The Mall at Laurel Grove
Shelby Hunt was elated when her father told her of his job offer and the need to relocate to Southern California. Shelby, a quiet, studious fifteen-year-old, had never been popular at school. In fact, she had only two friends, neither of whom was particularly close, and she hoped the move to the West Coast would improve her anemic social life. Her mother, Marlee Hunt, longed for a change in lifestyle as well. She had always considered Ipswich too provincial for her tastes. California, on the other hand, was more to the Jersey-born woman's liking.
Naturally, Parker Hunt, as a loving husband and dedicated father, was concerned about how the move might affect his family; but as a gifted, ambitious architect, he would not be able to pass up the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of working for the Temple Group, one of the most commercially successful and prestigious architectural firms in the country.
"I still can't believe they gave the position to me," he exclaimed with bemusement. "There must have been dozens, if not hundreds, of applicants with far more experience."
"You're being too modest," Marlee contended. "You've got a lot of talent. Just look at your designs for the Quincy Medical Park and the strip mall in Peabody. Everyone loved them."
Even though Parker knew his wife's opinion was biased, he appreciated her loyalty. Still, he was well aware that Southern California was a long way from their sleepy little Massachusetts town, both in distance and in attitude. As he watched his wife and daughter pack for the trip west, he hoped the adjustment would not be too difficult for them.
* * *
Surprisingly, the Hunts' new house in Santa Monica was not much larger than the Cape Cod they had owned in Ipswich. It was hard for Marlee to believe it cost more than three times the Cape Cod's selling price. When Parker first pulled up in front of the house, he read the disappointment on his wife's face.
"I know it's not much," he said apologetically, "but after I've worked at the Temple Group for a few years, maybe we can afford something bigger, perhaps even one of the smaller units in Laurel Grove."
But as Parker was to discover, there were no smaller units in Laurel Grove. Houses in the exclusive, gated development began at five million.
"What makes that place so special?" Shelby asked. "Do any movie stars live there?"
"Not likely. Laurel Grove is a quiet, elegant community, designed to appeal to more dignified people. You won't find any loud, drunken parties held there, no people snorting cocaine or diving into swimming pools naked."
"And what's wrong with that?" Marlee asked with a playful laugh. "Skinny dipping with drunken millionaires sounds like fun."
Parker shook his head and teased, "You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can't take New Jersey out of ...."
"Stop it right there, mister!" Marlee cried, throwing a mock punch at her husband's chin. "One more crack about Jersey and you'll be sorry."
"All right," he chuckled as he took the house key out of his jacket pocket. "Let's take a look at our new home."
* * *
Shelby's first day at Santa Monica High School was not all she had hoped it would be. Ironically, the school was not much different from the one she attended in Ipswich. There were the same social groups: the jocks and cheerleaders, the brainy nerds, the delinquents and the oddballs who looked and dressed like extras from a low-budget horror movie. The only thing Santa Monica had that Ipswich didn't was surfers.
Just like back east, Shelby did not fit into any of the established cliques. Of all her new classmates, only one girl, Paris Seeger, a fellow outcast, was interested in getting to know her.
"You're from New England, right?" Paris asked when she heard the new student's accent. "Let me guess. Maine?"
"No. Ipswich, Massachusetts—not too far from Boston."
"Near Salem?"
"In that general vicinity."
"Sweet! I've always been fascinated by the Salem witchcraft trials."
The girls chatted between classes and ate together at lunch. Soon they began texting each other on their cell phones and exchanging messages via Facebook. For the remainder of the school year, the two were inseparable.
On the first day of summer vacation, Paris invited Shelby to go to a mall located adjacent to the Laurel Grove development. Four stories high, the mall was unlike any the teenager from Ipswich had ever seen. Used to shopping in Sears, Penney's and occasionally Walmart, she was unfamiliar with Laurel Grove's upscale stores that included I. Magnin, Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue. There was no way Shelby could afford Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel, Loro Piana or Giorgio Armani on her meager allowance, but then neither could her friend.
