Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

  “Mavis is going to die when she hears about this,” Lulu said. “That wedding planner costs two grand to get on the phone. Can you imagine spending that much on a single day? Well, I suppose a week, this time around. Did you see that letter board with the itinerary out front? It’s a bit military how much the bride has scheduled. I felt like I was reporting for boot camp when we arrived.”

  Pierce looked at his water glass without acknowledging Lulu’s attempt to make him smile, which had her feeling ridiculously self-conscious. The original Pierce Banks would have humored her at least, smiling in amusement and chuckling good-naturedly. He wouldn’t have ignored her entirely.

  Lulu watched her husband more carefully, wondering if he was thinking that in Lulu’s case, it would have been five separate occasions she’d have needed to hire Miranda Rosales. Five weddings to four different men. Four failed marriages and a fifth on the way. Lulu leaned back, disconcerted as she watched Pierce study the countertop.

  A resort manager propped open the front door, drawing Lulu’s attention as the cool night breeze of a California desert flitted through the lobby, pushing the scents of fat, pink peonies and delicate, white baby’s breath to the far corners of every room. Lulu loved the romance; she thirsted for it. Prayed even a droplet would rub off on her husband.

  “Here’s your mimosa,” the bartender said, sending the drink across the countertop to Lulu and startling her from her reverie. “And you, sir?”

  “Er, whiskey,” Pierce said. “Rocks. Top-shelf.”

  Lulu glanced at her mimosa, the drink a design worthy of a photo. The colors were expertly intertwined and adorned with a beautiful sprig of berries and greenery. Even the beverages were exquisite and, as Pierce commented, so were the prices.

  “What would you like to do while we’re here?” Lulu rested her hand on Pierce’s thigh. “What about a nice massage tomorrow?”

  “Hmm?” Pierce raised his eyebrows in question and glanced over at his wife. “What was that?”

  “Maybe we can sign up for a Jacuzzi treatment and ditch the god-awful itinerary. I think they draw the bath for you right in the room, but then they leave. It’s been a while since we relaxed in the tub together and played hooky from all our responsibilities. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  “Sure. Whatever you’d like.”

  When she’d fallen in love with Pierce, they’d been equal partners. They’d argued, they’d laughed, they’d joked, they’d made passionate, desperate love, they’d fought and made up. There’d been none of this demure “sure, dear” and “whatever you like.” Lulu was a fighter, dammit! She wanted to be married to one too.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped finally, hoping to draw him out of this miserable funk and into some sort of conversation. She’d take a feisty argument over this lackadaisical attitude; in fact, she was hankering for an argument. “I feel like you don’t listen to a thing I say anymore. Do you even want to be here with me?”

  Pierce looked at her, his brows lifting once again, this time in shock. He had inherited that unfair George Clooney gene that God seemed to only bestow on men—the one that made them look better as they aged.

  Still, Pierce was unique. His nose was a touch crooked, and his left eye squinted smaller than his right when he smiled. It was his smile, however, that melted her heart—and the heart of practically every woman he encountered. There was a cheeky happiness to it that matched the twinkle in his eye, and when coupled with his broad shoulders and a spattering of salt-and-pepper gray hair, the combination was mesmerizing. Pierce’s imperfections made him perfect.

  “I-I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” Pierce stood, pushed his untouched whiskey across the bar, and threw a fifty underneath it. With a single glance back at Lulu, he pressed the button for the elevator and stepped into it.

  Lulu gaped after him, holding her husband’s gaze until the door severed their bond. Something had changed. Something big, she thought, and he wasn’t going to tell her what it was. He was simply going to slip away, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Her heart felt as if it were cracking, slowly crumbling like an old terra-cotta pot. Where it had once held such beauty, a blooming tree of love and desire, only five years later, it’d become worn and grooved. Salt deposits stained the outside; the flowers blooming inside had disintegrated to dust. Soon enough, it would shatter, the shards tossed unceremoniously into the garbage.

