Prologue
There was something romantic about brand-new, empty houses. The delicious, acidic smell of fresh paint. The way the sun fell in crisp geometric shapes across the wide wooden floors. The gleaming silver of fridges and dishwashers and sinks—the general air of promise.
When they stepped inside 91 Sycamore Lane that morning, it felt as if they had stepped into a different life. The tension from the night before lingered, a desire they were both struggling to ignore, and the beauty and quiet of the house only heightened the words unsaid.
Nothing can happen. Nothing can happen.The refrain played silently, simultaneously, inside their heads. Still, a low harmony echoed in the background:What if?
They weaved through the house measuring each room’s dimensions, pressing tape measures to crown molding and across doorframes, meticulously tracking widths and lengths. They moved slowly as they worked, catching glances as they shifted around each other, studying the place: for the design, for the marketing, for making money, they told themselves. They talked in empty phrases:
“It’s going to be another hot one. Record temps. Can you believe it?”
“I just love those skylights. That sky.”
“Can you hand me the pencil? Can you move a little to the left?”
It wasn’t until an hour in, kneeling along the wall of the main bedroom that, finally, their hands overlapped. It was accidental at first—they’d been shifting the ruler when their knuckles hit, their pointer fingers brushed—yet neither pulled away. Their eyes met. And then they were kissing, moving up against the wall.
Had they been anywhere else, maybe the kiss never would have happened—maybe the affair never would have started. Maybe they never would have become such expert liars, the type who could go about their days and routines interacting as normal, as if this other plane of passion did not exist, as if they did not know the taste and feel of each other’s sweat, tongue, teeth.
But that day, the house and the world were on their side. The summer was set in motion.
Everything was about to change.
1
Every plan is more exciting when you’re the only one who knows it.
This was Danika Crawley’s first thought as she entered the Club’s main dining room, immediately plucking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. She took a sip and studied the room over the rim of the glass, pretending she didn’t notice the flutter of eyes moving over her like hummingbirds across a flower. Not that she minded. It was expected. After all, she hadn’t been to the Club in a full week—not since the incident—and she was prepared.Let them look.She shook back her dark blond hair and straightened her spine.
Danika and her husband, Bill, walked together toward their table. While the staff always shifted the dining room for events—including tonight’s Champagne and Caviar Happy Hour—they left the tables on the perimeter untouched. That was to say, they left the old money’s standing reservations, untouched. Danika was relieved to have a destination as they crossed the room, splitting the sea of boring blue ties and midi floral cocktail dresses.
She was also relieved to see Frank and Holly Fravel already at their table as they approached. Despite the facts that Frank was their lawyer and that Danika didn’t have any real friends, she did likeHolly best; they were both from California and hated all the same people.
“Hello, bombshell,” Holly sang as she grabbed Danika’s hand and raised it as if to twirl her in a waltz. “Is this new?”
“Ninety-nine percent off.” Danika smoothed her new indigo silk jumpsuit down her thighs. This was one of their inside jokes: making fun of the way Minnesotans downplayed compliments, shoving their humility toward you like a gift you didn’t want.
“I like this, too.” Danika nodded to Holly’s billowing black pants and fitted black vest.
“Must continue my reign as the Gothic Queen of Aldon Lakes.”
Danika lifted her drink in a cheers. She appreciated how Holly only wore dark colors and sharp lines, which suited her jet-black hair, thick eyebrows, and angular checkmark cheekbones.
Danika took a long, unsteady sip as she turned to the room, trying to quell the adrenaline coursing through her. Part of her wished she could’ve told Holly, or Bill even, her plan for the evening, but it would have been too embarrassing to admit how desperate she was to regain power over the narrative—how eager she was to take control of the gossip that had surely been floating through the hallways and locker rooms and out onto the golf course over the past week. It wasn’t that she had been hiding; she simply hadn’t wanted to face any questions or flat expressions of concern until she had a tangible solution.
Now, as she glanced at her Rolex and registered it was just after six—one hour to go—the buzz felt better than the drink.
“Upgrade?” Bill said as a waiter arrived with a new bottle of champagne. Bill’s thick chestnut hair caught the light of the chandelier as he draped one arm around Danika’s waist. They always acted more intimate at the Club than at home, though neither would acknowledge such a thing. Even now, his touch felt foreign and awkward. It’d been so long.
“Always one step ahead of us, my guy. The stuff they’re passing is shit.” Frank Fravel clapped Bill’s shoulder as he swiveled toward them, his large stomach swinging to the center of their group like a compass.
As Danika registered the six-hundred-dollar bottle, it warmed her to know Bill would not offer anyone else a splash. Despite his decades in the Midwest—his family started one of the oldest dairy cooperatives in the state—Bill had never caught on to the practice of Minnesota Nice. This was one trait she genuinely loved about him: He had always been straightforward, honest.
“You spoil us,” Holly said as the waiter filled her glass.
“Only the best for the best.” Bill winked.
This was one of Bill’s less desirable traits: He had always been a flirt.