"I mostly come here to window shop," Paris admitted. "Then I eat lunch and go home."
As the two girls rode the escalator to the second floor, they passed a group of fellow teenagers who looked and dressed like they had just stepped out of the pages of ELLE Girl magazine. The apparent ringleader of the group, a stunning redhead, must have made a rude remark about Shelby and Paris because her friends turned to look at the two girls and burst out laughing.
"Who are they?" Shelby asked, feeling the sting of humiliation. "I've never seen them at school."
"They're from Laurel Grove. They go to a private school."
"Really? My father works for the Temple Group, the company that designed that development."
"No kidding?" Paris asked, eyeing her friend's inexpensive jeans and T-shirt. "What is he, a janitor or something?"
"No. He's an architect."
"Why don't you live at Laurel Grove then?"
Shelby shrugged.
"My father says that someday we will, but for now all we can afford is the house in Santa Monica."
Later, the two girls bought burgers and fries at the food court.
When they sat down at one of the tables and began to eat, Paris asked, "What's it like?"
"What's what like?"
"Laurel Grove. I've heard some strange stories about that place. I wonder if any of them are true."
"I don't know; I've never been there," Shelby confessed. "My father says it's a nice community, though. There are no noisy parties, no crime, no drugs, no ...."
Shelby stopped speaking when she spied the redhead and her entourage sitting at a nearby table, laughing and frequently looking in their direction.
"Talk about bad manners!" she said. "What makes them think they're better than we are?"
"They're young, rich, gorgeous and popular," Paris replied. "Need I say more?"
* * *
When Parker came home from work on Friday night, he greeted his daughter with an affectionate hug.
"How's my pumpkin?" he asked.
"I'm fine, Dad. You're in a good mood."
"I am," Parker said with a boyish grin. "We've been invited to Mr. Temple's house for the Fourth of July, and from what I've heard around the office, the Temples' barbecues are legendary."
Shelby was pleased since she would finally be able to dispel or confirm some of the rumors Paris had heard about Laurel Grove. Marlee was more than just pleased; she was ecstatic. She saw the invitation as a long-awaited opportunity to move up several rungs on the social ladder. It was to be her big chance to rub elbows with the other wives from the Temple Group and, hopefully, the rest of the Laurel Grove millionaires.
On the day of the barbecue, Shelby and Marlee took special pains to look their best. Hair, nails, clothes and makeup had to be just right. Parker whistled when he saw them.
"Not one but two beautiful women! I'll be the envy of every man there."
He opened the car door for his wife and leaned down to give her a kiss.
"Let's get going," she said, gently pushing him away so he would not smear her lipstick. "I don't want to miss a single moment of this shindig."
Although her expectations had been high, Marlee was not disappointed with the houses at Laurel Grove. When her husband drove through the main gates, her jaw dropped in amazement. Massachusetts had its fair share of mansions, but most of them were old, stately colonial homes made of wood or brick, whereas the houses in Laurel Grove were modern masterpieces of steel, glass and concrete.
"Aren't they beautiful?" Parker asked. "Every time I come through the entrance I feel as though I've entered a Neverland or Shangri-La designed by Frank Lloyd Wright."
Marlee did not reply. She was grimly thinking of the Santa Monica bungalow in which she and her family lived. It was nothing but a shack compared to the homes in Laurel Grove. Her envy and feelings of inferiority only increased when they arrived at Woodrow Temple's home, which was by far the largest and most exquisite house in the development.
Parker drove up the long driveway and parked his Subaru between a Bentley and a Rolls.
"What, no Ferraris?" Marlee asked sarcastically.
"Rappers and publicity-hungry movie stars drive those flashy sports cars," Parker explained, as though rehearsing a TV commercial. "We at the Temple Group strive to create a more refined, well-bred image, a higher class of people."
Marlee raised her eyebrow.
