by Josie Brown
I think for a moment. “Unwittingly, perhaps. It’s a long shot. Penelope is disdainful of all new neighbors unless they have some celebrity patina. However, if money were an issue for either family, I’m sure they’d at least consider it.”
“Reason enough for us to monitor them as well, twenty-four-seven. If so, and we can turn them, we’ll be saving them from making the biggest mistake of their lives.” Ryan motions for Emma to continue.
Emma announces, “Our next contestants are a doctor and his wife.” The picture on the monitor shows a never-before-seen couple, both of whom are blond, and for once, aren't posing for a family portrait. Instead, the photo is a candid shot taken on a porch swing of an expansive veranda. A little tow-headed toddler sits between them. “Ariel and Franklin Powell, MD, and their two-year-old son, Connor, moved to Hilldale just six months ago. In their interview, Ariel rhapsodized about how they were high school sweethearts.”
Abu reads from the mission statement: “His CV checks out: undergrad at the University of Southern California. Medical school at UCLA. He did his residency there as well.”
“Why would they have applied to the show?”
“You mean, besides the fact that he’s still paying off his medical school loans?” Emma replied. “Just think about the visibility a show like this would give a doctor who’s new to his community.”
“I guess you’re right,” Ryan conceded. “Well, I hope the contestant slot isn’t wasted on the four we’ve seen thus far. As for the fifth?”
Emma takes this as her cue to put up the next photo. “Roger Pembroke is an author who writes thrillers. He isn’t married and doesn’t have children, but he lives with his fiancé—a former British model named Sienna Woodruff—in one of the bigger new homes in Hilldale. His celebrity gives him the sort of cachet that is catnip to Brin.”
“He writes the Alpha Force covert op series, right?” Arnie perks up at the name. “He was formerly CIA, so he still has some connections, which is why some of his plots are scrutinized so carefully.”
“Why would this guy stoop so low to do a reality show?” Jack wonders out loud.
“Supposedly, it wasn’t his idea, but Sienna’s,” Emma replies. “She sold it to him as a way to get visibility for his book series. She also sees it as a springboard for her acting career. And since he sees her as his ‘muse,' he agreed.”
Ryan walks over to the monitor for a closer look. Frowning, he says, “The fact he agreed to the scheme could be proof that he’s been compromised. For example, for all we know, he’s used his books for steganography—covert messages buried in photos or letters. Let’s scan his books for anything that may have been a cipher meant for an enemy state. We’ll also dig deeper into his background in order to fully vet him. Right now, he’s our number one suspect.” Finally, he sighed. “Emma, who’s our final suspect?”
“Something tells me this couple will tie them for first place,” Emma warns us.
The photo on the monitor switches to a couple in their early-thirties: both blond-haired and blue-eyed. They are dressed casually, in khakis and white shirts—appropriate attire for what they are doing: riding tandem, on a camel over sand dunes under a cloudless azure sky. “Professor Gerald Farnham was recently hired to teach International Law at Hilldale State University,” Emma says. “He’s spent a good portion of his academic career in Turkey, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia. In fact, he met his wife, Cassandra, in Dubai.”
“What do we know about them?” Jack asks.
“They are American,” Emma replies. “Both speak several languages. Besides English: French, Russian, German, and Farsi. For years, he taught U.S. contract law at foreign universities. She supervised refugee camps for the UN.”
“Any children?” Abu asks.
“Two sons, both adopted. The youngest, Sami, is a high school freshman—Jeff’s age. He was adopted by Cassandra from an Iraqi refugee camp—her last posting.” Emma’s voice tightens. “His legs were blown off by an IED tossed by ISIS insurgents. Despite wearing prosthetics legs, he’s wheelchair-bound.”
“So sad,” I sigh. “And the other son?”
“His name is Adam. Cassandra met him while she was supervising a UN refugee camp in that Chechnya.” The picture now on the monitor shows a handsome boy around Evan’s age. Despite swarthy skin and dark hair, he has startling blue eyes.
“He was only seven when she adopted him,” Emma adds.
