Guilty Wives Read Free

of us was poor by any stretch of the imagination, but Serena lapped us several times over. To know her, you’d have no idea how rich she was. She was as sweet and down-to-earth as anyone I knew. But this weekend would be different. She had money, and she clearly planned on spending it.
    We followed Serena through a door that led out to a large landing pad—and a large, sleek, silver-and-gray helicopter.
    “Serena, really!” said Bryah, with maybe a hint of nervousness. Bryah didn’t get out much. Her husband, Colton, was what you might call controlling if you were being polite. If you weren’t being polite, you might call him something else. The long and short of it was, Bryah had never been on a girls’ weekend like this.
    “Why drive when we can fly?” Serena ran over to the helicopter and climbed in. I couldn’t believe it—but then again, I could. Money was no object, and Serena wanted us to live a fantasy for four days.
    “You couldn’t find anything bigger?” I asked.
    Once we were belted in, the helicopter lifted quickly, causing a minor rebellion in my stomach. But soon we were soaring over Monaco, and nothing else mattered but the sloping hills of the French Riviera, the blue expanse of the Mediterranean, dotted with yachts and sailboats heading back to port for the evening, and the pink-green sky, against which the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.
    “Did you know that Monaco is the second smallest country in the world?” Bryah asked.
    “Fascinating,” said Winnie. She and I made eye contact, suppressing smiles.
    “Bryah, honey,” I said, patting her leg, “we’re going to have fun. Don’t be nervous.”
    A mere seven minutes later, we were landing on a helipad by the beach. We unstrapped our restraints and waited for the pilot to open the door.
    “Wait,” said Serena. She reached into her bag and removed three overstuffed envelopes, handing one to each of us. I opened mine and found a thick wad of euros.
    “What is this?” Winnie asked.
    “That’s fifty thousand euros each,” she said. “Gamble with it. Shop. Do whatever you want. Just promise me you’ll spend it.”
    “Can I buy a car?” I asked. “A small island?”
    “How about a movie star?” Winnie asked. “Think I can rent Brad Pitt for the weekend?”
    “ Brad Pitt? Too old, Win,” I said. “One of those younger boys. Zac Efron, maybe.”
    “You want an athlete,” Serena suggested. “David Beckham. Rafa Nadal.”
    “Rafa, maybe,” Win agreed.
    We looked over at Bryah, who had remained silent. She considered the money, looked at Serena, and allowed a wry smile to play on her face. “You could get into a spot of trouble with this bit of money,” she said.
    We all looked at each other, giddy and slightly intoxicated, relaxed and eager, and broke into laughter. Outside the window of the helicopter was Monte Carlo, the playground of the rich and famous. We were all stifled in our own way, mothers and wives living in our adoptive Swiss city, and these four days would be our chance to escape. To live someone else’s life.
    “Bryah,” I said, “I think that’s the idea.”

CHAPTER 2
     
    IT WAS ONLY minutes before we were at the entrance of the Hôtel Métropole. It was near dusk and it looked like the light had been turned down on a dimmer switch. The air was warm and thick. Porters in gray jackets and hats took our bags and cheerily greeted us, first in German—mistaking the heritage of the blond Serena—and then in English.
    The hotel was fabulous. We walked through an ivy-covered granite archway that made me feel as though someone should be trumpeting our arrival. The patterned stone path was lined with candles in ornate glass holders, potted Japanese plants, and tall, manicured pine trees that probably had a fancy name but looked like anorexic specimens to me. The hotel loomed before us, basking in the low light. The next thing I knew, I had a Champagne glass in my hand and the bubbles were