Must be nice to be mayor. Less nice if you’re married to her, which my brother Huxley can attest to, though he’s currently enjoying a peaceful evening at home with baby Mack while I’m out here managing his wife’s social anxiety disguised as a party.
Jasper and Leo are back at our cottage with Ella and Elliot, and they both gave me deeply sympathetic looks when I left. The kind of looks that saidbetter you than usand also,we’ll have pizza waiting when you get home.
“It looks like the entire Pilates Posse has arrived,” Georgie announces, appearing at my elbow in a kaftan covered in giant lobsters wearing beanies. “Should we be worried they’re going to start doing planks between courses?”
Mom is right behind her in white linen pants and a blazer with shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices. “Georgie, be nice,” she scolds.
“I am being nice. I didn’t say they looked like they needed the carbs.”Which they totally do.She nods my way with the thought.
They might, but that’s beside the point. We’re about to have dinner.
Mackenzie’s friends are scattered across the beach in various states of over-dressed panic. There’s a lot of cream linen, a lot of espadrilles thatare sinking into the sand, and approximately zero people who look prepared to get butter on their hands.
Sloane is in a silk slip dress that probably can’t survive a light breeze. Blaire is wearing heels—yes, actual heels—on a beach. Tamsin is the only one in something practical, but even her workout gear looks as if it came with a personal shopper. Kennedy is hovering near the back of the group in a floral sundress that’s nice but clearly not designer, and she’s got that look on her face that says she’s doing math in her head about whether she belongs here.
The pets have formed what appears to be a strategic alliance. Fish is perched on top of a cooler like a tiny furry CEO about to announce layoffs if she doesn’t get fed properly. Sherlock and Gatsby are positioned near the cooking station where Emmie’s staff is unloading pots of steaming seafood.
Cinnamon is sprawled in the sand looking exhausted by proximity to this much wealth and delicious dishes. And Biscuit Gravy, Candy, and Cane are sitting in a perfect triangle formation, their eyes tracking every piece of food with laser focus.
I can smell the butter from here,Sherlock moans with longing.This is going to be the best night of my life.
You said that about the yacht,Fish reminds him.
I was wrong then,he barks.I’m right now.
One of the friends I’m not familiar with—a tall blonde in head-to-toe white who’s definitely going to regret that choice—steps forward with a champagne flute raised.
“I’d like to make a toast,” she says, and everyone turns to look at her.
“To Brittany,” she continues, her voice carrying across thebeach, “who always knew how to make an entrance. And apparently, an exit.”
There’s a beat of shocked silence, and then someone laughs. Then someone else. And suddenly the whole group is cackling away, and I’m watching Mackenzie’s face turn three different shades of red.
At least someone’s finally being honest about how ridiculous this is,Blaire thinks, and I catch her smirking behind her champagne flute.
Poor taste. But accurate,Sloane adds, her expression perfectly neutral even as her thoughts drip with acid.
“And to Mackenzie,” the blonde continues, clearly on a roll now, “who’s treating us to plastic bibs and paper plates. How charmingly...rustic. Cheers!”
The plates are not paper. Okay, so some of the little appetizer plates are, but still. Talk about a tough trust fund crowd.
Everyone drinks, and Mackenzie looks like she’s mentally calculating how long it would take a body to wash out to sea.
“That was Melissa,” Mom whispers to me. “She and Brittany used to date the same guy. There’s history.”
Of course, there is.
Macy waddles down the beach path hauling two overstuffed tote bags that look one seam away from catastrophic failure. Bottles of hand soap jut out of one like weaponized toiletries, industrial-strength stain remover peeks from the other, and I’d bet money there are candle samples buried in there somewhere because my sister has never met a captive audience she didn’t try to upsell.
“I figured you’d need backup,” she says, dropping into an empty seat with a huff that says the walk nearly killed her. She starts unpacking her disasterpreparedness kit—wet wipes, napkins, and some kind of miracle spray that claims it can remove blood, wine, and regret.
Sloane looks up from her untouched lobster and actually smiles. “Macy. How thoughtful.”
“I also brought samples of my new line,” Macy adds, already fishing out a small box like she’s been waiting for this exact opening. “It’s called Sweet Surprise, and before anyone asks—no, it doesn’t smell like anything noxious. I learned my lesson.”
“What does it smell like?” I ask, because someone has to.
“Chocolate chip cookies and sea salt caramel. Normal things. Things people actually want their houses to smell like.”