"And how many of those high-class people drive Subaru Outbacks?"
Parker's eyes momentarily clouded with anger. In the midst of so much success and wealth, he did not like being reminded of his own humble status.
"I'm sorry," his wife quickly apologized, "but you were sounding so stuffy. I thought it might do you good to remember who you are and where you came from."
Parker smiled, forgiving his wife for her slight.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand. "I want to introduce you to the Temples."
* * *
Whereas her mother's first reaction to Laurel Grove was one of envy, Shelby's was one of panic.
We don't belong here, the teenager told herself at her first glimpse of the houses that she considered modern nightmares.
Despite her father's reverence for contemporary design, the teenager found the buildings cold, unwelcoming and downright menacing.
"It's true, Toto. There is no place like home," she mumbled under her breath, wishing she could click her heels together and be transported out of the futuristic Land of Oz and back to New England with its cozy saltboxes and weathered cedar shingles.
Parker, oblivious to his daughter's emotional distress, remarked, "Notice how even the air seems cleaner here."
Marlee only grunted a reply. She was far too preoccupied with wondering how many millions of dollars a home in Laurel Grove would cost them. When the butler let them inside the Temple house, her estimate rose dramatically. The mansion was even more impressive inside than out.
"Could you really design a house like this?" she asked her husband. "It's a far cry from the medical park and strip mall."
Parker's anger again raised its ugly head, if only for a brief moment. Before an argument could erupt, however, the host came over to welcome the Hunts to his home. Standing at his right side was a stunningly beautiful woman several years younger than Temple and on his left an equally striking girl about the same age as Shelby.
"I'd like to present my wife, Laurel, the muse who inspired me to create this little enclave. And this is our daughter, Sierra," he announced proudly.
At that moment Shelby wished the floor would open and swallow her up, for Woodrow Temple's daughter was the redheaded ringleader of the group of girls who had laughed at her and Paris at the mall.
Neither Mrs. Temple nor Sierra made friendly overtures toward the Hunt women beyond an initial greeting, so when Woodrow took Parker to the study, presumably to discuss topics mere women would not appreciate or understand, Shelby and Marlee were left to their own devices.
"We might as well get something to drink," Marlee suggested, picking up a martini for herself and a Coke for her daughter.
They had both brought their bathing suits, but neither suggested they go swimming. There were far too many anorexic women at the party wearing string bikinis.
"I'll bet not one of them is larger than a size two," Marlee remarked glumly. "It makes me sick."
The slenderness of the other female guests was not all that nauseated Shelby. Not only did all the wives and their daughters—didn't anyone at the Temple Group have sons?—have perfect faces and figures, but all were insufferable snobs as well.
"Maybe we were invited just to give the place character," Marlee suggested.
"More like comic relief," her daughter replied.
The afternoon seemed to drag on interminably. Not even the impressive fireworks display at the end of the evening brightened Shelby's dark mood.
* * *
In the weeks that followed the Fourth of July barbecue, Parker devoted most of his time to his job, often working late into the night and on weekends. Marlee, who had failed to find the social status she had expected in sunny California, began seeking solace in a bottle, heedless of the warning signs that she was becoming an alcoholic. Thankfully, Shelby did not share her mother's self-destructive nature. Rather than resort to drugs or drown her sorrows with alcohol, she sought her comfort in the pages of her books. Unfortunately, in seeking escape from unhappiness, both mother and daughter paid less attention to their appearance and to the upkeep of their house.
Things continued to spiral out of control until one night Parker arrived home from work to find his wife drunk and his daughter sitting in the recliner with her nose buried in a Nicholas Sparks novel. He took one look at the dirty dishes in the sink, the dust on the furniture and the food spilled on the carpet and exploded.
"I break my ass trying to better our lives. Is it too much to ask for someone to keep the house clean? Damn it! This place looks like a pigsty."
