Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(3)

“Because I’m so old and saggy?” I tossed back the rest of my mimosa and ordered another, although the room was already spinning.

“How many of those have you had?” asked Tippy with a judgmental quirk of her brow. “Maybe you should drink some coffee instead.”

“And maybe you should have told me my husband was fucking the salesgirl at J.Crew with the perky tits,” I announced, then glared at the rest of them. “All of you.”

“Sylvia, that’s not really fair,” Tippy said, smoothing her cardigan over her stomach. “I didn’t know for sure. I’d only heard rumors about the—you know . . . divorce.” She whispered the last word, as if by saying it out loud she might manifest its monstrous presence and it would eat all of their marriages alive.

“Same.” Liz nodded. “We didn’t want to say anything because we didn’t want to cause any unnecessary drama. We were only thinking of you.”

“Yes, and I think it’s really a shame that you’re blaming us when this isn’t our fault.” Hilly pouted. “We were trying to be good friends.”

“How?” I cried. “You let me look like a fool! And you completely stopped calling or including me!”

“We didn’t know what to say, Sylvia,” Jane replied, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just so awkward.”

“And did any of you stand up for me yesterday? Did any of you come to my defense and shut down the ugly gossip she was spreading?” I looked every one of them in the eye, knowing the answer already.

“Well, we couldn’t really take sides, could we?” Hilly smoothed her hair. “After all, our husbands are all close with Brett. We’ll have to go to their wedding. We’re still going to have to socialize with them, no matter how terrible it will be to have to make conversation with that infant he’s marrying.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage. You’re all excellent at pretending to be someone’s friend.” I grabbed my fresh mimosa, spilling some over the side of the glass. Then I tipped it up and slammed it.

When the glass was empty, I set it on the marble bar with a clank and tossed my hair. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to do.”

Not one of them stopped me as I made my way through the country club dining room, but they followed behind like a pack of hounds. I stumbled once, catching myself on the back of someone’s chair, but eventually made it to Brett’s table, where I grabbed a silver pitcher full of ice water.

“Ice queen, huh? I’ll give you ice queen.” Then I dumped the entire thing in his lap.

“Sylvia, what the hell?” Brett jumped up and tons of little cubes fell to the floor, but the crotch of his pants was soaked. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No, actually. I think I just found it.” My adrenaline was pumping—I felt like I could do anything at that moment. “I must have been crazy to think you’d be faithful to me, or to keep the promises you made. You’re nothing but a liar and a cheat.” God, it felt glorious to say the words right to his face! Next, I looked at Kimmy. “And you’re an idiot to think he’s going to be any different with you, but that’s your problem.”

“Enough,” Brett snapped, straightening his tie and glancing around the room. People were staring.

“Actually, I’m just getting started.” Fueled by mimosa and the fury of a woman scorned, I charged for the dance floor at the front of the room, where Santa was standing in front of a red velvet throne and speaking into a microphone. A line of children wound toward the door, eager to sit on his lap, and two teenagers dressed as elves were doing their best to keep the impatient kids under control.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa bellowed, brandishing an old-fashioned scroll. “Let’s see who’s on the Nice List this year—and who’s on the Naughty!”

I marched up to him and grabbed the mic from his hand. “Let me help you with that, Santa.”

The bewildered old man just blinked at me.

Turning toward the crowd, I brought it to my lips. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve got something to say.”

The room hushed. Expressions ranged from curious to concerned to shocked—I was generally a quiet, dignified sort of person. Not at all the type of woman to commandeer Santa’s mic and lecture a room full of people just trying to enjoy their Bloody Marys and quiche.

“For any of you who don’t know me, I’m Sylvia Baxter—at least, I’ve been Sylvia Baxter for the last fifteen years. And Sylvia Baxter is classy. Sylvia Baxter takes the high road. Sylvia Baxter behaves.” I paused. “Sylvia Baxter is on the Nice List.”

A disapproving murmur rippled through the room.

“But there are some people in this room who are not on the Nice List. In fact, there are some people here at the top of the Naughty List.”

A child in line to see Santa burst into tears.

“Philandering husbands who cheat and lie about it—they’re on the Naughty List.” I glared at Brett and then at Kimmy. “Naive salesgirls from J.Crew who spread nasty gossip—they’re on the Naughty List.” I stared down Tippy and the rest of my former confidantes. “Disloyal social climbers who call themselves friends even as they stick knives in your back—they’re on the Naughty List.”