by E. C. Diskin
“Well, that’s what she said back in November, but she didn’t share any details,” Tori added.
“She found an undergarment in his drawer after that luau party,” Lina said carefully, like she was trying to avoid getting specific.
“I never heard about that,” Tori said.
“In August? She was sure it wasn’t hers or Leigh’s?” Kat asked.
“Correct,” Lina continued. “But she didn’t tell me more. She was kind of a mess that weekend, throwing back shots like water. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that. It’s just that, at first, I didn’t know about the Ryan thing and she was flirting pretty intensely with this man at the bar on the island.”
“You all went to the island?” Kat asked. “I didn’t even realize you could boat over that late in November.”
“Oh, sure,” Tori said. “The ferries usually run till the end of the month, though the water was really rough that weekend. We’d already dry-docked the boat for the season.”
“The ferry was like a roller coaster,” Lina said.
“Not good after an afternoon of drinking.” Tori pointed toward her throat and stuck out her tongue.
“Anyway,” Lina continued, “Shea was chatting up this gorgeous guy who was like ten years younger than any of us, and they left the bar together, holding hands.”
Tori chuckled. “She had a right. I mean, if Ryan was cheating, then he deserved it.”
“Oh my God!” Kat exclaimed. “Is that why she went back to the island last week? Could she have been having an affair?”
“I don’t think so,” Lina said. “It was just flirting. He was with a big group, we were in a big group, it was nothing . . . it’s not like she went home with him. Right, Tori?”
Tori didn’t respond.
“What?” Kat asked.
Tori’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “Actually, I know for a fact that she didn’t go back to see that man from the bar.”
“How do you know?” Kat asked.
“He’s dead.”
“What?” chimed both women.
“I was up here about two weeks ago, getting the house ready for spring, and there was an article in the local paper advising boaters to be careful as the season began. It included photos of several people who died on the lake last year. I recognized one of the pictures. I brought it back to Maple Park and showed Shea.”
“And?”
“She pretended that she didn’t remember if it was him, but I could see it on her face. The crazy part was, he disappeared the night we met him. His body was never found, but his boat washed up on one of the little islands about a week later. The lake began to freeze by early December, so it wasn’t easy to do a search and recover.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Kat asked.
“What do you mean?” Tori asked.
“Well, that has to be relevant. Maybe that’s why she went to the island.”
“Maybe she felt guilty,” Lina said.
“About what?” Kat asked.
“If she was drinking with him and his drunkenness caused his death, maybe she felt some sort of misplaced responsibility.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Tori said. “But no, I didn’t tell Ryan that Shea kissed a stranger on one of our girls’ weekends and that the guy died. What good would that do now?”
Kat sat back, looking out the window at the open plains along the road. Her image of Shea had always been of the carefree, laid-back life of the party. Always in the yard or at the window, smiling, offering a glass of wine or a good story to Kat on those nights when Kat would return home frazzled, exhausted, or overwhelmed from a long day. Shea was the one to lift everyone up. And yet everything about her death suggested she was someone who’d been in a lot of pain.
“We need some gas,” Tori said as she slowed to pull off at the exit ramp. “We’re just a few miles out now. Let’s fill up, hit the grocery, and grab some snacks and bevvies. I don’t know about you two, but all this talk makes me ready for happy hour.”
Kat couldn’t agree more.
CHAPTER 4
Four months earlier
November 24
SHEA SAT AT ONE END of the table, her kids on one side, her parents on the other, and focused on the centerpiece of flowers she’d arranged, the silver she’d shined, the china, the rolls baked from scratch, the turkey, looking picture-perfect.
“To my wife,” Ryan said, his wineglass raised. “Somehow, she manages to pull this off every year with very little help from me, and I just want to say, to my darling wife, that on this day of thanks, I am most thankful for you.”
Her parents and the kids raised their glasses, gazing toward Shea with love and admiration. She wanted to crawl under the table or run out the back door. Instead, she wiped the tears pooling in her eyes, thanked Ryan, and told everyone to dig in.
