“And I’m Margot, by the way,” Margot says, her smoky eyes level with mine, her voice velvet-smooth. I search them for a hint of recognition, wondering if she recognizes me from Facebook, but she acts as though she’s never laid eyes on me before. “This is my husband’s parents’ place. And this is our hideout,” she snickers.

They all look at me expectantly, so I rush in to fill the void.

“I just moved here,” I say, my voice creaking out of me, shaky and small.

“Me, too!” Tina says.

“You did not,” Margot snorts.

“Well, I guess it has been two years already,” Tina says, her voice slinky. “But I’m from Fort Worth. I’m not native like the rest of these girls.”

I glance around and notice they all seem as tipsy as I am. I bring the glass to my lips and sip. The champagne tickles my throat and scorches my still-empty stomach.

“So, where are you from?” Tina asks, diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.

“Chicago. Or just outside of Chicago.”

“What did you do up there?”

“I was the lifestyle editor at a magazine.” As I say this, I notice that Margot is now leaning toward me, paying closer attention.

“You know, I was in charge of celebrity profiles, arts coverage, that sort of thing,” I ramble on.

Margot locks her eyes onto mine. Her finger traces the rim of her wineglass.

“That’s so cool! But how’d you wind up here?” Margot asks, crinkling her nose.

They all chuckle. Margot grasps the neck of the champagne bottle, refills my glass.

“I lived here for two years in high school. Junior and senior year. And I kind of liked it. It’s nice here, no?” I ask, taking another huge mouthful. It’s both flattering and unnerving to be under the sudden glare of her attention.

Even though the sun has set, the night is still warm, panting and heaving around us. I smooth my hair over one shoulder, hoping to cool my neck.

“It’s okaaay,” Margot drawls, “but it’s no Chicago.”

Callie strokes the pearls on her necklace, her eyes steady on me, her other hand parked on her hip.

“I wanted to slow down, get away from it all. I’ve got a kiddo now, and my husband’s an architect, found good work here. We’ve been in Mapleton about seven months now.”

I swivel around and look for Graham. He’s leaning against the open bar, pinned in by Erin, who’s no doubt telling him one of her endless stories. But his eyes are intent and warm, his head tilted to one side, listening. His hair is still pomade-perfect, and his smile is a shock of white, even from here.

“Is that him?” Margot asks, motioning toward Graham.

I nod.

“He’s so good-lookin’,” she says, hip cocked, still staring at him.

My stomach drops. The thought that she thinks Graham is hot thrills me for some reason.

My eyes graze along the hem of her dress. Her thighs are flawless; I imagine the hours she must spend each day doing lunges.

From inside her purse, Jill’s phone chimes loudly. She unzips it, spilling the contents on the grass.

“God, you’re already drunk!” Margot howls.

“S’okay,” Jill says, bent over and scrambling on the lawn. “I can stagger home from here.”

She rises with her phone in hand. Turns to me. “I live two blocks that way.” She waves her phone in the direction of the dark woods behind us. She swipes the screen of her phone.

“Well, who wants you now?” Margot teases.

Jill studies the screen, brows furrowed. “It’s Alex. He wants to know if we can have a dinner date Friday night. Ugh! He knows Fridays are for you guys.” Her shoulders slump as she types into her phone.

“I want to do something different this week,” Margot says.

“I’m game,” Tina says, her heart-shaped mouth curling into a devilish grin.

Callie shifts toward Margot, yanks on her shoulder, mouths something in her ear.

“It’s fine,” Margot hisses to Callie, shrugging her off. She turns toward the group. “I actually think we should invite her.”

Jill looks up from her phone, exhales, blowing her bangs skyward. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but they’re all studying my face.

“Don’t you think we can tell her?” Margot asks Tina.

Tina shrugs, her radiant smile dancing all the way to her eyes. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like she knows anyone in town.”

Callie narrows her eyes at me but Margot slides in between us. She leans in and lowers her voice. “We’re in a secret club. A shooting club.” Her breath feels electric against my neck.

