so bad. In fact she was kind of fun. She threw a fantastic Sweet Sixteen party.”
“Yeah, which I wasn’t invited to.”
“You’re being pissy because Pamela Reynolds didn’t invite you to a

birthday party?”
“You know what, Angela, just forget it. You were one of the beautiful

people in high school. You have no idea what it was like for the rest of us.”

“Please, Kate, don’t go all Pretty in Pink on me.”

“How did she look?” Deirdre asked, in what I think was an attempt to change the subject.

“Amazing,” I admitted. “Older of course, but if anything she’s improved, become more elegant. Boobs a little bigger, but they look real. No lines on her face, but she looks natural, not like she’s used Botox. I do think she might have had some collagen shots in her lips. She looks, I don’t know, glossy--like those society women shopping on Madison Avenue look glossy.”

“Girls, are you aware the cameras are on?” my mother asked as she entered the kitchen holding three hardcopies of her most recent romances from Heartland Press.

Shit.

“Oh, Mom,” Deirdre said as she looked straight into the camera above the microwave, “are those your latest novels? Thanks so much for bringing them. The teachers at my school are always asking for autographed copies.”

“That’s not a problem, darling,” my mother said in a strange Queen Elizabeth accent. “Nothing’s too much trouble for my fans.”

“People are always impressed that my mother, Grace Griffin, is the real Penelope La Montagne!” Deirdre said with a flourish. Okay, I was going to be a little sick.

“Oh, my darling,” Grace said, “you’re embarrassing me.” Again with darling?

“Why should you be embarrassed? Writing twenty Heartland romance novels is such an accomplishment!”

“Actually, my dear, it will soon be twenty one. I’m putting the finishing touches on my latest novel, A Pocketful of Gold.”

“Mrs. Griffin, I just can’t wait to read it!” Angela gushed. She was getting in on the action too?

“It will be published soon, and I’ll be sure to give a copy to both you and your mother. I love the fact that young, stylish women like you in the twenty five to forty-five-year-old demographic enjoy reading the Penelope La Montagne books as much as your mothers do.”

“We do, Mrs. Griffin.”
“Angela, what a beautiful necklace you have on,” my mother simpered. This was getting to be too much. “Aren’t we supposed to be making

brownies or something?” I asked.
Ignoring me, Angela said, “Didn’t Kate mention my new jewelry line?

Angela Rosetti Fine Jewelry has a complete line of earrings, necklaces, bracelets and rings. I’m even starting a men’s collection!”

“These are beautiful. I hope Mr. Griffin buys me one of these beautiful owl necklaces for Christmas.” My mother had never worn any jewelry other than her plain gold wedding band. Last Christmas my father had bought her a printer.

“He won’t have to...as a special gift, I’m giving the three of you ladies the owl pendent of your choice!”

“Oh, I’ll take the kissing owls please,” Deirdre said. “They’re so unusual. I know all the teachers at school will want one. Where can they buy them?”

“My jewelry line is only available on my website, AngelasOwls.com. I accept MasterCard, Visa and Pay Pal.”

“Deirdre, don’t you think we should start on those brownies?” I asked. “Yes, but first you have to put on your aprons.”
And, of course it went downhill from there. As my three-year-old daughter Lucy and my niece and nephew spread brownie frosting all over their faces and my speckled granite, Deirdre talked about her flash cards, Angela about her owls, and Mom went into excruciating detail about Fiona, Lord Cartwright and their love triangle--which probably wasn’t the best topic in front of the children. At one point I left the room and joined my father and Greta Van Susteren in the den. Eventually the brownies were made, the products plugged and the two hour taping session thankfully came to an end.

“I think that went well. My new editor at Heartland will surely be impressed,” my mother said with forced enthusiasm as she put on the kettle for a pot of tea. My mother’s new editor had recently made noises about not renewing her contract if sales didn’t improve. My mother had implied she might be ready to retire her writing alter ego. She wasn’t fooling anybody. We all knew she was gutted by the threat of losing her second lusty life as Penelope La Montagne.

“I hope I get some orders for the flash cards, although I still have to figure out how to make them.” Deirdre wrapped the brownies in Saran Wrap.

“My Uncle Frank can help you with that. His company is making my jewelry. He’s coming over to my house for dinner on Sunday. Why don’t you and your husband join us?”

“Oh, Angela, do you think he can help?”

