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I have two.
After dinner, we retreat to the porch and plop into rocking chairs while sipping from steaming mugs of coffee. Night has fully fallen over the lake, turning the water into a blue-black surface shimmering with starlight.
“God, that’s lovely,” I say, my voice dreamy because I’m slightly drunk. Just one step past tipsy. The sweet spot between numbness and being able to function.
Getting there is easy. Remaining that way requires planning and determination.
It begins around noon, with my first real drink of the day. Mornings are reserved for coffee, which sweeps away the cobwebs of the previous night, and water. Hydration is important.
For the day’s inaugural drink, I like two large shots of vodka, downed quickly. A strong double punch to dull the senses.
The rest of the afternoon is devoted to bourbon, sipped over ice in a steady dose. Dinnertime brings wine. A glass or two or three. It leaves me feeling mellow and fuzzy—on the precipice of full-tilt intoxication. That’s when coffee reenters the picture. A strong cup of joe pulls me back from the brink without completely dulling my buzz. Finally, before bed, it’s another hard hit of whatever strikes my fancy.
Two, if I can’t fall asleep immediately.
Three, if I can’t sleep at all.
Even as Eli sits next to me, I think about what I’ll drink once he leaves.
Across the lake, a light flicks on at the back door of the Royce house, flooding the patio in a warm white glow. I lean forward and squint, seeing two people emerge from the house and make their way to the property’s dock. Soon after, there’s another light, this time in the form of a spotlight at the front of their boat. The low rumble of an outboard motor echoes off the trees.
“I think you’re about to have more guests,” Eli says.
He might be right. The spotlight grows larger as the boat cuts straight across the water toward our side of the lake.
I put down my coffee. “The more the merrier,” I say.
The Royces arrive in a vintage mahogany-paneled powerboat that’s both sporty and elegant. The kind of boat I’m certain George Clooney rides around in when staying at his palazzo in Lake Como. Watching it approach my family’s scuffed and faded motorboat feels like sitting at a stoplight and having a Bentley Continental pull up next to your Ford Pinto.
Which the Royces also have. A Bentley, not a Pinto. Eli told me all about it at dinner.
I greet them at the dock, tipsier than I initially thought. To keep myself from swaying, I plant both feet on the dock and straighten my spine. When I wave, it’s a little too emphatic.
“What a nice surprise!” I call out once Tom cuts the boat’s motor and glides it toward the dock.
“I brought your blanket!” Katherine calls back.
Her husband holds up two bottles of wine. “And I brought Pauillac Bordeaux from 2005!”
That means nothing to me except that it sounds expensive and that I will definitelynotbe waiting until Eli leaves to drink more.
Katherine hops out of the boat as her husband ties it to the dock. She presents the blanket like it’s a satin pillow with a tiara on top. “Washed and dried,” she says as she presses it into my hands. “Thanks for letting me keep it earlier.”
I tuck the blanket under one arm and try to shake Katherine’s hand with the other. She surprises me with a hug, capping it with a kiss on both cheeks, like we’re old friends and not two people who met in the middle of the lake a few hours ago. The warm greeting brings with it a twinge of guilt for spying on them.
As Tom comes toward me, I can’t help but think about how he looked when eavesdropping on his wife.
And thatiswhat he was doing.
Eavesdropping. Listening in. Spying on her as blatantly as I was spying on him. All with that unreadable expression on his face.
“Sorry for dropping by unannounced,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.
Unlike his wife, he settles for a handshake. His grip is too firm, too eager. When he pumps my hand, it almost knocks me off-balance. Now I know what Marnie meant byintense. Instead of friendly, the handshake comes off like an unnecessary show of strength. He stares at me as he does it, his eyes so dark they’re almost black.
I wonder how I look to him in my slightly drunken state. Glassy-eyed, probably. Face flushed. Sweat forming along my hairline.
“Thank you for coming to Katherine’s rescue today.” Tom’s voice is deep, which might be why his words sound insincere. A baritone like that doesn’t leave much room for nuance. “I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there to save her.”