We walk down the grassy hill toward the pier, which extends over the water to a dock and boathouse. The sun is overhead now and I’m wishing I had thought to bring a beach hat.
I follow her to the edge of the pier and we step onto the floating dock. It’s covered in a short layer of Astroturf, and Margot kicks off her flip-flops, so I do the same. It somehow feels plush underfoot like velvet, and there’s a large wicker basket next to the pair of gray chaise longues filled with white beachtowels, rolled to perfection. I feel silly with my faded, multicolored towel; I leave it tucked next to my beach bag as Margot lifts two towels from the basket and snaps them over our chairs.
She sheds her cover-up and we sink into the recliners. Unzipping the cooler, she slides out a bottle of sauvignon blanc and fills our glasses. We toast.
“Thanks for meeting me,” she says as I shrug off my cover-up.
She eyes me. “That’s super cute,” she says of my green bikini. I’m self-conscious of my blinding white skin, still jiggly in places from pregnancy and approaching forty.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She takes a long sip, leans back in her chaise longue. The lake is still and a lazy breeze bats at us, lulling me into a relaxed state.
“I’m usually out here on Wednesdays. But I don’t normally invite the others. I get sick of them sometimes, honestly,” she says, her voice hoarse and cracked. “Sometimes,” she says, “I just wanna float away from it all.”
A pontoon boat cruises past, sending waves that gently rock the dock from side to side. “I know what you mean,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I also wonder if this is her first nip of the day.
She sits up, pulls a bottle of suntan oil from her bag, and begins massaging it into her legs. Her skin is molten, not a freckle or wrinkle, and now she smells sweetly of coconut as she glistens with oil.
“Mind doing my back?” she asks.
I stand and lean over her as she rolls on her stomach and tucks her hair into her visor. Her bikini bottom is a thong; my breath stutters as I drizzle oil into my palm and work it into her shoulder blades. I wipe the remainder on the backs of my arms and then fish out my SPF-15 sunblock so I don’t get seared.
She twists around and lies on her back again. Refreshes our glasses and traces the rim of her wineglass. “So, tell me about Graham.”
I nearly choke on my wine. I’m not sure how to respond.
“He’s, I dunno, nice.”
“Mmmmm... seems to be,” she says. “Been married long?”
I know I’m just on my second glass, but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, aslice of toast with butter, and that’s long since vanished. The wine makes my head swim.
“Five years. I got pregnant during our second year of marriage,” I say. “And you?” I ask, wanting to turn the conversation back to her.
“Fifteen long years. Two kids. Nina, my daughter, is eight. Harrison, my eldest, is ten. I would jump in front of a bus for them,” she adds, slowly sipping her wine, “but marriage can be... tricky.”
“Amen,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. Mine hasn’t been. “What’s your husband do?”
“Financial adviser. Boring stuff. Except it’s not that boring lately. He’s been super stressed out by work—I’ve never seen him under so much pressure. It’s annoying.” She sighs and stretches out a tanned leg.
“We knew each other growing up, hooked up in college. We were combustible then. Still are, I guess.” She rolls over on one elbow to face me. Her breasts squeeze together, and the outer ring of a dark pink nipple peeks out of her suit. My stomach flutters, and for the second time today, I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses. I know I’m fuzzy from the alcohol but there seems to be a charge building between us.
I down more wine and blink away the sunspots clouding my eyes, when my reverie is pierced by the sounds of voices, male and loud, floating from down the hill.
We both sit up and turn to look.
Margot springs to her feet like a cat.
I shield my eyes and recognize the taller one as Brad, Jill’s son. He’s wearing a pair of black swimming trunks with a white T-shirt pulled tautly across his chest. He’s with a friend, a shorter, sunny-faced boy with hair the color of cantaloupe.
“Hey, boys,” Margot says brightly as they amble down the pier. I can’t tell by her tone whether she was expecting them or not.
Brad leans into her, and she gives him a quick peck on both cheeks.
“This is Jill’s son, Brad,” Margot says, turning to me.
“I know,” I say. “We’ve met.”
