“Your mom is so beautiful,” she heard the babysitter say.
“She’s my aunt,” Ophelia said.
“Oh. Well. Want to play a game?”
Sophie would be a wonderful babysitter, Melissa thought, especially with that amount of cash on the table, an easy enough child to care for, and this house to lounge around in. Maybe Melissa would give her some cast-off clothes or shoes. Make a real impression on the girl, because her Instagram account could use some teenage followers.
Melissa was not going to be one of those stuck-up rich people who treated the help like they were invisible, like those witches in New York who complained about the housekeeper right in front of her. Gosh, no. She’d be the nicest rich person this town had ever seen.
She got into her prewarmed car and drove off to the Ice House, where she’d had lunch with what’s-her-name . . . Lucy? Lillie. Tonight, Lillie and her husband were officially welcoming her to Wellfleet. The restaurant was in the center of town, and she parked on the street right in front, then walked into the restaurant. She’d worn a new dress, a clingy black cashmere thing with a deep V neckline; a simple, perfect golden pearl pendant from Mikimoto; gold hoop earrings from Menē in her ears. A limited-edition Cartier wristwatch. Attico Anais pumps with a pop of hot-pink cutout leather and soft leather ties that wound around her ankles. Thigh-high sheer silk nylons. A creamy white cashmere coat, the same kind Meghan Markle had worn in last month’s Vanity Fair. She’d given her straight hair a retro-Hollywood wave with a side part. Gucci matte red lipstick. Subtle eye shadow; eyelash extensions in a tasteful length, making her look blessed, not fake.
Going inside, Melissa immediately knew she was the best-dressed, best-looking woman here. She’d known that short, curvy, frizzy-haired what’s-her-name wasn’t in her league, but she felt triumphant just the same. Lillie. That was her name.
And there they were. Well, well, well.
He was very good-looking. Blond hair, a neat beard, tall and slender.
“Melissa, hello,” Lillie said, giving her a hug. “This is my husband, Brad Fairchild.”
“So nice to meet you,” Melissa said smoothly. His eyes were incredibly blue. She offered her hand, and Brad Fairchild’s face flushed. His pupils dilated and he held her hand firmly upon introductions and for just a second too long.
Wellfleet had just become a little more interesting.
And Lillie, the midwife or massage therapist or something, didn’t even try, did she? Here she was, knowingly taking her husband out to dinner to meet Melissa, and she wore brown pants （pants!） and a roomy yellow sweater. She didn’t even have earrings on, and her hair looked like she’d hung her head out the window all the way here, like a dog.
“So lovely of you to invite me for dinner, Lillie, Brad. Thank you. The move has been wonderful, just what Ophelia and I needed, but gosh, I think I need some adult friends around here.” She smiled broadly with a little head tilt.
“It’s our pleasure,” Lillie said, leading the way to their table. Melissa followed, feeling Brad’s eyes on her. She was glad she’d worn a clingy dress.
Throughout the dinner, Melissa answered questions and asked about their son （yawn）。 Lillie, smug and secure in her marriage, did what so many first wives did: She looked at Brad like he was on her . . . her bowling team or something. There was absolutely no chemistry between them. And when Brad mentioned his book, Lillie gave her a little smile and sipped her wine. Yes, the book sounded on the ridiculous side, but Melissa knew how to look fascinated. She’d had years of practice, after all, listening to Dennis praise himself.
Within fifteen minutes, Melissa knew she could see what Lillie didn’t know.
Brad was afraid.
So many middle-aged men hit a certain landmark birthday and became abruptly terrified that their youth was behind them （because it was）。 They were suddenly invisible to college-age girls. The barista didn’t flirt with them anymore, didn’t even remember their names. Those youngsters they worked with and supervised were surpassing them. Their potbellies and reluctant erections were a sign that youth was coming to an end. Their children were grown, lives ahead of them, and these men were jealous . . . jealous that their kids had so many chances middle-aged men no longer had. What did they have to look forward to? An enlarged prostate and a brain aneurysm?
Dennis had been easy to get. Brad . . . it would be like a hot knife through soft butter.
First step, call him by his whole name, as if it’s far too important to shorten.