The Best Wife

By AB Plum

Mirror, mirror on the wall …

Jealousy doesn't exist in Darby Forester's vocabulary. Until Caroline, an equally stunning woman, crashes Darby's perfect fortieth birthday party and reduces her seemingly perfect husband into a horny adolescent in front of the well-wishers.

THINGS ARE ABOUT TO GET WORSE.

Shortly after the last guest leaves, Caroline calls Wyatt. Someone is trying to break into her house—where she's alone and terrified.

Wyatt rides off to the rescue. Darby feels the first brush of fear. Her father was a serial adulterer, abusing her and her sickly mother. Infidelity is, for Darby, a game-changer. One Wyatt has always willingly agreed to.

A call from the ER changes everything.

Wyatt is fighting for his life after a brutal beating. Suspense mounts at the hospital when Darby finds Caroline rode in the ambulance with Wyatt. She is passing herself off as his sister.

The game of cat and mouse escalates.

Caroline baits Darby with innuendoes of Wyatt's infidelity. Shortly after his hospital admission, he dies. Darby has no idea what Caroline wants. Or who she is. Or why Wyatt was attacked. A mysterious text sends her rushing to meet a stranger claiming to have the answers.

Body count mounts.

Before Darby gets answers that make sense, the stranger is dead. A day later, so is Caroline.

Arrogance. Spite. Payback. Emotionally exhausted and disillusioned, Darby hires a PI. The secrets he ferrets out point to a murder in her past. Can she dodge the payback?

***

THE BEST WIFE is a domestic thriller where old secrets lead to new betrayals. If you're a fan of unreliable narrators, psychological thrillers, and plots that twist and turn in the wind, add this new release from AB Plum to your reading list today!

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• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Nov 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223931997

Book preview

Prologue

Twentieth Birthday

Through the post-surgical anesthesia haze, the doctor looks at me with warm, compassionate blue eyes. My droopy eyelids flutter downward. The hollowed out feeling in my chest expands, shrinking my heart to a hard knot.

Maybe, since today is my twentieth birthday, if I wish hard enough—

The doctor squeezes my fingers. I blink and open my eyes willing her not to say what I already know. Your … friend left a while ago. He said he had an emergency. He said he’d call your roommate if he can’t come back.

Beneath her compassion, the slightest hint of judgment.

He has a lot of responsibility, you know. Swallowing, I flare my nostrils to show her she’s wrong about Conor.

Dr. Conor McAfee isn’t like all the other assholes she’s undoubtedly seen over her years at the women’s clinic. The ones who bring in their girlfriends and then take off never to return. Conor teaches one of the most popular courses at the university. Erotic Love in the Nineteenth-Century British Novel.

The popularity of the class requires him to teach two sections, packed each semester with female students who arrive early and leave late. I’m lucky every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to claim my seat in the middle of the second row. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I stake out the chair opposite his in the seminar group.

His wife, a graduate student, sits next to me sublimely ignorant of what he and I share.

It helps, the doctor says, if you keep your eyes open.

Point taken. I smile but keep my eyes closed against the tears leaking into my ears.

Happy Birthday, Darby.

Chapter One

Thirtieth Birthday

My husband always preferred younger women. The high school senior who dated the freshman cheerleader. The college man who liked high school juniors. The just-hired copywriter who wowed college undergrads. The thirtysomething … you get the idea.

He was forty-two when we met at my thirtieth birthday party.

No, it wasn’t love at first sight.

My first impression? He was older—even though I didn’t know his age.

Dressed in a tailored navy blazer over a blue Henley matching his eyes, pressed jeans, and Gucci loafers without socks, he didn’t look older.

No gray hairs in his mop of copper-red curls.

No wrinkles around those startling blue eyes.

No yellow in his dazzling teeth.

No wedding ring. Who is he? I hugged my waist and mentally searched for which women friends had RSVP’d they’d bring a date.

Maybe he came with another guy.

Only if hell has turned into an ice rink. I glanced around my living room and located the two gay guys living in the apartment below me. One mouthed, Great party.

Another guest I didn’t know leaned into me. Stunned by fumes of Chivas Regal in my face, I nodded as he talked non-stop about the secret product he was working on that would displace Apple. He jabbed his index finger at me. No ring.

