Two Truths and a Lie

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You sure you don’t want to shower?” Morgan smelled a little ripe.

  “I’m sure. Can I get some of those sour gummy worms in the checkout line?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Please?”

  “No. The sugar epidemic is this country is for real, and I’m not going to contribute to it.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I’ll come anyway.”

  Fine, okay. Maybe better if Morgan did come along. Rebecca had been putting something off and she knew it was time to face it head-on, before the party.

  Marshalls on a Saturday! Oh, boy: the crowds. Rebecca wanted to make it quick. She headed to the dress section and started to flip through the dresses in her size, with Morgan joining her like a small but bossy personal shopper. “How about this?” suggested Morgan. “Or this?” She held out two dresses made for women twenty years younger.

  “No strapless,” said Rebecca. “No mid-thigh.” She glanced at her watch. She did not want to spend all day at Marshalls. “I’ll probably buy a few things and try them on at home,” she said. “I hate going in the dressing rooms here. I’m sure one of these will work.” She loaded up her cart with four not-terrible options in her size and considered heading to the shoe section. But then she spotted Melanie near the shoes, and she didn’t want to talk to Melanie. If Melanie spotted Rebecca, she might say something in front of Morgan about who Rebecca was bringing to the party. And if Melanie was in Marshalls there was a good chance at least one other Mom Squad member was also in Marshalls, just based on odds.

  She pulled Morgan down one of the housewares aisles. It was much more quiet in this part of the store. And wasn’t the housewares section of Marshalls as good a place as any to do what had to be done?

  “Listen, Morgan,” she said. “There’s something I have to tell you, before tonight.”

  “What?” Morgan was running her hands along the fluffy towels.

  Rebecca breathed in, then let the breath out slowly. “I have a date,” she said. “I’m going with a date to Brooke’s party.” Morgan looked up from the towels. “I’ve been seeing someone, Morgs. Dating someone. For a few months now. I’ve been sort of hiding it, keeping it a secret from everyone. But I decided recently I’m ready to stop doing that.” She couldn’t read Morgan’s expression. “Does that make you sad?”

  “Sort of,” Morgan whispered. She stared hard at the bath mats, blinking. Rebecca reached for Morgan’s hand, but Morgan snatched it away. Tears appeared in Morgan’s eyes, and then one fell out, mixing with the overnight camp dirt on her face.

  “Here.” Rebecca handed her one of the washcloths from the shelf, let Morgan wipe her face on it and then added it to the items in the cart. She waited and allowed an older woman with a cartful of beach towels make her way by. “I understand if it makes you sad, Morgs. I do. I promise, I’m taking it slow with this guy. I’m not trying to replace Daddy. You know that, right? Nobody will ever replace Daddy.”

  Morgan didn’t answer that. Instead she said, “You mean like someone’s going to pick you up and drive you there? Like a date date? A Disney Channel date?”

  “Well, I’m going to pick him up, actually.”

  Morgan took this in and was silent for several seconds. She nodded sagely. “Because of equality?”

  “Sure. Equality. And also logistics.”

  Morgan chewed her lip. “What’s his name?”

  “Daniel. His name is Daniel Bennett. And I know he’d like to meet you, just as soon as you’re ready.”

  “I’m not ready,” said Morgan, almost instantly.

  “That’s okay. That’s totally fine. So when you are, you’ll meet him.”

  “I might never be ready.”

  “That’s okay too.” (It wasn’t actually. But she was pretty sure Morgan didn’t mean it.) Once they checked out, she’d ask Morgan if she wanted to go out for a really late lunch/extremely early dinner and talk a little more.

  “Do you know what I am ready for, though?” Morgan met Rebecca’s gaze squarely. There was still a tear standing in each eye.

  “What?” Anything for poor brokenhearted Morgan!

  “Some of those sour gummy worms by the register.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. She’d been outsmarted once again. “Fine,” she said. “You got it.” She put one arm around Morgan and kept one hand on the shopping cart. This time, at least Morgan didn’t pull away.

