“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.