Of course, the absence of a gold band meant nothing. Half the men I invited were married. None wore the socially accepted substitute for a ball and chain.

Hello. The stranger across the room now stood next to the Chivas Regal drinker, his eyebrows knitted together like dueling caterpillars.

The air around us froze.

The usurper spoke to me as if we were the only two people in the room. Thought I should introduce myself—in case you thought I was a party crasher.

The low rumble in his baritone sent a little chill down my back, and the cadence stirred a memory. I’m Wyatt Whelan. I was supposed to meet Lisa Jackson, but she just texted she’s delayed at the hospital.

Those brain surgeons, I said. If it’s not one emergency, it’s another.

You probably know better than me. She’s wired 24/7.

You should check your phone, Mr. Chivas chimed in. Maybe she texted you.

As a birthday gift to myself, I left my phone on the charger, I said, a little snippy.

Wyatt whistled. A woman who lives dangerously.

Mr. Chivas huffed, and his pale skin reddened. Personally, I sleep with my phone.

I shrugged and shot Wyatt an eye slide. Call me a Luddite, but I guess I’ll miss the end of the world. My phone sleeps in my office.

You do believe in living dangerously. Wyatt’s comeback was lightning fast, his tone teasing.

Th-that’s crazy, Mr. Chivas stated, his eyebrows furrowed. In this day and age—

More people should unplug. Wyatt grinned wide enough I swore canary feathers drifted from his wide mouth. Live life. Smell the roses. Do you like getting out in nature?

Hang gliding’s one of my favorite outdoor activities, I deadpanned.

A woman after my own heart. Want to join me tomorrow? Up at Fort Funston? Weather’s supposed to be perfect.

The closest I’d ever come to hang gliding was watching a show on the Discovery Channel. Ten minutes into the program, the dizzying dips and swirls knocked me for a loop. I flicked the TV off on my way to upchuck.

Heart thumping, I wrapped a hand around my throat so Wyatt couldn’t see my carotid banging. Brazenly, I said, Without my phone, I assume?

You can leave it in the car. His blue eyes danced, his tone dared me to take the bait.

Wow! Mr. Chivas shook his head. You guys are nuts. You’d never catch me taking that kind of chance.

My knees wobbled a little, but I smiled at Wyatt as if we belonged to an exclusive, secret society of firewalkers and high wire artists. Mr. Chivas picked up the vibes and mumbled about his empty glass. Instead of calling over one of the three servers, he slipped away.

I think we scared him, Wyatt said.

I did wonder there for a minute if I remembered how to apply CPR.

He raised a hand and waved over my head. Hail, the lovely Lisa.

Chapter Two

Fortieth Birthday

Men really do think with their dicks.

Otherwise, explain why my husband of ten years, would invite the object of his dicksomania to my fortieth birthday party.

Of course, I’m using think very loosely here.

Does he think by trotting her out in front of my face that he’s being transparent?

Does he think she’ll blend in with the other fortyish and fiftyish-year-old guests?

She can't be more than thirty for God’s sake. Twenty-two years younger than him, ten younger than me.

The upbeat riff from the jazz quintet snakes under my skin like hot oil.

Darling, he slides an arm around my waist and guides the uninvited guest by the elbow into my personal space. This is Caroline. I’ve told you about her.

Yes, you have. Only about twenty-eleven hundred times. A muscle ripples below my belly button. Distaste. I raise my eyebrows.

Her husband’s out of town, and her kids are spending the weekend with friends, Wyatt says in a rush. They’ve just recovered from a bout with the flu.

Bronchitis. Her voice throbs with a throaty undernote. Marilyn Monroe with a cold.

Why is she lying?

She was up every night this week with them. Wyatt’s voice rings with subtext, poor baby, and he doesn’t appear to care he’s being obvious. How does he know this factoid?

I want to puke.

You look as if you survived. I take in her long, ginger waves, clear emerald, romance-novel eyes, and perfect porcelain skin. Standing next to her in my white, Herrera column gown, I pull back my shoulders.

The slight change in posture allows the plunging sweetheart neckline to maximize my boobs (real, 36-C). Her black sweater dress paired with an elegant Tiffany’s diamonds-by-the yard necklace and a low-hung silver belt, emphasizes her lush curves. Her breasts, molded tastefully by the soft fabric, are high and round. (Real, also, I guess. Big, too—at least 40-C).