“Of course, Dee, don’t worry about a thing. Kate, this has been fun, but I really gotta go.” Angela handed me a large jewelry case. “Here, this is a complete collection of the owls. Chrissy told me you didn’t wear them yesterday, which, given the circumstances, may be just as well. Could you wear at least one owl piece to Pamela’s luncheon?”

“What luncheon?” I grabbed the taping schedule. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten another event.

“Her luncheon on Thursday? Tom sent out a revised schedule this morning. Check your email.”

I flipped open my laptop. I saw a few messages from NYJimmy66, my missing husband’s catchy new email address, which I’d have to read later, and one from someone trying to enlarge my penis. But none from Tom or anyone at Channel 45.

“Do you think I’m not invited?”

“Oh, please, Kate. Tom probably forgot to send you an email. I’m sure you’re invited. It’s a LICKs Ball planning session. Even I’m going, since I’m donating my entire owl collection as a silent auction item.”

Dee giggled. “What’s a LICKs Ball? That can’t be the name.” I got it.
Angela rolled her eyes. “I know, like, hasn’t anyone told her?”

“I’m not about to. I’ve already alienated one Wife, I have to keep the others on my side,” I said.

“Okay, I’ve got to fly.” Angela flung her oversize Birkin bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you on Thursday, sweetie.”

“If I’m even invited.”
“Oh, Molly Ringwald, I’m sure you’re invited. Bye bye,” she trilled. After Angela left, I called Tom’s cellphone and he told me, sounding

somewhat ashamed, I was not invited to Pamela’s luncheon. Apparently, Pamela was concerned about her furniture, given my reign of destruction at the cocktail party. Instead, production scheduled a one-on-one lunch with me and Rachel at my house for later in the week.

Deirdre rubbed my shoulder. “Come on, don’t be upset. You can’t let someone like Pamela get to you.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “You know what, guys, I think I’ll go lie down. These Benadryl are making me tired. You don’t mind if I skip dinner at your house, Dee, do you?”

“Not at all. We’ll take Lucy with us, so you can rest.”

After a two hour nap in a quiet house, I felt like a new woman. A new woman who didn’t care about Pamela and her revoked invitations. A new woman who was ready to read her missing husband’s emails. With a pot of tea and several brownies to fortify me, I opened my email account.

Kate,

Do you really think by threatening to sell my car you’re going to make me come home? I’m on a journey here. I cannot believe that you are so selfish that you would try and ruin that for me. I’ll come home when I’m good and ready.

Jim

After months of placating him via email, tiptoeing around his fragile ego, hell, even acting interested in his explanation of the migratory habits of the kangaroo, I’d finally had enough. I hit the reply button and typed:

Fine, then don’t come home.
I was going to need something a little stronger than tea.

*** *
On Wednesday morning, running late of course, Lucy and I jumped

into the beautiful silver BMW X3 I’d probably need to sell at some point- -hello, Kia--and made it to her Ballet for Tots class ten minutes late. I changed Lucy’s shoes and led her into class. I flopped onto one of the folding chairs that lined the hall outside the classroom and tried to distract myself with The New York Times.

As I scanned the Metro section, I could hear the murmur of the other moms clustered down the hall. I looked up and could see, to my dismay, that the eight women were at least ten years younger than me and fell into the category of yummy mummies. Deirdre had once described the typical Long Island type: thin from her many yoga and pilates classes, perfectly plucked, highlighted and waxed from her many salon treatments--after all, she deserved some me time--generally outfitted in casual wear that cost more than Deirdre’s monthly mortgage, slightly over-caffeinated from her Starbucks addiction, who spoke in the high, nasal voice of the true Lawn Guylander. Given my prior work schedule and the fact that we’d recently moved back to Long Island, I’d had limited contact with the other Island mommies. Marion, Lucy’s last nanny, had ferried Lucy to her various dance and music classes. So, the only mommies I’d met were the other working mothers who hit the playgrounds on the weekends. And we’d all been so exhausted, we didn’t have the energy to be either competitive or friendly.

I mentally compared my size fourteen Gap jeans and sweatshirt to the skintight Juicy Couture ensemble sported by the blond twenty-something mom clutching a venti latte to my right. It had to have taken her at least thirty minutes to achieve such pin-straight locks. It had taken me exactly two minutes to pull my gnarled red curls up in a scrunchie. Why on earth would someone get dolled up to sit in the corridor of a YMCA?

