Every Last Secret - A.R. Torre Page 0,24

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.

“Anyway”—she patted my arm—“if you need a cup of sugar or anything, just call me. I’ll have one of the staff run a bag down to you.”

I hesitated, unsure if that was a joke, and when she laughed, I joined in, feeling like a caricature. I caught a glimpse of William, moving into the house, and stopped. “Cynthia, excuse me. I just saw someone I need to say hi to.”

“Sure, sure.” She lifted her mojito, and there was an edge of annoyance in her tone, as if I had beaten her to the punch of leaving. “Go ahead.”

I moved through the house, ignoring the clusters of conversations that I stepped around. William wasn’t in the front foyer, and I passed the coat check and pulled open the heavy front door, peeking out.

It was peaceful and quiet, and through the twitter of birds, I heard the faint sound of arguing. Stepping out, I eased the door closed, blocking out the sound of the party.

“You need