The Faithfuls: An emotional page-turner with a heart-stopping twist (The Sisterhood Series) Page 2

  “But why would…” Gina pauses, remembering the woman’s name. Eva Stone. It sounds sexy, like a movie star’s name. “Why would Eva want you to do that?”

  Bobby shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it. She’s saying she doesn’t want to see Alma Boots associated with a scandal. All she wants is my resignation. But I’ll tell you what I told Goddard: she won’t come forward, not officially, because to do that you need proof and she has none.”

  Gina feels her muscles relaxing. No proof.

  “So… what? She has a vendetta against you?” Vendetta. The word seems silly, almost comical. Like something she’d come across in one of Calan’s comic books.

  “The way I see it, it all comes down to three options.” Bobby releases a breath. He sounds calm and measured. This makes sense: Bobby’s strength is planning, strategizing. Gina pictures Bobby meeting with Goddard in one of the spacious conference rooms of the iconic 30 Rockefeller Plaza building.

  He goes over his theories.

  Number one: Eva Stone is lying for personal gain. The most obvious reason is money. Maybe she wants a payout.

  Number two: Eva Stone is lying for someone else. A third party is paying her to fabricate this story. Or coercing her. The most likely culprit would be Souliers—they’ve been circling Alma Boots like hungry sharks for months, but Bobby keeps turning them down. Perhaps they think that an interim CEO would agree to a sale.

  Number three: Eva Stone is batshit crazy. She actually believes she had an affair with Bobby. There are dozens of mental illnesses that can cause hallucinations.

  “That’s the most dangerous option,” he says. “I can’t go around calling a woman crazy.”

  “Not even if she’s saying you had an…” Gina can’t bring herself to say the word. Affair.

  “No, but someone else can do it. An unimpeachable, objective third party. Which is why I’m opening an investigation to get to the bottom of this.”

  An investigation. This is good. A guilty man wouldn’t want an investigation. Gina bobs her head, slowly. She trusts her husband. Of course he didn’t have an affair.

  “We’re meeting with a few firms tomorrow. Quietly. Nick called in a favor and got us an appointment early in the morning. Our hope is that by the time this gets out we’ll have a defense ready.”

  “OK,” Gina says. “How can I help?”

  Bobby gives her a weak smile. “Just by being you.” He reaches for her hand again. This time, Gina doesn’t pull away. Bobby leans back against the sofa cushions. He looks tired, worn out. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  “Because of Souliers?”

  “Yeah. We’re living a PR dream right now. It would be a shame to lose the public’s trust over something like this.”

  Gina hadn’t even considered that. Alma Boots has always been a popular brand, but fear of a sale has caused people from all across the country to unite in patriotism. The company is now beloved. Social media is filled with pictures of men, women, and children, both regular folks and celebrities, showing off their favorite pairs of Alma Boots shoes. They tag the company and use hashtags like #AlmaBootsIsAmerica and #madeintheUSA and #MadeByAmericanHands.

  Gina remembers one particularly moving Facebook post in which a woman had shared three pictures: one of her as a small girl in pigtails wearing her first pair of Alma Boots’ classic sheepskin boots, one as a teen wearing a pair of their limited-edition tan, wide-calf leather boots, and one as an adult wearing one of Alma Boots’ fuzzy moccasins. Alma Boots is about more than shoes or fashion, she had written. It’s about growing up American, in America. It’s the very spirit of our country.

  The post had gone viral after Angie Aguilar—the pop star who’s best friends with the likes of Chrissy Teigen and Serena Williams—shared it. The singer has been Alma Boots’ unofficial ambassador for over a year.

  “Alma Boots has been around for decades,” Gina says now. “It’s as American as apple pie. That’ll never change.”

  “The world has changed in the last few years,” Bobby replies. “Companies can’t be associated with sexual impropriety. People won’t care that it’s a lie. I don’t need to be guilty of anything, the accusation alone could ruin me.”

  Gina opens her mouth to protest. The idea that a lie could destroy a cherished American brand, one that’s been around for four generations, is, quite frankly, absurd. But what does Gina know about the inner workings of a corporation? About brand management and public relations? So much of what Bobby shares about his day is lost on her. She’s a good wife and mother, but she’s also a college dropout who’s never held a real job.