  She gripped the bar for stability as a whoosh of breath left her body. When she inhaled again, she tasted fear and bile. Lulu didn’t tread carefully on eggshells through her relationships. She loved fully, completely, and when love had run its course, she left it behind without a backward glance.

  There was only one problem: her love for Pierce had not run its course. She’d even pondered if Pierce would be her last husband. She’d never particularly believed in soul mates, though Pierce had just about converted her. But what good was it having a soul mate if he didn’t love her back?

  Six

  A baby’s cry pierced Lulu’s blue, melancholy musings as she wondered who had brought a baby to a bar. Sure, it was the lobby bar, and the cry was coming from the lounge area. But this is a five-star relaxation resort, Lulu thought as she glanced behind her for the source of screeching. Surely there was five-star (soundproof) child care somewhere around here.

  “What a lovely child,” Lulu said as the bartender topped up her mimosa with a bit of champagne. The young woman smiled fondly across the lobby but was whisked away by her colleague before she could comment.

  Lulu spun on her delightfully comfortable barstool and scanned the room for the source of the noise. Spotting a young mother with a baby clasped to her chest, Lulu studied her and waited to feel a twinge of remorse. Lulu had never heard the ticktocking biological pull that so many of her female friends had felt in their late twenties, early thirties, and onward. It had simply never hit her.

  “Such an adorable little one,” Lulu murmured to nobody in particular as she tested another phrase on for size, waiting to see if the words unearthed any latent feelings of longing from somewhere deep within. When nothing stirred, she tried again. “So sweet.”

  “Excuse me?” A woman two seats down was giving Lulu an odd look. “Are you talking to me?”

  Lulu turned to face the woman. A woman nearly half Lulu’s age was watching her carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m mumbling to myself. My name is Lulu.”

  “Emily.”

  For a moment, Lulu was lost in her own thoughts as she sized up Emily. Lulu wasn’t particularly envious of youth, but what she saw in Emily disappointed her. Lulu placed Emily in her late thirties, and when Lulu had been that age, she’d been thriving. Young and beautiful, desired and pursued. Men had eaten from the palm of her hand, and Lulu had liked the feeling of being in control.

  But Emily, somehow, didn’t appear to be at the peak of anything. She might have been pretty once upon a time, but now, her lips were turned into a contemplative pout and her gaze didn’t hold contact for long. Her clothes didn’t do a thing for her figure, and while her accessories weren’t exactly cheap, they were just…plain. Everything about Emily seemed a bit drab, as if she’d lost the will to try for the sparkle that belonged in a woman. A shame, if you asked Lulu.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Lulu said quickly. “I was mumbling to myself. My husband ran upstairs to freshen up.” She glanced over at Pierce’s recently emptied seat. “But if you’re bored, you can slide over and join me for a drink until he returns.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I hate drinking alone.”

  “Like I said, I’m Lulu.” She stuck out her hand for a shake. The woman had a cool grip and still didn’t meet Lulu’s eye. “What are you having?”

  “Is that a mimosa?” Emily glanced at Lulu’s glass. “I started with champagne on the plane, so I should probably stick with it. I’m not eighteen anymore,
and you know what they say about mixing alcohols.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lulu deadpanned. “I’ve only just turned twenty-one.”

  Emily stared at Lulu for a long moment, that critical second in time where one stranger is supposed to determine whether the other stranger is joking or a little bit psychotic. Finally, she cracked a small smile and then burst out laughing. “I like your style, Lulu.”

  The bartender appeared with a smile. “What can I get you ladies?”

  “I’m fine, but she will take a mimosa,” Lulu said, patting the seat next to her and flicking a glance at Emily. “Go on, scoot over into Pierce’s seat for now so I’m not shouting across the bar.”

  “Hold the orange juice, will you?” Emily muttered to the bartender. “Thanks.”

  Lulu smiled. “What brings you here, Emily?”