  Rebecca could bet that they weren’t the first people to have a heart-to-heart in the housewares section of Marshalls. And something told her they wouldn’t be the last.

  68.

  Alexa

  In the early evening Alexa pondered her situation from the safety of her bedroom, with the door locked. The bad men couldn’t possibly find her here, she reasoned. But perhaps they could. She moved to the back of her closet, and nestled among the expensive Silk Stockings clothes. Or here, she thought. She fell briefly asleep in the closet—a first, and hopefully a last; she crumpled one of her dresses. When she woke up she was confused and disoriented and slightly sweaty. She went to Morgan’s room and looked out her window because it faced High Street. There were cars going by, but no black SUVs, and there was nothing unusual in the driveway. Coast: clear.

  She ate some carrots and pretzels with hummus—the Griffins’ food options had not improved much over the summer, so she didn’t want to arrive hungry—and was readying herself to leave when her mother and Morgan came in the front door. Clearly Morgan had not showered or bathed since her overnight in Maudslay; she had dirt on her face and she was wearing a bandanna around her head. She looked like a Survivor contestant who had gotten knocked out in an early round. Alexa’s mother was carrying a brown paper Marshalls bag, and Morgan was face-deep into a bag of the sour gummy worms from the checkout line. Morgan must have caught their mother in a weak moment.

  “Oh, shoot,” said Rebecca, looking at Alexa’s car keys, her bag. “Are you on your way out somewhere? I was hoping you could stay with Morgan while I go to Brooke’s party. I completely forgot to ask you. I’m not going to stay late. I don’t really feel like doing the whole party thing tonight.” She grimaced.

  “I’m babysitting,” said Alexa. “For Katie? So Sherri can go to the party?”

  “Sherri’s going to the party?” Rebecca’s face registered surprise.

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “No reason,” said Rebecca, glancing at Morgan. Her face softened and she said, “I’m really glad she’s going. I realized at the last minute that I have nothing to wear. So I ran out quickly.” She waved the bag in front of Alexa. Alexa was dismayed. Her mother was wearing Marshalls couture to Brooke’s party? The only thing worse than a Marshalls trip for a special occasion was a rushed Marshalls trip for a special occasion. Alexa had seen her mother in a hurry at Marshalls before, when the time crunch compromised her better judgment. She wondered if any of her Silk Stockings dresses would fit her mom. Probably not. Her mom had those hips.

  “Morgan can come with me,” Alexa said. “I’m sure Sherri won’t mind.” It would mean less for her to do anyway; the girls would entertain each other, and then maybe Cam could come over. She thought again about the black SUV and her heart tripped its way back into her throat again. Stop it, Alexa. Nobody is after you.

  Morgan brightened visibly and smiled, revealing a piece of a sour gummy worm plastered to her front tooth. “Yes!” she said. “I am in.”

  Her mother peered at Alexa. “Are you okay?”

  Internally, Alexa was still jittery, but she didn’t know it showed on the outside. “Sure,” she said. “Yeah. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You seem—nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous,” said Alexa nervously. She tapped her flip-flop against the floor. “You ready now, Morgs, or did you need to shower or change or anything?”

  Morgan shrugged and said, “Meh. What’s one more day?”

  “That’s the spirit!” said Rebecca. She kissed M
organ on the crown of her dirty head and patted Alexa on the arm, which was a shame because Alexa could sort of use a hug too. “I’ve got to figure out something with my hair,” Rebecca said.

  Alexa couldn’t help but agree.

  69.

  The Squad

  Brooke’s party was a tradition, practically an institution, and we all looked forward to it. She heated the pool up to the high heavens, knowing that at some point one adult was going to jump into it, and then another, until the whole thing felt like a Southern California scene you’d see in the movies. Nobody wore silk to Brooke’s end-of-summer bash for exactly that reason. Nobody wore anything that needed to be dry cleaned, and people tried to remember to leave their good watches at home. But other than that: People. Dressed. Up.