  Bobby squeezes her hand. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Gina meets her husband’s gaze. His chiseled jaw and green eyes are resolute. His face is identical to his brother’s—except for his eyebrows. Nick’s eyebrows are arched in a way that make it seem like he’s zeroing in on whoever is in front of him. It makes him look… predatory. Everyone else thinks they are indistinguishable, but Gina has always been able to tell them apart. Because Bobby’s eyebrows are steady, sincere. And right now he seems to be telling the truth.

  “Of course I believe you.”

  Bobby leans in. They stay like this for a few minutes: sharing the silence, comfortable in each other’s arms. It’s a soothing scene, but Gina’s mind is spinning faster than a seven-speed hand mixer. One thought in particular stands out.

  “Does anyone know?” Gina asks. “Other than Goddard and Nick?”

  “No.” A pause. “Well, Nick might’ve told Alice…”

  Gina feels her body deflate. The thought of Alice knowing about this is almost as bad as the knowledge that a complete stranger is lying about having been involved with Bobby. Gina pictures her judgmental sister-in-law perched on her sleek chaise longue, her lithe figure barely making a dent on the ridiculously overpriced piece of furniture, her platinum blonde hair pulled tightly in a bun.

  It’s no secret Alice thinks she’s better than Gina. Better than everyone in Alma, with her fancy degrees and once-successful career in investment banking. Alice is never happy. Tish describes her as perpetually absent and self-involved, but Gina is fairly certain that this news will provide her with a substantial dose of schadenfreude.

  But maybe Nick won’t say anything. They don’t seem to have that sort of marriage, where they open up to each other. Gina wonders if she should ask Nick to keep this to himself.

  “I’m sorry this is happening. But we’ll get through it.” Gina doesn’t feel the least bit confident, but she tries her best to offer a reassuring smile. Her husband projects a strong image to the world, but he is secretly sensitive. All men must be, Gina thinks. There are sides of a man that only a wife knows. It makes sense: love requires many things, but first and foremost it requires vulnerability. And Bobby is only capable of being vulnerable with her.

  “We’ll be fine.” Bobby sits up, clears his throat. “Tomorrow I’ll meet with the firms and choose the very best one. Until then, it’s business as usual. I won’t dignify this woman’s ridiculous claims.”

  Gina nods. She can tell that Bobby is feeling more like himself, strong and in control. It’s a dance they know well: he makes her feel protected, she makes him feel loved.

  “Just tell me again you believe me,” Bobby says.

  “I believe you.”

  Bobby leans in to give her a kiss and excuses himself to take a shower. They make plans to have dinner in the family room, while watching a movie. It’s Gina’s turn to pick. As soon as he heads up the stairs, Gina feels the knot in her chest tighten. Is Bobby telling the truth? Gina wishes she could call Caroline, but her friend is on a business trip somewhere far away and in an inconvenient time zone. But she knows what Caroline would say: Bobby is a good husband. All of her friends think so. If Caroline were here, she’d reassure Gina that Eva Stone’s allegations aren’t just untrue, they’re impossible. And Caroline has a lawyer’s brain: skeptical and cynical.


  But what does Caroline know?

  Anyone can lie. Anyone can keep a secret.

  Gina is a big believer in facing reality. Sugarcoating is for desserts, not life. And the reality is that her husband could be lying, and she’d have no idea.

  Just as Gina has been lying to Bobby for the past fifteen years.

  Two

  Alice

  Wednesday, September 4th

  Alice Dewar is not a fan of Wednesdays.

  Wednesday evenings are a prelude to Thursday mornings—the day the Alma Social Club convenes. The hours leading up to an ASC meeting are worse than the meeting itself. Slower, more torturous, somehow.

  But today is different. Today, she has a plan.

  She writes as much in her journal—her first entry in years. Her plan is solid. It gives her hope. If she succeeds, she’ll be out of this backwards town in months. Possibly weeks. Alice’s Valium-induced sleep is usually a dreamless one, but when she does dream, it’s about living elsewhere. London. New York. São Paulo. Any big city will do. Alice is many things, but she is not a small-city gal. She needs the kinetic energy that comes with a metropolis.