“Every Friday night, without fail, we go out to my lake house and shoot skeet, sometimes target practice. Blow off some steam.”

My neck smolders; my mouth goes dry.

“Care to join us?”

I nod robotically, willing to do anything she asks.

“See ya Friday, then,” she says and pivots away from me. “Gotta go make an appearance,” she says over her shoulder, and heads for the crowd, the other three trailing her.

* * *

AS WE WAIT for the valet under a twinkling oak tree, its branches as chubby as a newborn’s legs, Graham fishes out his wallet and fumbles with bills for a tip. Erin breaks away from Ryan and walks over to us, pulls me to the side.

“I noticed you were talking to Margot and her friends for a while tonight,” she says, without a trace of jealousy in her voice. The silhouette of the oak tree is black against the bruised-purple night sky. “I was surprised,” she says. Her buzz from earlier seems to have lifted, and her face is now edged with concern. “And I just need to tell you”—she leans in closer as if she doesn’t want anyone to overhear—“be careful. Margot Banks is not a nice person.”

One

Week

Earlier

3

Present

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

LEMON-YELLOW LIGHT SPILLS through the blinds. Too much of it; I’ve overslept. I check the clock—it’s seven forty-five. I sit up in bed, my tongue thick and dry from all I drank with Erin last night at the wine bar, and a dull ache circles my head like a halo.

I peel myself out of bed and drift down the hall. Graham and Jack are in the sun-drenched kitchen, Jack at the breakfast table mopping up grape jam with his toast, and Graham leaning over the cutting board, slicing an apple for Jack’s lunch. His hair is still slick from the shower, and a damp lock hangs over his forehead, making him look boyishly handsome.

My heart melts at the sight of them.

“Morning, sunshine!” he says, flashing me a teasing smile.

He was already asleep last night when I slipped into bed and curled up next to him, snuggling into his warmth.

He’s just made me a fresh latte and slides it across the counter toward me. My god, I love this man. I often wonder how I managed to land someone so solid, so endlessly good-natured. I grab his face and give him a quick kiss. Jack toddles over and wraps his sticky arms around my legs, and I bend down, tickling him until he squeals.

“I’ll take him on my way in,” Graham says.

“You sure?”

“Yep. We’re already running a bit late. And your hair’s definitely not church-ready.” He grins and gives me a wink, scoops Jack up, and they head out the back door, their matching blond locks bouncing in time together.

I sip my latte, but what I really need is water, so I drag a tumbler down from the cabinet and fill it from the tap. That’s one of the nice things about living here—the town’s water is crisp and clean—and I drain it completely before heading out for my morning jog.

* * *

—

IT’S WARMER HERE today; the sky is cloudless and sunny, so I slip off my hoodie and knot it around my waist. I head down our steep drive and walk toward the trail. The neighbor’s fence is choking with honeysuckle vines, and today their blossoms are wide open and so fragrant that the air itself tastes like candy.

A few houses up I see the elderly lady who’s always outside, tending to her flower beds. She must be ninety but there she is, stooped over a freshly tilled patch of dirt, planting a row of pink tulips. She raises a small, red-gloved hand at me and I wave back.

The neighborhood is old and established with 1960s ranch-style homes on sprawling lots. Grandma homes, I like to think of them.

Of course, when we bought ours (509 Sycamore Drive), Graham and I wanted to remodel it, so out came the aluminum windows, and in their place, we installed crank-out windows, the kind we saw in the South of France on our honeymoon.

We shaved off the popcorn ceiling, ripped up the pea-green carpet, and installed planks of gleaming oak. We painted the outside bricks slate gray (they were orange and tan originally) and trimmed the house in turquoise and black.

But I love these older homes, preserved in time, and also the quiet ticktock of the street, the way you can hear the birds singing. Or the tinkling of a watering can. Sounds that are all but lost in suburban Chicago.

It was one of the reasons we moved here. To slow down. To get away from it all. And on mornings like these, I think that it might actually work out here for us.

I remember the hot and languid day last summer when I finally snapped and decided we had to move from Evanston.