Suddenly, Jake is leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, and his distinct, familiar scent—something woody and warm and wholly unique to Jake—almost paralyzes her with nostalgia. Like every other man in the clubhouse, he wears slacks and a navy sport coat, and Molly can’t get used to him in such conservative, preppy apparel. She remembers seeing him in a jacket and tie only once when they were together, at her cousin’s wedding in Maine.
Before she can fully process what is happening, Jake’s gaze moves to Stella, and then he’s crouching in front of her, and this is a moment for which Molly is fully unprepared.
“You must be Stella,” he says, his smile growing wider.
“Who are you?” Stella asked bluntly. Everybody laughs.
“I’m your mom’s friend Jake.” He extends a hand, and Molly feels numb and shaky on her legs as she watched Stella’s small palm fit inside Jake’s. He tilts his head. “How old are you?”
“Five and three-quarters.”
“Five and three-quarters,” Jake repeats, smiling warmly. “That’s a great age.”
“My friend Harper said they have a cotton candy machine here.”
Jake nods and points to the door. “I saw it outside by the putting green.”
Stella’s cornflower eyes widen, and she places her hands on her hips. “Cotton candy is my favorite food.”
“Really? Mine, too.” Jake grins, standing.
“Boiled sugar really covers all the main food groups,” Molly jokes. Next to her, Hunter is silent, and she squeezes his hand.
“You two need some drinks.” Sabrina stabs her middle and pointer fingers in Molly and Hunter’s direction. “Southsides are the signature here.” She gestures toward her own beverage, a lime-green concoction garnished with mint leaves. “Let’s hit the bar, and then we’ll get Stella—and maybe Jake—some cotton candy?”
“Yes, please,” Stella chimes.
“Cotton candy after dinner, Stell,” Molly corrects.
“Oops, that’s right.” Sabrina flashes Molly an apologetic smile. “Dinner before dessert, duh.”
Dinner is an extensive buffet of hot dogs, burgers, wings, potato salad, baked beans, corn on the cob, and a variety of other holiday-appropriate options. There’s also a separate sushi station and a fantastic salad bar. Molly has heard the food at the club is exceptional, and it certainly lives up to its hype, she decides as she douses a piece of yellowtail sashimi in soy sauce.
The five of them sit at a round table under the giant covered terrace overlooking the pristine golf course, immaculately maintained rolling slopes of shamrock green. The sun is beginning to drop, settling behind the trees and casting a warm, golden glow across the grass. There are probably two hundred people here, Molly thinks, glancing around at the packed tables of families and realizing, with a jolt of irony, how alike they all appear. Husbands in pastel pants, wives in expensive cocktail dresses, adorable children clad in smocked gingham. The parents enjoy a steady stream of drinks, Southsides and Dark ’n’ Stormys with rum floaters that elevate the volume on the terrace, dozens of boisterous conversations mixed in with rich pockets of laughter. And though it all feels slightly affected, Molly can’t deny that it’s nice sitting here, sipping strong, sweet cocktails and watching the sun set over a beautiful golf course with her family, the heart of the summer before them.
Molly smiles and waves at a few familiar faces—the mother of Stella’s classmate, one of her regulars at Yoga Tree, Whitney Cooper’s husband, George. Is Whitney here? Molly mouths to George. He shakes his head, then uses his arms to mime rocking a baby. Molly nods, realizing then that of course Whitney wouldn’t be there—her twins are barely two weeks old. She’s surprised George has even come.
At the next table over, Molly spots Betsy Worthington wearing the same red dress she herself has on, a Faithfull the Brand number from last year—sweetheart neckline, blouson sleeves, little white flowers printed into the cherry fabric. Betsy is staring at Molly, her eyes narrowing in competition. She doesn’t wave, just frowns before turning back to her toddler, who is dragging chicken fingers through a puddle of ketchup.
“Molly O’Neil!” a female voice sings, and suddenly Meredith Duffy is approaching their table. She wears a navy dress with white piping and a giant coral red necklace, her infant son propped on one hip. “And Hunter,” she crows, her platinum bob shaking lightly as she bounces the baby, who wears a seersucker onesie with an American flag smocked to the front. “Oh! And Sabrina and Jake!”