The first 3 parts of this gripping psychological thriller available in this box set!

“I know your secret. I’m going to tell.”

As Sarah Taylor-Cox stares at the anonymous letter she’s just received, her body starts to shake with dread. She has everything to lose—a gorgeous husband, a beautiful new baby, and a picture-perfect house in the Hamptons. With family descending for her son’s christening, she must maintain her customary poise. But as the notes continue to arrive, the lies Sarah has built her life on are starting to crumble, one by deadly one…

This bundle comprises:

Take It to the Grave (Part 1 of 6) Take It to the Grave (Part 2 of 6) Take It to the Grave (Part 3 of 6)

by Zoe Carter

Take It to the Grave

Bundle 1

Zoe Carter

Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Take It to the Grave (Part 1 of 6)

Introduction

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One: Sarah

Chapter Two: Maisey

Chapter Three: Sarah

Chapter Four: Maisey

Chapter Five: Sarah

Take It to the Grave (Part 2 of 6)

Introduction

Chapter One: Sarah

Chapter Two: Maisey

Chapter Three: Sarah

Chapter Four: Maisey

Chapter Five: Sarah

Take It to the Grave (Part 3 of 6)

Introduction

Chapter One: Maisey

Chapter Two: Sarah

Chapter Three: Maisey

Chapter Four: Sarah

Chapter Five: Maisey

Copyright

Take It to the Grave (Part 1 of 6)

Zoe Carter

It started with an anonymous note…

Sarah Taylor-Cox has the perfect life—a gorgeous husband, a picture-perfect house in the Hamptons and a beautiful baby, Elliot. Now the invites are being sent out for Elliot’s christening, and the Taylor-Coxes are determined the party will be the event of the year.

There’s just one chink in Sarah’s carefully constructed calm demeanor—her sister, Maisey, will be coming. The sisters used to be close, but now their lives couldn’t be more different. Surely, though, they will slip back into their old ways, and the party will go off without a hitch…

Then Sarah’s difficult relationship with Maisey is pushed to the back of her mind when she receives a note, one which makes her whole body shake with dread: I know your secret. I’m going to tell.

Part 1 of 6: A gripping new installment in this darkly compelling psychological thriller

Dedication

To Elle Rush, who made it happen.

Prologue

The clouds gather thick and furious, shutting out the sun.

The smell of ozone is intense, warning me more effectively than the grumbling thunder. A storm is coming—a big one, perhaps the worst we’ve had in years.

The thought of Elliot gets me moving.

Elliot, with his soft skin and plump cheeks, the darling dimples at his elbows. Just four months old.

An image of another baby, another time, creeps into my mind, but I push it away, stumbling on the damp sand. The nightgown my husband is enamored with twists and turns in the growing wind, tangling between my thighs. I long to tear off the slick fabric, but I don’t dare take the time. I have to find my child.

“Elliot!” I scream his name even though he is too young to answer.

The thunder makes a mockery of my cries, stealing my breath before I can try again.

It’s no use, anyway.

The beach is empty.

Waves throw themselves at the shore again and again, churning themselves into foam.

The ocean fizzes around my ankles and I climb farther up the shore to keep from getting dragged into the angry water. My foot comes down on a broken shell, but I ignore the pain as it cuts through the skin. The agony that swells in my chest at the thought of losing my son is far worse than the throb of my wounded heel.

I can’t lose him—he’s everything.

Please don’t hurt him. Not Elliot. He’s so innocent...

But all babies are innocent, aren’t they?

The rain, when it comes, is as enraged as the ocean, and I’m soaked through in an instant. I can’t bear the thought of my sweet little boy in this downpour. He doesn’t have his jacket. The image of Elliot, shivering and turning blue in his little sleeper, drives me forward. My eyes strain to see in the dim light, every breath I take ending in a cry for my missing child.

I can’t leave him out here; I can’t.

Then I realize the beach isn’t empty.

There is someone standing by the rocks, watching me.

Waiting for me...

“Elliot!”

My scream travels farther this time, echoing through the storm. Strength I didn’t know I had floods my legs, and I run faster.

As I picture my missing son and how wonderful it will feel to wrap my arms around him again, I give no thought to my own safety.

I run toward the dark figure on the beach.

Sarah

I tilt my head and let the sun caress my face, resisting the urge to close my eyes. Elliot burbles on my chest, and I stroke the soft blond down on his head.