“Chechnya is an al Qaeda stronghold,” Abu reminds us.
“The Farnhams don’t seem like the typical reality TV stars,” I murmur.
“They aren’t,” Ryan concedes. “But since you and Jack were vetoed, I pressured Addison to include them. We’re tracking some unusual Internet traffic to their home address.”
“Let me guess,” Jack replies. “It originates from some known terrorist regions.” He turns to Emma. “How did Addison sell Brin on them?”
Emma snorts. “He didn’t have to work too hard. They were a great interview: openly hostile with each other, and critical of their unworldly neighbors.”
“In other words, they came off as snobs,” Jack replies.
Emma laughs. “Bingo! It doesn’t hurt that Adam is such a cutie. Granted, Brin thought Sami’s affliction would be a downer to viewers, but Addison convinced her that having a family with a disabled child would be a great ‘feel-good’ angle for the show.”
“More to the point, what did the Farnhams give as their reason for wanting to participate?”
“Cassandra explained it: they wanted to draw the viewers’ attention to the strife that is taking lives and maiming innocent victims in the Middle East…” Emma stops abruptly. She didn’t intend for the answer to sound ominous. And yet, saying it out loud gives her reason to pause.
Finally, Ryan stands up. “Interesting, to say the least. Alright, everyone, get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got a long week ahead of us.”
It’ll seem like a lifetime.
Here’s hoping that when all is said and done, it won’t cost any lives, either.
Chapter 6
Queen for a Day
“Would YOU like to be Queen for a day?”
—Jack Baily, host of the 1945 game show.
Not blue-blooded by birth? Aye, a sacrilege and a shame!
No need to worry! Every Cinderella deserves her Prince Charming. To be important, one must look important! So, to that end:
#1: The fact that you lack the wardrobe shouldn’t be a detriment. Solution: check out online couture options, such as Rent the Runway! He’ll never know the gorgeous gown that first captures his eye turns into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight eight days hence. (Or, that you traded it in for another…and another…and another…)
#2: Willing to admit that you aren’t exactly “the fairest of them all?” Pshaw! All it takes is a little sprucing up! Make your must-do list, then check it twice to ensure it includes the following: mani-pedi, massage, facial, lash dye, haircut, and a regal up-do. No doubt the works is far above a scullery maid’s pay scale. Solution: Groupon coupons! Half-price deals will keep your Shrek side at bay—at least until after your royal wedding.
#3: Where does one find a king (and future husband)? Their hangouts are many! Try skiing the powdery slopes of glamorous Courchevel, France; or island-hopping from the Greek isle of Scorpios; or hobnobbing with the trim and titled at Paris fashion runway shows. Trekking to these posh locales may draw down your bank account (or your banked airline miles), but it will be worth it if you end up rubbing elbows with the next King of Whatever.
If you want to be queen for more than a day, whatever steps you take in the next twenty-four hours may help you secure a manly monarch for a lifetime—so get off your throne and get out there!
I’m queen of the hill!
Well, almost.
The midpoint of my sunrise jog finds me atop the second-highest of the headlands that separate Hilldale from the Orange County towns hugging the coast.
The tallest headland, even
closer to the waterfront, is crowned by Lion’s Lair, the grand estate that serves as the “Western White House” for President Lee Chiffray, his first lady, Babette, and their daughter, Janie, who claims our Trisha as her bestie whenever she’s in Hilldale.
Since I’m not one of her mother’s favorite people, our daughters’ relationship drives Babette to distraction. It wasn’t always that way. When I was accused by her first husband, the billionaire industrialist Jonah Breck, of being a crazed killer out to get him (he got the first part of that right), she stood by me when an assassin’s bullet—from the gun of my ex-husband, Carl—took him down.
Since Lee came into Babette's life, our estrangement came about via several twists and turns: she is twisted enough to think I’m after her husband, and I believe she’s been turned by the Quorum.
In fact, the father of the child growing in her womb is that of her murdered terrorist lover.
I killed him. I had good reason to do so: he was attempting to rape me. Talk about complicated, right?