Is she wearing underwear? Aware of the neon-red thong Wyatt laid next to my plate at breakfast, I shift my weight. My imagination stutters as if everyone can see through my white gown’s clingy crepe fabric.

Her laugh tinkles. Yes, actually tinkles. Like a bell. I clench my jaw. Luckily, she says, I’m like Edison and Einstein …

A genius? In the nanosecond she pauses, the word just pops out of my brain faster than a speeding bullet.

Another tinkly laugh.

Wyatt jumps in, laying his hand on her elbow. He gapes at her with the eyes of an adolescent boy with his first love. Caroline’s too modest. She’s a genius in her field.

Biomedical informatics, isn’t it? I swallow a laugh because of Wyatt’s wide eyes. He’s apparently forgotten he also mentioned this detail forty-eleven million times.

Shaking her head (boys will be boys?), she speaks to me in a between-us-girls aside. I meant I thrive on four to five hours of sleep a night. Like Edison and Einstein.

Life sucks. Studying her face for any signs of cosmetic enhancement, I say, If I sleep less than eight hours every night, I look like a witch.

Wyatt not only misses his chance to interject that I never look like a witch, but he puts both feet down his throat declaring, Getting older requires more sleep for most of us.

The implication being he doesn’t fall in the most of us category? With age, they say, comes wisdom. I let the silence hang. How will he manage a segue in this frozen tableau to a new subject? Better, how will he manage to extricate his arm and slide away to introduce Caroline to our other guests? Will he notice leaving me on my own?

As so often happens in books, on TV, in the movies, and even in real life, a deus ex machina appears. My best friend saves Wyatt’s butt. Stephanie nudges Caroline—a good head taller—to one side, pulls Wyatt’s face toward her mouth, and lays a full-frontal kiss on his lips.

When she releases him, he rocks back a little on his heels. Her honey-thick Georgia accent flows over him. I’ve always said you were a keeper, Wyatt Wheelan. But you’ve outdone yourself for our birthday girl. I hope you’ve saved the blueprint for Tom so he can throw this kind of shindig for my birthday.

Wyatt forces a smile. Stephanie Gwinnett Burnsides is not his favorite person. In private, despite my protests, he refers to her as a hillbilly. The fact that Stephanie comes from old money, attended exclusive boarding schools, earned a degree in industrial engineering from Georgia Tech, and has been my soulmate since the eighth grade gives him no inkling of her importance in my life. He can’t fathom that someone else revolves closer to me in my orbit than he does.

Stephanie takes advantage of Wyatt’s momentary speech lapse and turns on Caroline with her pudgy hand extended. Her six-carat heirloom diamond ring throws off sparks of fire brighter than the dozens of candles floating in the swimming pool. Stephanie Burnsides. Have we met?

Caroline Vandervere. She shakes Stephanie’s offered hand twice, flinching a little as my friend applies unnecessary pressure. Stephanie dislikes having her questions ignored.

You’re not a friend of Darby. A statement because Stephanie knows all my friends.

The tinkling laugh grates a nerve, and I shoot Stephanie a sideways, gag-me-now glance.

Wyatt says, Back off, Steph. I’ll vouch for Caroline. She’s not a serial killer.

Serial killer? Stephanie pokes his bicep—probably because he called her Steph, which she truly hates. Which he knows. Ever the mind reader, Wyatt.

His jaw tightens, and his carotid pounds. The air around our ragged circle hums with tension—in contrast to the quintet’s easy listening jazz.

Placing my hand on my husband’s forearm, I feel the muscles jump under his made-to-order wool blazer. My throat muscles contract, but I will my voice to a normal pitch. Darling, Caroline needs a drink. Don’t introduce her to anyone till she has a glass in hand.

I’m on it. He tosses me a jaunty salute and guides her across the room.

Stephanie watches them weave among the chattering guests and then narrows her eyes at me. My, as a plain woman who harbors no ill-will toward my more gorgeous friends, I feel like one of the ugly stepsisters. That one is … almost as stunning as you are.

Thanks, but I don’t need glasses yet. She’s a knockout.

