The Dirty Book Club(75)

“Don’t look at me like that,” Addie said, turning away from her high-beaming admiration. “Shouldn’t you be at the wedding?”

Jules removed her blazer, folded it over her arm, sat. “I was relieved of my duties.”

“Fired?” Addie gasped. “For leaving?”

“No. Because the beautician I booked was a no-show.”

M.J. gave Jules her martini. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, popping an olive in her mouth. “While Piper was working herself into a lather, yours truly was turning bridesmaids into beauties. Which was no easy feat, let me tell you. And now you’re looking at the lead makeup artist for the new Goddard Cosmetics boutique, opening right here in the resort.”

Amid squealing congratulations, Britt ordered a celebratory round.

“What are you doing here?” Jules asked, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Waiting to catch Paul in the act.”

“The act of what?”

“Cheating,” she said, as if it should have been obvious.

“What do your other friends think about all this?” M.J. asked.

“I haven’t told them. Everyone thinks Paul and I are perfect.”

“Maybe you are,” M.J. said.

“Never doubt a wife’s instinct,” Jules said, her eyes icy blue and sure. “For example, I found this on the passenger seat of Brandon’s car when he drove me home from the hospital.” She pulled out a Ziploc snack bag out of her purse. A dark brown hair extension was sealed between its plastic gums. “I’m like Prince Charming with Cinderella’s slipper. I’ll carry it with me until I find its rightful owner.”

Britt quickly put on her visor and looked out the window, suddenly taken with the sunset.

“He told me it was a color sample he brought for Destiny, you know, so he could coax her into dying her hair back to a more approachable shade of brown. I believed him until he told me to quit the club and”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that, my green flags turned red.”

“Jules, I—”

She silenced Britt with a flash of her palm. “I mean he didn’t wear a wedding ring. So, really, I can’t blame the women, now could I?”

“There were others?” M.J. asked on behalf of Britt, whose shaking hand was covering her mouth.

“Oh, shugah, that boy sowed more oats than Quaker. Not to say that Brandon is a bad man, he’s not. I got pregnant in high school and was trying to do the honorable thing—we both were, but it backfired and Destiny sees right through it. She lost respect for him because he cheats, and for me because I let him get away with it. But that’s about to change.” She shook the bowl of nuts the way a miner sifts gold through a strainer. “I filed for a divorce.”

“No,” Britt cried. “You can’t. It’s my fault. I fuck-attacked him. I’m the bad one. Granted, I did stop the second I found out who he was, but still, I started this and I’m going to make it right.”

“There’s no making this right, Britt. Not between me and Brandon, anyway, but you can make it right between you and Paul.”

“I agree. I’m going to tell him everything tonight.”

“Like hell you are,” Jules said, plucking a pistachio from the bowl.

“?’Scuse me?”

“Telling Paul will tear you two apart. And what kind of Liaison of Love would I be if I let you do that? No, what you’re going to do is promise me you’ll never cheat on him again and that you’ll do whatever you can to make your marriage work while you still have a chance.”

“I promise,” Britt said, crossing her heart. “But what about you? How can I make things right with us?”

“Agree to be my plus one at work parties, you know, if I can’t find a suitable date.”

“Of course I will,” Britt said, hugging her. “I’m so, so sorry,” she cried.

Jules pat-patted her on the back. “I can imagine,” she said. “Brandon never was very good in the sack.” Then in a whisper, “Easton is much better.”

“Easton?” Addie squealed. “Easton is gay!”

“No, he’s just a liberal Republican.” She cracked down on a pistachio nut. “A liberal Republican who’s got my shy vagina talking a mile a minute.”

Laughing, M.J. checked the time: Ninety minutes until her airport shuttle arrived. Ninety minutes until the four of them moved on.

The pianist started playing Norah Jones.

“Now what’s this Paul of yours like?” Jules asked. “Is he one of those slick nightclub types?”

Britt laughed at how off-base she was—not just about Paul’s perceived slickness, but the relevance of nightclubs in general. She scrolled through her phone in search of a photo that depicted her husband before he became a ball-powdering pube-plucker.

“Here he is at the dog-a-thon with our old pug, Maple.” She handed Jules the screen.

“That’s Paul.”

“Yep.”

“No,” Jules said, “that’s Paul. I see him around here all the time. Come”—she scribbled her account number on their check—“let’s catch this critter in the act.”