  Normally we would have a girls’ trip in the works for September or October, and we’d be talking about that at Brooke’s party. But the summer had been a funny one, and we hadn’t planned anything yet. Rebecca hadn’t said a word, and the rest of us were unsure if we could reasonably take the reins or not. We were in a holding pattern. Circling. There had been all of those changes with the group chat, and the splitting into factions. There had been the newcomer.

  A brief rain shower had come on in the early afternoon, but the rain stopped in plenty of time, and the small staff of caterers was put to work placing super-absorbent towels all over the outside furniture. The sun came out in force around four. By the time we arrived at seven it was as if the rain had never happened. The mosquitos had considered coming out to snack on the party guests, but Brooke’s husband had invested in some sort of really expensive silent zapper, so the mosquitos changed their tune, and fast.

  The party progressed quickly, the way Brooke’s parties always did. Something about the end of summer made people feel both celebratory and frantic at the same time. We noticed it every year, and every year we got a little more frantic. A new school year always made us realize how quickly our kids were growing up, or, in a more general sense, that time was passing and we weren’t getting any younger.

  One of us had a mother suffering from dementia; another, a father with pancreatic cancer. One of us, although you’d never know it, it was all very hush-hush, had a stepchild in rehab. One of us had nothing saved for college, not a penny, and woke up at two thirty nearly every morning in a panic about it. We all felt the future, our futures, reaching out to grab us with terrible talons.

  We assuaged that consternation at the bar. Brooke did some of the cooking for the party herself, but she always had caterers to help, and she always hired a bartender, which we believed was one of the reasons it was common for people to drink a lot, and quickly.

  Some of the husbands were playing corn hole on the other side of the lawn. A couple of Brooke’s children were wandering through the party, although the hope was that they would be safely ensconced in the media room before any of the behavior got really bad, especially the youngest, Taylor, who was in the group of girls with our daughters. We all feel it is important to set a good example for the younger generation.

  We wondered where Rebecca and her Mystery Guest were—neither had arrived.

  The sun began to move lower, bringing with it the sense not just that the day was coming to a close but that summer was as well. We could feel just the very slightest hint of chill in the air, and we remembered that in July the sun set a full hour later than it did now.

  Steam started to rise from the pool, the way it does when the water is warming up just as the air is cooling down. It gave the whole yard an otherworldly look.

  And then Sherri Griffin walked in.

  Okay, we almost didn’t recognize Sherri. For one thing, she was blond! A bright, bright blond. Very well done, we decided, once she moved under the lights and we could get a good look at her. (Was it an Interlocks blond or a Shanti blond? We divided almost immediately into two camps.)

  Then there was the way she walked into the party. Some of us were reminded of the scene in The Devil Wears Prada when Andy is walking down the street in New York City with this badass attitude and all of these gorgeous clothes, sprung from her mousy demeanor. It was kind of like that. Others of us thought about Grease, when Sandy puts on that black number and the red shoes and struts her stuff and sings “You’re the One That I Want.” It was a total transformation. Total.

  Then there was her dress. We were shocked by that too. Looking back we weren’t sure we’d ever gotten a good look at Sherri’s body. Even at barre class (that one time) she wore something shapeless. Nobody wore shapeless clothes to barre class, so hers stood out—that’s why we remembered. Not because we’re judging. But anyway, we had no idea that she’d been hiding a rocking body under those bad clothes all summer. No idea.

  (How was that possible? We live in a beach town. Had we never seen her in a bathing suit? Had she never been in the water? Hadn’t we met her for the first time at surf camp, way back in June? We spent so much time quietly cataloguing each other’s bodies for pounds lost or gained, lines emerging or erased, eyebrows that needed more or less shaping—how had we missed this body?)

  Okay, and seriously? That dress was to die for. Somebody said later it had come from Bobbles and Lace. Maybe it was the Portsmouth location—we were in the Bobbles in town all the time and we had never seen it there. The shoes, the earrings, all of it. It was so very completely un-Sherri that we didn’t know what to do. We just stared. Then one of us said, “Ohmygod, Sherri, you look amazing,” and soon the rest of us followed suit, the way you do. OMG. OMG. OMG.

