Monarch Beach by Anita Hughes Page A

minute.
    “The one with the great credentials and really tight ass?”
    “The credentials were real, the ass was surgically enhanced,” Stephanie said.
    “What about her? She was only there for a few months. Andre said the clientele wasn’t responding to a female sommelier.”
    “I caught him responding to her in the wine cellar.”
    “The restaurant doesn’t have a wine cellar.”
    “Okay then, in the coat closet where we keep the wine bottles. They were doing it on a customer’s fur coat.”
    “Nobody wears real fur in Ross,” I said.
    “That’s probably not my point, Amanda.” She looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were watery.
    “I know,” I said. My eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto my cheeks and down my shirt.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, suddenly angry at her years of duplicity. Bella had been a waitress the summer after Max was born.
    “The first time I thought it was a one-off. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I thought Andre was just young, sowing his wild oats. He’d calm down and realize how great he had it. You are great, Amanda, and you have a fantastic son. And you don’t hold over his head that you’re a millionaire heiress. You live on his income just like you promised. You could buy the biggest house in Ross and you’re still living in a two-bedroom bungalow.”
    Stephanie was right. Two years ago when I turned thirty I gained access to my inheritance. I spent many delicious mornings strolling the shady lanes of Ross, picking out which house I might like to buy. When I broached the subject of moving to Andre, he put on a stony face.
    “I am not living in a house my wife bought,” he said in his proud, don’t-argue-with-me tone.
    I should have replied, “We’re living in a house my mother bought, just a small one.” But I didn’t.
    “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a pool and a big garden and a real dining room?”
    “Everyone would know you bought the house. I couldn’t afford it on my income from the restaurant,” he insisted. We had the discussion in our kitchen. He was standing under the skylight, his green eyes glinting in the sun. Even after ten years of marriage I grew weak when I looked at him. His stomach was still completely flat; his muscles were those of a teenager’s.
    “Oh,” I said, deflated. I adored our bungalow, its proximity to the restaurant, the short walk to school. But I loved big houses and beautiful furniture. I had promised Max we would get a big dog when we bought a house.
    “You are so sexy when you pout.” Andre put his arm around my waist. “I have an idea,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Why don’t we buy a piece of land in Napa and build a weekend house. You can have your pool and a big garden.”
    “That’s a fantastic idea!” I said, and it was a great idea. We could have friends up for the weekend and even spend summers there. Lots of our friends had houses in Napa, some even made their own wine.
    “Good. Call a Realtor and look at some land.” Andre kissed the back of my neck.
    I contacted a Realtor, but it was hard to look at property when Max had school every day. Two years later I still hadn’t found the perfect lot. Now I wondered if Andre had suggested it so he could get rid of me for whole summers. He could keep La Petite Maison his own personal brothel.
    “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.” I was desperate to transfer some of the blame.
    “When I found him with Angie he said he was going to change. I believed him.”
    “And you didn’t think I’d want to know? I might want the opportunity to see if he was full of crap?” My voice shook.
    “I didn’t want to hurt you.” Stephanie was close to tears. Her face was pale; she looked as wretched as I felt. “And Andre seemed so sincere. I knew he didn’t want to lose you. I believed he wouldn’t do it again.”
    Stephanie and I stared at each other. We both had believed Andre. We were both fools.
    “Were there