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The theme this season is “country club white.” All the guests were told to show up in their best white apparel, because it’s after Memorial Day, don’t you know? I am wearing a loose linen shirt tucked into khaki pants because that’s what my assistant Vivian told me looks best for this type of party. Most of the others are dressed in white dresses – with hints of other colors and patterns – white suits, or some hodgepodge of pastels, blacks, and even gray. Depends on how quickly they decided to show up.

My family’s home has a sprawling field in the back. Most of the other families in the area concentrate on landscaping to the point they have elaborate flower gardens like Etta Coleman or hedge mazes like at Le Manoir a few hours from here. My father has the opposite tastes. For all his wealth, he’s a minimalist. Of course, when I was a young snot with too much energy, I thought the big rambling field tucked between old-growth forests was the best thing in the world. I’d make my mother and nanny have their picnic lunches out there during the summer so I could build forts with cut grass and twigs I dragged in from the forest.

That was fun until I hit puberty earlier than most. Then I was two feet taller, growing boobs I hadn’t asked for, and lusting after every girl who wasn’t my mother or nanny – she was an older German woman named Mildred, okay?

Now my father uses this field to host his outdoor parties. Complete with elaborate croquet courses for groups of seven or eight to play while we wait for the catering to come through with sandwiches and other finger foods.

“It’s your turn, dear,” my mother says, tapping her mallet into the ground. “And please make an interesting play. I’m dying of boredom here.”

My mother hated these parties when she was married to my father, and she hates them even more now that she has to travel to attend them. She has her ways of getting back, however, Like wearing black to a country club party.

I line up my shot and carefully hit the ball. I barely miss the one I was aiming for and will now wait until my next invigorating turn. My brain is probably about half as melted as my mother’s. When it comes to these sorts of functions, I get all of my personality from her.

“So, how’s the project coming along?” We’re standing off to the side while two old ladies fat with West Coast money squabble over whose ball is whose. “Your father says that the Anderssens paid a visit to you and Kathleen on Friday.”

I’m lucky it’s not my turn, because I’ve done a bang-up job forgetting about Kathleen and Friday. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret making her come while feeling her body writhe between mine and the wall. If we didn’t do it, I would have exploded. Again. Like I did twelve years – damnit stop thinking about that.

But I didn’t explode anywhere but against her. And hell, it was damn good.

Ahem.

“It’s fine.” Sweat fogs up my sunglasses, and I don’t know why I’m perspiring. Didn’t start until my mother mentioned Kathleen.

“Uh-huh.” My mother clears her throat. “I’m surprised the Allens aren’t here today. I would think your father would invite them after the Anderssens.”

The star couple is schmoozing near the buffet table. Lara Anderssen, dressed in a stunning white summer dress that accentuates her figure while still covering her up, puts her hand on everyone’s shoulder and bats her eyelashes at them – including the men. Some of them flirt back with her, which makes her spouse Kennedy smirk in approval. Sure, she’s keeping it cool, but a Domme knows when another is salivating over their wife making nice with beautiful women. Knowing what I do about the Anderssens’ personal lives? None of these people stand a chance. They’re all going to bed.

Yet I can’t help but laugh when I see the latest target is one of the heads of the community council. Well, if they’re going to use their swinger powers for good…

“The Allens couldn’t make it,” I say. “They had something else planned.”

“Pity. I haven’t seen Kathleen in a while.”

For some reason, that makes me flinch.

“You two used to date, right?”

I turn around, facing my mother for the first time in five minutes. I half expect to see her smiling at me in that teasing way. Instead, she’s looking as if she’s searching her brain for the right answer. Seriously?

“No. We have never dated.” My mallet digs into the earth, creating a fun divot for someone to fix later. “You must be thinking of another blonde.”

“No… no, I clearly remember it being Kathleen Allen at that gala all those years ago.”

Play it cool, okay? What does your mother know about the gala? “Remember it being her for what, exactly?” Don’t act like you know what she’s talking about. Play it cool.

Now she’s smiling at me, and I know I’m in trouble. “The one who was making eyes with you all day. Don’t play innocent, Ira. A mother knows when her child is… doing that.”

What is she implying? And why would she bring this up now? “Perhaps so. That was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.”

“Oh, dear, I would think you remember that.”

“You’d be mistaken.”

Before I know it, my turn has come again. My mother eyes me while I line up a shot. “You’ve always been a terrible liar to me.”

Her words make me miss my shot, and everyone around us chuckles.

“What am I lying about?” I mouth at her. She signals to the balls on the ground. Now I’m forced to take my shot again, and I miss the hoop by about five miles. More chuckling. I feel like a jackass. When a server comes by with tiny flutes of champagne, I down one in five seconds, giving me enough time to return it to the tray before the server goes on her merry way.