  Alice picks up her phone to check the time: 4:55 p.m. It’s been an hour since she sat down in her bedroom’s white armless chair to write. Her left elbow, propped on the table’s smooth lacquered surface, is beginning to cramp. She leans forward, stretching her back, lifting her slender arms in the air. She tucks her notebook inside her leather document box, the one she uses to keep the two Mother’s Day cards she’s received, as well as a picture of her own mother, and clasps the metal lock closure shut. Writing will have to wait. Nick will be home soon.

  She makes her way into her en suite. As her bare feet touch the heated stone tiles, she reaches for the light switch, only to dim it when she sees her reflection in the mirror. Her face looks puffy, doughy. This is a problem. Tonight she needs to look her best.

  Alice bites her lower lip and eyes the black jar that promises miracles from the Dead Sea. She feels as though she is swimming inside her own mind, only instead of water she is swimming in quicksand. She tries to remember the promise she made this morning, when she found her journal. But it’s no use. She can feel her resolve waning like a sugar cube in a cup of hot coffee.

  She’ll quit tomorrow.

  Alice opens the jar and finds her jet fuel. She slips one pill on her tongue and washes it down with tap water. She instinctively touches her left shoulder, even though the pain has been gone for a while now.

  She is about to step into the shower when she hears a knock on her bedroom door.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Dewar.” Malaika’s faintly accented voice echoes through the door frame.

  Alice slips on her robe. “Come in.”

  Malaika gently pushes open the door and walks inside Alice’s 800-square-feet bedroom. Malaika moved in one month ago, but Alice still hasn’t gotten used to the girl’s striking feline beauty. Malaika has long, honey blonde hair, a cat’s yellow-green eyes, and a wide mouth. She is busty but slim, and her skin is tanned. Malaika is also tall, although exactly how tall, Alice isn’t sure—could she be six foot? But Malaika’s most arresting feature is her skin: elastic, youthful, dewy.

  “Mrs. Dewar?”

  Has Malaika been speaking?

  “How tall are you, Malaika?”

  “How tall?” Malaika tilts her head. “One eighty.”

  Fifteen years. The combined amount of time Alice has lived in countries where they use the metric system, and yet she has no idea how to convert that to feet.

  “Mrs. Dewar, Allegra would like to wait for Mr. Dewar to come home.”

  “Not tonight,” Alice says. She’ll need Nick’s undivided attention—an impossible task if Allegra is awake. It’s never one goodnight story with Nick. He’ll end up reading their two-year-old a dozen stories, sharing Dewar family tales, and singing to her while she falls asleep. And Alice will be left waiting like an unclaimed package at the post office.

  Malaika looks as though she is about to say something but changes her mind. Alice is thankful when she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. Alice had pored over resumés of multiple American nannies before deciding to hire the au pair from Switzerland who had seemed friendly and direct on her cover letter (Alice appreciated the directness more than the friendliness). Soon after Malaika’s arrival, Alice had been hit with about a dozen au-pair-related horror stories from the women at the ASC. Tales of unauthorized parties and trashed houses. Of husbands being seduced. Of children being neglected. Alice had ignored them. She might be a member of the ASC (a compulsory membership, one that comes with her last name), but she is nothing like those alarmist and insecure women. She chose to follow her instincts, thank you very much.

  And life has rewarded her.

  Malaika is hard-working and tireless, and Allegra adores her. What little girl wouldn’t want an au pair who looks like a life-sized Barbie doll?

  Alice goes through her routine: ice cold shower, Hanacure mask, Georgia Louise Cryo Freeze tools, La Mer moisturizer. By the time she finally steps into her walk-in closet, she looks a bit more presentable. She applies a light layer of makeup and selects a simple outfit: dark jeans, a beige long-sleeved shirt, and a gray, cashmere sweater. She studies her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Almost ready.

  She picks up her hairbrush and combs her platinum blonde hair, gathering it into a high ponytail at the crown of her head. She secures it with an elastic band and then pulls at it, letting go when she feels her forehead stretching and her eyes watering. She then styles it into a bun, using bobby pins to tack up the shorter strands. Alice can practically hear her stepmother’s voice—critical, domineering—as she pats on her hair to make sure that it is neatly in place. Tight bun, tight skin! And your skin needs all the help it can get, Alice.