Shea looked over at her father, holding a serving dish while her mother took some vegetables, and then at her mother, who did the same for him. That was what a marriage was supposed to look like.
She looked at Ryan, at his smug grin while he began to tell a joke. He was laughing, as if nothing was wrong and they were some Norman Rockwell painting. But there was someone else. He’d probably called her earlier today, to thank her for whatever the hell she did for him. He’d probably made plans to be with her after the holiday. And no one else at the table even knew that the allegedly high-powered, successful executive had been out of work for four months.
Everything was a lie. It was as if the walls of the room were pushing inward, the oxygen was being forced out.
And now she had more than Ryan’s infidelity to face. She’d caused her own damage. It was as if she’d taken on the challenge to one-up him in the effort to throw their life away. She’d spent all her energy focused on the holiday in the three days since her return, but every night, as she lay in their dark room, with the sound of Ryan’s obliviously peaceful breathing beside her, she was assaulted with a freight train of images from the island. Blake’s face, that kiss, the boat, his hands . . . She couldn’t believe that in one night, she could do such damage. She’d made the same mistakes in college more than once, getting drunk, finding herself in compromising situations, but at fifty-two years old, how could a mother, a wife, an otherwise smart woman be so stupid?
She’d been so angry with Ryan, at the giant mess he’d made of their marriage, and she’d just wanted to get numb. Every drink felt like a magic cleanser that could wipe it all away, at least for the weekend.
While her friends blissfully ate their pizza at Rudolph’s, chatted about their kids, and joked about trivial beefs with their husbands, Shea could think of nothing but the conversation they’d all had the previous night about how sometimes men cheated because they took their wives for granted. Evelyn, the only divorcée among them, had joked that women needed to show men how easily they could be replaced. She’d argued, like a good debater, that men were easy, and if women found good-looking, younger models, the way men so often did, and showed their husbands how easy it had been to get that man’s attention, perhaps they’d shape up. Everyone had laughed and joked about attempted seductions of such men. “Come on,” Evelyn had joked, “we all know how men love a cougar!”
It was clear now that all that was just banter, meant more for entertainment than anything, but in that tequila-soaked moment, as Shea sat in the bar, she had been inspired. With each shot, her determination to even the score had grown. And when everyone started chatting with a group of men who’d merged into their table, Shea let her gaze land on young, gorgeous Blake, who was looking at her like she was something to behold. When was the last time Ryan looked at her like that? When had he even touched her last?
She practically undressed Blake with her eyes as he moved over to sit beside her at the table. He showered her with compliments and Shea felt a surge of adrenaline when his hand first grazed against hers under the table. When he followed her toward the restroom and gently pushed her against the wall, exami
ning her like some beautiful specimen, she melted. When he kissed her, the mix of alcohol and guilt was surprisingly enticing. Why couldn’t she have ended it there? Just enjoyed the attention. Why’d she have to leave with him?
“Mom, Mom,” Leigh said, finally snapping her fingers in front of Shea’s face. “You’re a million miles away.”
Shea looked over at her daughter, those big blue eyes, those freckles, a face so like her own, but so young and innocent. She forced a smile and apologized. “Sorry, honey. Just strolling down memory lane a little. I was thinking about our first Thanksgiving in this house.”
CHAPTER 5
April 8
DESPITE THE FIVE-HOUR DRIVE FROM Maple Park, once they were close, it was easy to remember why Tori and Herman had built a home on Catawba. There was a rural quality, a peace and serenity to the barren landscape and ponds that led up to their house. A couple of kids with fishing poles were sitting on the railing of a narrow old bridge, giant lily pads covered most of the water below, and dozens of geese waddled along the side of the narrow road.
