They preferred fresh-squeezed lime juice and Cointreau to make “Mexican martinis.” (Annette bit her tongue every time her friends used the stupidand honestly racistdrink moniker.) But theycouldmix margaritas with lemonade, or nothing, in a pinch—they were Texan women, after all, and could drink tequila straight, especially if it were good tequila, which they called “sipping tequila.”
Austin moms—at least Annette’s friends—trafficked inonlygood tequila; not one of them had sipped bad booze since college. Whitney would get along with Annette’s father—they could both discuss tequila for a long time, much longer than Annette thought was interesting or even healthy.
Every neighborhood mom had gone through a vodka phase, usually for a few weeks at the start of abikinis-at-Barton-Springs season. You’d notice a bit of winter pudge, vow to go carb-free, then realize the local vodkaswerecarb free. You’d buy one of the Yeti-brand stainless-steel travel mugs—bonus points for a neon monogram—fill it with ice at the start of an evening (the time might creep earlier as the hellish Texan summer went on), mix up your Tony’s ATX vodka and Crystal Light.
Annette had met one mom who’d actually almost dated Tony himself; a friend had offered to introduce her to “a guy who makes vodka in his basement.” Understandably, she’d been reluctant, but now the story was her claim to fame. Tony was a worldwide celebrity; Whitney told them she’d even seen a drink with Tony’s ATX vodka featured at a chic bar in Hong Kong.
The end of every mom’s vodka summer came with the realization that Tony’sflavoredvodkas allowed you to forgo the Crystal Light. The lemon and grapefruit varieties were so damn delicious you didn’t need a mixer! So you filled your Yeti travel mug and attended the neighborhood pool parties, having a great few days (for some, a week or two) before you started blacking out, passing out, or being rushed to the hospital. Because straight vodka, motherhood, and high temperatures were a recipe for disaster. You’d survive—they’d all survived—but get a stern lecture about responsibility and a worried husband and eventually, you’d return to wine or LaCroix and chalk it up to a learning experience. All the moms went through it—it was almost a rite of passage.
Sometimes, when she woke with a piercing headache, Annette wondered if she (and her husband…and her friends) should seek out a better way of handling adulthood. Annette wasn’t an idiot—she’d questioned the fact that the only way she knew to let loose was by ingesting booze.
But she’d also become someone who didn’t want to chip away at cracks—if she started questioning her own tequila intake, she’d have to examine Louis’s drinking, and then acknowledge the problems that existed in her cosseted life. She’d once been clear-eyed, but now there was so much at stake.
Annette missed the strong person she’d once been on the court. She’d been ruthless, willing to do anything to win. But once college ended, she lost direction. When Robert was born, she devoted herself to motherhood.
She was happy. She loved her life, her husband, her house, and her friends. Every day, she woke feeling as if this was where she belonged. She’d been working as hard as humanly possible for a long time—first at basketball, then at new motherhood. Now she had made it to the good part, the heart of her life. She was so lucky, and she didn’t want to dive back into the shark-infested waters she’d swum through to get here. (Metaphorically, of course: there were no sharks in any Austin waters! Just trash and freaky snakes.)
—
When she arrived at the Packers’ Cliffside address (although the Packers had returned to Silicon Valley, their “Austin experiment” apparently unsuccessful, everyone still referred to the mansion they had built by their name), Annette texted Whitney, who told her to come to the side gate. Past a topiary shaped carefully like Willie Nelson holding a guitar (complete with two braids of wisteria), Annette found a towering metal wall with a security camera on top. She peered into the camera’s eye and waved uncertainly.
Whitney slid the gate open. “Hey,” she said, embracing Annette.
“Hey,” said Annette, relaxing into her friend’s hug for a moment.
Whitney pulled back and wiped her eyes. Annette was moved to see that even Whitney was rattled by the body on the greenbelt. “I shut it off,” said Whitney, gesturing to the camera.
“Annette!” called Liza, who was relaxing on a lounge chair in one of her long sundresses. Sometimes, Annette was jealous of Liza. For one thing, she was clearly Whitney’s favorite: Whitney was always giving Liza clothes and spa appointments with her favorite aestheticians. It was a bit of an “Eliza Doolittle” situation, of course—Whitney obviously adored being admired by Liza, who wanted not only to be Whitney’s favorite but tobe Whitney.
Who was she kidding? Annette wanted to be Whitney, too. Whitney was effortlessly beautiful—imperial, even. The Jackie O of South Austin. Tonight, Whitney wore yoga pants and a top with multicolored straps that exposed her tanned collarbones. Her body was slim, bordering on bony, but in a pretty way.
Annette wasn’t sculpted; she’d always been curvy, but she was strong. She generally hid her body in workout gear or drawstring pants and her favorite University of Texas tops. She dressed like an athlete, which she was, or anyway,had been. Louis loved her in tight, expensive outfits, but Annette felt most comfortable in the sports clothes she’d worn all her life. Her bright blond hair attracted enough unwanted male glances as it was.
The Packers’ pool was stunning: huge, rectangular, surrounded by shade trees and furnished with modern loungers that looked like giant white balloons. At one end of the pool was a large gas fireplace. Annette felt her shoulders relaxing. “Do I hear a waterfall?” she asked. “Is there a waterfall?”
“Look, it’s under the fireplace,” said Liza. Annette squinted and could see a sheet of water falling underneath the flames into a hot tub, and then into the pool.
“Wow,” she said.
“Mrs. Packer went to a Japanese spa that was heated by underground lava, and she wanted her yard to feel the same,” said Whitney.
“Underground Japanese lava. It’s fantastic!” chirped Liza.
Liza’s obsequiousness irked Annette. But when Whitney looked at her pointedly, Annette said, “Wow.”
Whitney smiled, placated. She stood by an outdoor kitchen with appliances almost as nice as the ones in Annette’s own restaurant-grade kitchen. “Et voilà!” said Whitney, flipping a switch. Pool lights glowed, and three neon signs somehow affixed to the hedges ignited, readingAUSTIN, 78704,andLOVE. Annette sank into a balloon chair. It embraced her—it did! She must have looked unsettled, because Whitney noted, “It’s memory foam. They all are.”
“Wow,” Annette repeated.
“And if I hit…this…” said Whitney, touching a keypad, “the entrance to the underworld opens…” The women swiveled as the pool fireplace moved aside to reveal a staircase.
“I feel like I’m in a Nancy Drew book,” breathed Liza.
“Where does the staircase go?” said Annette.
“Sixties-style bunker,” said Whitney. “To be honest, they didn’t go ‘top of the line’ on the underground space. It’d be fine for a few weeks…nice living room, fake garden, windows showing Paris, plenty of canned goods, but they skimped on features…no library, no playscape, if you neededanythingmedical you’d have to resurface.”
“Windows showing Paris?” said Annette.
