A smile tugs at my lips. “That’s for sure.”
“How’s the brunch for the children’s hospital coming along?”
“Fine—” I say, but my mind drifts.
My gaze slides past him, out the kitchen window, landing on the hedges that separate our yard from Whitney’s. The redbarrel tiles of their white Mediterranean revival peek through the thick green. I picture her by the indoor pool, flipping through Vogue, planning their next trip to Lake Como.
We always thought we’d raise our kids together.
Instead, here we are—ten years into marriage, blissfully child-free.
It’s hard to imagine putting someone else first when, in so many ways, it feels like we already have.
Whitney and I bonded over that early on—the quiet, unspoken understanding that we’ve both spent our childhoods mothering our own mothers. Veronica Ramsey and Kathy Williams present themselves as polished, accomplished women. Behind closed doors, they’re something else entirely.
Calling us latchkey kids isn’t quite right. We grew up in sprawling estates in Naples, surrounded by wealth, but what we lacked was something simpler. Something harder to name.
Love that felt like it was meant for us.
Kathy Williams cared more about how spotless the guest bathroom was than whether I made it to equestrian camp. I rode every day for years. Won competitions. Smiled for photos.
She’s not in any of the memories that matter.
But the albums are full. The mantels lined with proof that she raised a happy child.
Family dinners were quiet. Holidays, curated.
Lonely.
Now, ten years into my own marriage, the idea of children fills me with something closer to dread than longing. Bennett is focused on his career. On me.
And I like it that way.
“You think Phillip has it in him?” I ask.
“What?” Bennett glances up, sprinkling capers over the salmon.
“You know… do you think he could kill her?”
“This again?” He laughs. “I think the only thing anyone needs to worry about is the two of you.” His eyes flick toward me, amused. “The Dangerous Duo strikes again.”
Chapter Three
The sun dips toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over Tigertail Beach Country Club. I adjust my wide-brimmed hat, sip my margarita—perfectly balanced—and let the scene settle around me.
We lounge on plush beach chairs, our designer bikinis and gauzy sarongs a curated display of wealth and taste. It’s one of those perfect Florida evenings—the kind that makes you forget anything that isn’t sand, salt, or something cold in your hand.
Whitney leans back beside me, her hat angled just enough to shade her eyes. Her turquoise bikini sets off her tan like it was chosen for this exact moment.
“Did you hear about Julia’s latest?” she asks, already smiling.
I grin. “No. What’s our dear Julia done now?”
Whitney stirs the tiny umbrella in her piña colada. “She hosted a garden party last weekend and didn’t realize the gardener was on vacation. Her prize roses looked more like prize weeds.”
Laughter ripples through the group.
“Poor Julia,” I say, smiling into my drink. “A reminder neverto trust your garden to a man named Rodrigo with a month-long vacation planned.”