They turned onto the long gravel driveway and meandered past an acre of trees before arriving at the house. Tori and Herman both came from large families who were scattered around the Midwest, so, despite having only three children, their five-bedroom house could easily sleep fifteen. With cedar-shake siding, dormer windows, and a large widow’s walk perched on top of the roof, it reminded Kat of Nantucket. The channel and mouth to Lake Erie could be seen from atop that walk. But most impressive was the view out the back. The large deck spanned the full width of the house, with a pergola and sunken hot tub on one side, a fire pit on the other, and a large seating area in the center. Several steps down, an antique brick path meandered through ornamental grasses to the dock at the water’s edge. Tori had filled the quarter acre of land between the deck and the water with nothing but native grasses. The simplicity of looking out toward the water, past a few hundred-year-old oak trees and a vast expanse of tall, feathery stalks blowing in the breeze, was hypnotic.
Inside, the living room ceiling was at least fifteen feet high, with windows to match, and other than a few large paintings, the decor was mostly white, black, and natural woods. Every time Kat visited, she went to those windows first, took a deep, cleansing breath, and marveled at the view.
Tori began setting out the first round of appetizers on the back deck, and Kat set up the fire pit. Lina synced her phone to the speakers and streamed some Beatles before heading to a bedroom to change. When she returned from her room, her face had been scrubbed free of makeup, and her wig had been replaced by a bright-orange silk scarf that complimented her olive skin. Her face really needed no adorning, with expressive dark eyes, long lashes, and skin that seemed to belie her age. Lina touched her scarf. “Those wigs make my head so hot!”
Kat smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
“I miss my hair.”
Kat reached back to feel the wispy remains at the nape of her own neck. “Yeah, so do I,” she said with a smile.
Kat and Tori changed out of church attire, too, and they settled on the deck. Within the hour, Evelyn and Dee had arrived and the chaotic melody of women at play was at full volume. With drinks in hand, they sat on the deck around a coffee table of cheese, dips, and snacks, marveling at the soft blues and grays fading into peach and pink along the horizon.
Tori pulled out her smartphone. “Come on, ladies, picture time!”
Everyone grumbled, preferring to keep their sweatpants, bare faces, and puffy eyes off social media.
“Hey,” Tori argued. “No one posted more pictures online than Shea. We’re going to post a pic of us as we celebrate her.”
She had a point. Thanks to Shea’s constant social media use—posting photos from dinners, parties, baseball games, and the gym and even the occasional quip about a TV show—Kat had felt connected to her, even though they hadn’t had a single conversation since January. The women leaned in, raised their glasses, and smiled for the camera.
Tori settled onto the love seat and tapped her long, perfectly manicured nail against her glass, commanding attention. All conversations paused.
“Ladies,” she began. “None of us understand why this happened to such a wonderful, beautiful person, but I’m grateful that you were all able to join me this weekend, to help celebrate our dear friend.” She paused to regroup, and Lina patted her knee. Tori squeezed her hand and continued. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Well, no, I’m not. None of us are. But my point is that I know Shea wouldn’t want us to sit around crying all weekend. Of course, she’d be thrilled to have a weekend centered around her . . .”
Kat laughed a little louder than the others. Shea’s love of the spotlight was as foreign and horrifying to Kat as it was enviable. The first time Kat watched Shea climb on top of a table to get the attention of a roomful of people, she’d assumed Shea was drunk but soon realized alcohol was an unnecessary lubricant to her swagger. Shea was the go-to volunteer—be it at the kids’ schools, fund-raisers, or block parties—to stand atop the nearest furniture or finger whistle until a crowd was tamed, usually offering a silly pose or brief dance while she had everyone’s attention.
“She would want us to share funny stories about all of our misadventures, play our silly games, and promise to cherish each other and our families and . . .” Tori couldn’t finish.
Evelyn dabbed her eye and raised her glass. “To Shea.”
“To Shea,” the others echoed.
“Hey, did I ever tell you guys about my first Shea spotting?” Dee said. “I hated her.”
Everyone laughed, wiping back tears.