Shelby ran to her bedroom before the argument escalated, yet even from behind her closed door she could hear the shouting. Her parents had always gotten along so well, or at least they did when they lived in Massachusetts. It was only after moving to the West Coast that the marriage began to disintegrate.
"I hate this place," Shelby cried, pulling her pillow over her ears to shut out the sound of her parents fighting. "I hate the palm trees, expensive stores in the mall and even the perpetually sunny weather. Most of all I hate the skinny, tanned women and girls at Laurel Grove who look down their noses at me and my mother."
As Shelby lay on her bed wishing she was three thousand miles away, downstairs her parents continued to argue.
* * *
They say that time heals all wounds, but such was not the case with the Hunt family. On the contrary, during the ensuing weeks, the wounds seemed to fester. Over time, Parker's anger toward his wife extended to his daughter. On those rare occasions when he was home, he virtually ignored her.
Did the fault for this alienation of affections lie solely with her father? Shelby wondered. Was it all a reaction to the stress of his new job? She doubted it. Perhaps if her mother stopped drinking and the two of them took better care of the house and of themselves, things would go back to the way they were. It was definitely worth a try. At the barbecue, Mr. Temple had been so proud of his wife and daughter. Shelby wished she could see that same look of pride in her father's eyes.
Shelby, however, had some difficulty convincing her mother to join her in her quest to improve herself.
"Why should I care what your father thinks?" Marlee asked belligerently. "He acts like he's too good for us now that he works with those snobs from the Temple Group. I'd like to know what they've got to be so conceited about. They're just architects, for Christ's sake. It's not like they're movie stars."
"Never mind about them," Shelby said, trying to get her mother to focus on her marriage rather than on her failure to fit into the Laurel Grove community. "We can't blame Dad for all that's happened. We're at fault, too. Just look at us mother: we're both a mess. And this place! The board of health ought to be called in."
Although still intoxicated, Marlee could see a glimmer of truth in her daughter's argument. She walked into her bedroom and stared at the reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She didn't like what she saw.
"Damn! I must have put on twenty pounds. And look at my hair. I need to touch up the roots, and it needs to be cut or styled or something."
Marlee gazed into the mirror for several minutes. Then her shoulders slumped, and her eyes misted with tears.
"How could I have let myself go like this?"
"It's okay, Mom," Shelby said, putting her arm around her mother's shoulder. "It's not too late for us to make ourselves over."
Marlee smiled at her daughter, and her teary eyes brightened.
"You're right. Let's start by cleaning this place up. The kitchen looks like a tsunami hit it."
* * *
For the next three days, mother and daughter scrubbed, laundered, polished and dusted. The rugs were shampooed, the windows were washed and the lawn was mowed. Only when the house was clean enough to win the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval did Shelby and Marlee turn their attention to their own appearance. Hair, nails and makeup were easy. It would take considerably more effort for the two women to get their bodies in shape, however. With a good deal of sweat and dedication, they made slow but steady progress. Yet even after several months of dieting and exercise, they both fell far short of the physical perfection of the wives and daughters of the men who lived in Laurel Grove.
Perhaps that was why Parker was not as pleased with the change in his family as they had hoped he would be. In fact, he did not even notice anything different until Marlee asked him if he liked her hair.
"Why? Did you do something different?"
"I had it cut and frosted," his wife replied, saddened by his failure to notice such a drastic change in her appearance.
"Oh, yeah. It looks nice," he said unconvincingly, as he headed out the door to his car.
"Don't worry," Shelby said, trying to cheer her mother up. "He's probably just exhausted from all the long hours he's been putting in lately."
Marlee said nothing but looked toward the well-stocked wine rack that separated the dining room from the kitchen. It seemed like such a long time since she had a drink.
"Hey, do you know what we need?" her daughter asked with a feigned carefree gaiety she did not actually feel. "We need a girls' day out. We can go shopping, have lunch in a nice restaurant and then take in a movie. Just the two of us."
Marlee wholeheartedly agreed.