  “To this monstrosity of a resort?” Emily gestured around her, looping in the white, gauzy fabrics dripping from the rafters, the signs sitting on every spare corner that had been adorned with the bride and groom’s initials outlined in hearts made of pearls. “I’m here for the wedding. Seems to have taken over the place, don’t you think?”

  To Lulu, the resort was an extravagant oasis located in the California desert—a location chosen, according to Pierce, because of its exclusivity and reputation as the ultimate luxury spa. Whitney DeBleu and Arthur Banks wouldn’t—absolutely couldn’t—get married in a normal fashion like everyone else. They needed opulence.

  And if their goal was over-the-top luxury, they’d certainly achieved it. With tiny portions of food that tasted like money and drinks more expensive than liquid gold, one couldn’t walk into the space without going into debt. The very chandelier dripped bits of warm light onto the deep, heavy wooden bar top, meeting the flickering of Himalayan salt candles and the hiss of diffusers pushing out humid bits of scented mist. Even the palm trees outside swayed in time with the soft, relaxing pump of music through the speakers as if they, too, were part of the very core of the ambiance so carefully crafted.

  While Emily didn’t seem to approve of the resort choice, Lulu didn’t mind it. Lulu’s life had always been about luxury. Marrying into money, divorcing with money. Of course, money wasn’t everything; marriage was about love and passion. If Lulu didn’t believe in romance, she wouldn’t have gotten married five times.

  “I don’t think it’s so horrible,” Lulu said. “I read on the website that the resort staff leaves beautiful petit fours every night on the bedside table. How lovely! And these drinks? They could be featured on the cover of a magazine.”

  “Can I be honest?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “I hate weddings.” Emily heaved a sigh. “Seeing all these old friends who aren’t really friends anymore, figuring out the perfect gift, making small talk with strangers I’ll never see again.”

  Lulu gave a perfunctory smile. “Do you consider this small talk? If so, we can sit here quietly. I won’t be offended.”

  “Not you.” Emily’s cheeks flushed a rosy pink. “I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight. I had a long travel day, and I met a man on the plane. Somehow, things are already complicated.”

  “Ah, men.” Lulu shifted to get more comfortable in her seat and settled in for the long haul. “Well, I’m always up for a good story. And I’ve been married five times, so if it’s advice on men, maybe I can help. Advice on relationship longevity, not so much.”

  Emily smiled, looking gratefully over at Lulu. “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be,” Lulu said, though she enjoyed the compliment nonetheless. “Getting married is the easy part. Staying married is the difficult portion.”

  “Tell me about it.” Emily stared deeply into her drink, studying the champagne bubbles as if they held the answers to her deepest questions. Then she added quickly, almost as an afterthought, “But I’m not married, of course.”

  Lulu sensed Emily was on the verge of spilling some of her secrets, the details closely secured against Emily’s chest, but at the last second, she appeared to pull herself back from the ledge. Emily shook her head, obviously distracted, and plucked something from the purse she’d slung over Pierce’s chair.

  “I need an honest opinion.” Emily ran her hands over a slim photo album in a gorgeous shade of rose. “Is this a stupid idea as a wedding gift?”

  “Is it a photo album? I do love that shade of pink.” Lulu leaned farther over and gently stroked her finger along the velvety exterior. “Oh, you must be friends with the bride. College days?”

  Emily gave a hesitant nod. “We lived together for a while. There were four of us who were close—though when I think back, I wonder how we ever got together. We were all so different.”

  “May I?” Lulu waited for Emily’s nod.

  When it came, she pulled the album closer to her and flipped it to the first page. Four young, pretty faces smiled gleefully back at her, all of them shoved under a Charlie Brown–style Christmas tree that looked as if it’d been pulled out of a dumpster and decorated with bits of leftover trash. It was charming in a funny sort of way.

  “Well, it’s obvious how the four of you got along,” Lulu said, unable to keep the smile from her own face. “Look at the fun you all are having. It’s a different sort of fun before you have money, isn’t it? You know, I married my first husband when he was a poor schmuck. My best memories of him are from before he went and got rich.”

