Of course, there are place cards for where we should be sitting, like a wedding. How did Veronica manage to pull off something so elaborate in about twenty-four hours when I can’t even get four moms over to my house to split a bottle of wine with a month’s notice?

Katie huffs in indignation when Veronica strides away. “Bitch.”

“Why did you come if you hate her?”

She hesitates. “I wanted to network, but I also wanted to see…”

“See what?”

“Just see…I don’t know. Yeah, it’s good for work, but I also want to know what Veronica is up to with this dinner.

” Her sigh is exhausted and defeated, and I wonder if she wishes she hadn’t gotten on that dune buggy.

A part of me wishes I hadn’t come. We’re stuck out here now, for god knows how long, doing god knows what.

It’s like when you agree to one of those all-you-can-drink boat parties that are lovely for the first hour or so, but then you’re stuck on a boat and you can’t get off and you can’t drink any more watered-down gin and tonics because there’s only one bathroom.

That reminds me. A bathroom. Are we supposed to go pop a squat behind the Devil’s Staircase?

The wind is picking up. There’s sand in it so it’s rough when it whips past my cheeks and then blows over one of the tiki torches, sending a gaggle of women in long calico skirts scurrying away lest they ignite.

“We should get started,” Veronica calls out.

The handsome waiters turn into sheepdogs, gently herding all of us into smaller and smaller circles.

I shiver, wishing I’d brought a sweater to cover my bare shoulders.

The desert is colder and darker at night than I ever imagined.

But Veronica has thought of this. She’s thought of everything.

Portable heaters are wheeled out from somewhere.

They surround the tables as we sit in front of small cards bearing our names in beautiful cursive script.

Katie and I are nowhere near each other and I’m sad we can’t continue our conversation.

I get the feeling there’s something going on with her. Some other reason she’s here.

I’m seated between two of the women in the long calico skirts.

They look handmade, possibly out of rags.

That means they’re probably expensive. The shabbier the material these days, the higher the price tag.

They both smile sweetly at me, and I feel like I’m flanked by matching Anne Shirley bookends. Veronica is directly across from me.

The wind is only getting worse. A fine layer of sand now coats the table in front of us. A dozen straw hats have already been lost to the elements. I watched them whisk away on the current of the breeze and then waft over the edge of the steep cliff, which is much too close for my comfort.

“I’m so happy you’re all here.” Veronica has to yell to be heard.

We should abandon this endeavor sooner rather than later.

Where are the dune buggies? Did they leave us here or are they waiting just around the rocks?

Will Veronica abort this event or see it through no matter what the desert chooses to do to us?

“It’s getting brisk out here. But that’s normal right after sunset.

The wind will calm down, I promise you. And we’ve faced worse, right, ladies?

We don’t head inside at the first sign of discomfort.

” It’s reminiscent of her Instagram messaging, plow through the pain, toughen up your spirit through prayer and CrossFit.

This elicits a cheer. We all want to be told that we’re strong. That we’re capable and can do hard things. I want it too. When was the last time someone gave me actual praise or complimented my work ethic or mothering?

“Two rules for this evening. You know how much I love my rules.” The crowd giggles. “A couple of subjects will be off-limits. We can’t talk about our kids, and we can’t talk about social media or the work we are doing.”

“Then what will we talk about?” one woman shouts over the wind. Joking, but not joking.

“Ourselves. Our dreams. Our chosen paths. Our audiences might never know the real us, but we should share that with each other. I’ve been praying a lot.

Telling God that I want more connection.

I’ve been asking for inspiration. I know that I am meant to spread my wings.

It’s what the Good Lord desires for me and I am ready to follow his directions.

If I were in control of my own destiny, perhaps I could remain working in our home forever, but that is not what God is calling me to do. ”

I’m trying to translate in my head. If it were up to her, Veronica would be content to be a housewife and stay-at-home mom forever, but God wants more for her? It’s God who is controlling her ambition? That’s quite a handy way around the patriarchy.

She’s still going, in the careful cadence of a megachurch preacher. In another life she could have been one of those preachers. She’s that compelling.

One of the things I learned from my dive down the Smith triplets rabbit hole is that Veronica doesn’t just dole out advice on her social media.

She is also selling it. She sells courses for $49.

99 on how to run your household like a business.

She has an entire line of vitamins for the “modern mother who needs more energy to do the Lord’s bidding.

” She’s a rich woman who is minting more money and cloaking it inside the coziness of God’s plan for her. What a brilliant scam.

“I’m made for more and so are all of you. That’s what we are here to discuss tonight. What are you made for?”

It’s a question that shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable and I don’t enjoy the swirl of emotions it brings up inside me.

A second tiki torch tumbles over in the wind, but Veronica merely throws back her raven mane and laughs into the gale.

“You’ve got this. You are all queens. We are all queens. Queens of the desert.” She extends both her arms wide and twirls around in a circle. I feel like she’s gonna sell me a time-share or indoctrinate me into a cult. And maybe I’ll say yes.

“Great things rarely come from sitting in comfort zones!”

