“We’ll have to toughen you up, sissy girl.”

The last dregs of sunlight leak through the pines, so everyone starts packing the four-wheelers. A speedboat whines across the lake, sending waves crashing against the shore. I climb on the back of Jill’s four-wheeler again, and even though we’ve been sweating for the past hour, her ribbon-smooth hair still smells cleanly of shampoo.

12

THE KITCHEN IS bright—all lustrous marble countertops and chalk-white cabinets with glass-front doors. Light ricochets off every surface as if everything had been freshly wiped down moments ago. Other than the sitting room at the entryway and the flock of bedrooms in the far wing, the lake house is basically one great room with a wall of windows running along the back overlooking the lake. A path of lights lines the pier to the boathouse, and the moon, nearly full, has floated above the water, smearing white light over the lake.

Callie, Jill, Tina, and I are gathered on a bank of sofas while Margot is in the kitchen shaking a martini shaker filled with vodka and ice. She lifts five chilled glasses from the freezer and drizzles the bottom of each with vermouth.

“Here, ladies! Filthy. Just like we like ’em.”

We toast and sip. The glasses are cloudy with olive juice, and tiny shards of ice float on the surface.

Margot then slides two trays out of the vast fridge and sets them on the bar. Cherry tomatoes speared with skewers and stacked against discs of mozzarella and fresh basil. The other tray has an assortment of meats—blackened chicken bits, pink curls of roast beef, smoked salmon—and cheeses with a spray of crackers.

We all descend on the food. I take a bite and a cherry tomato bursts in my mouth.

“This is delicious!” I say.

“Thanks, but I didn’t make it,” Margot says as she drags a cracker through a log of goat cheese. “Anita, my housekeeper, gets all the credit.”

“Anita does everything,” Jill says between tiny bites of salmon.

“It’s true, I’m guilty,” Margot says. “I haven’t touched a pot or pan in years. But she’s getting older now, so we have a cleaning service. So, she doesn’t do everything.”

“She raises your kids,” Jill says, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Does not!”

“I’m kidding!”

“Jilly’s just jealous because she doesn’t have an Anita.”

I’m puzzled because I’ve seen Jill’s house on Facebook—a gray stone mansion—and her husband is a heart surgeon. Surely, she can afford a housekeeper.

As if she can read my mind, Margot says, “She’s too much of a control freak. Has to clean everything her way. Constantly down on her knees scrubbing the floors and walls. I honestly think she gets off on it.”

A jangled laugh escapes from Callie. “I’m sorry, Jill, but it’s true.”

As I look at Callie now, her face flushed from the vodka, her blond streaks like frosting, she’s more attractive than when I first saw her. There’s something feral and rough about her that’s hidden beneath her blank, cow-brown eyes.

“Well, I don’t have a maid, either, but then again, I don’t have kids. It’s just me and Bill—what’s there to clean?” Tina says, her voice already wavy with drink, her pink lipstick stamped on her glass.

“I don’t have kids, either, but I damn sure have a maid,” Callie says.

“You have a staff, dear,” Margot says, giving her a sharp elbow.

The martinis are already drained when Margot says, “The wine! I forgot the wine! There’s a whole bottle down there. Rock, paper, scissors for who gets to fetch it?”

“I’ll go,” I say, surprising myself. My head is swimming from the alcohol and I could use a breather. Plus, I want to sober up before the drive home.

“The keys to the four-wheeler are in the ignition,” Margot says.

“I’ll just walk, thanks.”

“You sure? Well, take a flashlight at least,” Margot says and crosses the room, yanks open a drawer, and hands me a small Maglite.

* * *

—

I’M HEADING DOWN the lane. The moon is high now and casts a silvery glow over everything, so I stash the Maglite in my pocket and walk along the trail in the bath of the moonlight. Russet-colored leaves, still damp from the recent rain, line the ground like a wet rug, muting my footfalls. All around me, though, the forest is alive and buzzing—a tense chorus of cicadas trills and hisses and seems to multiply with each crescendo. In the retreat of their swell, bullfrogs croak, and it occurs to me that I’d have to shout to be heard.

