As Griggs finishes his speech, he looks back to his table, thanking his “lovely bride and partner in crime, Anna-Byrd,” then winks at her from the podium. I observe her from across the room, eager for any inkling that this woman could become a trusted source. She waves a hand at the adoring crowd around them, like a small-town princess sitting atop a parade float. It’s a studied move. This woman clearly knows what kind of douchebag she’s married to, what the trade-off was when she married him, and is happy to look the other way from more unsavory matters. Like the extramarital affair her husband seems to be shamelessly flaunting with the (Dear God, please let it be so!) pearl-clutching Country Club Betty.
I search the room, but she’s still nowhere to be found. Which, judging by Griggs’s effusive and very public praise of his wife, can only mean one thing: The other woman must be pissed. Really pissed. And no one—no one—makes a better source than a woman scorned.
Griggs wraps up with the equivalent of a beauty pageant’s “world peace” platitude, and the room erupts into applause. You’d think he just announced a universal cure for cancer. Then, he swaggers over to his wife, cups her head in his hands, and whispers something in her ear that makes her blush.
I need a source, someone to attest to Griggs’s underhanded business dealings. And the wife ain’t gonna cut it. Where did theMaybe Mistressgo?
I spend the next fifteen minutes wandering around the maze that is the Dogwood Hills Country Club, searching for Griggs’s hopefully jilted lover, while gently being redirected by the staff back to the Azalea Ballroom at every turn. In the process, I can’t help but notice that I have yet to encounter a white staff person, other than the folks at the front desk. It’s as if being Black or Latine is a requirement for any of the club’s backroom service jobs.
A bulletin board notice grabs my attention, a public announcement of a member’s past due account and the amount owed highlighted in bold. Jesus, what a sadistic form of public humiliation. I wonder if they will feel the same public obligation when they find out what Griggs is doing to the Castillos.
Needing a quiet moment to regroup, I step into the nearest bathroom, which incidentally is the biggest bathroom I’ve ever set eyes on—maybe this is what that obscene membership fee buys you? I’m greeted by a comfortable sitting area, upholstered in more faded fabric and an elaborate white rose flower bouquet arranged on a pedestal table. That’s where I findMaybe Mistressslouched on a rattan settee, clutching her pearls with one hand and a glass of water in the other. Her skirt is rumpled and the waves in her strawberry blond hair have fallen, hanging limp around her shoulders.
I get ready to swoop in on my much-needed source, but her droopy eyelids and disheveled appearance stop me in mid-flight.Is she drunk?Annoyance claws at my chest. Is this woman too impaired to provide any useful information?
“Are you okay?” I ask, looking down at her.
“Yup,” she says, sitting up a little straighter. Then, in a slow Southern drawl, she mutters, “Finer than frog hair split four ways.” She shrugs absently, trying to appear less tipsy than she is.
Great. Not only is she drunk, she’s also nonsensical.
She tilts her head to look up at me and I notice her eyes are wet, and her mascara is smudged, adding to the pitiful sight. Pain radiates off her.
“What’s your name?” I ask, forcing a gentle tone.
“Holly,” she says with a tired sigh. “And you are?”
“Luisa.” I sit beside her on the settee. “Maybe we should get you some coffee?”
She nods once, but then her face crumples, overcome with fresh tears. I reach for a box of tissues, pull out a handful, and hand them to her. At the same time, the door to the bathroom opens and a distinguished-looking elderly woman in a powder-blue suit and flashy cat eyeglasses steps into the entryway.
Holly peers from behind the mountain of tissues in her hands. “Oh no,” she whisper-shouts, ducking behind me on the sofa, “Birdie Beauregard. Oh Lord, please don’t let her see me like this. I’ll lose my job.”
“Job? What job?” I ask.
Holly buries her face in the cushions, too overcome to explain, leaving me with no choice but to shoot up from the sofa and stop the old woman at the door.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I call out, feigning a thick Southern accent, cringing at the sound of my voice. I hold the door before she can shut it behind her. “This bathroom is closed for repairs.” She complains, mouth agape, as I briskly usher her out. “Nasty sewage backup situation. There’s another, clean bathroom down that way.” I gesture down the hallway, then pay no heed to her huffing and puffing as I close the door in her face.
“Thank you,” Holly manages, dabbing her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m really not usually like this, but… did you see that man up on the stage?”Hiccup.“He’s trying to ruin my life.”
I nod but all I can think is: Thisis my infallible source? A drunk Country Club Betty having a total meltdown?
She digs into her purse, nervously pulls out a package of crackers, then rips the foil open, sending crumbs flying everywhere. “What am I gonna do?” she blurts out, nibbling on broken pieces of cracker that have landed on her chest. “I can’t start all over again from nothing. Once should be enough. Shouldn’t it?” Her cheeks go pale as her hand suddenly drops to clutch her stomach. She sucks in a gulp of air before announcing, “I think I’m gonna be sick again.”
She rushes past me, hitting the round table on the way and almost knocking down the giant flower arrangement. I catch it in the nick of time, then follow her into a well-stocked vanity room, like something from the Regency era. Her knees hit the tile floorof one of the floor-to-ceiling stalls, as her arms wrap around the toilet seat and her head sinks inside the bowl to retch. I move to hold her hair, stroking circles around her back, like Carola did with me so many times during my college years.
“You’ll feel better after you get it all out,” I say gently. When she’s finished, I let go of her hair and flush the toilet. She leans against the stall, eyes closed, breathing hard, legs splayed on the cold tiles. I step back, giving her some space, debating what to do next.
“Are you a new member?” She opens her eyes to take me in. “You’ve been so nice. I’m so, so sorry,” she blubbers, pulling way too hard on a too-long thread of toilet paper that she uses to wipe her face. “Please don’t tell anyone you found me this way. I promise it’s never happened in the eighteen years I’ve worked here.”
“Wait, you work here?” I ask, reaching down with one hand to help her stand. She staggers toward a vanity and plops on top of a stool, which incidentally is also upholstered in faded fabric.What’s with this place?
I sit beside her, rummaging through the free toiletry basket in search of makeup remover. The woman looks like a rabid raccoon. I fish around an absurd selection of hand lotion, toothbrushes, tampons, breath mints, and chocolates wrapped in royal-blue foil stamped with the Dogwood Hills coat of arms. I unwrap one and put it in my mouth.Dammit to hell, it’s a little morsel of heaven. Fucking rich people always hoard all the best things for themselves—first the saltines and now the chocolates. Where does it end?
“I’m the events manager,” Holly says. “It’s supposed to be my day off.”
God, this is worse than I imagined. This affair could bring her career to a dead end. And maybe even her livelihood. The women always pay the price of the affair. The men wear it like a badge of honor.
