He scooted off his chair and ambled down the hall.
“But just one show before bed, remember, honey?” I called out after him.
“That was so sweet of you to want to surprise me, but can you cancel with them?” I asked. “But don’t tell them why. I wasn’t even supposed to tell you.”
“Ooooh, a secret club,” Graham said, his eyes flashing. “I like it!”
He slid the bottle across the table, refilled our glasses.
“But seriously,” he added with a bemused smile, “why weren’t you supposed to tell me?”
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But Ihadto.
“Probably for no good reason,” I said, hoping to dismiss it. “These women probably just like theideaof being a part of something exclusive, ya know?”
It seemed to work.
“Fair enough, Miss Oakley,” he said, his eyes crinkling into a smile.
He took another sip of his wine and set his glass down. Laced his fingers through mine and pulled me into a kiss.
—
I’M TURNING OFFthe main highway now onto a country road, the private road to Cedar Lake. The trees thicken and soar overhead, and the blacktop lane is so narrow, it feels as though I’m being squeezed through the forest. The road dips and curves like a roller coaster, hugging the lakeshore, which I catch glimpses of through the curtain of trees.
It’s gorgeous out here, and a jolt of excitement sizzles over my skin as the robotic voice of the GPS announces my final turn.
Rounding a sharp corner, I see Margot’s drive to the left; I turn in front of the barn-red mailbox withbankspainted in black cursive on the side. I cruise down the crushed rock drive for what seems like a half mile until I finally reach the house.
It’s the same ruddy, redwood shade as the mailbox, all wooden siding with endless windows trimmed in forest green. A 1940s California ranch, I would guess from first glance (I know this because of Graham’s never-ending subscription toArchitectural Digest), with three wings situated in a half circle. It sitsatop a slight hill with a plush green lawn pouring down to the water’s edge, and through the bank of windows I can see the lake.
I’m just ten minutes late, but the other four are all here already, churning on the wide front porch. Callie carries an armful of guns to one of three nearby four-wheelers, stacks them on the back.
Margot stashes wine in the saddlebag of a camo-colored four-wheeler while Jill and Tina chat on the porch. Everyone is dressed in knee-high leather boots, and I feel as if I’ve just stepped into a cover shoot forGarden & Gun.
The only boots I own are anklets, so I shoved some skinny jeans into them and threw on a red tank top. Driving over, I felt sassy, but as I step out of the car, I feel out of place and overmatched. Being this close to the lake, it’s even more humid, and as I walk to the porch, my hair wilts. Tina and Jill smile and wave, but Callie ignores my arrival and focuses instead on strapping guns to the rack on the four-wheeler with canary-yellow bungee cords.
Margot pauses her packing, glances at me, and flashes a quick smile.
“You made it. Good.” She sees me eyeing the house. “I’ll give you the full tour later, but it’s just thirty minutes till dusk.”
She strides over to the wine-laden four-wheeler, jeans squeezing her curves. “Let’s go, ladies,” she calls out, and straddles it. Callie is already mounted on the four-wheeler that’s loaded with guns, and Tina walks over and jumps onto the back of it.
“Guess you’ll ride with me,” Jill says, and I wrap my arms around her bone-thin body. She twists the key in the ignition, and the engine sputters to life.
—
WE FOLLOW THEothers and head down a grassy lane that cuts through the forest. The surface of the path is engraved with deep tire tracks, and every so often, we sink into a dip and my chin pecks the back of Jill’s tiny back.
We’ve driven about a quarter of a mile when we come to a clearing next to the lake. Jill slows and parks and I walk over to the water’s edge before joining the rest. The lake is bigger than I had imagined it would be, so much so that Ican see the opposite shore but can’t make out any details other than the thick fringe of pines lining it.
“Our lake house is over there,” Jill says, suddenly beside me. She’s pointing to the far shore. “We really only use it in the summertime, but I love it out here.” She stretches her arms above her head, yoga-style, and a satisfied smile spreads across her face.
The sun is still dangling above the tree line, and the reflection of it flickers off the surface of the lake like candlelight. The clouds glow nectarine orange, dripping from the sky like crème brûlée. Jill turns from the water, and I follow her to the center of the clearing where Callie is bent on one knee, loading bright orange discs into a small contraption.
Margot slides the guns off the back of the four-wheeler and hauls them over to Callie. Tina digs out safety glasses, earmuffs, and plastic wineglasses from a large black bag and places them on a small wooden table.
Margot uncorks a bottle of sauvignon blanc, icy from the cooler bag, and fills each glass.
