Every Last Secret(2)

“Have you been to Puerto Rico?” I asked, following my husband’s path as he moved through the entrance hall, his head bent toward the older man beside him. “For an island, the views suck. If I’m moving that far away, I need a beach and a view.”

She shrugged. “We could buy an island off one year’s tax savings. That’s worth dealing with a subpar view. Plus, think of the cultural impact on Stewie and Jane. They could learn the language. Interact with the locals. See how struggling families live.”

Jane had received a boob job for her sixteenth birthday. The last time I saw her, she was sagging under the weight of a dozen shopping bags with a cell phone stuck to her ear, climbing into the passenger seat of an exotic car. I hadn’t seen Stewie in over a year but had heard of his expulsion from Menlo and rumors of an exclusive drug-rehab center that Johanna was touting as a study abroad.

“Forget Puerto Rico,” Mallory chimed in, one of her diamond chandelier earrings caught in her hair. “The home next to us in Cabo is going up for sale. One of you needs to buy it.” Her chin swung to me, and she raised a delicate, dark brow. “Cat? Come on. You could use a summer away.”

There was a general murmur of agreement among the women, and I laughed, carefully reaching forward and untangling her earring. “Not going to happen. I love my pasty-white skin. Plus, William can’t leave the office for a week, much less three months.”

Kelly tossed her arm around my neck. “You guys forget. Cat’s got Eskimo blood. Anyway, do you blame the woman? William’s keeping her warm.”

The conversation turned to my husband, their tones quieting as they criticized his work ethic while groaning over his good looks.

I leaned my head against Kelly’s shoulder and sighed. “You know you’re the only one I’ll miss,” I whispered, and it was true. Kelly—though she had the requisite +2 children Atherton admired—was the only one who displayed any sensitivity to my fertility woes. As an added bonus, she had been the only wife to welcome me to Atherton, sans snobby judgment. It had been a kindness I had never forgotten.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said out of the corner of her bright-red mouth.

I smiled and straightened, half-heartedly participating in the conversation as I looked out over the party. It was the normal mix of familiar faces atop glittery gowns, the men’s tuxedos evenly mixed in with the colors. While I hadn’t personally met every guest, it was a small town, and we women had formed our own exclusive circle, one that centered around the Menlo country club and branched out.

A waiter bent to deliver a drink, and I watched as a monogrammed napkin fluttered from his tray to the dark wood floor. Excusing myself from the group, I moved toward the fallen item, checking on details as I went. Caviar buffet, stocked. The band was halfway through their set, the soft blues pairing well with the clink of champagne flutes and laughter. I was pleased to see that the great room wasn’t crowded, guests evenly dispersed between our home’s indoor and outdoor spaces.

“Cat!” A statuesque older woman approached, her gold gown brushing the floor as she reached out with both hands and fiercely gripped my shoulders. “I never had a chance to thank you for the donation to our new rehab clinic.”

I smiled at Madeline Sharp, one of the largest donors to tonight’s event and the chairwoman of a New York City charity for drug addicts. “I’ll pass on the thanks to William. It was his doing, not mine.”

“Oh!” She shushed me. “We all know who’s really holding the purse strings, dear. Men wouldn’t know where their shoes went if we weren’t there to point to their feet.”

I laughed, the visual so false in regard to my highly capable husband, one who had led covert operations in Afghanistan, managed his firm with cutthroat efficiency, and would go barefoot out of spite rather than take instructions on his footwear. Still, she was right about the purse strings. William hadn’t been aware of the six-figure donation. While my husband had many distractions on his time, our money—and how I spent it—wasn’t one of those.

“You’ll have to come to the clinic once it’s done,” she urged me. “We’re heading there for the summer. It’ll be set up by fall!”

Another bird, this one flying east. I felt a moment of presummer blues, our full life always a little lonely once our jeweled town vacated. Just as quickly, I reminded myself of the positives. Peace and quiet. Time for just William and me to focus on our marriage and refortify our bond. We always left each summer stronger. Closer.

We are a team, he once said to me. Summer is our season.

“Maybe we can make it to the opening.”

“Absolutely, you must. Now, I’ve got to go find my husband.” Madeline leaned forward and placed a baby powder–soft kiss on my cheek. I smiled, clasping her in a hug, then watched her leave.

“Crab cake, Mrs. Winthorpe?”

I glanced to my right and nodded at the waiter, taking a miniature creation off the silver tray and placing the petite stack on my tongue. I crushed the delicate layers of crab and crust in my mouth, the key-lime sauce playing nicely with the flavors, and watched as a couple moved through the arched opening of the east balcony.

At first glance, they fit in well. An attractive blonde, paired with a balding and stocky husband. Late thirties, though the blonde was trying hard to hide the fourth decade. As I watched them weave through the crowd, the minor details emerged. Her dress, an off-the-rack number that could be found at a discount retailer, if an aspiring woman hunted hard enough. His cheap watch, the rubber band sticking out from the sleeves of a tuxedo that looked rented. I returned my attention to her, watching as she wound through my party, her eyes scanning over the room, her husband trailing obediently behind.