  Except for Melanie. She had nothing to say; she was nowhere to be found. Later we learned that she and her husband had been at the far end of the lawn, just out of reach of the lights, arguing to beat the band.

  There was no band, by the way. Brooke always hired a really good DJ from Boston.

  Did we mention that the rest of us, excepting Melanie, and Rebecca, who hadn’t yet arrived, were all standing near the bar when Sherri entered the party? The bartender Brooke hired was, dare we say it, easy on the eyes. She’d stocked the bar with some really good tequila. Like we told you in the beginning, it was the summer of tequila.

  The bartender was making an Aperol tequila cocktail, which was a-mazing, even though some of us had never tried elderflower liqueur. We contemplated a round of shots before we got into the cocktails, and the bartender was kind enough to allow one of us to pick up a bottle from the bar while we thought about it. It was Roca Patron Silver, very good, though he was using a Blanco in the cocktail.

  Yes, we decided. Yes. Summer was almost over; Brooke’s party came around only once a year; the night was gorgeous; the very air felt full of longing and possibility. We all felt the need to make something happen. Or to let something happen. The DJ was playing something background-y and good vibe-y, something you didn’t specifically notice, nothing you’d dance to yet, but something that echoed the mood exactly. The bartender readied the shot glasses.

  And then, like we said, Sherri Griffin walked in, and our mouths fell open. She walked toward us, smiling an unfamiliar smile. Even her walk was different. Not like she was impersonating a hot person, no. Like she had become a hot person. Those of us who were blond may have attributed the change completely to her hair color, but the brunettes among us (there were a few) believed that there was more to it than that.

  Sherri greeted us. She accepted our compliments. She watched some of us cast nervous glances at our husbands to see if they were looking at Sherri the way we were looking at Sherri.

  Then Sherri said seven words that changed everything that night.

  “Pass the bottle,” said Sherri Griffin, without so much as a please or a thank-you. “And a shot glass.”

  We all looked at each other like, “Whaaaaat?”

  And then we passed the bottle.

  And a shot glass.

  Honestly, it wasn’t until a couple of days later, after the dust had settled, so to speak, that Brooke reminded us that Sherri hadn’t even been invited t
o the party.

  70.

  Sherri

  “Pass the bottle,” she told the nearest mom, Monica or Jessica or Nicole. “And a shot glass.”

  She didn’t need the lime or the salt; she didn’t need anything at all. She did one shot, then two, then a third, all the while looking Monica or Jessica or Nicole right in the eyes.

  It felt good. She felt like herself again. She was reminded of what it felt like to have a roomful—in this case a yard full—of people’s attention on her.

  Then she gave a businesslike nod, a nod that said, Time to get started here. And she got ready to say all of the things she’d been holding back since that first day of surf camp, all those weeks ago.

  71.

  The Squad

  Okay, seriously? This new Sherri Griffin basically downed an entire bottle of tequila while we all watched. Maybe it wasn’t an entire bottle. But it was definitely more than one shot. Two or three or maybe four. And we were like, what the hell? First of all, save some for the rest of us! And second, was she going to fall down drunk right in front of us, or, and we seriously hoped not, throw up in the pool? (That happened at Brooke’s party in 2013, but we’re not naming names. We will say that the involved party did pay for the pool company to come out the next day and hand-clean the filter, which was no small expense.)

  With each shot of tequila Sherri became more composed, more steady. Her back, already very straight (and visible) in that (we had to admit, fantastic) gold dress, got even straighter. Her eyes, which were heavily made up, opened wider. She seemed to grow taller before us, like The Nutcracker Christmas tree. And it became a truth universally acknowledged: Sherri Griffin could hold her liquor.

  The bartender, sensing new tension, made his first round of Aperol tequila cocktails, and we each took one. They went down easy. Also, they were sort of small, so a few of us went back for our second drink right away. Don’t look at us that way. We knew the line would get long once the corn hole game ended, and we were just trying to be cognizant of the other partygoers. Okay?