WHEN I PULL up, Margot’s on the wraparound porch on the side of the house watering pots of tropical-looking plants. She waves and I walk over. She’s wearing a straw sun visor and a stark white cover-up that’s open in the front, revealing a red string bikini.

I’m grateful my eyes are shielded by oversize sunglasses so she can’t see them roving over her chiseled stomach, her coppery legs, her pert breasts.

“See,” she says, sprinkling the leaves of a hibiscus with water. “I’m not completely useless.”

She twists the faucet off and bends over to grab a fabric cooler.

“Let’s head down.”

We walk down the grassy hill toward the pier, which extends over the water to a dock and boathouse. The sun is overhead now and I’m wishing I had thought to bring a beach hat.

I follow her to the edge of the pier and we step onto the floating dock. It’s covered in a short layer of Astroturf, and Margot kicks off her flip-flops, so I do the same. It somehow feels plush underfoot like velvet, and there’s a large wicker basket next to the pair of gray chaise longues filled with white beach towels, rolled to perfection. I feel silly with my faded, multicolored towel; I leave it tucked next to my beach bag as Margot lifts two towels from the basket and snaps them over our chairs.

She sheds her cover-up and we sink into the recliners. Unzipping the cooler, she slides out a bottle of sauvignon blanc and fills our glasses. We toast.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she says as I shrug off my cover-up.

She eyes me. “That’s super cute,” she says of my green bikini. I’m self-conscious of my blinding white skin, still jiggly in places from pregnancy and approaching forty.

“Thanks,” I manage.

She takes a long sip, leans back in her chaise longue. The lake is still and a lazy breeze bats at us, lulling me into a relaxed state.

“I’m usually out here on Wednesdays. But I don’t normally invite the others. I get sick of them sometimes, honestly,” she says, her voice hoarse and cracked. “Sometimes,” she says, “I just wanna float away from it all.”

A pontoon boat cruises past, sending waves that gently rock the dock from side to side. “I know what you mean,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I also wonder if this is her first nip of the day.

She sits up, pulls a bottle of suntan oil from her bag, and begins massaging it into her legs. Her skin is molten, not a freckle or wrinkle, and now she smells sweetly of coconut as she glistens with oil.

“Mind doing my back?” she asks.

I stand and lean over her as she rolls on her stomach and tucks her hair into her visor. Her bikini bottom is a thong; my breath stutters as I drizzle oil into my palm and work it into her shoulder blades. I wipe the remainder on the backs of my arms and then fish out my SPF-15 sunblock so I don’t get seared.

She twists around and lies on her back again. Refreshes our glasses and traces the rim of her wineglass. “So, tell me about Graham.”

I nearly choke on my wine. I’m not sure how to respond.

“He’s, I dunno, nice.”

“Mmmmm . . . seems to be,” she says. “Been married long?”

I know I’m just on my second glass, but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, a slice of toast with butter, and that’s long since vanished. The wine makes my head swim.

“Five years. I got pregnant during our second year of marriage,” I say. “And you?” I ask, wanting to turn the conversation back to her.

“Fifteen long years. Two kids. Nina, my daughter, is eight. Harrison, my eldest, is ten. I would jump in front of a bus for them,” she adds, slowly sipping her wine, “but marriage can be . . . tricky.”

“Amen,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. Mine hasn’t been. “What’s your husband do?”

“Financial adviser. Boring stuff. Except it’s not that boring lately. He’s been super stressed out by work—I’ve never seen him under so much pressure. It’s annoying.” She sighs and stretches out a tanned leg.

“We knew each other growing up, hooked up in college. We were combustible then. Still are, I guess.” She rolls over on one elbow to face me. Her breasts squeeze together, and the outer ring of a dark pink nipple peeks out of her suit. My stomach flutters, and for the second time today, I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses. I know I’m fuzzy from the alcohol but there seems to be a charge building between us.

I down more wine and blink away the sunspots clouding my eyes, when my reverie is pierced by the sounds of voices, male and loud, floating from down the hill.

We both sit up and turn to look.

Margot springs to her feet like a cat.