  She is in the living room when the landline rings. Alice cringes. There’s only one person who calls this number. She picks up the cordless phone and presses it against her left ear.

  “Alice,” Tish says, on the other end of the line, “I’m calling to remind you about the meet and greet with the new neighbors. They’re moving in tomorrow.”

  Alice lowers her body onto the arched chaise longue. She has a vague recollection of new neighbors, some fuss about them snagging a house on Backer Street. It had been discussed at tedious length during one of the ASC meetings.

  “They’re moving into the Farrells’ house,” Tish adds.

  Ah, yes. Heather Farrell use to own the gelato shop on Main Street. The house is practically across the street from Gina and Bobby, and about eight houses away from hers. One of the many disturbing, compound-like aspects of living in Alma is that all the Dewars live on the same street. It’s as tacky as it sounds.

  Alice still remembers landing at JFK three years ago, before she and Nick had made the drive to his hometown. She’d never been to Alma before. She had elbowed Nick playfully, joking that once they settled in, they’d engage in small-town activities like waving at their neighbors and going to church. Nick had smiled and told her that Alma wasn’t religious: “It’s not really a church-type town. Actually, Alma Boots is their religion.” Alice had laughed at his sense of humor. Except, later, she found out that it hadn’t been a joke at all—it had been a warning. Alma was a cult. And Tish was the town’s high priestess.

  “Is there a specific time you were planning on going?” Tish continues. “I prefer the mornings myself, but I know you like to sleep in…”

  This again. Ever since her mother-in-law learned that Alice occasionally wakes up around eleven in the morning—a sin as far as Tish Dewar is concerned—she’s found ways to work it into conversation. As though it’s any of her business. As though it’s shameful. For years, Alice had woken up at 5:30 a.m., her mind humming in anticipation at the start of a new day filled with challenges and deadlines. Alice had been good at her job: quick on her feet, diligent, and driven. But it had all been taken away from her. And after Allegra was born, A
lice hadn’t slept at all, haunted by the sensation that she was entirely ill-equipped to take care of a newborn. Is it such a crime that after years of being an early riser Alice is finally sleeping in? It’s not like there’s anything to get up for in this town.

  “Are you still there?” Tish’s tone is impatient.

  Alice runs her fingers up and down the chaise’s suede fabric. “I don’t remember it being my turn to extend the official ASC greeting.”

  The truth: Alice does remember. But she also knows how much it bothers Tish when she acts forgetful. It’s sad, really, how much pleasure Alice derives in vexing her mother-in-law. But Tish is her jailer and Alice doesn’t believe in silent demonstrations of disobedience.

  “We discussed it at the last meeting.”

  “All right, then.” Alice props her legs on the chaise, assuming a fully reclined position. She might as well get comfortable. This conversation isn’t likely to end any time soon. Brevity isn’t Tish’s strength. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  “When exactly?”

  “I’m not sure.” Alice smiles. Her nonchalance is probably making Tish sweat.

  Tish clears her throat. “As I’m sure you know, Alice, I am very proud of the ASC and its history.”

  Alice rolls her eyes. All Almanacs know the story of the Alma Social Club—and every time Alice hears it, she has the urge to call bullshit. The ASC was founded almost one hundred years ago, close to when Alma Boots began manufacturing what later became known as its signature winter boots, introduced to the market during World War I—a time when sales had been so low, Backer Dewar had considered closing the shoe shop he had opened at the beginning of the century.

  But then, a miracle!

  In the early 1920s, Backer received dozens of orders from across the country. That’s when everything changed: the shop turned into a small factory. Women’s shoes were added to the catalogue. Some fifty men had to be hired from out of town. Backer made it a point to employ married men only, as he believed they made superior workers. But that practice resulted in several women—the wives of the new employees—feeling isolated in a new, unfamiliar town, far away from their friends and family. That was when Hildegard Dewar, Backer’s wife, decided to start a club for the wives to meet, bond, and help keep the Alma spirit alive.