All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,1

accent that takes her from simply beautiful to out-of-control, even-I-can’t-stand-it-and-I’m-a-woman gorgeous. (Hers is the only house at which every dad in Greenwich insists on picking up his children after playdates. But she’s also very sweet and real, and less judgmental than any of the city-girls-turned-wealthy-housewives who mostly populate this town.)

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I told Stefan I would leave a check for him in the mailbox this morning,” she said. “I am completely forgot!” She started rustling through her bag. “I’m sorry, Brooke, I have to go right now.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said, and I did, in part because I had no choice—she had driven me and needed to take me home—and also because Stefan is my contractor, too, and I notice he spends a lot more time at Ingrid’s house than he does at mine. I have generally found that the best place to find a man who works with his hands is at the house of the prettiest blonde in the neighborhood.

So we raced back to Ingrid’s, and she was adorably frazzled as she rushed to her sunny office over the garage and ransacked two drawers in search of her checkbook. That’s one of the reasons I like Ingrid: that builder would have waited patiently in her driveway until a week from Thursday if it meant he’d get one more smile from her in that perfect little tennis dress, but she was rushing about because she’s the only one who doesn’t realize that.

“I’m be right back,” she said, and rushed past me out of the office and out the front door. I turned to follow, but something caught my eye before I did, a blur that raced past on the screen of Ingrid’s desktop. At first I wasn’t even sure what it was. Then I took a step closer and saw my dear friend fully naked. Just a flash, and then she was gone. And then she was back, and then gone again. It was a series of photos—nudes, tasteful and beautiful—running as a slideshow on the desktop. It was breathtaking, really, and only she could pull it off. No other woman I know could have a series of naked pictures of herself as her screen saver without coming off as pathetic, or at least narcissistic and sad. But with Ingrid, it just seemed beautiful, perhaps because she looked so beautiful. And, sitting there, I made the decision I am seriously questioning right now. For my beloved, romantic, successful husband’s fortieth birthday, I am giving him what every man wants. Naked pictures of his wife.

SAMANTHA

WHAT THE HELL IS this naked woman doing there?

That was the first thought that went through my mind. But the strange part is how long it took any emotion to hit me. At first I was just puzzled, innocently so, as though finding nude photos in my husband’s e-mail was no different from finding a pair of socks in the refrigerator: What on earth could THOSE be doing there? It was several minutes before the significance struck me. This wasn’t like socks in the fridge. This was like lipstick on a collar, or an unrecognizable bra beneath the comforter. This was serious trouble.

Maybe it didn’t dawn on me quite so fast because I hadn’t had my coffee yet. Or because I was so surprised that I’d found my way into his mailbox at all. Or maybe it was simply because I was still very much in the warmth and glow that new brides feel; I had only been married for two days.

When the urgency of the matter began to sink in, it settled slowly, the way you feel a fever coming on: first as just a dizzy spell, then gradually spreading as a tiny tingle beginning in my stomach, and then my legs, and ultimately all the way to my fingers and toes. And then I was freezing, which really sucked because I didn’t have anything at all warm to put on.

I didn’t think I’d need it in Kauai.

I went to the gorgeous master bath in our suite, this luxurious paradise we had checked into just the night before. The carpet was soft beneath my toes. It had felt so good when I kicked off my shoes after dinner, after the champagne, after the swans that swam past our perfect, candlelit table, and after the perfect little toast Robert had made: It’s finally just us.

Ours was the textbook disaster wedding, for two reasons. One was my father’s money. The other was the election.