Excerpt of The Trophy Wife by Ginna Gray

She needed a miracle. Fast.

Elizabeth Stanton sat at the desk in the study of her Houston home, a gray stone mansion nestled among huge oak and pine trees in exclusive River Oaks, the "old money" section of town.

Her father, grandfather and all the previous generations of Stanton men as far back as the early 1800s had worked at the mahogany desk.

At five foot four and one hundred and six pounds, Elizabeth was dwarfed by the massive piece of furniture, and the well-worn leather chair seemed to swallow her.

Had she been aware of such things she would have thought the image appropriate: at that moment she felt small and helpless, with no place to turn.

Elizabeth gazed at the financial report that her banker had given her less than an hour before, as though if she stared at the figures long enough they would somehow miraculously change.

After a time she sighed and lowered her head, cupping her forehead with her hand. She had to face it. She was broke. Or as good as. What in God's name was she going to do? "Damn you, Edward Culpepper. Damn you to hell," she railed through clenched teeth.

At her wit's end, Elizabeth shot to her feet so abruptly the chair rolled back and crashed into the mahogany credenza. At any other time she would have been concerned about possible damage to the family heirloom, but she was so agitated she barely noticed.

She paced the Oriental rug, but after a few aimless circuits of the paneled room she came to a halt in front of the French doors that led out to the side terrace. With her arms crossed over her midriff, she absently massaged her elbows through the sleeves of her teal satin blouse and stared out over the side lawn.

There was nothing much to see at that time of year. A couple of weeks ago, in late October, a "Texas-blue norther" had blown in, and within the space of an hour the temperature had plummeted from a muggy ninety-six to just above freezing. Since then the region had been blasted by one cold front after another.

Outside the French doors, gusting winds tore at the trees, sending showers of oak leaves and pine needles dancing across the lawn. Near freezing temperatures had turned the grass the color of straw. The azalea beds, laid out in fanciful shapes of butterflies and rainbows, were now dormant, the plants stripped down to bare sticks. So were the crepe myrtle and oleander bushes that formed the hedge around the property.

A hard freeze was expected that night, and Dooley Baines, their gardener-handyman, was fighting the wind to cover the tender plants.

Dooley and his wife Gladys, the cook-housekeeper, had worked at the Houston house ever since Elizabeth could remember. Their entire married life they had lived in the three-bedroom apartment above the garage, had raised their two children there and, with the help of Elizabeth's father, had put them both through college. The couple fully expected to continue at their jobs as long as they were able.

Elizabeth watched Dooley, his back bent from years of stoop work, tending his beloved garden, blessedly unaware that his employer, and his secure world, were teetering on the brink of ruin.

Elizabeth's Houston property, and that of most of her neighbors, covered several acres. Over the top of the hedge she could glimpse the slate roof of the Whittingtons' home through the stripped tree branches.

Mimi Whittington was her closest friend, one of only a handful of people on whom Elizabeth knew she could count to stand by her through good times and bad.

And these were definitely bad times.

As though Elizabeth's thoughts had somehow conjured her up, at that moment Mimi stepped through the gap in the hedgerow between their houses and headed for the side terrace.

That gap was the only flaw in Dooley's otherwise picture- perfect garden and the bane of the poor man's existence. Years of her and Mimi squeezing through the hedge had created the hole and worn a trail through the grass. Dooley had fussed and scolded, but in the end he had given up and shaped the gap into a narrow arch and laid a path of stepping-stones from the opening to the side terrace to accommodate the daily foot traffic that occurred whenever Elizabeth was in Houston.

Watching Mimi, Elizabeth had to smile. Her friend scurried along the path in stiletto heels, clutching her ankle- length sable coat tight at her neck. How typical of Mimi to wear fur for an afternoon visit.

Beneath the coat Elizabeth caught glimpses of skintight black leggings and a big shirt in a wild print of purple, gold and black. Her friend's blond hair was being whipped every which way by the wind.

Mimi called to Dooley and waved. Then she looked toward the house and saw Elizabeth standing at the study doors and grinned and waggled her fingers at her.

Elizabeth opened the door when Mimi reached the terrace, and her friend burst into the study on a gust of frigid wind and a cloud of Chanel perfume.

"Laudy, Laudy, Miss Claudie! It's getting'cold out there," she exclaimed in her syrupy East Texas drawl, giving an exaggerated shiver. "I nearly froze my arse off just runnin' over here. I swear to goodness, there's nothin' between us and the North Pole but a barbed-wire fence."

She slipped out of her sable coat, tossed it over the back of one of the fireside chairs as casually as she would have an old rag and fluffed her short platinum hair with both hands, the rows of gold bangles around both wrists clanking. "I declare, that wind destroyed my do. And I went to Mr. André this morning after dance hour. If he could see me now the poor man would have a hissy fit."

Elizabeth stifled a grin and the urge to ask how he would know that Mimi's coiffure was mussed? Currently she wore her hair in one of those spiky, "artfully messy" dos. With Mimi, one never knew from week to week what style she would be sporting or what color her hair would be.

"By the way, don't think that just because you missed dance hour this morning because of business that you don't have to make it up. I'm gonna work you into the ground tomorrow morning."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I figured as much. You old slave driver," she added in feigned annoyance.