“Lucky baby,” I whisper. “Look what a handsome man your father is.”

Sometimes it’s difficult to believe how lucky we both are. Warwick is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—it’s still hard to believe he’s my husband. He grins at me now, flashing the kind of teeth most people will never achieve without hours in a dentist’s chair. His father catches Warwick smiling at me and gives him a friendly nudge.

“Pay attention, son. We don’t want to burn the steaks.” My husband returns his attention to the grill. It’s a gorgeous day, perfect for relaxing on the veranda of our East Hamptons home.

Edward Taylor-Cox winks at me and the good-natured jostling between father and son continues. Though Edward’s hair is silver and the skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles, he is still movie-star handsome. Warwick is destined to age well. I am a lucky woman indeed.

Lucky, lucky, lucky...

One of our maids breaks my reverie. “More iced tea, miss?”

I hadn’t noticed my glass was empty. This is the first truly nice weather we’ve had in weeks. Too bad House Beautiful couldn’t have come today, instead of last Thursday when it was raining. “Yes, please.” I hand Emily my sweating glass.

“She’ll have plain water,” Warwick’s mother says with a frown. “Too much caffeine is bad for the baby.”

“But I’m not—”

I was about to admit I’m not nursing, but close my mouth with a snap, nearly biting my tongue. Eleanor would remind me that breastfeeding is the best gift I could give my child, and while that may be true, she isn’t the one who has to fight with Elliot. I’m still trying, but if he prefers a bottle, what’s the harm?

Emily hesitates, holding my glass steady on her tray, as her eyes flick from Eleanor’s to mine. Feeling sorry for her, I decide to end the impasse. “Water would be lovely. Thank you.”

“And not too much ice, either. Cold water is bad for the system,” my mother-in-law adds, tucking her pristine platinum bob behind an ear.

Emily nods, anxious to leave the patio. “Yes, ma’am.” She performs an awkward little bow-curtsy combo before scurrying away, something she only does in deference to my mother-in-law.

The annoyance must have shown on my face, for Eleanor widens her eyes, the picture of innocence. “What? I’m only trying to help. You have to take care of yourself, Sarah. You’re a mother now.” She touches my baby’s head. “What a darling boy. He’s beginning to resemble Warwick more every day, don’t you think?”

“Yes, he is.” Privately, I think Elliot resembles me, especially around the lips and eyes. His coloring could have come from either of us. I’m blonde, as well, though my hair is a shade darker than my husband’s. Only time will tell whom Elliot takes after.

Be nice. She’s trying, and she’s been good to you—and your son.

“So we’ve agreed. Elliot’s christening party will be included as part of our summer gathering this year.” Eleanor plucks invisible lint from her white linen suit. She’s the only person I know who wears a suit in this heat, but I’ve never seen her perspire. My son has more visible pores than she does. “The guest lists should be compatible, so I don’t foresee any difficulties.”

The Taylor-Coxes are American royalty. Their East Hamptons home is even more luxurious than ours, and it’s close enough that it will be easy to shuttle Elliot back and forth during the party. Eleanor’s offer is meant to be generous, and certainly our friends will be impressed.

“If you’re sure...it’s a lot of trouble for you.” I hope my tone conveys the proper gratitude.

It could have been left at that. We could have enjoyed the gorgeous day, eating the glorious food Edward and Warwick grilled for us, and then stretched out for a nice long nap.

But of course Eleanor has to go too far.

“Your family must attend this time, Sarah—I insist.” Her lips purse into a moue of displeasure. Seeing her expression, Emily hurriedly hands me a glass of tepid water before vanishing into the house again. “It’s getting ridiculous. Why do they have such an aversion to us? People will talk.”

I shoot a pleading look at Warwick and his father, but they’re studiously ignoring us, piling steaming steaks on a platter. Once again, I’m left to fight my own battle.

“It’s not that. They’d love to meet you.” Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be patient. It’s not Eleanor’s fault—my family situation must seem strange to outsiders. “They’re just very busy. I don’t even know where my sister is half the time. She’s always out of the country.”

“It’s not right we haven’t gotten a chance to meet them,” Eleanor says, her brow furrowing with a disapproving expression I am all too familiar with. “They weren’t even at the wedding, for God’s sake. What kind of people miss their own daughter’s wedding? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hiding something.”

I choke on a mouthful of water, soaking the collar of my sundress and narrowly missing my son, who gurgles in his sleep. “Hiding something? What on earth would I be hiding?”

