“There’s just no privacy. It feels like they’re under a microscope.”
“They’ve told you that?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Several have mentioned it. I’m sure Cat meant well, but it’s hard to develop a feeling of intimacy and trust when everyone can see what you’re doing, all the time.” I met his eyes. “Don’t you ever want to ... I don’t know ... relax in your office? Kick off your shoes? Loosen your tie?” I let my voice grow husky, and he dropped the eye contact, his focus moving to his menu as his jaw tightened.
The waiter approached, and I sat back in my seat, letting William off the hook as we placed our orders.
He liked the grilled cheese. I could see it in the way he relaxed into his seat, a grin widening across his handsome face as he ordered a beer. The sun streamed through the window, lighting up our table, and I felt, for the first time since we moved into the Atherton house, deeper possibilities. He could fall for me. This could be more than just a game. This could be real. This could be my future, the one I’d been dreaming of. For a moment, I let myself sink into the potential scenario.
Vacations in Tahiti.
Second homes in Aspen.
A full-time staff, dedicated to fluffing my pillows and fetching my coffee.
“I’m glad we did this. You were right. The grilled cheese ...” He nodded in approval, and I fought not to wipe a crumb off the edge of his mouth. “It was amazing. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had a grilled cheese in a decade, maybe longer.”
I stretched, sticking out my chest as I ran a hand along my flat stomach. “I know. It’s the butter they use. It’s lethal.” The buttered bread was one of the reasons I’d be vomiting it up as soon as I returned to Winthorpe Tech. The number of calories in that sandwich would take three hours of intense cardio to burn off. But for now, I played the cool and carefree woman, grinning playfully at him over my own bottle of beer, as if twelve hundred calories weren’t justifiable grounds for panic. “Sometime I’ll have to make you my french toast. It’s hard to say that it compares with that, but ...” I tilted my head. “It kinda does.”
“Well—” His phone rang, and he glanced at the display, then swore. “I’ve got to take this. Here.” Sliding to his feet, he hurriedly pulled out his wallet and withdrew some cash and placed it on the table. “I’ll see you back at the office.”
“Sure, I—” I abandoned the sentence as he walked away through the tables, the phone to his ear, his voice too low to hear. Was it Cat? Irritation burned through me at the abrupt interruption to our meal, to the first real conversation we’d been able to have.
I stood and moved toward the bathroom, the grilled-cheese sandwich already fighting its way up my throat.
It didn’t matter. I had plenty of time.
CHAPTER 11
NEENA
Every wife in this neighborhood was the same. All spoiled girls who grew up with Daddy’s money, then married Daddy’s friends, then popped out future heirs like a Pez dispenser stuck to open. Rich all their lives and absolutely unspectacular.
I deserved all this so much more than any of them. I stepped onto the Vanguards’ back porch and inhaled the scent of juniper and fresh-cut grass, scanning the backyard for a glimpse of William and Cat. I was getting close. Two years ago, we would have spent a Saturday afternoon staring at the television screen, but now we were at Josh and Kelly Vanguard’s going-away party, the invite as easily tossed out as candy from a float. Further proof that proximity was half the battle in this world. I elbowed Matt in the soft part of his gut as he reached for a miniature cupcake display. He pulled his hand back.
“No sugar,” I hissed. “And that’s Josh Vanguard right there.” I nodded toward the contractor, who was speaking to Perla Osterman’s husband. “Go introduce yourself.”
He went, wiping his hand on his thigh, and I flinched at the sweaty handprint it left. He hesitated on the outskirts of the two men, his thumb tapping nervously on the side of his slacks, and I fought the urge to shove him into their midst. While there were many things I loved about my husband, he was so socially timid. While I had pored over social media accounts and Menlo club membership rosters, learning the major players in Atherton, he had dragged his feet in even attending this party.
Josh Vanguard noticed him hovering and moved back, opening up their conversation, and stuck his hand out, introducing himself. I breathed a sigh of relief as Matt stepped forward and smiled, their grips connecting. I had coached him on Josh’s current projects and the possibility of a joint venture between him and William. If Winthorpe Development fully materialized, they would need site work and clearing. There would be a continual stream of dollar signs that could head in Matt’s—our—direction.
A boy in bright-blue swim trunks sprinted around me and launched himself into the pool, feet lifted high, arms outstretched. A future CEO or board member. He’d be a Stanford legacy, access his trust at age twenty-five, and probably marry one of the brats at this party. Inherit a turnkey lifestyle without ever understanding what true sacrifice was.
“It’s Neena, right?”
I turned to see a wife, clad in all white, a red scarf tied around her neck. She had the pixie haircut adored by women who were on the verge of lesbianism or had given up on pleasing their husbands. I plastered my smile into place. “Yes. Dr. Neena Ryder. And you are?”
“Cynthia Cole. We’re just down the street, on Greenoaks. Cat says you’re in the old Baker place.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant old in terms of age or prior inhabitant, and my smile grew thin. “That’s right.”
“Well, I hope you join the club. We’d love to have you and Mike as members.”
“Matt,” I corrected her. “And we’re looking at the club now.”
“Oh, good.” She leaned in, and I watched as her mojito tipped to one side, a bit of it sloshing out. “You know, it’s hard to connect with people otherwise. We just moved into the neighborhood a few years ago, and I’m not going to lie, it was a little cold at first. I told Bradley—that’s my husband, Bradley Cole.” She pointed to a man by the back doors. “I told him that I wanted to move, to find another neighborhood, and he said, ‘Cyn-thi-ah, just join the club.’” She lifted up her hands in a shrug. “And he was right!”
“That’s wonderful.” I nodded, unsure of where this sales spiel was headed but 100 percent certain that I would not be able to convince my cheap husband to drop the quarter of a million dollars for the initiation fee. Buying this house had already been out of his wheelhouse, and he was shooting down my renovation ideas the moment they were brought up.