How many times do you think anyone has ever compared her to Grace Kelly?

I doubt she’s familiar with a dead woman old enough to be her grandmother.

Stephanie squints at Wyatt’s and Caroline’s backs. The expression renders her small eyes beadier than normal, and her round face takes on a piggy impression. Just saying …

Chapter Three

Before I can change the subject, a voice behind me asks, What are the odds of two of the most beautiful women in the world being at the same birthday party in Silicon Valley?

Oh, you sweet talker. Stephanie arches her neck, preens, and pats her straight brown hair. My little ego needed that stroke.

My laugh comes naturally, and I face Dr. Riley Wade, my other best friend besides Stephanie. The two of them are the only two people I allow to talk about my looks.

With everyone else, Wyatt included, I always change the subject. I’ve heard the comments all my life, and I’ve learned that most people would laugh if I said my looks have made my life more difficult than easy. Ohhh, poor baby.

How you holding up, Birthday Girl? Riley kisses me in the middle of the forehead, and I feel safe and loved—like a grandparent’s favorite child. At sixty-two, Riley’s old enough to be my father; but he’s the antithesis of the man I still hate.

Note our girl’s wearing nude lipstick and no other makeup, Stephanie said, pinching my cheek.

Smart move. Otherwise, the guests might think she had a facelift for her birthday. He pulls Stephanie into a bear hug and drawls, What’s got your dander up, Miz Stephanie?

Feeling old and fat and ugly as a mud fence, but otherwise, I’m real peachy.

Where’s Tom? His glance around the room stops at the gaggle of men surrounding Wyatt and Caroline.

About to drown in his own testosterone. Stephanie watches her husband jockey to maintain his place next to Caroline. The man’s simply living out his biological imperative.

The quaver in her voice is discernible only because I’ve known her through at least half a dozen of Tom’s testosterone dives. The last one—and the worst one—ended almost two years ago. If his cheating cycle is on course—despite his repeated vows of eternal fidelity—the next phase could begin right in front of our eyes. I take her hand and lace our fingers.

Riley sighs. Is she married?

As if that matters. Stephanie snorts and gives me an eye slide.

Husband’s out of town, I volunteer. Three kids. Recovering from bronchitis.

She works for Wyatt? Riley asks.

A part-time contractor for one of his clients.

Contracting what? Stephanie makes no effort to curb her bitterness.

Not sure. A lie which clenches my gut. Lies come naturally to me, but I rarely lie to Stephanie and Riley.

Want me to go break it up? Riley drawls. You know, play the father figure. Or the wise old man whose testosterone dried up a long time ago?

Bullshit. Stephanie punches his bicep. Men go to their graves swimming in the stuff.

Probably. Riley nods. Want me to go over there?

Hell yes. I keep my thoughts to myself. My heart aches for my sweet, plain friend. God, I wish I could cross the room and scratch out Caroline Vandervere’s green eyes. How much sex appeal would she exude then?

Stephanie’s hand feels as if she’d soaked it in ice water. When she speaks, nostrils flaring, she breathes fire. Why waste your energy? Let him dream. I’ll make sure it turns into a nightmare once we get home.

Riley turns to me. Who’s seated next to her for dinner?

Surprise, surprise. Since she came without an invitation, I have to make some adjustments to the seating arrangements. Sorry, Riley, you’re Jennifer Spencer’s table partner.

In my head, I check off who failed to show up. So far, no one. I excuse myself to find the lead caterer. I’d love to seat Riley next to the uninvited guest, but I veto the idea. Jennifer shouldn’t have to sit at the table without a partner. Seating six people at tables big enough for eight alleviates the problem of some poor soul straddling a table leg and cultivates an air of intimate dining. Adding a seventh person to one of the four tables upsets my choreographed plans. I paste on a smile and make the adjustment with the caterer.

Over the years, I’ve learned how to regroup.

Fairy lights in the trees and a hundred candles in the swimming pool lend a touch of magic to the round tables covered in white silk, floor-length skirts. Centered bouquets of fresh baby roses match the tiny, white wrist corsages I gave each woman at some point during the pre-dinner cocktails. The exception, of course, is Caroline Vandervere.

Since I always have a Plan B, I’ve stored two extra corsages in the fridge.

