Her children are picture-perfect, too, and Margot’s hands rest on the tops of their shoulders. The only thing off about the photo is her husband, Jed.
Not his looks—he’s wearing a shirt and tie, and his dark, coffee-colored hair is sumptuously molded and swept to one side. He looks like a print model.
It’s his expression, grim-faced and cold, that chills me. Something tells me he knows what’s going on with Margot. And that he doesn’t like it.
29
Sunday, April 8, 2018
I’M THE FIRSTto arrive at Jill’s lake house. Even though her pearl-white Lexus is parked in the drive between a camo-colored Jeep and a red work truck, she’s the only one inside as I trail behind her through the house.
If Margot’s lake house is rustic, old-money chic, Jill’s is opulent and modern—a white stone mansion with two-story windows lining the back wall that look over a teal infinity pool that seemingly flows into the lake.
The rooms are massive and airy—all polished granite and light gray surfaces, the floors covered in Italian tile. Sunlight drenches the living room and kitchen, which make up one giant room.
“It’s perfect you’re early. You can finish the guacamole while I mix the drinks,” Jill says, cinching the waist of her gauzy cover-up around her white one-piece. She pushes her black-framed glasses up on her pert nose and hands me a lime squeezer.
While I work on slicing open the limes and draining the juice over a glass bowl, my eyes feast on the liquor banquet she’s laid out for us. Honey-colored tequila, perfectly measured out in five crystal shot glasses that line the countertop. A sliver of lime rests on the salt-dusted rim of each glass.
Jill grasps an expensive-looking bottle of tequila by the throat and glugs it into her giant blender until she’s satisfied with the amount. A few splashes slop over the side and she grabs a white kitchen towel and mops it up, her face strained with concentration.
“Now, for the OJ, I think,” she says, as much to herself as to me, licking a finger and turning the page in a glossy cookbook. She feels me eyeing her. “And yes, I’m using a recipe; don’t judge.”
I’m not judging, I’m impressed with her fastidiousness and the colorful array of ingredients she already has at her fingertips. I want to photograph it all but I wouldn’t want Erin to see it in a post and don’t exactly feel comfy asking Jill for permission.
With a paring knife, I get to work slitting the dozen or so avocados open on a cutting board. Jill takes a glass pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from the fridge and empties it into the blender.
“It’s the secret ingredient,” she says, winking at me. I hadn’t noticed before how long and dark her lashes are, but here, in the sun-splashed kitchen, her face is blindingly beautiful. Behind her on the fridge is a family portrait of Jill, Alex, and Brad; they all have the same piercing aquamarine-blue eyes. Alex is a blond with high cheekbones, and he towers over them in the photograph, making Jill and Brad almost look like brother and sister.
“That’s a recent picture,” Jill says. “I wanted to have one last professional photo done before Brad leaves for college. I’m happy with how it turned out,” she adds. She walks to the freezer and pulls down a roll of frozen lime juice. “I like to mix frozen and fresh,” she explains, tearing open the package and dunking the bright green tube of frozen lime into the blender.
I take the knife and make crosses on the faces of the avocados before squeezing their buttery flesh into the bowl. The rest of the ingredients—diced jalapeños and tomatoes, cumin, garlic, and cilantro—are all in tiny bowls at my fingertips ready to be tossed in.
When I finish mixing everything together and dousing the guacamole with lime juice, Jill snaps a piece of Saran wrap over the top and presses it downover the mixture. “Keeps it from browning,” she says as she lifts the bowl away from me and parks it in the fridge.
A timer chimes, and Jill spins around and bends down to open the oven. I can’t help but notice how exquisitely chiseled her calf muscles are and how her biceps flex as she hauls a tray from the oven.
“Voilà!” she says, a hint of excitement brightening her face. “Peach-glazed short ribs! I made the peach preserves last week and marinated the ribs in it overnight.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I say, my mouth watering. Jill transfers the shellacked ribs to a cobalt-blue platter and nudges the oven door shut with a perfectly pedicured foot. She then pulls a bowl of salsa from the fridge—presumably homemade, too—and empties a fresh bag of tortilla chips into a large wooden bowl.
“Finished! Everything looks great! Thanks for your help,” she says, placing her hand on top of mine. Her fingernails are painted in the palest of pinks and her skin is creamy white and baby-butt smooth.
“I love this stuff, are you kidding?” I say. “It’s what I do, actually, I’m working on a lifestyle blog and—” I’m about to say more and finish explaining, when the front door gushes open and Margot spills inside.
Her hair is spiked with product—perfectly beach-mussed—and her face is hidden behind oversize black sunglasses. She’s wearing a neon-orange string bikini, even stringier than her red one, and the top of it strains against her breasts. A jolt of lust zaps through me. Her lacy, black cover-up barely hides anything, and my eyes trail down to her waist and to the delicate orange ties at her hips.
“Hey!” she says in a husky voice, setting her straw beach bag down on the floor. She crosses the room and gives Jill a quick hug, then walks over to me. She hugs me, and her lips graze my cheek. “Sophie! Lookin’ good as always,” she says, a cloud of coconut from her skin perfuming the air between us. I blush and look down at my red one-piece, which I fished off the rack at Target yesterday. It’s a basic suit but the neckline plunges just so, and it was the only one that was even remotely flattering.
“Thanks,” I say dumbly.
Margot lifts a shot of tequila to her lips, tosses it back.
“You were supposed to wait for the rest of us!” Jill says, her voice high and nasally.
“Oh, shut it. You know I’m good for another one,” Margot says, bumping her hip playfully against Jill’s. I see Jill study Margot’s bikini; I can’t read the expression that flashes across her face. Envy or desire or something else, I can’t tell.
Callie bursts through the door next, followed by Tina, and all of a sudden the room is buzzing with greetings and chatter, the voices clattering off all the polished surfaces.
