“Yes, ma’am!” Erin beams.

We order chardonnay, the brand they have on special for happy hour, and Erin launches into a ragged monologue.

“I SO needed this! Mattie was a complete tyrant today,” she says, tucking a lock of cowlicked hair behind an ear. Mattie—short for Matilda—is Erin’s five-year-old daughter, and she’s a spitfire, an adorable brunette with ringlets of hair framing her face. I love her.

“She started in on me this morning with wanting to wear a miniskirt—and you know that’s not gonna happen—and she was so keyed up by the time we hit school that I wanted to stab my eye out with a butter knife!”

Erin serves on the board for a bunch of civic stuff—the children’s museum, the local library—and her husband, a teddy-bear type, works from home building websites. Erin’s able to stay at home, too, doing volunteer work and raising Mattie.

The waiter stops by and refreshes our glasses. Erin is becoming more animated with each glass of wine and drones on and on. I nod in the correct places, but find myself unable to listen. I keep eyeing the street for Margot, slyly checking my Facebook feed on my phone.

Before I know it, though, more than an hour has passed and the night sky is turning to ink all around us. There’s no sign of Margot and I’m more disappointed than I should be.

One

Week

Later

2

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

I’M IN THE car with Graham. He’s driving us over to the party at the Banks estate. His hand rests on my bare knee; he looks handsome in his simple gray sports jacket and crisp white tee.

After tearing through my closet this morning, discarding old dresses and skirts to a heap on the floor, I finally settled on a spring-green eyelet dress with cream-colored espadrilles. I looked fairly casual, so I threw on a pair of ruby drop earrings with a matching necklace for safe measure.

I feel exhilarated, like the old days, like we’re on our way to a gallery opening in Chicago. I place my hand on top of Graham’s and squeeze it.

The Banks estate is in Castle Hill, the oldest section of Mapleton. The streets are dotted with 1920s mansions, all left over from the oil boom. And Margot’s in-laws’ is by and far the largest, and as we slip through the black iron gates, a long, winding drive leads us down a grassy slope toward a massive, two-story colonial that sprawls like a plantation home.

Ancient, twisted oaks shelter the plush green lawn, and white lights twinkle from their branches. Our wheels chomp the gravel lane until we arrive at the paved, circular drive that rims the entrance to the house.

A tall valet in a white tux opens my door.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” he says and guides me from the car to the lawn. The sultry night air bathes my skin like a balm after the chill of the car’s AC, and I can almost feel my hair frizz. Graham circles the car, takes my arm, and leads me around to the back of the house, where the party is already well under way.

The backyard is even vaster, and like the front, it’s studded with giant oaks, glittering with lights. A hundred or so people are gathered in gossipy clumps—mostly older ladies in all their finery—and for a second, I feel a bit self-conscious in my modest dress. But then I spot Erin holding court at the open bar. She’s wearing a white skirt with a plain, blue knit top and chatting with her husband, Ryan, and a group of guys who are all in khakis and short-sleeved button-ups.

A string quartet is parked on the back steps of the mansion, the cellist sawing away sonorously. Dozens of waitstaff in white tuxes hover over the crowd, brandishing silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. One of the tux-clad men, tall and broad-chested, is parked under a magnolia tree in the corner of the patio and shucking oysters.

“You guys made it!” Erin says, her voice already slurry with drink. She’s clutching a pewter mug stuffed with mint leaves and ice. She shakes it in front of her like a Yahtzee cup. “Gimme a refill, Ryan. And a few for our friends!”

Ryan waves at us and then turns toward the bar.

“Total freak show. Am I right?” Erin cackles, swinging her mug at the garishly made-up older women. Her breath smells of bourbon and mint. “But the food. Damn good!”

I decide I like her tipsy; she’s funnier this way.

