“Yep.” Glancing around the Sunset Lounge for my guest, I explained. “Well, more accurately, I tossed all of his shit into the pool.”

A woman admonished me with a Waspy how-dare-you look, while her husband turned up his hearing aid. I took a seat at the bar in the lounge and waited.

“You didn’t!” Daisy cried, still breathing hard but with a definite tone of excitement in her voice. “In the pool?”

“Oh, I did, and it was glorious.”

“Okay, but what the hell happened that made you leave him?” She paused a moment. “Wow, that’s weird to say.”

“What, that I left Daniel?” I found that once I said it, I wanted to repeat it. And often. I left Daniel. Good god damn, it had a nice ring to it. I sang it like Ethel Merman in my head. I rapped it like Eminem.

I knew eventually the rage would segue into sadness, but for right now, I was cruising on sheer anger. I wondered idly if others could get a contact high . . .

Speaking of high, my usual Bloody Mary appeared in a tall glass. And on the side, along with my celery, came an encouraging smile from the female bartender on the other side of a mile of polished mahogany. The first sign I’d seen since arriving at the club that someone, anyone, might be on my side in all this.

“Don’t back down,” she whispered, and lifted her chin toward the door.

Looking as though she had just stepped out of Fashion Week, there stood my soon-to-be ex-mother-in-law. Her chignon was low, her tits were high, and her smile was lethal. Oh, and she sparkled. Not from being a wonderful person who emitted positive energy, but because she was iced in so much jewelry. In fact, it looked like she was wearing all of her jewelry. At once.

Somewhere in the world, Mr. T sighed in envy.

“Bitsy is here. I’ll call you back,” I whispered.

“No, no! Don’t you dare! I’ve got to hear this! Put me on mute! I’ll listen in, very secret agent. Or teenagers. Or teenage secret agents! We could be—”

“Oh, would you hush,” I said, rolling my eyes but muting it nonetheless. Setting the phone on the bar, I turned to meet the firing squad.

“Avery,” she said, her sharp blue eyes narrowed at the bartender.

Sitting up straighter on the stool, I sipped my drink. “Can I get you something?”

She sniffed a bit, looking down her long patrician nose at the stool, but in the end decided to actually take a seat. Settling onto it with a graceful air, she turned to me and Botox grinned. She must have just had an appointment. Everything south of her hairline was stiff, smooth, and unmoving. The sun streamed in from behind me, lighting up her neck, ears, and fingers.

“Heading to the pawn shop?” I quipped, taking another sip. The bartender snorted loudly from her perch sliding wineglasses into the rack.

Another crippling “grin.” “You know, I never much cared for your equivoque.”

This. This right here. Equivoque. Who the hell used words like that? With that opening volley, however, I could tell it was one of those conversations. It reminded me of when we first met at Thanksgiving dinner my sophomore year at BU. I was so nervous. Crippled by anxiety because they were the Boston Remingtons and I was dating, and doing some decidedly dirty things with, their precious son. My family’s no slouch, don’t get me wrong, but it’s like comparing Mark Cuban with Bill Gates. There’s money and then there’s money.

“Yes, I’m sure Daniel was thinking of my equivoque as he was giving it to his secretary,” I answered back, just as haughtily.

“I always forget how funny you think you are, Avery. Daniel always was fond of your sense of humor,” she said, wrapping her jewel-encrusted hand around the glass of chardonnay that appeared. Her expression told me she was singularly unamused by my quick wit.

With a flick of the wrist, she dismissed the bartender, getting down to business.

Displeasure tried—to no avail of course—to furrow her brow. Her brow may never move again. But it was clear she was ready to say what she came here to say. “Things happen in a marriage. In all marriages. It surprises me that you would take this to heart. To throw in the towel so quickly over something like this.”

“Something like this? You mean catching him with the secretary isn’t towel worthy in your world?” I asked incredulously.

She took a sip of her chardonnay, looking around the room unconcernedly. We could have been discussing soufflé recipes for all the emotion she was showing. “It’s your world, too. Don’t forget that Remingtons don’t get divorced.”

“Bitsy, I’m not sure why you’ve come today, but I can assure you, if it has anything to do with taking Daniel back, I’m uninterested.”

“I’ve come to explain a few things.” She shifted in her seat, tilting her body away from the prying eyes that were gathering.

“Do you see this?” She pointed to her replica of the Heart of the Ocean around her neck. A ten-carat or more platinum, diamond, and Burmese sapphire necklace. “I received this from Daniel’s father.”

“Okay?”

“You see, I received it after I found out that my husband’s tennis instructor was working on more than his serve.”

Oh.

Tucking her blond hair behind her ear, she revealed at least a three-carat diamond earring. “These were after the au pair was released from duty. Incidentally, she was sent back to London, where these were purchased.” She tittered, pleased with herself.

Ticking off one ring at a time, she explained in her own way.