And then there were the cheaters. Dennis, she imagined, had probably cheated on his ex-wife. Her father had cheated with that disgusting Loretta from the Dollar General （and got herpes as a parting gift）。 So many husbands in their circle back in the city had hit on her, asking for an afternoon at the W or Bryant Park Hotel.
Dennis had never cheated on her. Melissa knew this because she tracked him on his phone every single day, and he was always where he said he was. Besides, she made sure he didn’t have reason to. In other words, she married money and earned every cent through frequent, dirty, porn-worthy sex （which she did enjoy） and being a Stepford wife. She hadn’t realized how exhausting it had been—smiling, preening over him, complimenting him.
But it sure had been worth it, especially now, owning the most beautiful, expensive, expansive house in town, driving a new BMW, filling the house with white and blue furniture and subtle references to the ocean （the octopus coasters, the lobster throw pillow）。
Dennis had been like college—working so hard for a goal. His death had been her graduation. Her liberation, even.
Melissa had been studying men since she was thirteen years old, had nabbed a rich husband with ease and managed to keep him more or less interested for years before his untimely death. If there were a degree in understanding men, she’d have a PhD. As for women, she understood that she was a threat to them, especially now. Oh, the women of Wellfleet she’d met so far had been pleasant. But there was an immediate wariness in addition to their interest—they were like a cat who hears an intruder in the garden, ears swiveling, whiskers twitching. There were surreptitious scans of her figure, especially in yoga class. They took note of her clothes, her jewelry, her car. When they found out she’d bought Stella Maris, their interest spiked. Stella Maris! That house had been on the market for months, thanks to its ridiculous price tag.
Who was this woman? They were dying to know, dying to categorize her.
Melissa just smiled and let them think whatever they wanted. From Ophelia’s sixth-grade teacher to the interior decorator she’d hired to help furnish the house, she let them wonder.
People said money didn’t buy happiness. People who said this didn’t have money.
The first few weeks in the house with Ophelia were both trying and exhilarating. All the new things were like the best drugs on the planet—the furniture, the plates and glasses, the paintings, the rugs, the car . . . all bought from her own money. Gosh, it was the best! And no husband watching over her shoulder, tallying her receipts.
Even Ophelia’s misery didn’t touch Melissa’s mood. The child still gave Melissa sullen glances and answered in grunts, no matter how wonderful this new change was.
Melissa pretended to relate, petting Ophelia’s snarled hair and telling her she’d get over it, and did she want to fly over to Nantucket and go shopping? Ophelia just rolled over to face the wall of her beautiful new bedroom. Melissa had the decorator paint it pale blue （Ophelia had asked for purple, which was so not going to happen）。 It had a view （all the rooms did） and a queen-sized bed with the softest white sheets and comforter. Melissa filled Ophelia’s bathroom with plush towels and delicious-smelling bath products from Nest—bamboo and jasmine body mist, body wash, body lotion, hand cream, scent diffuser, candles. She bought a special detangling conditioner and brush for Ophelia’s difficult hair.
The kid had no right to be sulky. Still, Melissa knew she missed Dennis. And Melissa did, too, sort of. She missed regular sex. No matter how expensive the vibrator, it just wasn’t the same. Ophelia needed a father figure. Melissa needed a man. A husband. She was far too classy to simply have a lover.
On a frigid February night, she left Ophelia with a babysitter, a nice high school girl named Sophie who’d been recommended by three people. Melissa was pleased to see the girl gaping at the house. “I’ve left you fifty dollars if you want to order food, Sophie,” she said, smiling, loving her new role as beneficent （word of the day!） employer.
“Oh, wow! Thank you! That’s more than enough, though.”
“Well, keep the change, then. And twenty-five dollars an hour is enough? You’re sure? Don’t forget, I’m from New York. It doesn’t seem like enough.”
“Twenty-five dollars is amazing,” said Sophie. “Seriously, call me anytime.” She put her arm around Ophelia, who didn’t protest.
“Okay, then.” Melissa air-kissed Ophelia’s hair, pretending not to notice when her niece pulled away, then walked toward the garage.