  Emily watched as Lulu flipped a few pages further into the album. Clearly, Emily had been struggling to come up with captions to the photos. The first three contained silly little quips written in a shaky hand, but they quickly trailed off to blank lines where loving words belonged.

  “Don’t think about your notes so hard,” Lulu encouraged. “This is a great idea for a gift. I’m sure Whitney will love it, and it will be a great way to reconnect with your old friends. Maybe the other two can help come up with some of the captions.”

  “I doubt that,” Emily said. “I’m not on the best terms with either of them.”

  “College was a long time ago.” Lulu didn’t make eye contact with Emily as she flipped to an image of two girls—Emily one of them, an unfamiliar woman beside her—and laughed out loud. “What is happening here?”

  Emily grinned wryly. “Halloween our sophomore year. We went as a bra—it was Ginger’s idea. It was a dare, I think, or maybe that was during the phase when she was protesting something for women’s rights—I can’t remember. Either way, I went along with her because that’s what we did back then. Our other friends—Kate and Whitney—were too embarrassed to be seen with us until they’d finished the better part of a wine bottle. Then, they came out dressed as a devil and an angel.”

  The next page revealed another photo of Emily and Ginger, this time wearing swimsuits. The photo was so dark, they were mere blobs of pasty-white skin against a star-spattered night sky as they stood on the edge of a dock.

  “Oh, this one!” Emily exclaimed with the first hint of excitement she’d shown all evening. “This was when we got Whitney to go skinny-dipping for the first time. She was so nervous, poor thing. She only did it because Kate went with her—those two were attached at the hip.”

  “But Whitney’s not in the photo,” Lulu said gently. “In fact, most of these are you and Ginger, and a few are of the four of you.”

  “Er, right,” Emily said. “Kate and Whitney were inseparable, and so were me and Ginger. Sophomore year, we all shared a four-bedroom apartment on campus, and that’s when we all started hanging out. We spent so much time together over the next three years, I guess we didn’t have a choice but to become friends.”

  “This one is sweet.” Lulu stopped on a photo clearly taken in the library. Poor Whitney was facedown with her head on one of the books in such a deep slumber that her mouth was cracked open. “All-night study session?”

&n
bsp; Emily snorted. “Sweet, yeah right. That was the week of finals. Our school had one of those late-night pancake breakfasts to help us fuel up for exams. Whitney ate too much and passed out. Not a good idea when you have Kate and Ginger around.”

  Lulu frowned in confusion. “Why ever not?”

  In explanation, Emily flipped the page and found an inappropriate piece of artwork drawn on Whitney’s forehead. Even Lulu found it hard to hold back a smile at their naive immaturity, the girls’ eyes squinted with suppressed giggles. “I see what you mean. Emily, promise me—if I happen to fall dead asleep after this next mimosa, do me a favor and shuffle me off to my room before your friends get here, will you?”

  Emily laughed. “You have my word. Though, I think we’re all a little past that now.”

  “There’s no outgrowing some things,” Lulu said. “Take it from me. A little youthfulness is always good.”

  “Maybe.” Emily snapped her book closed, shuffled it back to her purse. “I guess I’ll finish that later. I should probably just write Whitney a check, though—it does seem a little odd giving her a book where she’s not even in half the photos. Anyway, all those memories have me thinking I could use another drink.”

  Lulu stifled her urge to raise an eyebrow and instead beckoned the bartender over and gestured for Emily’s glass to be refilled.

  “I normally don’t drink like this,” Emily explained. “It’s the college photos bringing me back, I guess. It’s been a complicated sort of day.”

  “So you said. This man, what is it about him that’s making everything so difficult?”

  “Um…” Emily tapped her hand nervously against the bar counter. She glanced toward Lulu, then took a fortifying sip of her drink. “The sex.”

  “Oh.” Lulu licked her bottom lip in thought. “Yes, that does tend to complicate things. Is he married?”

  “God, I hope not. He told me he wasn’t. He didn’t have a ring on, but men have been known to lie before.”