Prologue
Regan
The last days of summer have felt endless, bringing with them an insufferable, dripping heat and something bleak hanging in the air. An unease I haven’t been able to explain—something intangible in the background like a distant, electric buzzing.
Almost everyone in the Cloverhill Lakes community attends the Labor Day party. It’s always held on the little beach between the Millers’ docks and the country club, and it’s usually something I look forward to, but tonight I’m just ready to go home. Something is off.
“Sasha, hi, sweetheart,” I say, waving as she arrives, a potato salad in one hand and a bottle of prosecco in the other. She’s trying not to get her stiletto heels stuck in the sand while remaining graceful at the same time. I see someone gave her—the newcomer to the neighborhood—the memo: that eventhough we call it a barbecue, we still wear sundresses and carry our good handbags. She waves back and looks for a place to set her things, but it seems someone hasnot, in fact,given her the memo that around here, barbecues are catered. I pretend not to see her toss her offering into the trash can when she registers this.
I sit at a picnic table in the gazebo and stir my martini. The strings of fairy lights twinkle in the trees and the crickets take their turn playing the night’s soundtrack between the deejay’s sets of pop music. There are round tables and folding chairs set up across the grassy bank of the lake, small plates of cake in people’s hands and lots of champagne bottles poking out of buckets of ice. It almost looks like a Seurat painting minus the parasols. I even fan myself with a paper plate and very much feel like I’m having “a fit of the vapors”—a joke I want to share with Andi as she plops down next to me with something fruity and frozen in her hand, except I’m certain she wouldn’t get it.
“God, she’s an absolute twat,” Andi mutters.
“Who are we talking about?” Sasha asks, walking into the gazebo and pouring herself a margarita from the sweating pitcher on one of the tables.
“When Andi is using the wordtwatorcoworslutbag, it’s only ever in reference to...”
“Tia Hainsley,” Sasha interrupts. “Right. I do know that. Sorry.”
We all look in Tia’s direction and watch her hanging on her new husband’s shoulder, showing a small group of women her blingy ring. I was certain everyone had already seen the thing, but I guess I was mistaken. There are a couple people lefton the planet who hadn’t. It is a notable size—something you could probably see from space. I see Andi’s eye twitch as the circle of women’s squealy shrieks waft over the soundwaves of Beyoncé coming from the deejay’s speakers and echo off the vaulted gazebo ceiling, but she ignores the giggling admirers and swears she doesn’t care about Tia and Ray. Perhaps she is actually over her ex-husband’s marrying Tia freaking Hainsley. I mean, shehasremarried herself, so she really shouldn’t care, but... methinks the lady doth protest too much.
“It’s not a good color on her,” Sasha says. “I mean, in case that’s helpful.” We all look back to Tia again, flinging her hair over her shoulder and tossing her head back to laugh. I fight the urge to laugh myself when I see she’s wearing—nota colorbut a rainbow-striped dress. Sasha was clearly just reaching for anything to say to be supportive.
“Yeah, she looks like a packet of Smarties,” I add in solidarity. Andi sighs.
“Thanks, guys.”
We sit in a row, sipping our drinks and watching the crowd. An occasional bark of laughter pierces the air, glasses clink and our kids dance in bare feet on the makeshift dance floor on the sandy patch by the water. Hallie sees me watching her and waves at me. I blow her a kiss. It’s these times when I miss Jack the most, likereallymiss him, where the wave of it hits me unexpectedly and it’s like realizing for the first time... that he’s gone. It steals my breath. I hold my chest and stand, walking away from the others.
“You okay?” Andi asks.
“Fine,” I say, futzing with a jar of olives, keeping my back to them until I can collect myself. I drop a couple stuffedolives into my drink, pop an Ativan under my tongue and breathe. It’s not the place for an anxiety attack. Breathe in for four, out for eight.
“We have an emergency,” I hear a panicked voice say behind me, and I turn to see Ally Whitlock speed-walking around the tables in the gazebo, plucking at a couple bags full of paper plates and napkins and opening the coolers along the wall.
“Oh no.” Sasha stands. “What happened?”
“We’re out of ice. Seriously? I mean, how does that even happen? This is a disaster,” Ally says. She’s the unofficial coordinator of the Labor Day party because she inserts herself into the committee’s business, and they let her do whatever she wants and micromanage all she pleases because she’s willing to do all the work—delighted to, even.
“Should I call the fire department?” I ask.
“Regan. I don’t appreciate that. I did a lot of work making sure everything was...” She trails off, opening one last cooler and then standing, hands on hips.
“People expect a certain experience each year. The bar can’t run out of ice. It’s not a good look.”
“I would offer to go get ice, but this is my second...” Andi shakes her glass.
“Same,” I say.
“I’ll go,” Sasha offers, because of course she does.
“No, this is your first year, darling. You stay, but please order the signature drink from the bar. I have fifty pineapple coolers melting into oblivion. I took a poll. People voted ‘pineapple cooler.’ Why no one is drinking the damn pineapple cooler is beyond me.”
“Of course,” Sasha says.
“I’d go myself, but I came with Connie and I can’t find her anywhere. She has the keys.”
“Here.” I take my keys out and toss them to her. “My car is in the first lot.”