I glanced at the group and caught a dark-haired fashionista looking me up and down. God, this was worse than the high school cafeteria. Except in high school I’d only worried about acne and ten extra pounds. Now I had to contend with forty extra pounds, frumpy clothes and no husband. Although I was feeling quite sorry for myself, I gave Miss Vogue what I hoped was a confident, detached smile before trying to concentrate on my newspaper. After class, I was helping Lucy change her shoes when a tall woman around thirty came up to me. “Is Marion okay? She’s not sick or anything, is she?”

I forced a smile. “Oh no, she’s fine. My work schedule has changed, so I’ll be taking Lucy to dance class from now on. My name is Kate Ryan, by the way.” I offered my hand.

“I’m Melissa Green, Stephanie’s mom. I just love Marion. Do you know if she’ll be coming to Bunco on Thursday? It’s at my house this week.” Marion played Bunco with these people?

“I don’t know. Do you want me to call and ask?”

“That’s okay, I have her number. Bye now.” And with that, she and little Stephanie hurried down the hallway.

Was there a secret password I was missing?

I zippered Lucy’s pink Cinderella parka and walked out of the Y. I couldn’t believe I had to come back in two days. I’d have to hit the mall before then. Aside from the few outfits I bought for the show, my wardrobe at the moment consisted of expensive suits, an assortment of silk blouses and several pairs of subdued pumps--perfect for a Park Avenue attorney, not so great for an unemployed suburban mom.

I further pondered my wardrobe conundrum and financial destitution while I drove Lucy to Sundays, an old fashioned luncheonette in Huntington village. I knew I shouldn’t have wasted money on meals out, but Lucy was a fairly picky eater, and I didn’t always have the energy to fight with her. Lucky for me, even she couldn’t resist their challah bread French toast. As I headed for an open booth in the back, I noticed the place was overrun with yummy mummies and their spawn. There wasn’t one mother eating with her child--they were in groups of three or more mommies. I quickly grabbed Lucy’s hand and ran for the door.

Was I really so pathetic that I couldn’t eat with my child in a public place without feeling insecure? Did I really once form billion dollar hedge funds and advise titans on Wall Street?

At home I made Lucy a sad approximation of Sundays’ French toast which, surprise, surprise, she didn’t eat. I then cleaned the house until it sparkled, confirmed that Elaine had ordered a sumptuous spread from Cora’s Concepts in Catering, and managed to convince my parents to go shopping for kitchen cabinets and take Lucy with them. Rachel and the Gold Coast Wives crew were due at my house that afternoon. There was nothing that could go wrong for this taping. I needed to prove to myself, and to Channel 45, I was not a complete loser Wife.

I dressed in a long, black wool skirt paired with a dark green merino sweater and black ballet flats. I also wore a long silver owl necklace, which would hopefully placate Angela. The crew arrived at noon to set up, and Rachel arrived at one on the dot.

“What a stunning home,” Rachel said as I opened the front door. “I can’t wait to see the inside!”

“We moved in recently so there’s not much to see, but please come in.”

“I love what you’ve done with this hallway. That brass mirror is stunning.”

I smiled. “Jim and I picked it up at an antique shop we came across in Maine one summer, before we’d even bought a house.”

“What a find! You have a good eye.”

“I’m pretty hopeless when it comes to decorating or fashion, to tell you the truth. My husband picked it out.”

We entered the formal living room. “And this room is from last year’s Ethan Allen catalogue, am I right?”

I laughed. “Jim was really busy last year, and I was sick of staring at yet another empty room, so I let the saleswoman go to town. Do you think it’s awful?”

“Not awful, a bit generic though. I think if you added some interesting accent pieces, you could break it up,” Rachel said. Wow, she wasn’t just a whiny cat fancier from Queens--she seemed to really know her stuff.

“Sad to say, this is the best room in the house. The rest of the rooms are either empty or furnished with pieces from our apartment in the city- -some of them look like doll furniture.”

“I see what you mean, but I love this great room. The light is amazing and that stone fireplace is to die for. This room has so many possibilities. When you have a two-story room and ceilings of this height, you need to be careful with the decor and the dimensions. You don’t want people to feel like they’re in an airplane hangar.”

“This room is definitely next on our priority list.” If the bank didn’t repossess the house first, I thought. I led her to the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry because Elaine ordered enough food for an army.”

“No carbs, I hope. I’m not doing carbs now.” Rachel couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.

