A Catastrophic Event Shocked Me Into Helping My Husband’s First Accuser

A lot can transpire in a year, but sometimes — in the middle of the ocean with your husband’s accuser — even more life-changing sparks can ignite in a minute.

As I spotted Brenda on the top deck of the yacht, I flashed back to 11 months ago, when she’d invited me for a 1-on-1 confession-turned-accusation. At the time, I’d offered my condolences for her husband’s wandering eye, unwilling to budge and admit that my own Hubby had the largest hand in her marital fracture. She knew I was lying — but neither of us knew just to what degree.

Today, boarding the triple-decker boat full of half-naked women half my (and Brenda’s) age, it appeared her recovery was in full swing and on display. A new pair of boobs, cheeks, and the other cheeks later, and Brenda was a whole new woman — and suddenly CEO of the beauty brand launching right now on dozens of cell phones and Instagram accounts at sea off the coast of Marina del Rey.

A shirtless man in a feather boa with a sparkly pink box dangling low around his hips prepared for the livestream resurrection of SNL’s you-know-what in a box, while Brazilian dancers passed out product samples for the countdown reveal. I knew why Brenda invited me, and it wasn’t for my social media promotion; this was her revenge party, and she wanted me here to see it.

“Ten, nine — ”

We didn’t make it to three, two, or one. Instead, a breaking news alert hit Brenda’s, my, and a few of the other OC guests’ phones. The phone call to follow would change everything.

…

One call changes everything

“We’re fine, but…”

Brenda’s hand went limp, as her champagne glass fell to the floor, her mouth agape. She couldn’t hide it; you can’t fake a smile when a yacht full of hired models are awaiting your cue to press the button you’ve paid them 5-figures to press and set your beauty brand into the viral abyss.

Within minutes, flames had jumped from the brush-filled canyon below into Brenda’s gated ocean view community, above, and a link to a livestreaming reporter made the damage painfully clear.

“Did you bring the inventory?”

It was a silly question, but in that moment, it must have seemed pertinent to her panic. He didn’t bring the inventory; when her husband evacuated, he brought some computers, valuables, and their cat — their kids were still at school. By the time he called, their burning house was a front page sensation.

Despite their 5+ figure price tags, paying influencers to attend a product launch doesn’t buy their sympathy — or even decency. Some gawked at the burning mansion livestreams, sharing the posts online with their own unhelpful commentary, while others grew impatient by the delayed launch.

I reacted with an even more shocking involuntary response. In seconds, I’d sprung to Brenda’s side, dialed the Coast Guard, and prepared the siren-shrieking red-and-white speedboat for her departure.

“It’s just stuff. It’s just crap! No one cares.”

I didn’t mean to disparage the launch of her beauty brand, but it had at least elicited an accidental laugh, through glassy tears. We both laughed at the absurdity of the statement because, at the end of the day, no matter how rarely we acknowledge or believe it, it’s true.

“F*ck these people. Screw these products. Go to your family — I’ve got this.”

Her hug nearly knocked the wind out of me; not because of the force, but because of the innocent sincerity.

As the Coast Guard sped Brenda back to shore, I turned to the crowd of unimpressed influencers, and the beauty on that boat looked as shallow as the water in the kiddie pool of the marina.

A pang of foreign guilt struck me, as I began to conduct the Insta-countdown.

Her husband had asked her a question that reverberated in my head:

“You’ll still love me if it all goes up in flames?”

The answer should be yes, but when you’re teetering on the edge of divorce from a serial cheater who’s running a host of illicit ventures skirting the law and possibly endangering or incriminating your family, it’s not so black and white. Or is it?

…

Party in the front, fencing in the back

“I’ll tell you later.”

Maybe it was my fault for hijacking the car ride for the interrogation my husband’s been avoiding, but if confronting the truth set Brenda’s marriage back on track, perhaps it could give mine a revitalizing second chance. Unfortunately, the ten minute drive to the Laguna Beach art gallery was just enough time for Hubby to delay and deflect — and he did.

“Aloha!”

A giant tropical whiff of mixed cultural appropriation smacked us in the face as we were lei’d with neon flower drapes by the greeter on our left, while also handed metallic Mardi Gras masks by the one on the right. The Jerry Springer beads came next, until we were each accessorized to match a different theme of the exhibit.

My husband isn’t a huge art guy, unless there’s money — or schmoozing involved. Today, there was probably both. Herb, the man with whom Hubby’s been (financially) smitten — and a co-owner of the gallery — lifted his lime green mask and waved us into the sea of unidentifiable patrons.

A tall woman with a beak-like mask nearly sent me flying into a precariously-perched abstract sculpture when she whispered in my ear:

“Don’t you just want it all?”

Bird woman was Yasmin (Herb’s 22-year-old wifey), though it was only the boob-to-waist ratio that gave her away in her over-accessorized state. Once I’d placed Herb and Yasmin, a few of the other guests’ identities materialized, from the biggest pro athlete of CDM to the yacht rental queen of Newport to the luxury car reseller who fell victim to Hubby’s gambling venture.