Lee is quite aware of the strain between Babette and me. Still, this doesn’t stop him from pining after me. And it certainly doesn’t stop Jack from bristling every time he catches Lee’s sad-dog eyes shifting in my direction.
Does Lee’s guilt over his feelings make him blind to the possibility that his wife, the First Lady, may also be a Quorum operative?
Is Jack’s jealousy the root of his inability to trust Lee?
Is my life a soap opera, or what? Talk about the ultimate surreality show! Ha! Thank goodness Brin doesn’t know this stuff.
Jack, who's been eating my dust since we left the house, finally comes into view. He’s still feeling the aftermath of his hangover. Not me. Knowing that my family’s daily travails and trivialities won’t be water cooler fodder for millions of voyeuristic viewers has given me a new lease on life.
Thank you, God.
I look skyward at the two brightest morning stars, Venus and Jupiter. In the receding darkness, they'll be obscured by the rising sun’s crepuscular rays. This impermanence is a temporary illusion. The planets will survive long after Earth’s human residents have played out their individual reality shows.
And after Jack and I are no longer.
The two planets move in tandem now, but eventually, the time-space continuum will succeed in separating them from Earth’s point of view.
That’s okay. For now, these orbs are together—and so are we.
The thought of Jack never fails to swell my heart with love. We’ve grown together, never more so than when fate has tried to pull us apart.
I honestly believe that souls are eternal, and that the love one shares with another will last through infinity. In that regard, Jack will always be with me.
My exuberance at this thought is demonstrated with a jump for joy—
Landing me on top of a rattler.
My ear-piercing scream energizes Jack. He bounds up the hill in long, quick strides.
As the snake scurries off in one direction, I tumble down the hill in another—
Landing in scrub brush.
Jack gets to me before I can limp out on my own. Noting how I wobble on a now very sore ankle, he sweeps me up into his strong arms, holding me tightly to his broad chest.
It’s a type of chivalry that will never go out of style.
Still, I’m somewhat embarrassed. “Seriously, you don’t have to carry me all the way down the hill.”
“Are you kidding? I’m always looking for a great excuse to hold you.” He nuzzles my forehead before kissing me, deeply and sweetly.
Finally, our lips part. I blush as I laugh. Looking down at the countless number of homes surrounding the base of the hill, I murmur, “Thank goodness most of our neighbors will still be sleeping. They’d be shocked at such a public display of affection.”
“What say we give the early birds a real show? It’s been a while since we made love in the great outdoors.” Jack’s brow raises in anticipation of my response.
I answer him with a suggestive wink. “I’ll tell you what: if you run a bath for me, I’ll let you scrub my back…and all that implies.”
I’ve never seen a man run so fast down a hill.
We enter a house silent except for Aunt Phyllis’s snores.
Jack sets me down on the bed in our master suite. After undressing me and icing my ankle, he warns, “Stay put. I’ll get you when the tub is filled.”
I reward him with a throaty chuckle. “Promises, promises.”
When he scoops me up again, it’s to witness his handiwork: a tub filled with bubbles.
Tea candles flank the ledge surrounding it. He lowers me into the water, and then strips down. When he drops into the water, a tsunami rolls over the side of the tub.
“Now we’ll both fall and break our necks,” I warn him.
“Not if we’re careful,” he argues. “And I’m always careful. You know that.”
I shrug. “Not a word I’d use to describe you. Exacting, perhaps.”
“Exactly.” He grins mischievously as he takes a sponge off the tub’s ledge. Then, lifting my leg with the tender ankle, he scrubs my foot, very gently.
I giggle at his touch.
“Bend your knee,” he commands me.
“Why?”
“Don’t argue. Just do it,” Jack growls.
“Yes, sir.” I salute him playfully before doing his bidding.
Soon, he’s doing mine. It starts as he moves the sponge further up—over my calf, then my knee, then my thigh.
But then the sponge drops into the water, but Jack’s hand stays in place, kneading my thigh with his broad palm, inching ever higher with his long fingers—
I gasp in anticipation.