* * *
Shelby and her mother rode the escalator to the third level of the mall at Laurel Grove.
"How much longer do you want to stay here?" Marlee asked. "I'm getting tired. We've been window shopping for hours."
"I'm looking for a coffee shop."
"Coffee sounds good," Marlee agreed. "At least it's something I can afford."
When she stepped off the escalator, Shelby looked to the right and then to the left.
"That's odd."
"What's odd?" her mother asked.
"There are four stories in this mall, yet there are no escalators after this level."
"Maybe you have to go up through one of the department stores."
After treating her mother and herself to a latte at the coffee bar—at the cost of an entire week's allowance—Shelby led Marlee to Saks.
"Don't you think this place is a little out of our price range?" her mother asked.
"I want to find a way upstairs."
Marlee sighed and followed her daughter into the department store, only to discover that all the staircases, elevators and escalators went down.
"Excuse me," Shelby asked a salesgirl in the shoe department, "how do we get to the fourth floor?"
The Saks employee looked at her blankly and replied, "There is no fourth floor."
"But from outside the mall, you can clearly see four levels," Shelby insisted.
"I'm sorry, but we only have three floors here."
Shelby went to one store after another and asked the same question, and each person she asked denied the existence of a fourth story.
"Why are you so curious about the top level?" her mother asked. "It's probably a maintenance area. There might be nothing up there but heating ducts, water pipes and electrical wiring."
"I guess you're right," Shelby said with a sigh.
"Then can we go to dinner now? I'm hungry, and my feet are killing me."
As they headed back toward the escalators, the Hunt women ran into Laurel and Sierra Temple, who were coming out of a door that was nearly hidden behind a map and store directory. Not surprisingly, Woodrow Temple's wife and daughter did not speak to Shelby or her mother. In fact, they looked right through them, as though they were not even there.
"You'd think they were the Queen of England and the Duchess of Cambridge!" Marlee whispered to her child.
Shelby did not hear her mother's comment, for her attention was drawn to the door through which the two women had come, one without any markings. Curious, she reached for the knob, opened it and discovered a staircase that led to the fourth floor.
Eureka! she thought.
"Where are you going?" Marlee asked.
"Upstairs. Come on," she replied conspiratorially.
"Oh, all right, let's see what's on the fourth floor. But then we leave. Okay?"
At the top of the stairs was another door with a sign that read AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY.
"I don't think we should be up here," Marlee cautioned her daughter.
"I just want a peek inside."
When Shelby tried to open the door, however, she discovered it was locked.
* * *
On a warm, sunny December day, Marlee was decorating the house for Christmas, wishing the temperature would drop and it would snow. The telephone rang, and she was stunned when the caller identified herself as Laurel Temple.
"My husband and I are having a Christmas party at the house for the partners of the firm. We'd like you, your husband and your daughter to attend."
Marlee's heart raced. Was Parker about to become a partner in the firm?
"It's a formal affair," Laurel advised, "and Sierra and I are going shopping Saturday to buy new dresses. Why don't you and your daughter come with us?"
"Sure," Marlee agreed without consulting Shelby. "We'd love to."
When she told her daughter about the invitation and her acceptance, she was surprised by Shelby's piqued reaction.
"I don't want to go shopping with them! Neither you nor I can stand those two."
"Really, dear. Your father may be on the verge of becoming a partner in the firm. We have to make the effort to get along with the Temple women, even if we don't like them."
Shelby continued to grumble and complain, but her mother would not take no for an answer.
On Saturday morning, Laurel drove up to the Hunts' Santa Monica home in her brand-new Bentley convertible. On the drive to the mall, the two teenagers sat in the back seat of the luxury vehicle. Neither one spoke to the other. Shelby was glad when Mrs. Temple finally pulled into the mall parking lot.
"I. Magnin has the most adorable cocktail dresses," Laurel announced as she handed her car keys to the parking valet.