“Care for a lobster roll?” a waiter asks, and I pluck two from the tray and pop one in my mouth, passing the other one to Graham. We skipped a proper dinner, splitting, instead, a hastily made sandwich in the breakfast nook while Jack wove between our legs as we chatted with the babysitter, giving her instructions. My stomach rumbles but then Ryan passes me a mint julep, drops of condensation beading the mug.

I sip. The sugary, minty flavor coats my mouth and is so sweet the bourbon doesn’t even burn as it slides down my throat. I drain the mug greedily and order another.

“Graham, if you see the crab cake tray floating by, swipe ’em all!” Erin says. “They’re insane.”

Graham raises his mug to Erin’s, clinks it with a toast. “To insane crab cakes!”

“Hear, hear!” Ryan chimes in, and we all toast together.

As if on command, a waiter appears brandishing a wide tray covered in said crab cakes. Graham lifts several, passing them around. I stuff one in my mouth (they are insane) and nab another from Graham, hoping the food will sop up some of the alcohol that’s already fuming through my bloodstream.

The sun is fading behind the treetops, smearing the sky with peach and orange streaks, and as the night darkens, the party becomes both more intimate and animated.

The string quartet has stopped playing and Katy Perry’s voice sings blandly from the speakers at the DJ booth. A chorus of crickets has begun to trill, and everyone’s chattering reaches such a loud pitch that you have to practically yell to be heard.

I peer across the crowd, trying to spy Margot, but I can’t find her.

“Where’s the ladies’ room?” I shout to Erin.

“It’s over by the bathhouse. A friggin’ bathhouse!” She cackles and motions to a low-slung structure by the pool, which is the size of a small pond.

Before I turn to go, Graham palms me a flute of champagne, the bubbles fizzing from the glass, pinging the top of my hand. I weave through the crowd, feeling light-headed and buzzed, my legs unsure in my tall wedges.

The pool is a slate-blue oasis flanked by gray flagstone pavers. I circle it and steer myself toward the bathhouse, which has a line of overly perfumed ladies spilling from its mouth. I take my place in the queue and nurse my glass while the line creeps forward. I’m just about to enter the well-lit room when I hear a throaty laugh from around the corner.

I step out of line and snake around the building.

There’s Margot, leaning against the shiplap wall, a glass of champagne dangling from her hand. My heart flutters in my chest. She’s in a taupe chiffon dress, short and sheer, and her legs glisten in the glow of the bathhouse lights. I inch forward but there are three women circling her, whom I recognize from Facebook.

I shift on my feet, vying to be noticed, but the women seem to sway, too, forming an impenetrable wall around her. My palms are glazed with sweat and I feel foolish standing outside their circle, so I twist around to leave, when I hear Margot.

“Don’t mind us, I’m just hiding from Mother,” she purrs.

The other three pivot around and give me the once-over, their eyes veering from my shoes up to my throat. I guess they approve because they unlatch their ring and stand aside. A busty, attractive brunette flashes me a wide smile. Next to her: a broad-shouldered pillar of a woman in a simple black dress. Callie Jenkins. Margot’s best friend, according to Facebook. Shoulder-length ash-blond hair molded in a sorority cut and eyes unsmiling as she takes me in.

The third is a diminutive-looking woman in a strappy white dress, arms crossed over her stomach, clutching a simple black handbag. She’s pretty, in an understated sort of way, with jet-black hair and stark blue eyes framed in a sleek pair of cat-eye glasses. Prim but with an undertow of sexuality, like a librarian from a porn film.

“Need a refill?” Margot fishes a bottle from an ice bucket at her feet.

“Absolutely,” I say, though my head swims. She fills my glass.

“I’m Tina!” the friendly brunette offers, shaking my hand vigorously.

“Sophie. Sophie O’Neill,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Jill. Jill Simmons.” The small-framed, black-haired one steps forward, planting her delicate hand in mine.

Callie just stands there, parked in place like a suburban until Margot elbows her and whispers, “Manners.”

“Callie,” she says, extending a buff arm toward me, palm sweaty, limp handshake.