I shiver at the thought and fish my cell from my back pocket. I text Graham as I walk:

Going to call it a night soon, I think. How’s J boy?

Perfect. Trying to get him down at the moment.

He texts me the kiss emoji and I text one back.

* * *

—

I’M AT THE clearing now and the lake is a white mirror with the moon perched above it. Water claps against the shore and a warm breeze skims over the lake, tousling my hair. I see the glint of the wine bottle in the center of the clearing and retrieve it. It’s warm now, and the bottle swings from my hand as I head back toward the path.

The walk and fresh air have helped to clear my head of booze, and I’m about halfway down the trail when I can just begin to make out the orange glow of the porch lights. I start to feel as though I’ve stepped into a Robert Frost poem, when I hear a gunshot, loud and clattering, off the lake. A flock of doves explodes from a nearby tree and I drop to the ground, flatten myself against the damp leaves as the bottle of wine tumbles from my hand and rolls away. My heart bangs in my ears and I lie there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

I’m slowly crouching on all fours, my breath ragged and shallow, when I hear a branch snap and footsteps approaching. Squinting in the dark, I see a figure striding toward me. It’s Margot, backlit from the lights of the house, with a shotgun propped on her shoulder.

“Whatever are you doing down there?” she asks, likely out of breath from the walk. “Oh, no! I scared you!”

I get to my feet and dust off the knees of my jeans. My neck is burning with embarrassment for being afraid, but the adrenaline has wrung me out so thoroughly that I feel limp.

“I just fired a shot because after you left, I remembered there’ve been feral hogs out here lately, so I wanted to fire a warning shot, keep you safe.” Her breath is tinged with alcohol, and her perfume is even stronger now that she’s sweating.

“Of course!” I say, trying for cheery.

“Wouldn’t your husband kill me if you got speared by one?”

I try and laugh but it comes out strained.

“You’re shaking,” she says, putting an arm around me. “Awww, you really are a sissy girl.” She says it in that way of hers where I can’t tell if she’s flirting with me or teasing me, or both.

The moon has fallen behind the trees and we walk together in lockstep, my stomach buzzing with excitement from being this close to her.

13

AFTER THE DARKNESS of the trail, the inside of the lake house feels glaring. Margot sinks the wine into a silver ice bucket and twists the bottle around, chilling it. Callie fetches wineglasses from the cabinet, and fills each glass to the brim.

We toast and sip, but I only take the smallest of sips so I can safely drive home. Margot tosses back half her glass and sets it on the bar.

“So . . . who wants to go hunting?”

“Always,” Callie says, winding a lock of coarse hair around her finger.

“I’m in!” Tina trills, rocking back and forth on her feet, her coal-black eyes squinting in a smile.

“Where?” Jill asks, demure, her face half-hidden behind her huge wineglass.

“I was thinking Rusty’s,” Margot says.

Jill sets her glass down, crosses her arms.

“Oh, please, Jilly! It’s been forever. Don’t pout. I’ll behave, I promise.” Margot goes over to Jill, puts her arm around her. There’s a perceptible shift in Jill’s demeanor, a small succumbing to Margot’s power.

I have no idea what they’re talking about, but suddenly they’re all looking at me. I take another small sip of wine, swish it around in my mouth.

“Who wants to tell her the rules?” Margot asks, her hip cocked against Jill’s, her exquisitely shaped eyebrows hiked in a question mark.

“I will,” Callie says. This is the first time she’s addressed me directly, and there’s a trace of a sneer in her expression.

“Rules about what?” I ask, nervously giggling, clasping my wineglass.

“Oh, please.” Callie rolls her eyes. “Don’t act like you’re not bored in your marriage.”

“Maybe she’s not,” Margot says, her voice playful. “Her husband’s a hottie.”

The flush of alcohol and Margot’s hooded eyes on me make my face flame.

“I think everyone here is a little bored, except for Jill,” Callie says.

“Yeah, Jilly, what did Amazon bring you this week? Do tell.” Margot’s unwrapped herself from Jill and crosses over to the bar to refresh her wine. “I want to hear all about your latest toy.”