“I sent a group text to you and Leo telling you about the segment. You didn’t respond.”
That’s right, Carson thinks. She saw the group text come in from Willa and deleted it without reading it. “I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”
“Why?” Willa says. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Just tell me, Carson. I know I’ve been self-absorbed—”
“Yes, you have been, but that’s okay.”
“What happened?” Willa reaches out and touches Carson’s hair. She used a curling iron tonight and her hair falls in long barrel curls; it looks very extra. Willa can’t believe she made such an effort for Lucinda’s birthday. And what is up with her drinking ginger ale? “You can tell me.”
Carson wishes that were true. She’s always wanted Willa to be the kind of big sister she could confide in and conspire with. But Willa is sanctimonious and judgmental. She thinks she’s better than Carson, morally. And, okay, maybe she is, but she doesn’t have any compassion for people who are flawed.
“You brought me up here to tell me something,” Carson says. It’s nice being sober and having a clear head. “I’m ready.”
Willa takes a breath. “Okay.” She glances at the door and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Pamela thinks Zach is having an affair.”
Carson gasps—which is good because Willa interprets this as Carson is shocked because this is such juicy and unexpected gossip rather than Carson is shocked because she’s been caught, or nearly. Carson wonders if this has anything to do with the night last week when she and Zach had sex in the Bridgemans’ living room. Carson won’t lie; she was so deeply spooked that she hasn’t had a drink since that night and she hasn’t contacted Zach at all.
“I know, right?” Willa says. Her eyes shine with prurient excitement.
Carson wants to be careful about how she proceeds. “He doesn’t seem like the cheating type, does he?”
“No!” Willa says. “But Pamela is so…”
Bitchy, Carson thinks. Controlling. Unpleasant. “Merciless?” Carson says. “She clearly enjoyed beating the crap out of him at tennis.”
Willa rolls her eyes.
“Does she think she knows who it is?” Carson asks lightly. “Any leads?”
“Not yet,” Willa says. “She can’t access his phone records because it’s issued through ATC. But she texted me this morning to say she needs to talk to me ASAP, so there might be a new development.”
Carson feels like she’s riding a mechanical bull at the moment before she gets flung to the ground. “Well, it’s nice that she’s made you her confidante.”
Willa laughs, then disappears into one of the stalls. “It is nice,” she says. “Twisted, but nice.”
Willa, Carson, and Leo all return to the table just in time for cake—a yellow cake with chocolate frosting, yellow sugar roses, and Happy Birthday, Lucy written in the middle.
Lucy? Willa thinks. Penny Rosen must have been the one to talk to the pastry chef.
Lucinda blows out the candles, then winks at JP and Savannah. “You’ll never guess what I wished for.”
“Mother, please,” JP says.
Willa and Rip are the first to leave; Willa is tired—quelle surprise—she likes to be in bed by nine and it’s an hour past that. Leo and Marissa leave next; Marissa is mopey and barely manages to say thank you and goodbye. JP and Savannah wait ten minutes before they excuse themselves. Are they leaving together? Carson suspects their relationship is platonic; they probably sit around and talk about how much they miss Vivi.
This leaves Carson, Lucinda, and Penny Rosen.
Carson says, “I’m going to go flirt with the bartender.”
“Excellent idea,” Lucinda says. “Penny and I will join you.”
“No, Lucy,” Penny says. “I’m driving you home.”
“Happy birthday, Grammy,” Carson says, and she kisses Lucinda’s cheek.
“Thank you, darling,” Lucinda says. “You were very well behaved tonight. I was surprised.”
“And I was disappointed,” Penny Rosen says with a wink.
Carson takes a seat at the bar. Zach and Pamela are long gone—off for an evening of Zach’s carbonara and Netflix. They’ll chill, maybe have a little wine; maybe they’ll make love. Carson tries not to care.
Pamela thinks Zach is having an affair.
Not any longer, Carson thinks. It’s over, there’s nothing to worry about, and Pamela can’t access Zach’s phone, so Carson is safe. She’s not sure why her heart is beating so fast. Maybe it’s because of Marshall.
“What can I get you?” Marshall asks.
“Ginger ale,” Carson says. “What the hell, make it a Shirley Temple.”
Marshall nods and cashes out the only other member at the bar, Dr. Flutie, who must be a hundred years old. He used