“I think I have a little bit of everything.”

Rachel nibbled on a few slices of chicken breast while she filled me in on the charity ball developments. Given it was less than five weeks away, most of the work had been done. I agreed to help set up before the event, and I committed to buy a table. Seemed easy enough.

“Kate, I have a wonderful idea. How would you feel about Finley’s Fine Furnishings decorating your great room?”

“That would be...great.”

“Perfect. I’ll have my designer Garrett come take measurements tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I wasn’t planning on buying any new furniture this year.” “You don’t want my help?” she asked, looking very offended.
“Of course I do, it’s just I hadn’t budgeted for new furniture this year.

It’s not the best time for me to be making big expenditures,” I said, a bit annoyed. I really didn’t want to discuss the state of my finances on air.

“Let me talk to David. If you would allow us to film the design process on the show and include before and after shots on our website and print ads, I could do it for you at cost.”

“Rachel, that is so generous of you. It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I am. Very grateful. However, I’ve suffered some financial setbacks, and since I’m not working right now, I can’t afford to make any large purchases.” I couldn’t believe I had to say this on camera.

“Oh,” Rachel said, surprised. “I had no idea things were so bad for you. I thought you said you were taking time off to spend with your daughter.” “I am enjoying spending time with my daughter, but it’s more complicated than that.”
Rachel patted my hand. “Not to worry, sweetheart. Let me talk to David and see what we can do.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’ve been staring at the empty great room for close to two years. A few more months won’t kill me.”
“Leave it to me.” Rachel was a woman with a mission. Well, whatever.

I had enough things to worry about and the great room was last on my list. After Rachel left I checked my emails, and there were no more missives from NYJimmy66. Disappointing but not unexpected. There was an invitation to the New York Asset Managers Symposium in April where I’d taught a seminar the previous year. I decided to sign up. It might be a good networking opportunity, and at the very least I would earn some much needed continuing legal education credits. I might not be practicing law any longer, but I didn’t want to lose my license either.
With that taken care of, I loaded the dishwasher and vacuumed the kitchen. I had gone to law school so I wouldn’t have to vacuum. Unfortunately, my austerity budget no longer covered weekly visits from the Miracle Maids. Lucy found it funny that I was doing housework-- she treated it like a little game and jumped over the vacuum hose. As I finished vacuuming, the phone rang.
“Kathleen, thank God you’re there,” whined my mother-in-law. “I

haven’t been able to get in touch with you, and I was afraid something was wrong.”

Oh shit. I’d have to start checking my caller ID. I took a deep breath. “We’re fine, Peg,” I said, trying not to let my irritation be too obvious to my mother-in-law.

“Have you heard from Jim? He’s stopped answering my emails, some guilt trip nonsense.”

“I received a similar email about two weeks ago.” “What do you plan to do?” demanded Peg.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Go find him. Bring him home.”
“How do you suggest I do that? I don’t even know where he is exactly. Australia’s a big place you know."
“It sounds to me like you don’t even care whether he comes home or not,” she huffed. Of course Jim’s mother would make this all my fault. “I’m not the one who left, Peg. Right now I’m focusing on taking care of my daughter and not losing my home,” I said with what I hoped was a patient tone. I’d learned from experience it didn’t pay to antagonize Peg. “Losing your home? Oh don’t be so dramatic.”
“I’m sorry, but I was on my way out. Is there something else?”
“I have a stack of bills here that I can make neither heads nor tails of. And there are second notices coming. You know how Jimmy usually handles my bills. And the furnace is making some funny noises.”

“Have you called Linda? She’s an accountant. She could help you with the bills.”

“It’s tax time, and she’s run off her feet.”
“What about Maura?” I suggested. “She doesn’t work.”
“I couldn’t trust Maura with something like this.”
“You couldn’t trust Maura with writing a few checks and calling a repairman?” I asked, exasperated.
“Now, Kathleen, you need to come out and help me with this. It was Jimmy’s job and since he’s no longer here, you must help me.”
“Is this a joke? Are you kidding me?” I said, my voice getting louder. “Of course I’m not kidding.”
“I absolutely will not help you. You have four daughters at your disposal. It’s not my fault your children run from you like the plague. Here’s a thought, Peg, why not try doing these things yourself? You’re not an invalid.”

