BEFORE
“IS THIS THING ON?”Ash asks, her face popping up on-screen.
“It’s always on, Ash,” Carolina says patiently.
“Hi, Ash,” Hope says from the screen. The stunning backdrop behind her—blue pool, bright sky, waving palm trees—isn’t fake. It’s her home in Santa Monica.
“Hope!”Ash says. “You came! I thought you said you might not be able to make it!” Her brown eyes widen in delight and she scoots closer to her computer. She’s forgotten to take off her work apron, the sturdy blue canvas one that ties around her neck. Summer freckles scatter across her nose, and there is a dab of sunscreen near her jawline that hasn’t been rubbed in all the way.
“I’m here,” Hope confirms. “It was my turn to choose the book, so I figured I’d better show up.” She’s makeup-free, her long brown hair in a topknot, and even though they’ve all been friends for almost two years now, the other two still can’tquitebelieve that they are friends withHope Hanover. Hope’s a rich and famous actress who is also still one of them—three friends who met under unlikely circumstances and who now text and talk constantly and get together once a month online for their book club.
“I couldn’t put it down,” Carolina rakes a hand through her chin-length dark hair. “I read it in a day and a half.”
“What about you, Ash?” Hope asks, though Ash always likes the book, because Ash finds the good in everything.
Ash bites her lip. “I didn’t read it.” The other two gasp, because Ashalwaysreads the book.
“This month has been bananas,” Ash says.
“What’s been going on?” Hope asks. “I know wedding season is coming up, but is it more than that?” Ash runs her own flower business, which has become more consuming and successful than she’d ever anticipated. She tells the others all the time that it’s gotten out of hand.
“Basically,” Ash says. “It’s not interesting. Let’s talk about the book. Don’t worry about spoiling it for me. And I can’t wait to hear the latest inyourlives.”
Carolina’s giant black Lab, Howie, has popped up into the frame and stares at them all cheerfully, wagging his tail. She leans down to scratch him behind the ears. “The twist was great. I didn’t see it coming.”
“Did you guess the murderer?” Hope asks.
“I didn’t!” Caro says, and Ash and Hope sit back in surprise. Caroalwaysguesses the murderer.
“Seriously, say whatever you want about the book,” Ash says. “I won’t listen. Even if I do, I’ll forget. My brain is mush lately.”
“We can talk more about the book later, when you’ve read it,” Hope says. “I have to admit that I have something else I want to discuss with you guys.”
“This has to be a record.” Caro feigns a look at her watch. “We didn’t even spend five minutes on the book.”
“What I have to say has todowith books.” Hope’s voice holds an earnest, hopeful note. Behind her, a single white cloud has edged its way into the blue sky. “And the woman who brought us all together.”
“Agatha,” they say in unison. Two years ago, during the pandemic, an independent bookstore in San Francisco held a virtual book club for one of Agatha Christie’s novels (A Murder Is Announced). Somehow, of all thepeople across the country during that time with nothing to do, Ash, Caro, and Hope were the only three who showed up.
It was early days of online events during the outbreak, so perhaps it was that other people weren’t yet used to virtual meetups. Each of the three women had wanted to leave but hadn’t been able to bring themselves to do it, thinking it would be too rude to the host, a kind and frazzled bookseller. And then, ten minutes in, when the host had vanished (her screen going inexplicably dark midsentence), Ash, Caro, and Hope had somehow remained connected. They’d sat in stunned silence for a moment before starting to laugh. A warm and funny conversation about Agatha Christie and life and the disaster that was the pandemic ensued. At the end of the call, the three of them had decided to reread Christie’sThe Murder of Roger Ackroydand discuss it the next month. They’d exchanged phone numbers, and during the month they texted about the book and their lives, and and and…
… here they are.
For the first couple of meetings, Hope hadn’t appeared live on-screen. Instead, she’d used a photo that showed her with her back turned and her hair a different color. And she’d continued to go by the fake name she’d entered for the meeting (Grace Hartwell—she always used virtue names when she didn’t want to reveal her true one). Carolina and Ash had both felt (but hadn’t said out loud) that Hope’s voice seemed somewhat familiar, though neither of them could placewherethey might have heard it before. It wasn’t until later that Hope had revealed her identity. Ash and Caro had both tried to keep their cool, with varying degrees of success.
“Remember,” Hope says now, “how when Agatha Christie’s husband told her he was leaving her for his secretary, Agatha disappeared for eleven days, and no one could figure out where she was? Remember how even Scotland Yard couldn’t find her?”
“Of course we do,” Carolina says. “We talk about it literally all the time.”
“And about how nice it would be to disappear from our lives for a minute,” Ash says dreamily.
“Because work is stressful,” Carolina says.
“And the people in our lives can be a lot,” Ash says.
“I love how she got bad news and got the hell out of there.” Hope’s tone is longing. “Can you imagineanyone—let alone anyonefamous—being able to do that in this day and age?”
“Oh, Hope,” Ash says. “I betyouwant to get away.”
