Popsy and Peter Power live in "Swellsey Wellesley,"
Massachusetts where the average wife has a twelve-hundred
plus percentage of wealth than the average American wife.
For Popsy's fiftieth birthday Peter is giving her a
$250,000 red Ferrari convertible, a car Popsy thinks is
more fun than her Mercedes. Her birthday is just a few
days away and will be celebrated with her family; Rose and
husband Marcus, and their five-year old daughter Natasha;
and, single, career minded Lily. Sandra and Jack Hoffman,
Peter's business partner, as well as being the Power's best
friends, will also be there. Today Popsy has social
appointments to keep, and Peter has a meeting with his
bank.
Sandra Hoffman feels her marriage is on the rocks. Jack
is a very lusty male, but there hasn't been any action in
their bedroom for weeks. Sandra is forty-five and
beautiful; she also wants a baby, but came into this
marriage fifteen years ago knowing Jack did not intend to
have any more children since he already has two by his
first wife. Sandra suspects that Jack is getting ready
to trade her in for a younger woman like he did with his
first wife, Olga.
Rose's marriage is also in trouble. Marcus wants her to
go with him on a "swinging vacation" in the Caribbean, and
Rose does not want to be a part of this, but feels she has
no choice since he is going with or without her. Lily is
having an affair with a married man, and her actions will
cause grief to so many people.
WELLESLEY WIVES is fantastic, and Suzy Duffy has done a
remarkable job fleshing out her characters and several
marital story threads. This is an emotional tale that
keeps the reader totally involved and turning pages rapidly
to see how Ms. Duffy sews everything together. She does
an excellent job and produces a beautiful patchwork quilt.
In Boston, Popsy Power is pretty, popular and insanely
rich. Her husband adores her and her two daughters are busy
producing babies and romping up the corporate ladder
– like good little Wellesley Wives. HOWEVER, what
Popsy doesn't know is that her husband and worldly wealth
will soon be gone and as for daughters? Well, Lily's
romping is not restricted to the boardroom and Rosie finds
her pilot–husband flying more than his jet airline...
Sandra is Popsy's best friend. She has the perfect body,
bank balance and palatial penthouse. As a second wife
herself, she should know how husbands can wander but even
she is shocked when she discovers where Jack has found his
fun ... When Lily's nasty little secrets suddenly go public
and Rosie finds her husband flying a little too high, it's
time to escape.
Popsy and Sandra flee to beautiful, peaceful Ireland.
Rosie heads to Mexico and Lily seeks refuge in the arms of
her man. The adventure continues for Popsy and Sandra
because within days they're almost arrested, killed and
then they find themselves in a boathouse in Banagher
– with jobs! Meanwhile Rosie is diving off the back
of a catamaran into the azure–blue of the Caribbean
but she's not sure which are worse – the sharks in
the sea or the ones on the beach. The only one back in
Boston; Lily discovers that getting what she wanted was not
what she wanted but unlike her scuba diving sister, surely
she's in too deep?
From Banagher to Boston and down to the Caribbean Sea these
four ladies are on a rollercoaster ride through life. Rich,
poor, happy, sad, in or out of love – only one thing
is certain. Things are is never dull when you're with the
Wellesley Wives.
Excerpt
Jenny Lennox was a consummate hostess. Because she’d chosen
to live
farther out of town, she had more land. In Wellesley, where
Popsy lived,
real estate was at its priciest. To have a pool at the end
of the garden,
which
of course she had, was considered an achievement. But living
just fifteen
miles west meant tennis courts and swimming pools were the
norm. The
paddocks and the helipad were the new “must haves,” and now
Jenny had a
Renoir to top it all off.
Popsy couldn’t help but be a little envious as she glided up
the perfectly
landscaped, one-mile driveway. She watched a chopper take
off just as they
arrived at the front of the house.
Sandra, it seemed, felt likewise. “Who would be so tacky as
to arrive in a
chopper?”
“We would, if we could,” Popsy said, thinking about the
Ferrari she’d
test-driven only a few hours earlier.
The Victorian-style house looked exquisite in its country
setting, and at
this time of year, it was festooned in a blaze of deep
crimson Virginia
creeper. Enormous oaks flanked the house, magnificent in
their autumn
color. It was impossible to look at it and not long to live
in the country.
As
the thud-thud-thud of the chopper faded into the distance, a
flock of
crows
cawed overhead, reclaiming their territory in the large and
ancient trees
along the front driveway. The house had perfect symmetry
with three
windows on the right and three on the left of the grandiose
front door.
Steps
swept up to the door, which for today’s event was left open.
Popsy took a
moment to admire the huge urns on either side.
