“That’s exactly why we need your help.”
“These are our best friends.” Stephanie looks at the others, then back at me. “We’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
STEPHANIE
FRIDAY, 7:22 P.M.
I watched Jonathan march up the front steps in his skinny jeans and bright orange cashmere sweater— Peter’s influence. Left to his own devices, Jonathan dressed like a POW from a Brooks Brothers catalog— all outsized price-point and undersized fashion sense. I felt an absurd pang of jealousy. Now I wanted a boyfriend to pick out my clothes?
“Do we know what time Keith and Derrick are supposed to be here?” Maeve asked.
I looked back toward the road, dead quiet in the dark. The light had vanished all at once in the trees. “Do we even know for sure they left the city?” Keith often randomly disappeared, didn’t call back— ghosted us. Classic addict nonsense. We needed to be prepared.
“Keith texted earlier today about the bachelor party,” Jonathan said as he fumbled around for the right key. “Said he was looking forward to it. So that’s encouraging.”
“Speaking of which, how long are we planning to keep up the whole bachelor-party charade?” I asked. “Isn’t that just . . . delaying the inevitable?”
“Maybe we would have worked out those details if you hadn’t been on the phone the entire car ride,” Maeve singsonged. But her eyes widened immediately when I squinted at her. “I was just teasing, come on.”
Maeve never could bear the thought of anyone being even a little mad at her. She was going to have to toughen up if she was going to survive as an Upper East Side trophy wife. Those women could be ruthless. Then again, her fellow debutantes from Charleston probably hadn’t been especially cuddly either.
And Maeve was right about the call; I should have rescheduled. I buried myself in work when I didn’t feel like dealing, a trick I’d learned from my workaholic professor parents. And the past few weeks, I’d definitely been avoiding things.
“Sorry about the conference call,” I said. “That was obnoxious.”
“Let me text Keith to see where they are,” Maeve offered. Her face sank for a second as she looked at her phone— something about Bates, probably— but she managed to smile again as she punched out a quick text.
Jonathan swung open the front door. “Welcome to Locust Grove!” he intoned with a bow, waving us inside.
The house smelled of honeysuckle with a hint of lemon, or maybe just earth-friendly cleaning products. The furniture and fixtures were a balance of modern flair and rough-hewn farmhouse, an abstract rug in the entryway under a round antique-looking table piled with an eclectic mix of art books and a stone urn filled with fresh apples. It was all beautiful, of course, like everywhere Jonathan had ever lived. But the decor looked more personal. As if each item had been lovingly selected.
“It’s gorgeous, Jonathan,” I said, and it was.
But I felt hollow, looking around. I couldn’t help but compare it to my own sleek Midtown apartment, the one I’d rented only because it was close to my office. My furniture all from one of those casual-chic furniture outlets that’s in every suburban mall and, conveniently, online. It was a nice apartment with a nice gym that I never used and nice doormen whose names I didn’t know, filled with things just nice enough that I could have somebody over without feeling embarrassed— not that I ever did.
Jonathan smiled as he surveyed the room. “Peter did all of it himself. You should have seen the place when we bought it. It was a disaster.”
There was a sudden, odd rustling sound from the living room. A mouse? We all peered tentatively.
“Boo!”
I jerked back, banging my head into the wall behind me. When I looked up, there was a man in the doorway, laughing. For a moment, my brain refused to place his face.
But then— Finch. Yep, that was definitely him. Keith’s star artist. Right there, in the flesh. Awesome.
“Sorry, sorry!” Keith appeared next to Finch— eyes wide, brown hair roguishly unkempt, suit jacket and jeans, green-checked button-down. His gallery uniform. “That was Finch’s bad idea.”
“Keith, what the hell?” Maeve shouted with admirable force.
“Come on, it was funny,” Finch said, grinning slyly and flashing his perfect teeth, thankfully not in my direction.
Caught in a halo of light from the living room behind him, Finch’s thick, shoulder-length brown hair looked streaked with gold, his green eyes twinkling. He was a striking man, there was no denying it. But he was too manicured, with his $300 white T-shirts, just-so scruffy beard, and perennially bronzed skin. He was also obnoxiously arrogant.