He does not disappoint.
A finger and thumb probe first, strumming me as if I’m a finely tuned guitar. If Jack wants me to sing for my supper, I cannot oblige. I refuse to wake up the whole household. However, my moans are soft but fervent.
Tit for tat. I take him in hand.
I’m not at all surprised to find him already stiff. I know he’s ready to burst because he flips me over so that I’m on my knees, places my palms onto the slate ledge that surrounds the tub, and then kneels behind me.
When he enters me, another wave sloshes over the side and onto the floor, but I don’t care. What water is left in the tub ebbs and flows with our lovemaking: gently at first, then more violently.
My orgasm is the eye of our shared tempest, absorbing our raw lust. All too soon, this surge is too great for me to hold onto and I find myself drowning in the streams of our conjoined emotions: desire, surprise, wonder, pain, pleasure, ecstasy, joy—
And love.
Always love.
By the time Jack collapses onto my back, spent, I’m surprised that there is any water left in the tub at all.
A few minutes later he whispers in my ear, “I think we put out all the candles.”
“Not to worry,” I tell him.
The flame that counts most still burns brightly.
As I push him onto his back, he hits his head on the waterspout.
“Ouch! Don’t kill me!” he grumbles.
“Yeah, okay, I promise.” When I cross my heart, I notice the cold has stiffened my nipples.
Jack notices too. I stop his leer by pushing him down again—
Oops, can’t have him drown! I mean, I can’t go back on my promise, right? So I release the stopper.
As what’s left of the water circles the drain, he says, “By the time we get out of here, our skin will be wrinkled.”
It’s a small price to pay for love.
Someone is banging on the bathroom door.
“Who is it?” I shout as I scurry onto my feet. I groan when I realize I’ve put weight on my bad ankle.
Jack leaps up out of the tub too, before taking my hand and helping me onto the furry bathroom rug.
“Mommy! Come out! Someone is at the front door!” Trisha sounds alarmed.
&nb
sp; “I’m…busy! Please wake Aunt Phyllis,” I command her.
“But…she’s in the bathroom too.”
“Um…Okay, we’ll be out in two minutes. Go wake up Mary.”
Trisha sighs loudly as I hear her stomp off.
Jack slips my terrycloth robe onto my arms, and then tightens it with its sash. No, it must be his robe, because it keeps slipping off my shoulders.
Tit for tat, right? I reciprocate by wrapping a towel around his middle. To show his appreciation, he pulls me in close and kisses me fervently.
Shrinkage? Ha! No problem there.
“We’ve…got…to…go…” Despite Jack’s unwillingness to let me loose, I fumble with the bathroom door—
Only to find our bedroom door has been left open and a camera crew, led by Dominic, has somehow found their way into the room.
Behind them are our horrified children and Aunt Phyllis: still in her bathrobe and sporting a depilatory cream mustache.
“What the—”
Before Jack can finish his sentence, Dominic proclaims, “Congratulations, Donna and Jack Craig! You’ve been selected as contestants on Hot Housewives of Hilldale!”
“But—” I stammer.
“As such, you’re invited to a reception tonight at the Housewives’ mansion, where you’ll meet the neighbors who, like you, will represent your beautiful community to the world! And for one of our lucky contestant families, all of their dreams will soon come true!” Dominic points his index finger as if it were a six-shooter. “Perhaps…that lucky family will be yours!”
I take Dominic’s finger and twist it all the way back until our associate-slash-host is wincing in pain. “I say, old girl,” Dominic whimpers, “I’d like to keep all my appendages right where the good Lord intended them to be—”
If that’s the case, he’s lucky I haven’t grabbed the most sensitive one, which he sports below his waist.
“Okay—CUT!” Brin steps out from behind Abu, who is holding one of the three cameras focused on us: hopefully, not just on the robe slipping off my shoulder, or the tent under Jack’s towel. “Ha! Well, what do you know! Your kids weren’t immaculate conceptions after all!” Brin guffaws, as she hands Lucy a dollar.