Pyracanthas had been clipped to look like a giant ball and
were in full
bloom; they were covered in bright orange berries. These were
underplanted
with variegated ivy, which spilled out of the urns and down
to the
ground. It gave a feeling of understated opulence with a
Halloween twist.
Popsy made a mental note to do something similar in twelve
months’ time.
Once inside, they were greeted by beaming caterers offering
a choice of
sparkling water or even more sparkling champagne. Both women
went for
the champagne.
Jenny Lennox descended upon them in a flurry of air kisses and
exclamations of how good everybody looked. Popsy gave her
the flower
arrangement she’d brought, and Sandra presented her with a
jar of
limitededition
caviar. As usual, Jenny insisted that they “shouldn’t have”
but took
the gifts with grace.
Checks were deposited into an aquamarine objet d’art that
was stationed
just inside the front door. It was, doubtless, a
terrifyingly expensive
piece of
glasswork, but Jenny was blasé.
“Just toss the donations into the vase there and come in to
where all the
fun is.”
Stripped of their checks and armed with a champagne flute
each, they
were ushered into the drawing room. Popsy got the distinct
impression that
they were being herded like cows.
“Cheers, to your health and future decisions.” She winked
and clinked
glasses with Sandra, and they headed into the fray.
Popsy and Sandra had a way of working a party. They would arrive
together, then drift apart to mingle, but then they would
drift back
together
again at regular intervals when either one of them needed
moral support.
This way they got to meet interesting new people but had
each other as
backup if they were a little lost. This method had worked
well for them
over the last thirteen years.
It didn’t take long before Popsy was standing in front of
the muchdiscussed
Renoir. It was larger than she expected, almost two feet by two
feet, and the frame made it look even bigger. It was hardly
surprising then
that it took pride of place over the mantelpiece in Jenny
Lennox’s
enormous
drawing room.
“Exquisite, isn’t it?” the lady beside Popsy inquired.
“It is beautiful. Isn’t she lucky? A genuine Renoir.”
“It better be genuine. Eddie paid a cool $100 million for it.”
It was enough to make Popsy snap around to face the lady she
was talking
to as opposed to admiring the painting. “I’m sure it can’t
have been that
much. $100 million? That’s too expensive, isn’t it?”
“Cheap at the price.” The lady sniffed.
Popsy wondered if perhaps her companion had drunk a little
too much
champagne. “How do you work that out?”
“That’s what Jenny told him it would cost to stay in the
marriage.” The
redhead moved closer to whisper. “I understand that poor
Eddie was caught
being a naughty boy, and when Jenny discovered it, she threw
him out. He
begged her to take him back, which of course she did, but
for a price. This
little token of affection.”
Popsy was incredulous. “That’s a lot of affection,” she said
and looked
back at the painting.
“Yes, I hear it is a really good painting—La Petite Fille.
Jenny tells me
it’s a charming and irreverent portrayal of the hedonistic
life and subtlety
of
lust in the late 1800s.”
“Ah.” Popsy felt the need for more champagne. “Good to
know.” As far
as she was concerned, it was just a really pretty painting
done by a very
famous artist. But wasn’t art full of hyperbole like that?
Before she had to expand on her views, mercifully her art critic
companion took her leave, which gave Popsy a few moments to
admire the
painting by herself. It was a true gem, beautiful, but how
in tarnation did
anything get to a value of $100 million? She understood how
it could
happen with diamonds and precious stones, but art? Wasn’t
that subjective?
“So what do you think?” Sandra asked as she came up beside her.
“I think it’s gorgeous, and did you know that it was a
‘charming and
irreverent portrayal of the hedonistic life and subtlety of
lust in the late
1800s’?”
Sandra looked at Popsy, arching her eyebrows. “I never would
have
guessed.”
Popsy nodded. “I also heard that Eddie Lennox paid $100
million for it.”
“In fact, I had heard a rumor, but I wasn’t sure that it was
true. Nice
round figure. You know, in all likelihood it’ll be worth
double that in
twelve
months. Do you get taxed on fine art appreciation?”
Popsy pulled her friend closer and glanced around to ensure
that nobody
was within earshot. “Yes, but did you hear why he bought it?
I heard Jenny
discovered he was having an affair. This is the peace
offering, his ‘get out
of jail free card,’ if you will. A frigging Renoir.”
Sandra said nothing and studied the painting.
“Did you hear me, Sandy? Did you know about this? Was Eddie
Lennox
offside? Evidently he had a mistress. Well, I assume it’s
had and not has if
he’s bought the painting and the Lennoxs are all happy
family again.
At last, Sandra tore herself away from the painting and
looked at her
friend. “Who told you this?”
“That woman over there. The tall, striking
strawberry-blonde.” Popsy
gestured discreetly.
“Figures.” Sandra sighed.
“Why?”
“Because she’s the mistress.”
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