For the past twenty-three years, ever since Elizabeth was nine years old, Mimi had given her dance lessons in the attic studio in her home that her late husband had built for her. Mimi liked to give the impression of being languid and spoiled and that was most people's opinion of her. Few knew about those vigorous early-morning dance sessions, which had become a fitness workout for both of them.

"Gotta keep the bod in shape, and dance is a lot more fun than a gym," her friend insisted.

Shivering, Mimi held out both hands to the cheery blaze dancing in the fireplace. Her acrylic nails were long and painted crimson, and every finger, including her thumbs, was adorned with a ring. From her ears hung long, linear diamond earrings that almost brushed the tops of her shoulders and swung and sparkled at the slightest movement of her head.

"Mmm, that feels divine," Mimi purred, turning to warm her backside. She rubbed her rear end with both hands and fixed Elizabeth with a look. "So? How did the meeting with Walter and John go? Please, please, please tell me John has found a way to recoup your money and throw that twotimin' snake in the grass in jail where he belongs."

The other woman's ire on her behalf brought a feeble smile to Elizabeth's lips. Though Mimi was ten years her senior, the two of them had been friends almost from the moment they met.

Mimi claimed that they had been friends in previous lives and were destined to be friends forever.

Whatever the reason, most people in their social set were baffled by their friendship. They were about as different as any two women could be.

Elizabeth was quiet and reserved by nature.

Brash, outrageous, flamboyant, unpredictable — those were but a few of the words that people used to describe her friend, and Mimi would be the first to admit that she was all of those things and more. A free spirit with a heart of gold, a somewhat bawdy sense of humor and the means to do just exactly as she pleased. She thumbed her nose at convention, and if you didn't like it, tough.

When Horace met her she'd been competing in ballroom dancing competitions and occasionally working as a Las Vegas showgirl.

"The only assets I had were a pretty face and a knockout body," her friend freely admitted with no apology. "So I put them to good use in a place where I could make the most money and not betray my principles or make my dearly departed mama ashamed of me. Dance competitions and the Vegas stage beat dancing in a sleazy strip joint or flipping burgers."

When fifty-two year old Horace Whittington married nineteen-year-old Mimi, to no one's surprise she had been labeled a gold digger by Houston society.

On the surface the match had appeared to be the same old story, a pathetic older man attempting to regain his youth by marrying a young, mercenary female with dollar signs in her eyes.

What few people had realized at the time was that Mimi truly loved her Horace — whom she called "Big Daddy" — with every fiber of her being. And why not? Horace Whit- tington had been a thoroughly nice man, good natured, honest, loyal and generous with those whom he loved.

He'd also been a handsome devil. Horace had kept himself fit, and at six feet tall, with his shock of silver hair, twinkling blue eyes and tanned craggy face, he'd looked like the Hollywood version of the successful westerner.

There were many in Houston society who would like to snub Mimi, but they didn't dare. The Whittington family was too influential. "Now that Big Daddy's gone, some of the old biddies would like nothing better than to revoke my membership in the River Oaks Country Club," Mimi had told Elizabeth a short time after Horace's death. "But they don't dare. Not as long as I've got Big Daddy's money.

"You know how the 'committee junkies'are always throwing some hoity-toity ball or other kind of fund-raiser for their current pet charity. Big Daddy used to call them the 'Cause of the Month' events. The Whittington Foundation contributes more than a million dollars every year at those shindigs. The blue bloods may not want me, but they sure as heck want the Whittington money, and they're willing to grit their perfect capped teeth and put up with me to get it.

"Personally, I don't care didly whether I belong to the country club or not. I only keep my membership because I know it irritates the you-know-what out of them to have to rub elbows with a nobody from nowhere."

Elizabeth gently chided her friend for such remarks, but in truth the assessment was not far off the mark.

However, no matter how anyone felt about Mimi personally, eventually even her harshest critics had been forced to admit that the Whittington marriage was a happy one. Horace and his Mimi had been inseparable throughout their twenty-one-year marriage.

For months after his death of a sudden heart attack less than a year ago, Mimi had been inconsolable. That was the only time that Elizabeth had ever known her to cry, and it had broken her heart to see her scrappy friend so despondent.

After a while, though, she had picked herself up and gotten back into the game of life with all the gusto and flair that was uniquely Mimi.

"Big Daddy would not want me to grieve forever," she had proclaimed in her syrupy drawl. "Why, if that man looked down from heaven and saw me weepin' and wailin' and carryin' on, he'd wrangle a pass from St. Pete himself and come down to earth and personally kick my incredibly cute butt up over my shoulders."

And he would have, too, Elizabeth thought. If there was one thing that Horace had wanted above all else, it was for his Mimi to be happy. The same couldn't be said for Elizabeth's marriage.

Other than her attorney, John Fossbinder, and her banker, Walter Monroe, who had also been serving as her financial adviser for the past year, Mimi was the only person who knew the full story of Elizabeth's ex-husband's desertion. Most people in their set assumed that Edward had developed a roving eye and Elizabeth had kicked him out and quietly sought a divorce.

The bare bones of the story was accurate, but the full depth of Edward's betrayal had not yet leaked out. Still, Elizabeth knew it was only a matter of time. You couldn't keep a scandal like the one her ex had created quiet forever. Neither could she keep from selling off family heirlooms and jewelry to keep up with expenses and preserve the appearance that the Stanton fortune was still intact.