Lovely Girls(9)

“Kate, I’m so glad you could make it,” she said. “Come in and meet everyone.”

I followed her into the house, taking in the soaring ceiling and winding staircase. There was a circular table in the foyer with a large arrangement of flowers in a crystal vase. As Genevieve led me through the house, the click of her high-heeled sandals echoed against polished marble floors. I followed her to a living room located just off the kitchen, which had a pair of low-slung white leather couches and bottle-green velvet armchairs surrounding a low rectangular coffee table. There were two women sitting there. One was so tiny, she was practically elfin, with nearly translucent pale skin and short blonde hair. The other had a friendly, open face and long, shiny dark curls that cascaded down her back. They both looked up and smiled when we entered.

“Girls, this is Kate. I’ve talked her into joining the homecoming committee.” Genevieve raised one finger. “Don’t say anything that will scare her off. We need all the help we can get.”

“Hi, Kate. I’m Ingrid.” The waiflike blonde rose and held out a thin hand that felt cold in mine when I shook it. “And this is Emma.”

“Hey.” Emma remained seated on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her. “It’s great to meet you.”

“You too,” I said. “It was nice of Genevieve to invite me.”

“Don’t be so quick to call her nice,” Ingrid said, sitting back down. “Just wait until we’re up at two in the morning, covered in glitter and glue from making signs. Genevieve is very big on glitter. It’s a sickness, really.”

“That’s one of my life rules. You can never have too much glitter,” Genevieve said. “Would anyone like a glass of prosecco?”

“Me,” Emma said, raising her hand.

“It’s eleven in the morning,” Ingrid said.

Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a prude. Kate?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had alcohol so early in the day, but some part of me—perhaps my own inner seventeen-year-old—wanted to fit in. “Sure, why not?”

Genevieve headed into her kitchen and pulled a bottle of prosecco out of a massive stainless steel refrigerator. She unwrapped the foil from the top and used a pristine white kitchen towel to expertly pop the cork out of the bottle. She poured the sparkling wine into four champagne flutes, dropped a raspberry into each one, and then brought a glass to each of us, including Ingrid. Emma stood to accept hers. She was taller than I’d expected and had a statuesque figure.

“Let’s make a toast,” Genevieve suggested. “To glitter. And to making a new friend.”

We clinked our glasses together, and I felt shyly pleased to have been included in the toast.

“How do you all know each other?” I asked.

“Lamaze class,” they all said in unison and then laughed.

“That was years ago,” Ingrid said. “Our girls are all seventeen now.”

“Wow, you’ve known each other a long time,” I commented. I felt another pang of loneliness. Why hadn’t I made lifelong friends at my Lamaze class? Or even managed to keep in touch with my college roommate? But I knew why. I’d been unhappy for so long, it had been easier to lose myself in my work, in Alex, in the minutiae of life.

“We initially bonded over our mutual hatred of the Lamaze instructor,” Genevieve explained. “What was her name again?”

“Harmony,” Ingrid said.

“Oh, right. How could I forget that? She was so awful.”

“‘Embrace the pain. The pain is beautiful,’” Ingrid and Emma chorused together.

I laughed. “She didn’t really say that, did she?”

“Yes, she did. She was one of those new age weirdos. You know the type. The kind who doesn’t shave her armpits or believe in deodorant.” Genevieve perched on the edge of one of the green velvet chairs and crossed one tanned leg over the other. “Needless to say, we all opted for drugs, so we were the class failures.”

“And I had a C-section, so I was the biggest failure of all,” Emma added.

“Our daughters were born within a few months of one another, and they’ve basically been best friends since they were babies,” Genevieve said.

“Shae is mine, Daphne is Genevieve’s, and Callie belongs to Ingrid,” Emma explained.

“Callie would die if she heard you say that.” Ingrid snorted. “Callie has been her own person since she was two and had strong feelings on what she would and would not wear to day care. I’ve never had any control over her.”

“They all have . . . how should I put it? Strong personalities. Well, you met them the other night,” Genevieve said to me. “Daphne, Shae, and Callie were manning the girls’ tennis team table.”

I hadn’t exactly met them. The girls had barely spoken to Alex and me. But that wasn’t unusual for teenagers, I reminded myself.

“Right,” I said. “My daughter is trying out for the tennis team next week.”

“It’s super competitive.” Genevieve’s tone sounded like a warning. “We have one of the top teams in the state. Daphne is nationally ranked in the eighteen-and-under category.”

I thought I caught a look passing between Ingrid and Emma, but I couldn’t quite read what it was about.