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“She’s a beast,” I whispered back.

“She’s also mad that the ice is cubed. She wanted spheres. She says you dropped the ball, no pun intended.”

I was too on edge to care. And too used to it. I checked everything once more: the fold of the napkins, the position of the flowers on the tablescapes. I inspected the rims of the glasses for smudges and rotated a potted olive tree, all while watching the clock, anticipating the unforgivable performance I was about to be a part of. Everything looked as restrained and tasteful and exorbitant as it should, the cabanas and umbrellas cutting sharp matte angles like taut boat masts against a clear blue sky, the hors d’oeuvres and fruit plates ready to be admired but left to sour in the sun, the infused water glimmering crystalline in glass spigot jars. The harpist began to play, her soft notes drifting across the breeze with an old, gilded elegance.

My phone buzzed. It was Vivienne.

where is Caspian???

he hasn’t arrived yet, I replied.

obviously. I’m not stupid. but is it too much to ask for you to ensure I feel seen and heard. that’s what I pay you for. I’m starting to question his integrity, and quite frankly, yours.

Speak of the devil, Caspian arrived from the side gate, right as I was imagining popping Vivienne like a balloon and sending her deflated remainder into orbit. He’d parked his Maserati in the motor court, impractically, of course, blocking the caterers. He was dressed head-to-toe in sand linen with a brown satchel over his shoulder, like a homeopathic hitman.

“Upstairs,” I said.

He nodded once, solemnly.

Vivienne made an entrance right as the first few guests arrived, revived from fifteen minutes with Caspian, floating around the poolside to embrace Raff Stone the venture capitalist, and Amber something-or-other, the serial wife. She’d landed on an oyster-silk kaftan with translucent sleeves and antique-gold embroidery climbing the cuffs. It skimmed her body and opened at the leg whenever she moved, less an outfit than an atmosphere.

Davina was the first to arrive after Raff and Amber. She walked across the poolside unassumingly, looking a little lost, like she had nowhere else to be, but this wouldn’t have been her first choice, either. Like it was an excuse she’d used to force herself out of the house, when she wanted to do nothing but talk to a cat and wear leggings. She was dressed in a stiff green sundress that cut her milky legs in half, and her face was gaunt from grief.

Vivienne gave her a loud, performative hug, and I hoped she’d then drift to Raff and Amber to awkwardly admire all the sun-brindled excess, but she quickly found me pretending to be absorbed in a platter of persimmons. Because I was the safe one, the one who wouldn’t run down her social battery in five minutes, asking about her grief while applying ninety-dollar sunscreen.

“It’s Marlowe, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Great to see you again, Davina.”

“Thank you so much for inviting me. This is spectacular.”

“Of course,” I said, ready to bite off my own thumb. “So glad you could make it.”

She shifted her stance, moving her canvas tote to the other shoulder. “I almost didn’t come, but my therapist thought it would be good for me.”

My phone rescued me before I had to form a reply that would make me hate myself. But then I saw the name on the screen. It was the sommelier. The real one.

“Solange?” I said, cradling the phone to my ear.

“Marlowe! I’m so sorry I didn’t call you earlier. I’m actually fine now. I found an incredible physio in Sonoma, I’ll give you her number. Anyway, I can still make it. I’m about twenty minutes away—”

“Oh!” I said, too loudly. “Please don’t worry, Solange. You rest that ankle—”

“I really don’t mind! I can—”

“Really, Solange, I feel bad asking you to do that when you’re still recovering,” I said, certain my face had turned a shade of eggplant.

“But I really don’t mind, Marlowe.”

Right as she said my name, Kai arrived looking spectacular, like he’d gotten the memo and understood every word and then some. An expensive ivory shirt with the cuffs rolled elevated him to bronzed Ibizan god status, especially paired with slim olive linen trousers, worn leather loafers, and the row of faded bracelets at his wrist that kept the whole thing from looking overdone. His collar was open, his hair looked like the ocean had styled it for him personally, and a black wine key showed at his pocket. He was more than ready to serve wine convincingly while ruining a woman’s judgment. Vivienne’s head swiveled when he waved at me. Caspian peered at him quickly over his sunglasses, like even he might want to fuck him. Or murder him.

“I’m sorry, Solange,” I said, distracted by the poolside dynamic already playing out without anyone trying. “I wish I’d known. I already booked another sommelier.”

Silence.

“Oh.”

“Like I said, if I’d known—”