I shield my eyes and recognize the taller one as Brad, Jill’s son. He’s wearing a pair of black swimming trunks with a white T-shirt pulled tautly across his chest. He’s with a friend, a shorter, sunny-faced boy with hair the color of cantaloupe.

“Hey, boys,” Margot says brightly as they amble down the pier. I can’t tell by her tone whether she was expecting them or not.

Brad leans into her, and she gives him a quick peck on both cheeks.

“This is Jill’s son, Brad,” Margot says, turning to me.

“I know,” I say. “We’ve met.”

She looks at me askance but then Brad explains.

“Mom and I were at Gerald’s this week and we bumped into her. Good to see you again, Sophie,” he says, his full lips spreading into a smile. I’m shocked he remembers my name.

“Heeey, Jamie,” Margot drawls, slinging an arm around the other boy’s shoulder.

He steps toward me, offers a hand. “Jamie. Jamie Smith.” His burnished-copper hair is molded with product, and his eyes are a stunning, sea-glass green. Even though he’s shorter than Brad, he’s a good foot taller than me, and I gaze up at him and grin.

“Sophie,” I say, shaking his hand.

Margot fills the glasses with more wine and passes them to the boys. They drink in eager gulps, then peel off their T-shirts. Jamie is lean yet ripped with small muscles, while Brad is all rock.

“I don’t know about y’all, but I’m going for a swim.” Brad dives into the lake and swims underwater for a few strokes before breaking the surface. “Oooh-heee!” he shouts. “Water’s still cold.”

“C’mon, Miss Banks!” he says, panting and treading the water. “I dare ya!”

Margot lowers herself down on the ladder, her face wincing, likely at the chill of the water.

“Race you to the cove?” Brad says, and they swim away from us, around the tree-lined bend where a long stand of cypress trees obscures the view.

* * *

—

I’M LEFT STANDING on the dock with Jamie. He drains the rest of the wine into the glasses and we sit on the edge of the dock, our toes dipping into the icy water.

“Shouldn’t you be in school or something?” I ask, already slipping into some kind of flirty voice.

He grins and scratches the back of his neck. “We’re playing hooky. I was Brad’s ride to the doctor—he sprained an ankle but it’s all healed up—and he wanted to come out here.”

I nod. I see him studying my legs, feel his eyes tracing over me.

“Not sure Abby would be too happy about it, though,” he says, dragging a foot through the water in a circle.

“Abby?” I ask.

“Brad’s girlfriend. Prettiest girl in school. Sweetest, too,” he says, shaking his head.

I’m no longer tipsy, I realize; I’m plain drunk. I plant my hands next to my hips and heave myself up, walk over to my bag, and reach for my cell to check the time. It’s one o’clock already. I need to leave soon. Fishing a bottle of water from my bag, I take a few slugs to try and sober up, and when I’m finished, Jamie is standing right behind me.

“You’re getting all burned, you know?” he says. His voice is rich and deep.

I can tell; my skin is fever-hot, especially in the places I couldn’t reach with the sunblock.

“Your shoulders,” he says.

I pass him the sunblock, lift my hair off my neck. His hands are warm, his touch firm. He continues massaging long after the lotion is set in, his breath hot and rapid on my neck. My pulse is racing and the wine is making me swoon.

I feel him tug on the tie to my bikini top. To my surprise, I let it fall. He grabs my shoulders, spins me around.

“My god,” he says breathlessly. His bright green eyes roam all over me, and warmth spreads across my stomach as he steps closer, brushing his chest against mine.

He leans in to kiss me. A restrained, teasing kiss. My lips part but then I hear Margot’s raspy laughter bounce off the water. Far enough away that it sounds like an echo, but close enough for me to snap out of it, pull back, and tie my top.

I peer at the lake and see Margot’s face bobbing on top of the blue water as she swims toward us. She’s smiling and I have no idea how much she’s seen. Brad swims behind her, diving underwater and breaking the surface with loud gulps of air.

I stash my towel in my bag and turn to leave as they slither out of the lake.

“Gotta run get Jack, my son,” I say. My voice is shaky from adrenaline.