Which is where I leave them.

As the guest of honor, I would normally sit down first. I cross the room to alert Wyatt it’s time. He, and every male present except for Riley, encircle Caroline like knights protecting their queen. Wyatt ignores me until I poke him—hard—in the ribs.

The hell? he growls and takes a step outside the drooling males.

I’m ready to serve dinner.

Wyatt scowls and narrows his eyes. I can almost see his brain about to spit out, So?

The other men, though, overhear the message and break away in search of their wives. Tom Burnsides continues chatting with Caroline as if they’re alone in their own private bubble.

A good defense is a strong offense, as the cliché goes. I pat Caroline’s shoulder. Time for dinner. Let me show you to your place. In hell.

Oh, thank you, she says, her voice breathy, girlish. But I won’t stay. I’m sure you didn’t plan on feeding an uninvited guest.

Don’t be ridiculous, Wyatt counters. One more person? You won’t mess up anything, right, Darling?

The smile on my face freezes in place as if I’ve had a double dose of lidocaine directly into my lips. I have everything covered.

Thank you, she speaks to Wyatt. You’re so thoughtful. But I need to call my children.

You can call them—

Wyatt. I lay my hand on his wrist. It’s radiating megawatts of heat. She has responsibilities.

Implication? You’re acting like a horny adolescent with no sense of duty.

With eyes only for her, he jerks away from me. I’ll get your coat.

Our guests are waiting. My fingers tingle with the impulse to slap him.

Tom Burnsides jumps in. Go on, Wyatt. I’ll take care of Caroline.

I didn’t bring a coat. She hooks a long shank of coppery hair behind her ear. I left my purse on the little table in the hall.

Why the hell doesn’t she move? I glance at the other guests, in small herds bleating like sheep, telegraphing messages of embarrassment, waiting for directions to head for the tables. What is going on?

Stephanie appears next to Tom. He steps back to buss her cheeks. Caroline starts for the house.

I call, Through the French doors—

I’ll show you, Wyatt interrupts.

Absolutely not. She faces him and shakes her head. That hair swings out in a reddish-gold parabola like in a TV shampoo commercial. I know exactly where to go. I never lose my sense of direction.

Riiight. The snarky comment burns my throat. With age comes wisdom. I extend my elbow to Wyatt. Refusing to lie that I enjoyed meeting her or make further small talk, I say, Good night.

Good night, Darby. Happy Birthday. Wyatt, you have a lovely home. She turns.

Head high, eyes straight ahead, she sails toward the French doors as if she’s visited many times and knows exactly where she’s going.

Wyatt clamps my elbow between two vice-like fingers. He charges across the pavers too fast for my four-inch heels. I hiss, Slow down.

He surprises me and complies. I lower my arm, slipping my hand into his palm. I imagine us glued together by invisible duct tape. If I stumble and fall, we’ll go down together.

Chapter Four

Stephanie, BFF, starts the conversation rolling at our table.

She begins by asking if anyone else is celebrating a birthday. No one is. She lobs probability questions at us, calling us out by name. That tactic forces Wyatt to pull up his big-boy pants though I sense he wants nothing more than to tell everyone to go home. By the second course, the tension drops from boil to simmer. My husband even touches my leg under the table.

Wyatt is far more affectionate in public and in private than I am. After six dates, I voiced my discomfort—too many men had made productions of kissing or fondling me as if showing off their trophy girlfriend. They were bragging for all to see another notch on the bedpost. The smallest sign of affection from me too often became a battle with men wanting only sex. I’d found that want boring and emotionally exhausting. Wyatt listened and took a step back.

Three months of exclusive dating fed my trust. Little by little, without giving up any info about my douchebag father, I opened myself to Wyatt. One afternoon, when I spontaneously threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on a crowded beach in Santa Cruz, he asked me to marry him.

More than once during the next ten years, spooked by something he said in private not long after the wedding, I’d withdraw during one of his displays of affection.

What’s wrong if I enjoy a little porn—as long as I don’t fantasize about underage girls?

You don’t think men drool over middle-aged women in those movies, do you?

Where’d you get that statistic? Most of the actresses are … How the hell do you know that?

Wyatt’s hand creeps up my back and massages my shoulder and brings me back to the table. So, I’m forgiven.

