“Gym.” He gestures to his athletic shorts and sweat-damp shirt. “Can we go back to the dinner party?”
“Marcus is cooking. Nora, Autumn, Shep, and Tippy are coming.”
“That’s hilarious,” he says, not believing me.
“I’m serious.”
Beau cocks his head, then steps closer and presses the back of his hand to my forehead, like he’s checking for fever-induced delirium.
I swat at his hand. “Stop it. There’s no time for jokes. There’s nothing wrong with me. Get dressed.”
“Okay then.” He smirks. “Let’s have a dinner party.” As he’s passing me toward his side of the closet, he kisses my shoulder. “You all right?” He frowns, reading me too well.
Never better. Only juggling Gemma’s murder, a bloody pocket square, a jar of golf tees, and a dinner party designed to squeeze our neighbors for intel.
By the time everyone is assembled, I’ve completely lost control of my own house. Tippy is sprawled across my sectional, Shep’s nursing a Manhattan like it’s the cure for boredom, Autumn is monologuing about the fading craft of hand-lettered wedding invitations, and Marcus is pretending not to notice Tippy pawing at his bicep. Beau’s expression says it all.
The apocalypse has arrived, and it’s a catered meal.
Nora and I are sitting in the corner, taking it in.
“Well, Este. You did it,” she says as her wide-eyed gaze sweeps the room. “You managed to assemble the strangest dinner party in history.”
When I was a kid, my mother liked to quote Eleanor Roosevelt: “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; and small minds discuss people.” As we all gather around my dining room table, I know we won’t be debating Descartes or the duality of mind and body. But that’s the point. I’m hoping we’ll land in the realm of something gossipy. Petty. A hint of scandal. Anything to make sense of what happened to Gemma.
Instead, the lamb disappears, and the wine goes down fast. And what fills the air is Shep’s golf handicap, Autumn’s citrus-based cleaning routine, and a monologue from Tippy about travertine tile for a pool renovation. Nora is no help—although, I can’t expect her to be. I haven’t told herwhyI need people to start talking about Gemma.
If this is purgatory, the wine is my only reprieve.
Tippy and Shep both talk more than they listen, and they seem to be partial to rich people’s favorite pastime—one-upmanship. But I keep pouring. Every time a glass nears empty, I refill it. Then Autumn starts talking about the next wedding she’s planning.
“The bride and groom are in some kind of stalemate until their lawyers draw up the prenup,” she says. “We went to the florist last week, and I thought I was on an episode ofSuits.”
This makes Shep laugh. Actually laugh—one sharp, almost surprised bark of amusement.
Everyone at the table starts, but Tippy doesn’t look up from her wineglass. She just mutters, “Nine more days,” into the rim of her drink as she takes a gulp.
I tilt my head in her direction, wondering if she’s going to say anything else, but that’s when Marcus hops up to start to clear the table. Nora and Beau are quick to join in.
Shep takes this as his opening, standing up and brandishing a handful of Cubans from his jacket pocket. “I’ll be outside if anyone wants to join.”
Oblivious to my misery, Beau and Marcus walk out to the kitchen with hands full of dishes as Shep shows himself out to the pool deck to smoke a cigar. Tippy excuses herself, asking where my bathroom is, leaving Autumn and me at the table.
“I’m sorry. I should have known better than to talk about prenups in front of Tippy. I keep hoping she’ll let go of that countdown of hers.” Autumn’s still staring at the empty table.
I raise an eyebrow. “Countdown to what?”
Autumn sighs. “Their ten-year anniversary. It’s some kind of milestone in their prenup. If they make it, Shep gets ten million dollars—a million for every year.”
I blink. “So she wants out, and he won’t give her the satisfaction?”
“Pretty much,” Autumn says. “She’s hoping he cheats. But he’s been biding his time, on his best behavior for years, hoping she snaps. It’s a real romance for the ages.”
This is why I’ve stayed out of the gossip mill until now. These people are insane.
She turns toward the men on the porch and then back to me. “Thanks again for having me. Gemma always talked about you with such awe. Sounds like your friendship went way back.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and I have to remind myself Autumn doesn’t know anything about the secrets I’ve left in California.
