Two Truths and a Lie(93)

“Who’s next?” asked Sherri. The men shifted. The beefy husband’s head emerged from the deep end and he let out an exhilarative whoop. “This water rocks, man,” he said. “It’s like eighty degrees in here. You guys need to try it.”

“Who’s next?” Sherri cried, more sharply, and they all turned to look at her. That’s more like it, she thought.





75.





The Squad


And just like that, Sherri was gone. We thought we saw her gold back disappearing into the crowd, toward the pool. The sun was beginning to set, and the sky had taken on that lavender late-summer hue that seems particular to New England. It was that in-between light where your eyes can play tricks on you. The deep end of the pool was difficult to make out.

Most of us thought Rebecca’s mystery guest was very good-looking, sort of George Clooney-esque. He had kind eyes. It was always the kind ones who got cheated on, wasn’t it? According to what Gina said later, Veronica the Cheater had always been difficult anyway. We thought Gina was close with Veronica. But that was Gina for you: one thing to your face, another behind your back.

It must have been a little while after we all met the mystery man that the argument between Melanie and her husband heated up at the far end of the lawn. There was shouting. Names were called. Somebody said a drink was thrown in a face, but that was never 100 percent verified.

We didn’t know what had brought the argument on. Later there was talk that the argument had something to do with the summer nanny, who was from Argentina and had an accent that could make even the word hemorrhoids sound sexy, not that we’d ever heard her say that.

The cocktails were quite strong, and we’d seen Melanie’s husband help himself to seconds and maybe even thirds within the first half hour. So anything could have happened. Aperol, we learned that night, is no joke on its own, but especially when mixed with tequila.

We were all standing around the bar, still somewhat in shock, partly in awe, over what had just transpired with Sherri, when Melanie crossed the lawn and joined our group. “I need to get out of here,” said Melanie in a quavering voice. “But my car’s blocked in.” She had definitely been crying.

“Oh, sweetie,” we said. “We’re so sorry—tell us what happened.” But we were phoning it in. We were still thinking about Sherri. (Melanie does this sort of thing a lot.)

“Take my car,” said Rebecca. Rebecca always had more patience with Melanie’s drama than the rest of us did. “You know which one it is, Melanie. White Acura. Keys are in the console. If you’re okay to drive.”

“I only had three sips of my drink!” cried Melanie. “I’m okay to drive, I promise.” She swiped at her eyes and muttered, “I cannot believe this.”

Melanie ran out to the driveway.

No, she didn’t run. She was in strappy sandals with heels. She walked quickly.

The DJ ramped up the music. The bartender shook more cocktails. Then came the first cannonball. One of the husbands, obviously. We’d all worked too hard on our hair, or paid someone else to work hard, to ruin it at the beginning of the party. We couldn’t see which husband from where we were standing. It was a fairly big splash, so most likely Dawn’s or Jessica’s. (They had played football together at UNH long ago; Dawn’s husband had been a linebacker.)

You know what they say: the party doesn’t start until somebody jumps into the pool.





76.





Alexa


The frenzied end-of-summer feeling had invaded Haley’s too, and the place was buzzing like a beehive. Alexa and the girls had to wait in line. Alexa left Katie and Morgan perusing the menu and turned to scan the crowd, looking for unfamiliar men, scary men. When she turned back, Morgan and Katie were digging in their pockets for quarters for the gumball machine. Alexa gave them all the quarters she could muster from her wallet and told them to stay in line for a minute while she took a stroll by the booths to keep an eye on the comings and goings in the parking lot. Haley’s was decorated like a 1950s diner with a floor made of black-and-white checkerboard tiles and retro chairs and booths. The booths were all full of regular, non-scary combinations of parents and kids or clots of preteens and younger teens.

She paid for the girls’ ice cream, forgetting to order something for herself, and wondered if they’d be safer in here, where the lights were bright and unforgiving, or outside at the picnic tables, where the light was fading but the mosquitos were unforgiving. Outside, she decided, and she stationed them at a table while she continued to patrol the parking lot. There was a lot of traffic going by on Route 1 and any minute a black SUV could pull in.

In fact, here was one now. Her pulse picked up.

Oh, never mind, it wasn’t a scary man; it wasn’t a member of a lesser-known crime family. It was someone her own age. It was Caitlin.

“Hey, Alexa,” Caitlin said, hopping out of the SUV.

“Hey,” said Alexa. Caitlin was coming toward her, blocking her view of the parking lot, so she moved to peer around her.

“I’m glad I ran into you, actually,” said Caitlin.

“You are?” Alexa couldn’t help it, her heart took a little optimistic, nostalgic skip. The light was seriously going now, and it occurred to Alexa that any old person could come off the rail trail and through the small section of parking lot, toward the picnic tables, before being discovered. You didn’t have to arrive by car to Haley’s; you could come by bike or on foot. You could even come by train and walk over from the station. Now that she’d realized that, she wasn’t sure which way to face. Behind her, Morgan and Katie were giggling about something or other. A mosquito landed on Alexa’s arm and she slapped at it.