“I cannot believe you are speaking to me this way.”
“Well, believe it.” I slammed down the phone.
After a few deep breaths I continued my cleaning frenzy. I’d never realized what a stress reliever cleaning could be. Those cleaning ladies might not have had it so bad after all. I was tidying up the playroom when my parents came back. After a pot of tea and a discussion of the pros and cons of laminate versus wood cabinets, my father decided to drive to their house in Massapequa and take some measurements. My father’s a real homebody, and I thought living in my house, especially amidst the Gold Coast Wives nonsense, was a strain on him.

With a sigh, my mother opened her laptop. Writing usually energized her, but she didn’t seem like herself either.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Do you miss your house?”

“No. I’ve actually enjoyed staying here. It makes me feel a bit like a movie star. No, I’m having trouble with my ending. Truth be told, I’m having trouble with the whole novel. It’s just not flowing the way my other books did.”

“Maybe the pressure Heartland is putting on you is too much.”

“That probably doesn’t help, but I think it might be time for me to retire, hang it up.” This defeated woman wasn’t the Grace Griffin I knew.

“You still love writing, don’t you?”

“I do, but I can’t seem to write the type of romances readers want nowadays.”

“Have you ever tried writing something else? What about a memoir or fiction based on your own experiences?”

“Oh,” scoffed my mother, “who would want to read about a suburban housewife?”

“Plenty of people. If you don’t want to write about your married years, what about your childhood or your family back in Limerick? Maybe write a book about a girl who decides to leave her home and immigrate to a faraway land.”

“Maybe you should be the writer,” Mom said. “You make my life sound so exciting and unique.”

“Mom, it was exciting and unique. Dee and I loved hearing your stories about the farm and how you used to steal your brother’s bicycle to sneak down to the dances held at the crossroad. There’s plenty you could write about.”

“Would Americans want to read things like that? I don’t know.”

“Memoirs from Irish writers are all the rage, Mom. What about the one you gave me last Christmas?”

“Oh for God’s sake, I would never write a book like that. Shaming your family and airing your dirty laundry for the whole world to see.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds a bit like what I’m doing with Gold Coast Wives.”

“But my life wasn’t anything like that fella’s,” my mother continued, ignoring me. “My father had one of the finest farms in three counties. We weren’t living in a slum, and my father wasn’t drinking the rent money.”

“I didn’t say you were anything like that, Mom. All I’m saying is you had a unique experience. With your writing skills, people might find your

life story interesting. If you’re not comfortable ‘airing your dirty laundry,’ then fictionalize your experience.”

“I don’t know. I still have to finish A Pocketful of Gold.”

“Turn it in as is. They’re probably going to cancel your contract anyway,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Mom, if Jim’s leaving me--and I’m finally admitting it now, he’s left me--if that’s taught me anything, it’s that sometimes being the good girl and doing the right thing doesn’t always pay off. Look at me, I bore his child and for over ten years made his dinner and cleaned his house--or at least supervised. And what did it get me? On my own at forty two. I’m getting a little off track here. What I meant to say is, don’t write what Heartland wants or what you think the family would approve of. Write what you want, what makes you happy.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Girl, you’re right. Hand me that laptop. I’m going to email my book to Heartland right now before I lose my nerve. Let the chips fall where they may.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“And once you’re done with this reality show mess, maybe you should take some of your own advice. Find what makes you happy. Move on from Jim. Any man who leaves a good woman is a fool and not worth crying over. You’re a good woman, Kate.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“And another thing,” Grace said. “Don’t let this house be an albatross around your neck. At the end of the day, it’s only four walls. Sell it, cut your losses and buy something more manageable.”

“I know you’re right. But I thought if I could keep everything together, Jim would eventually come to his senses, I’d find a job and everything would go back to the way it was.”

My mother took my hand. “I know you did, Katie, but would you really want it to? Could you welcome him home with open arms after everything he’s put you through?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I know it’s a hard fact to face, but it’s been months now. You have to assume he’s not coming home and to start living your life. I know you don’t believe this, but you’re still a young woman, still an attractive woman.”

“Too bad this isn’t on tape. Channel 45 would probably give us our own advice show.”

“Hey do you hear something?” she asked, looking around the kitchen.

 

“It’s the dishwasher I think.” I looked at my watch. “It’s almost three. I’d better pick up Lucy.”

“Right. And I’d better start on my new book. My writing group is going to be surprised.”

“They’re going to love it, Mom. I know they will.”

“You know what? I don’t care whether they do or not. I’m writing this book for me.”