must feel awful to be about to get married and to have so many people expressing their concern to you,” reflected Jane. “Marriage is scary enough when you’re confident you’re doing the right thing and so is everyone around you.”
“Yes, but you were doing the right thing when you married Sean,” Hilary pointed out.
“I really wish I could feel as good about this as I felt when you two were getting married,” I added wistfully.
“I wish I could feel as good about this as I did when we were getting married. Still, we should be supportive of Emma. She must have some good reason. Maybe she really loves Richard. And whatever her reason, we’re Emma’s best friends. We should try to give him the benefit of the doubt.” Jane’s voice, however, betrayed her lack of conviction. She’d never been a good liar; even the simple white lie was beyond her.
“What doubt?” asked Hilary. “There is no doubt. Richard is a complete and utter snake.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Luisa agreed. “But it still doesn’t explain why Emma’s going through with this.”
“She’s making a major mistake,” said Hilary.
“She really is,” I agreed.
“He is a disaster,” said Luisa.
Jane sighed. Her optimism was tapped out. “He sure is.”
We lapsed into an unhappy silence, sipping the chilled wine. The light from a half moon glossed over the gentle ripples on the water’s surface, and clouds moved slowly across the black sky. I breathed in the clean air, taking in the quiet brilliance of the night. In Manhattan it was probably well over eighty degrees, and so humid that the sounds of traffic and sirens would seem muted by the oppressive heat. Still, even with the heat and humidity, I would rather have been there than in this beautiful spot, dreading the day to come.
Hilary was the first to break the silence. Her voice was calmer now, and she spoke casually, as if she were picking up on a discussion that we’d started a few minutes ago but hadn’t finished.
“So. Is this a pact we’re going to keep?”
CHAPTER 5
I woke up early the next morning and couldn’t fall back to sleep. This was highly irregular—I was famous in certain circles for my ability to sleep deeply and at great length, no doubt as a result of my usual work-induced state of sleep deprivation. Perhaps on some level I already knew what had happened and my curiosity to know yet more nudged me awake.
My mouth was dry and my head fuzzy from too many drinks the previous evening. All that champagne, and then the vodka tonics, and then even more champagne, had seemed like such a good idea at the time. But now I had a pounding headache, and every muscle in my body ached, and I had only myself to blame.
I was sharing Emma’s room, but she was still sleeping in the other twin bed, and, eager as I was to talk to her, it seemed criminal to disturb her peaceful slumber. Careful not to wake her, I slipped out from under the down-filled comforter, exchanged my nightie for a pair of cutoffs and a cotton sweater, grabbed a few Advil from my bag, and tiptoed down the stairs in flip-flops to search for something to wash the pain relievers down. The house was quiet, and the hands of the kitchen clock told me it was only half past six, a time of day that I hadn’t seen on a weekend in at least two years.
I reached into the refrigerator, took the pitcher that the Furlongs’ housekeeper kept filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, and poured myself a tall glass. I swallowed the pills down with a generous slug. Then I stepped through the kitchen door and onto the porch that wrapped around the house. Between the Advil, the juice, and the fresh air, I hoped I would shortly feel brand-new.
I strolled past the long oak table and wicker chairs where the Furlongs ate their meals during the summer and paused at the railing. Sipping my juice, I took in the panorama before me. While money couldn’t buy everything, it could most definitely purchase beauty and access to beautiful places. The view from the porch was breathtaking. Beyond the mirrored surface of the lake, the distant hills were thick with pine, and while the sky was still hazy, the early morning fog was beginning to recede, yielding to an intense, cloudless blue. In the foreground, the lush green of the lawn and gardens led down to the water’s edge. The tapestry was marred only by the billowing white tent that had been erected to one side, an ominous reminder of the ceremony that was to take place that afternoon.
It was gorgeous weather for a wedding. Richard had probably insisted on it when he made his pact with the Devil. I sighed, dreading the day ahead.
From the corner of my eye I could see the glint of the pool, which Emma’s mother had installed around the other side of the house the previous summer to better accommodate some of her more squeamish friends from the city. Emma and her father had argued with her about this for years, saying it was absurd to put in a pool when the cool expanse of lake stretched only a hundred yards away, but Lily had ultimately won out. Not everyone, she’d protested, was comfortable swimming with the water snakes and other slippery creatures that made the lake their home. And what Emma’s mother wanted, she inevitably got. So the pool had gone in beside the house, along with a pool house that contained changing rooms, a sauna and two guest rooms, each of which undoubtedly could have swallowed my New York apartment in one gulp.
I continued along the porch to get a better look at the additions. We’d arrived just in time for the wedding rehearsal the previous day, and after that we had to rush to change for dinner. This was my first chance to check out the pool and the pool house in the clear light of day.
Maybe it was the lurking possibility of wildlife that caused my heart to skip a beat when I glimpsed a dark shape floating on the water’s surface. I don’t know what I thought it could have been—a bear or some sort of mountain lion, perhaps?—but living in Manhattan had rendered me both alert to danger and skittish about animals that weren’t on a leash. I reminded myself that the porch stood several feet from the ground and gingerly made my way around the corner and toward the pool for a better look.
I noted with relief that the shape was neither furry nor moving before I registered that it was Richard. One of the custom-made shirts that usually hung just so from his lean frame was plastered to his torso, and his wet black hair gleamed in the sun. His face was in the water, but I knew it was him and I knew he was dead. It seemed somehow unjust that he should go just like Gatsby, when he had none of Gatsby’s charm or surprising innocence. That was my first thought. My second thought was muffled by my own deafening shriek.
Matthew came running out of the pool house in boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt, toothbrush in hand. “Rachel—what is it? Are you—” He stopped short when he caught sight of the body. Before I could respond, he dropped his toothbrush and dove into the water, flipping Richard over with the practiced moves of a lifeguard. I watched, paralyzed, as Matthew hoisted the body up out of the water and checked for a pulse. “Call 911!” Matthew yelled to me, already beginning CPR.
“I just did,” I heard a calm voice say behind me. “They’re on their way. I gave them the gate code, so they’ll be able to get in.” I turned, startled. Luisa was standing in the open French doors that led to the downstairs sitting room. Her curvy figure was wrapped in a silk kimono, and her dark hair hung nearly to her waist, freed from its usual thick knot. She pulled her silver cigarette case and lighter from a pocket. Her expression was almost bemused, and she dropped her voice, speaking as if to herself. “It looks like it’s too late, though, doesn’t it?”
The click