“No, really,” Dee continued, grabbing a handful of nuts, pulling her legs up into her chair, and crossing them like a kid at story time. “I was at the baby pool over at Covington Park. I was super pregnant with Eddie, hot and miserable, probably up a full sixty.”
“No way,” Tori said, shaking her head. “Not possible.”
Dee was barely over five feet tall, and she was one of those women who used food as mere fuel for survival. She could sit in front of a bowl of M&M’s for two hours and never notice it.
“Oh, believe me,” Dee said. “It’s possible. You’ll just never see proof because I waddled away whenever a camera got near me. Anyway, I hadn’t had highlights in like six months, so I had two inches of dark roots and was too exhausted to even deal with this.” She grabbed a wad of her thick, straight auburn hair. Dee had often joked about her naturally frizzy hair that had caused buckets of tears and heartache as a child, until that day in college when she’d discovered the flat iron—a magic wand that had changed her life. “And I’m sitting under the umbrella, watching Cee Cee play in the water, feeling like a big ol’ tub of goo, and I noticed Shea at the other end of the pool. I immediately hated her.”
“Why?” Tori asked, her tears evaporating with each giggle.
“Because she was pregnant and huge, but she was wearing this wide-brimmed hat, dark sunglasses, and bright-orange lipstick. She had on her tiny little bikini top with her enormous belly, tan and proud, shoulders back, and a sequined sarong around her hips. She looked like some frickin’ Bain de Soleil ad.”
Everyone laughed at the accuracy of Dee’s depiction.
“I’m telling you,” Dee finished with a grin, “it really pissed me off.”
“She was meant to live on an island,” Kat said. Shea’s sun-streaked, dirty-blonde hair was usually wavy—that beach look others paid a fortune for—and she never clouded her freckles with makeup. Her signature enhancement: bright lipstick on her full lips and a little mascara. Summers were spent in sundresses or scarves with exotic prints. It was like some wind machine was offstage when she walked into a room.
“That’s what I loved,” Tori added. “Women pick themselves apart and try to cover every imperfection, but Shea embraced it all. She walked into every room like she owned it. Though she did joke once about carrying her pregnancies in her ass. I think she said there was another bab
y stuck in there.”
Dee nearly spit up her drink. “Yeah, she was an ass girl long before the Kardashians.”
“And that laugh,” Lina added. “It was like Santa Claus swallowed Woody Woodpecker, with those rapid-fire ho-ho-hos.” She attempted an impersonation, which led to a competition over who could do it best.
“What about you, Kit Kat?” Dee asked. “Do you remember the day you first met Shea?”
“Oh yes,” Kat said, sitting back and pulling her legs up to her chest. “Stephen was strapped to her chest in one of those harnesses. We were moving in. I was ready to pop with Peter.”
Tori stood. “Just a sec.” She was heading inside for a refill and offered to waitress for the others. Everyone’s focus shifted, providing a natural end to Kat’s story. She took a sip of wine, enjoying the private memory. These friends would never have believed it, anyway. Everyone dismissed Kat as being some sort of superwoman, as if she had no problems juggling career, travel, child, house, and husband. Kat preferred their image, so she usually kept the truth to herself. Shea was the only one who ever witnessed the cracks in her facade.
It had been after one of the movers had dropped a box filled with Kat’s wedding china. Kat had shrieked and waddled away from the sidewalk, unable to look at the damage. She’d collapsed on the porch in a puddle of tears, overwhelmed, exhausted, and short of breath—though she knew Peter was at fault for the air shortage. Shea appeared, Stephen sleeping on her chest, a scarf in her hair, shuffling toward Kat in flip-flops like some carefree granola mom. Kat had wiped her eyes, mortified to meet her new neighbor in such a state. But Shea smiled and said, “I love crying, too. We’re going to be best friends.”
Kat liked her immediately.
“I’m Shea—this is Stephen,” she said, patting the baby’s head, “and please don’t be embarrassed. You’re soaking in hormones.”
“I’m Katherine. Kat. Hi.”
“Let me guess—you’re due in less than a month.”