"I have my eye on that blue Versace," Sierra confessed.
Shelby rolled her eyes.
A fifteen-year-old girl wearing a Versace cocktail dress to a company Christmas party—what's wrong with this picture? she wondered.
Marlee found a number of outfits she loved, all at prices she could not afford. Finally, she took out her Visa card and bought a Donna Karan, hoping her husband would not have a fit when he saw the credit card statement at the end of the month. Meanwhile, Shelby, on the other hand, rejected every dress the other women suggested she buy.
After close to three hours of looking at clothes she felt were far too "mature" for her, Shelby said, "I'd like to go home now."
"But what about a dress for the Christmas party?" her mother asked.
"I can find something at H&M at the Westfield Century City Mall."
Laurel and Sierra visibly paled at the mention of H&M, which they saw as a discount clothing retailer.
If I had said Walmart, Shelby thought, they would probably have fainted dead away.
"Wait," Laurel exclaimed. "I think I know just the place to find something for a girl like you."
"A girl like me?" Shelby echoed, but Laurel had Marlee in tow, and she had to follow.
Shelby was surprised when Laurel and Sierra led them to the door behind the directory sign and they walked up the staircase to the fourth floor. At the top landing, Laurel took an electronic key card out of her purse, swiped it and unlocked the door that read AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY.
"Are you sure we're allowed in here?" Marlee asked when they walked into a dark, cavernous area.
"Of course, we are. My husband owns this place," Laurel explained as she threw a switch and at least a dozen overhead lights shined down on a large, open warehouse space.
Everywhere Shelby and her mother looked there were racks of dresses, shelves of wigs, boxes of shoes and cases of jewelry.
"I'm sure we'll find something here even for someone as particular as you, Shelby," Sierra said snidely.
"Just step over here, please," Laurel said, pointing to two faceless mannequins wearing Giorgio Armani. "I think this one would be perfect."
Suddenly, Sierra pulled a hypodermic needle out of her purse and plunged it into Marlee's arm. The poor woman had no opportunity to resist.
As she felt her knees buckle beneath her, her maternal instincts kicked in and she cried, "Run, Shelby."
Startled by the attack on her mother, Shelby hesitated a moment. When she did turn to flee, she ran into a wall partition, which then fell to the ground with a resounding crash. Beyond the fake wall were rows of what appeared to be discarded mannequins, some supported by metal stands and others suspended from hooks in the ceiling. When her eyes focused on the faces of these figures, Shelby realized they were not mannequins at all.
She screamed in terror and tried to escape, but Laurel was upon her before she could reach the door.
* * *
The Temple house was alive with the sound of festive celebration. Christmas carolers sang to the accompaniment of a professional musician seated at a baby grand piano. The interior was festooned with fresh greenery, miniature lights and elegant, tasteful and expensive holiday decorations.
Upstairs, the men were in the study gathered around Woodrow Temple who congratulated Parker Hunt, the firm's newest partner, with a champagne toast. Downstairs, in the living room, the new and improved Shelby and Marlee Hunt, as slender and stunningly beautiful as the other Laurel Grove women, were engaged in mindless chatter with the wives and daughters of the other partners. As part of Laurel Grove's elite society, they became objects without ambition and without opinions or ideas of their own. As the ultimate trophy wives and daughters, they existed only to bolster the vanity of the men who had helped create them.
Meanwhile, on the dark, cavernous fourth floor of the Mall at Laurel Grove, the real Shelby and Marlee Hunt stood paralyzed as though frozen in time. Like the other far-from-perfect wives and daughters of the partners of the Temple Group, they were prisoners trapped in their own bodies. Unable to speak or move yet fully capable of thinking and feeling, both mother and daughter cursed the day they ever left Ipswich in hopes of improving their lives in sunny Southern California.
Salem once posed as a mannequin in the display window of a Godiva Boutique, but the owner noticed a substantial amount of chocolate was missing and tossed him out.