Two younger, lankier figures hovered next to an out-of-place man who was drawing a crowd. For any other art gallery exhibit, he might go unnoticed, but in Laguna, a man with that many dreadlocks, tattoos, and clashing neon suit pieces, coupled with the Jerry beads beside diamond collars is going to turn heads; usually those of security guards. Just like clockwork, two suited security guards approached him…and asked which painting to box up?

He pointed to a large abstract canvas across the room, with a red dotted-sticker marking it’s status, alongside a wall of other red-stickered pieces. Sold. I peered closer to a green-dotted painting, with its price handwritten in black sharpie ink: $450k. That’s not a typo, and that wasn’t one of the larger ones or on the higher end of the price range.

The man donning the Rastafarian-meets-rapper-meets-homeless costume wasn’t homeless or a buyer; he was the artist — and he was killing it. I must have been staring, because one of the lanky groupies beside him raised a blunt-holding hand up in the air, beckoning me forward.

Even though it’s Laguna Beach and the gallery spills out onto an indoor-outdoor patio, you can’t smoke in here — and he wasn’t. That’s when I realized the lanky figures weren’t strangers; they were the new money blunt brothers who’d taken their pineapple-scented joints public last year and had since been marking their territory along the OC social scene. Maybe they were his connection? One thing’s for sure: A first time artist doesn’t get a packed Laguna Beach exhibit with millions in sales if he doesn’t know somebody.

It’s one of the strangest contradictions of Laguna Beach as a whole: Most artists struggle to make a living, yet Laguna — with price per square foot hovering easily over $2k (and $4k for ocean views) — is art gallery central, with a preference for local talent. It almost makes you think there’s something sketchy going on behind the scenes…kind of like the always-empty Corona del Mar shops with 5+figure monthly leases to pay?

For an art exhibit, the security was pretty tight; it was invite-only, tickets and IDs required, and my husband couldn’t even snag a spot for his mom or my parents. Not exactly the type of marketing you’d expect for an unknown artist hoping to maximize his exposure…

“Do you know where the bathroom is?”

Yasmin’s beak shook from left to right, and I think she said:

“No, I don’t have to go.”

Rather than attempt to bother another masked or beaked incognito patron — and risk another miscommunication or worse — I decided to find it myself. One of the security guards had disappeared behind a curtain towards the back, so I figured that was worth a try.

Strangely, there wasn’t just one security guard back here; there were five, each nodding into earpieces as if this exhibit was much larger than it is.

An ornate gold frame peered out from a partially cloth-draped box. The gold frame looked nothing like the dreadlocked artist’s work — or anything else I’ve ever seen in a Laguna gallery. Scanning the room — still looking for the bathroom — an unmistakable print caught my eye as it drifted towards a different crate in the hands of a man speaking a Middle Eastern-resembling language into his headset. It had to be a print, because the real version of that painting is no doubt hanging in some museum, behind alarm-wired glass, lock, and key.

“We have the yacht crew manned for a morning departure. You can box these and drive them to the dock tonight; my husband will meet you.”

Two of the security guards dispersed to reveal the vaguely familiar voice barking orders at her workmen: It was Mrs. Right, the very up-tight CDM neighbor who holds garden bible studies and dog lunches that my mom’s attended. She’s also the woman who deemed my dad’s girlfriend a witch and threatened to report the unpermitted construction at my husband’s duplex.

Once she saw me, she froze, clearly unable to decipher the identity behind the mask or what I’d seen or heard. I didn’t offer a clue; the moment felt tense, like I’d intruded upon something gravely confidential, and I started to connect dots I probably shouldn’t. I almost wonder if this whole exhibit and gallery is more of an façade than a legitimate business; it looks a lot like a party in the front and fencing in the back.

…

He made me do it

My husband’s eyes darted from the gate ahead to meet mine in the passenger’s seat. He didn’t know I knew about his hideaway brother in the garage — but now he did.

“You don’t get it. He needed my help — ”

A rare tinge of sincerity strained his voice, almost as if he really believed he was helping his brother by stowing him in a garage with a fellow bookie and gambling addict.

“I’m your wife. I needed transparency. You’re willing to cover for your alcoholic brother and Star’s wanted bookie, but you can’t tell me when you’re wearing a wire to Catalina?”

Something I said must have triggered something in him. The second his wheels reached our driveway, Hubby’s eyes began to wander paranoidly, and he sharply swerved back towards the street. Through the moving gate, I saw three black vans parked in front of our house. Then, I caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, and the last woman I wanted alone at my house.

“What is she doing here? What are they…?”

By this point, we were reversing away from our house, and it was crystal clear my husband had something else to hide. Something in our own home. Something much bigger than stowing his rehab runaway brother in a garage.

“Don’t you trust me?”

I had no reason to trust my husband, but for some reason, something about his tone convinced me that maybe he really was — or is — looking out for his brother. A less sympathetic part of me thinks his brother’s wielding even bigger blackmail my husband can’t afford to let loose.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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