Page 17 of Rockland

Suit yourself.

I take a deep swig straight from the bottle. I turn and head for the kitchen, leaving Sasha in a gaped-mouth, hair-tugging frenzy in my open doorway.

I call over my shoulder, “Want some?”

I plop the bottle on the marble counter, go to the cupboard, and take down two glasses. I pour a generous one for myself—the golden wine reaching almost the lip of the glass—and a normal one for my guest.

Apparently she needs a little courage to be in my presence. Hopefully, the liquid type will do.

I hear her close the door, sashay down my hallway. She gives me a tight-lipped smile, takes a seat on one of my new leather, high-back, tufted barstools. Each one had cost me well over a grand but I needed the retail therapy—I’ve had a bit of a spending habit lately, the main evidence being the exotic wine collection I’ve created over the past few months.

Sasha’s spine is ramrod straight as if she’s prepared to bolt if necessary. She thanks me for the wine but instead of partaking, she gives the glass a funny stare.

She hasn’t said a word yet. Strange. Usually you can’t get this chick to shut up. I sit down, take a drink, and start the small talk. I’ll prove to them I’m just fine. I’m up to date with the goings-on in the Village—I’m an active member. I say, “So, when do you and Carter leave for the Hamlet? You two got a bun in the oven yet?”

She gives me a queer look. “You know Bronson vetoed that plan last year, right? We were supposed to go after we’d been married a year, but then Bronson said he needed just a little more time with Carter beneath him in the ranks, you know… since we’d just lost Brett? Remember?”

I might vaguely remember something about that. When Brett died, Mary’s husband John moved up into his place, and Carter moved up to take John’s. I say, “Of course I do. But refresh my memory.”

She gives a sigh. “Well, after we were married, Carter wanted to start a family right away, but with the new job, it looks like we’ll be here until Bronson finds a replacement. But you know how picky he is. No one’s good enough for Bronson.”

I hate when Sasha gets like this. Bronson didn’t approve of her when she first became engaged to Carter—she used to be a real brat—and she’s never gotten over it. I say, “Well, he is our leader and we need to respect that. He works hard for the family.”

“I know. I just get so frustrated. At this rate, we may never get to the Hamlet.”

“What’s the big draw anyway? I could never see why one would give up Village life in the city for Connecticut suburbia.”

“You know that there’s no kids here, Tess. And we desperately want a family. We’ve visited the Hamlet and it’s just like the Village, only tamer with cute little kids running around. The houses are gorgeous. Custom built and each one is on an acre. The families all hang out in the square. There’s movie nights⁠—”

“Sounds lovely.” I yawn. Kids are adorable. Being a mother just isn’t something I think I’d be good at.

She continues, stars in her eyes. “It is. And I hope we get to move there soon. But… ah… that’s not what I came here to talk about.” Her gaze travels from mine to the refrigerator.

“Okay, so spit it out. Why the impromptu visit?” I smile, hoping to calm her nerves. Whatever she has to say sure has her worked up.

She looks at me and says, “Tess, this is serious.”

I give her a curious glance. She swivels in her chair until we are facing one another.

Another tug of her ponytail.

“What’s up, Buttercup?” I say, then take an enormous swig of my wine. My glass is half-empty… the story of my life.

She gives my drink a glance, then meets my eyes. There’s a flash of that Sasha-like determination rising in her. She locks her gaze on mine and says, “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

I snort. “Lately, I haven’t cared much what anyone says or thinks.” Making my point, I lift my glass to my lips and drain it. I smile, reach for the bottle, and say, “More wine?”

Before I can grasp it, her hand whips out, lightning fast. She’s got my Chardonnay and she’s running over to the other side of the kitchen. What the hell is she doing? She’s got it over the sink and is draining the last of the two hundred dollars of Roseland Winery’s finest down, down, down.

I stand from my stool, too quickly. I wobble a bit, grabbing the counter. I shout, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Her gaze is fierce as she stares back at me. “Exactly what I’ve been told to do.” She opens the recycling drawer and drops the bottle within. It lands with a crash. I picture it lying amongst all its dead relatives—the bin is overflowing.

My head is spinning—I’ve drunk too fast. I want to stop her, but now, she’s in my fridge. When she sees the contents, she gasps. It’s full of untouched casseroles. The meals she and the Beauties have been bringing for months.

Moldy casseroles. And white wine. Lots of it.

Getting over the shock of the uneaten food, she gets to work. She’s pulling a cardboard wine box off the top of the fridge. She’s filling it up with bottle after bottle. My Riesling, my Pinot Grigio, even her personal favorite, the Sauvignon Blanc. Thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth, collected from the country’s finest vineyards.