of a diamond ring at Jax. “Sure did.”
“How did you…” She paused, thinking of Gard’s words on Wednesday afternoon: It wasn’t just a kiss. I don’t know exactly what it was yet…but it wasn’t nothin’. “How did you know that Brooks…or Fitz…was the one?”
Skye sipped her wine, her expression going dreamy. “We were from totally different worlds, you know? Me, a boat mechanic. Him, an Olympic millionaire.”
“Us too,” said Daisy. “I baked cookies for a living out in Oregon and lived in a studio apartment.” She looked over at Haverford Park meaningfully. “He was…Fitz English.”
Jax nodded, leaning closer, thinking that she and Gard were from two different worlds too. If it worked out for Daisy and Fitz, and Skye and Brooks, maybe, just maybe—
“The first kiss,” said Skye, closing her eyes for just a moment. When she opened them, she licked her lips and raised her wine glass to her mouth. “It was…”
“Electric,” said Daisy. “And I’m not even counting the teenage kisses. I’m only counting the one when we found each other again. The back hallway of Mulligan’s. Oh my God, I thought I’d go up in flames right there.”
“Mulligan’s, the bar? At UPenn?” asked Jax.
Daisy nodded. “That’s the one. There’s an old phone closet in the back.”
“I was still with my ex the first time we kissed,” confessed Skye, spearing a lettuce leaf covered with parmesan cheese. “Brooks apologized to me. Told me it would never happen again, but…”
“You were already ruined,” whispered Jax, on the edge of her seat.
Skye paused midbite, her smart, clear-blue eyes scanning Jax’s face. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Daisy and Skye exchanged a look, then Daisy asked in an overly casual tone, “Do you have a boyfriend, Jax?”
“No.”
“But there’s someone,” said Skye knowingly.
“And I’m betting a new someone,” said Daisy.
“I don’t know.” Jax picked up her wine glass and took a small sip. “Maybe.”
“You have to tell us!” said Daisy.
“No way,” said Jax, feeling her cheeks flush. “Not until there’s something, you know, to tell. And anyway, we’re here to talk about Skye’s party!”
Both women stared at her without flinching.
Daisy broke first. “We’ll promise to drop it if you promise to bring him.”
“Bring him?”
“Yes. We won’t ask you any more about him, but if he’s still in the picture in a few more weeks,” said Skye, in total collusion with her Mommy and Me friend, “bring him to the party.”
Bring the gardener, Gardener, to a party at Westerly.
Bring the gardener, who was a son of a gardener, to a party on Blueberry Lane.
Bring the gardener to a party his employers’ sons would be attending.
Bring the gardener, of whom her mother would never, ever approve, to a party with the Winslows, Englishes, Storys, and Amblers.
Bring him.
She took a long sip of wine, and when she finally lowered her glass, she grinned at her new friends. “Deal.”
“Wonderful,” said Skye. “Now let’s talk about my party!”
After they’d hammered out the party details, they’d sat in the sun for another hour laughing and talking, and Jax was surprised and gratified by how easily she’d slipped into a comfortable rapport with the other two women.
They were all right around the same age, and even though Daisy and Skye were married with young children, Jax had felt totally at ease with them, talking about TV shows they all loved and books they’d recently read. And as an hour turned into two and the first wine bottle was quickly traded for another, Jax realized that there was a lot to like about these suburban moms raising their children in safe, lovely Haverford and its environs. Before now, she hadn’t felt strong pangs for marriage and children, but as she walked back to Le Chateau after agreeing to go to Daisy’s house for another “planning” lunch the Friday after next, she felt them for the first time in her life.
A warm home. Children. A man who loved her. So much to love about the lives that Daisy and Skye were living.
And Jax would do it all differently—so differently from the way her parents had done it. She’d be a hands-on mom, like Skye and Daisy, taking Mommy and Me classes with her babies and spending time with them on purpose—because she wanted to. She wouldn’t foist them off on a nanny before they were able to speak, and she wouldn’t jet off to Paris, or Los Angeles, or Tokyo and hire a paid nurse when one (or four) of them came down with the chicken pox. She would spend long summer days