Happy Hour Read Online Free PDF Page B

as badly as Marilyn,
posing at the luncheon in her designer dress, with her newly colored hair,
boasting about her kids for her own ego while carrying a fake Prada purse. Yes,
fake. What was the point in spending two grand on a purse when you could get a
perfectly decent knockoff for thirty bucks? Maybe she was the true fake
here. Danielle, at least, knew better than to believe this shit was what made
up the real world.
    Her mouth went dry. No time for a panic attack or a reality check. She’d
stopped popping Xanax a few months ago and had gone on a health kick, even
joining the local gym, secretly hoping that Al would notice her again. She’d
shed ten pounds and felt better than she had in years, but Al still didn’t seem
to pay much attention to her, except when there was a problem with the payroll,
or the accounts, or an employee. Their life together after twenty years had
boiled down to a business relationship, not a marriage, and she missed that
connection that they used to enjoy. She missed the jokes they shared about the
craziness that went on in the world around them.
    That was where she should start being honest—with her own husband.
    Marilyn turned to Danielle and asked her to stand. “I’d like to thank the lovely Danielle Bastillia and her husband, Al, for donating the wine for
today, since, as you know, the alcohol is generally the major expense for one
of our events.” Low laughter rippled throughout the banquet room.
    Danielle tried not to cringe through the smile. She glanced around at the
room filled with women from all over Sonoma County—some she recognized and waved
to. Two women at another table whispered to each other while one stared right
at her. Kind of disconcerting. Was one of Danielle’s best assets hanging out of
the Furstenberg? The woman in a slinky white dress looked vaguely familiar. She
was a redhead like Danielle, but at least fifteen years younger. The woman
continued looking at her. Danielle offered a slight smile, but this pretty
young thing kept the ice glare on and Danielle had to look away.
    Why the hell had she flushed the Xanax down the toilet?
    Not able to help herself, she looked back again at the redhead who
whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both laughed. Bizarre. What
was that about? She checked the twins. Nope, they were in their place with only
the acceptable amount of cleavage showing. At forty-two-years-old, being
paranoid over women’s cattiness was plain stupid. They probably weren’t even
talking about her.
    Perspiration bubbled at the base of her neck. She really did have to get
out of this place. Danielle waited patiently, trying not to look at the woman
and her friend again.
    Right after the President of the Teenage Homeless Mothers’ Charity gave
her talk and the servers started pouring coffee, Danielle excused herself. She
told Marilyn that she needed to pick up one of the girls for a dentist
appointment. More bullshit, but it didn’t matter because she’d lose it quickly
if she had to continue sitting there.
    For the sake of her image , Danielle did her best to masquerade her
run for the door as a fashionable quick strut. She handed the valet her ticket
and a few minutes later he was pulling her gray 750 BMW around to the front.
When the young man got out of the car to let her in, he handed her a large
manila envelope. “Mrs. Bastillia, right?” He cocked a dark brow and eyed her
with what Danielle thought to be a rather suspicious glare. Jesus, she was
truly losing it. Come on! As though everyone was actually staring at her as she
smoothed down the Furstenberg over the Spanx-flattened tummy; she decided she’d
never wear the damn dress again.
    “Yes.” Hot asphalt beat through her Stuart Weitzmans and she could feel a
blister forming in the back of her heel. How karmically appropriate—blisters
from the real Weitzmans and compliments for the fake Prada. Note to self:
time for good knockoff shoes.
    “A gentleman in the parking