low and avoiding the watchful eyes of the village that rooted me out at once, caring for a mother who is unwell in some way that has led to Windermere’s steep decline. Caden, avoiding the town’s pity. Maybe their accusations too.
My thoughts stay stubbornly lodged at Windermere all day Saturday, while Emilia tasks each of us with an array of housekeeping jobs and errands in preparation for the “small garden party” the Bellamys will host in honor of Tom’s thirty-eighth birthday on Sunday. In the afternoon, I drop Paisley off at the Coopers’ for the girls’ pool date, then drive Emilia’s car to the florist on Main Street to pick up a missing bouquet from the Bellamys’ order.
Back at Clovelly Cottage, I peek at the guest list. There are 103 affirmative RSVPs. Caden and Meredith Talbot’s names are included among a small list of guests who have not responded to the invitation. I breathe a small sigh of relief.
As I cart lawn furniture from the shed to the yard behind the pool, I perfect my inward cringe. What must Caden have thought of me? Poking around Windermere twice in three days. My uncanny resemblance to his missing girlfriend. My failed attempt at a neighborly gift, which he probably saw as a thinly veiled attempt to gain admission to Windermere. And wasn’t that exactly what it had been? I’d wanted an excuse to see him. To be invited inside. To insert myself into his life. I hadn’t known what I was doing, but I’d done it all the same. No wonder he’d shoved the cookies back into my hands once he’d gotten a clear look at my face.
* * *
Under an hour into Sunday’s party, I’m at a complete loss. I’m technically on nanny duty as usual, but Paisley is running around with Raychel and a small gaggle of their friends, and they don’t need much in the way of supervision. I almost wish they did; it would give me a reason to stay far away from the bar set up beside the hot tub.
The pool deck is swarming with well-heeled guests sipping chic cocktails I’ve never heard of with names like Negroni and Paloma. I back away, onto the grass. The last thing I want is to get snared in a web of small talk with the Bellamys’ friends. I can feel their eyes roving across my skin, even though I’ve pinned my hair up under a broad-rimmed sun hat in my best attempt to look un-Zoe-ish.
I’m not entirely sure it’s working. The more I listen to Martina’s podcast, the more I learn about Zoe and her strange disappearance, the more I wonder what I’m doing here. It can’t be a coincidence—this job, my mysteriously missing doppelgänger. But I don’t have the first clue what any of it means.
On the front lawn, I slip into the shade of the long white tent that has been set up kitty-corner to the fountain and tennis court and fill a small plate with purple carrots and mushroom tartlets. Most of the guests are mingling by the pool; this side of Clovelly Cottage is almost deserted, save for the kids, who are turning cartwheels across the tennis court. I park myself at a tall, round cocktail table in the shade where I can rest my elbows and keep an eye on Paisley.
“What a charming sundress.” The compliment is laced with something like pity or scorn. I spin around. The speaker is a tall, older woman with a body shaped like a bowling pin. She leans primly against the lip of the fountain, an actual parasol propped on the drive in front of her. Slender arms sprout from narrow, sloped shoulders. A trim waist swells abruptly into ample hips and thighs beneath a fluttering skirt. She is dressed head-to-toe in white.
“Thank you?” I’m not sure how she snuck up on me. From where I’m standing, I have a clear view of the drive. And if she’d already been around back at the pool, I’m sure I would have noticed her among the other, younger guests in their effortless summer dresses and pressed linen suits.
She leans forward, using her parasol as a cane, and takes three steps toward me. I can’t tell if she’s fifty or seventy-five. “Take off your hat,” she demands. When I hesitate, she makes an impatient gesture in the air with her hand. “Well, go on.”
Slowly, I slip my sun hat off and place it on the cocktail table. She’s surly but