The waiters push through the weather to bring out our first course, an arugula salad in hand-thrown pottery that’s so lumpy and strange it looks like it could have been made by ten-year-olds.

We’re all silent at first. Are we all so used to talking about our kids and our work?

What else is there? My husband? My marriage?

I don’t have a single hobby to speak of.

I’m either parenting or working. It’s who I am.

It’s who most women I know are. Men have hobbies; women struggle to take a shower.

Everyone around me is pushing their arugula around on their plates. I’m glad to know I’m not alone in not knowing what to say.

“What is God calling you to do?” the woman to my right asks me.

Before I can answer, a crack of lightning illuminates the sky.

We should have noticed the black and purple clouds blotting out the stars, but we were so focused on being praised as queens.

Only seconds later comes a boom of thunder so intense I feel it in my bones.

The wind whips over the table, taking with it flower arrangements in crystal vases, the napkins, and the plates.

Three tiki torches tumble over, sending us into blurry darkness.

One torch picks up speed as it rolls over the rock, only stopping when it slams into the leg of one of the tables.

The flames appear to leap from the lantern to the white cloth, which lights up with a furious vengeance.

That’s when the rain comes. Sharp staccato streams of water, which will hopefully calm the flames, but are also making the rock slippery as we all clamber for safety.

None of us can see. The edge is so near, the canyon so deep.

Anyone could topple down the Devil’s Staircase at a moment’s notice.

A scream comes out of the darkness and then another one.

Everyone panics until the plateau is illuminated in twin beams of headlights. The dune buggies have arrived. We may be saved. We may not.

“Get in,” Veronica yells out. Her tranquility finally punctured. Someone grabs my arm. I look behind me. Katie.

“Flash floods come on fast out here. We’ve got to go,” she shouts into the wind.

The tablescape is still burning despite the torrent of rain.

I can barely see as the raindrops sting my eyes, but I make my way to the waiting vehicles.

We’re all pushing to reach them. It’s an unruly scrum of soaking-wet women desperate for escape.

I make it into one of the vehicles. There’s no roof to protect us. As soon as the four seats are taken the driver steps on the gas and we’re off. Rain and sand mix to coat us in mud.

Another scream punctures the darkness.

“Help me,” a voice yells into the void. “Help!”

“We have to stop. We have to go back,” I scream at the driver.

He doesn’t seem to hear me. Or maybe he does and keeps going anyway.

I’m pinned to the back of my seat from the velocity of the cart.

We’re sliding all over the place. I remember how deep the canyon was on the edge of the plateau.

One wrong turn and that’s where we’ll be.

One of the tires snags on a jagged rock and my side of the vehicle flies off the ground. Blood rushes through my skull and I’m close to blacking out. I reach over for Katie, though I can barely make her out through the rain. Her head is bowed. I think she’s praying.

My eyes keep searching the horizon for the hotel, but there’s nothing. We must be going in the wrong direction. What had the woman told me during my tour? There’s a hundred miles of open desert this way. No one will ever find us.

I find Katie’s hand. Our fingers are slippery, but we try to hold on until finally the outline of the hotel appears in front of us. It’s a mere shadow in the darkness, almost a mirage. The power must have gone out during one of the lightning strikes. But still, we’re safe.

We reach the circular driveway and workers rush toward us with plush towels.

“Someone is hurt back there.” I’m hysterical and I don’t know if anyone is listening to me as they swarm me with warm towels that smell vaguely of eucalyptus.

Finally one hotel employee responds, “We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Please don’t worry.”

But how will they get there? Out the massive windows I can see headlights from the other vehicles making their way back here. Another slash of lightning. The thunder fast after it. It’s close. So close. I can smell singed earth.

The lobby is lit with an abundance of candles, most of them lavender- and cedar-scented ones from the gift shop.

“The generators will kick in soon,” the young woman behind the desk says calmly. “Any minute now.”

Katie is frantic, her eyes darting around the room. “The elevators are out?” she says.

“They are. But you can use the stairs.”

She makes a mad dash for the fire door. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I follow her, curious about why she’s so desperate to get upstairs.

An employee chases after me and thrusts a flashlight into my hand.

Only then do I realize that I don’t have my phone.

It’s still in that black bag. Probably still out on the rocks or dropped down into the chasm. Lost forever.

I can just make out Katie’s footsteps in the stairwell.

She’s only one floor above me. I take the stairs two at a time with the same energy I used to sprint out of Rebecca’s house just yesterday.

The door to the second floor slams in my face as I reach it.

Once it’s open I see Katie rushing down the hall, squatting and opening her arms to a small figure hunched in the hallway.

By the time I reach them, Katie’s clutching the person; they’re rocking back and forth and Katie is soothing them.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re fine.”

I hear the distinct cries of a child.

Katie doesn’t notice that I’m here, she’s so focused on comforting the little creature in her arms. I kneel down next to them.

“What can I do?”

I have to repeat myself a couple of times before Katie squints into the glare of the flashlight. The look on her face is one of horror and fear. She doesn’t want me here. And when the little girl lifts her head I can see why.

I gasp as I look into Rebecca’s daughter’s pale white face, streaked with tears. “Alice?”