I repress the niggle of resentment and catch his fingers between mine and hold them on top of the table. Showing all my guests what a lucky wife I am. Proclaiming—without a word spoken—that all is right between us despite that momentary awkwardness.

Later … when we're alone, I’ll apologize. It was the thong. I overreacted to Caroline Vandervere like a fourteen-year-old girl rejected by her boyfriend of one day instead of like a forty-year-old wife spoiled by her husband of ten years. All because of a stupid red thong.

My invitation specifically requested no presents. One couple (Tom and Stephanie) paid attention and made a generous contribution to Opportunities for Women, the non-profit Stephanie and I started five years ago.

My plan is to take a leave of absence before my next birthday from Wyatt’s and my very profitable technical writing company to work at OFW full-time. Wyatt doesn’t know yet, but I’ll bring him around. We don’t need the money, but OFW needs my experience and network to expand.

When I finish opening the opulent packages, the table is piled high with two designer handbags, a silk scarf, two tickets to Hamilton, an obscene bottle of Chanel N o 5 perfume, a gift certificate for a day at Bellissima Spa, a case of Kistler Chardonnay, blah, blah, blah.

Feeling bloated by the excess, I paste on a smile and thank everybody one more time before blowing out all forty candles on my cake. The caterer removes the confection to cut it and transfer pieces to dessert plates, and Wyatt lays a slender Tiffany’s box in front of me.

My heart rings in my ears.

Wyatt motions everyone around us for quiet and announces, For the best, most beautiful forty-year-old wife in the world, a small token from a besotted husband.

Heat stings my face. Besotted. I swallow the hyperbole but feel as if I’m sitting there naked. I take a breath and hope no one can see my hands shaking as I remove the lid.

The oohs and aahs around me drown out my own whispered response. Oh, shit.

Darling? Wyatt drapes the necklace over his fingers for more admiration.

It-it’s stunning. Not much more intelligent than beautiful, but the best I can manage as I lower my head. He slips the necklace on me as if I’m a prize-winning cow.

Diamonds By The Yard. In this case, ten round stones. One for each four years. Why not eight for every five years? Why not forty for every year I’ve lived? How many did Caroline’s necklace sport?

A memory surfaces. Large stones. Glittery. More than ten, I’m sure.

I bite my tongue and raise my head and kiss Wyatt’s cheek. Thank you.

Someone claps. Others join in. He returns my kiss, lifts his face to the small crowd, and smiles at me like a benign king. The taste of lobster floods my throat. I swallow, placing my hand over my heart, covering some of the diamonds.

Man, Tom booms, you have now set the bar. The rest of us have to put out, oops, I mean, come up with something equal to or—

You’re one of a kind, Stephanie interrupts.

Several guests shift their gazes and pretend they didn’t catch the snarky comment. I give her a huge smile. Too bad she can’t brand Tom with a scarlet A. Infidelity, in my book, is a gamechanger.

The caterer and his crew walk out of the house for the final time at 11:00. The last guests—Tom and Stephanie hang on for another half hour. Unwilling to escalate the tension thrumming between me and Wyatt, I manage to ignore her unasked questions. When she misses the hint, I yawn and steer her to the front door with promises to see her the next day at OFW on the dot of eight. Wyatt asks why so early, but I ignore him as well, saying goodnight and then going directly to our bedroom. The bedroom offers refuge until I hear him turn on his shower.

The water drums in sync with the headache behind my right eye. I shuck off my clothes, leave the necklace on the dresser, and climb into bed. With my face turned away from Wyatt’s side, I squeeze my eyes shut. His phone, which he takes everywhere with him, pings. My pulse jumps. Neither of us has family, and Stephanie would call me—not Wyatt. The water goes off, but his baritone rumbles inaudibly. My muscles bunch as I roll over to hear better.

He emerges from the bathroom on a wave of citrus and bergamot. Normally, I love his special-order soap—despite its ridiculous price of a hundred dollars a bar. At that moment, nausea crawls up my throat.

You awake? He calls on his way to his dressing room.

Hmmm. I am now.

I have to go out. Sounds of drawers opening.

Wh-what? A glance at the clock: 12:50 AM.

I won’t be long. He reappears at the