Warwick stops joking around with his father. Their little haven by the barbecue falls silent. I can feel their eyes burn into me as they watch the show.

“Well, I certainly don’t know, do I?” Eleanor hands me a napkin. “You’ve always been so mysterious, Sarah.”

My cheeks grow hot. “I’m not mysterious. It’s just—”

“All right, all right, that’s enough.” Warwick comes over and plants a kiss on the top of his mother’s head. “At ease, Mother.”

She swats at him, but I can tell she’s flattered by his attention. Her Ice Queen exterior softens. Only her darling son gets away with mussing her hair.

Good. Maybe now she’ll lay off, let me get some rest. Maybe Warwick will have a heart and tell her I’m exhausted, that Elliot has been waking up every hour on the hour and when I try to breastfeed it takes him forever to latch on.

No such luck.

“Is what I’m asking so wrong? I’m merely trying to include Sarah’s family. I want us to get to know one another.”

“Of course not, Mother.” Warwick perches beside her on the lounge chair and pats her hand. “You’re being completely reasonable, as always.”

“You know I don’t like sarcasm, Warwick. Seriously, though, it’s only a party. It’s not like I’m saying they should spend the entire summer—”

Eleanor’s eyes gleam, sending my heart plummeting into my sandals.

Uh-oh.

“Yes, that’s perfect,” my mother-in-low crows, clapping like a delighted child. “That’s a fabulous idea. Your family will spend the entire summer here, with us. That will give us time to really get to know one another.”

The thought of my mother, waltzing around the Taylor-Coxes’ multi-million-dollar estate with a glass of gin in her hand, makes me feel ill. Before I can respond, Warwick leans across and squeezes my thigh.

Don’t panic, his eyes say. I’ve got this.

“That might be a bit extreme.” He laughs, showing his lovely teeth, and I pray he’ll be able to talk some sense into her. “I’m sure Sarah’s family already has plans for the summer. They’re very busy people, as she said. But how about a compromise?”

I’d begun to relax when he intervened, but now a chill slinks up my spine. I stare at him, attempting to communicate telepathically.

No, no, no! What are you doing?

“What if they come for the week of the christening? That shouldn’t be too arduous, should it?” When he smiles like that, a dimple appears in his cheek. Ordinarily I find it endearing, but not today.

The three Taylor-Coxes wait for my answer. My mind races, but I can’t think of a single excuse. Silently I sigh. I know when I’m beaten.

“Okay, I’ll ask. But I can’t promise anything. Like I said, I don’t know where Maisey is right now. She could be in outer Mongolia.”

Maisey. An image of my little sister drifts through my mind. She’s twenty-four now, a woman. Has it really been ten years since I’ve seen her? So much will have changed. Maybe it’ll be fun to have her around.

“They’ll come,” Warwick says with the certainty of a man used to getting what he wants. He slowly trails his fingers over my arm, caressing it in the way he knows I like. “I’m sure they’d love to see the baby.”

As if on cue, Elliot wakes up from his all-too-brief nap and shrieks, momentarily deafening me.

“Sounds like someone is hungry,” Edward says, clearly relieved to change the subject. “And he’s not the only one. Shall we eat?”

“In a minute, dear. We need to wait for Sarah.” Eleanor watches as I struggle to my feet, holding my wailing infant. Warwick rushes to help and guides me to the French doors with his arm around my waist.

Eleanor’s words make me freeze in midstep, as if she’d doused me with the ice water she refuses to let me drink. “I do hope you’re nursing him. It’s the best way to lose that baby weight, you know.”

I don’t miss Edward’s assessment of my postpartum figure. At least he has the good grace to blush when he notices me noticing.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Warwick murmurs. “I’ll make sure you get the best steak, cooked exactly the way you like it.”

He kisses my temple and opens the patio doors, and soon I’m alone in my cool, dim house with only my son to comfort me. Elliot’s cries quiet to whimpers, and I wonder if he wanted to get away from Eleanor as much as I did.

“Thank you,” I whisper into my baby’s ear. “I owe you one.”

* * *

It’s a relief to remove the diamonds from my ears that evening. I wince at the stab of pain from my swollen lobes. It echoes the dull throb from my breasts, which are suffering the agony from another hopeless skirmish with my son.

He isn’t rejecting you. Some babies weren’t meant to nurse. At least he’s eating, that’s the important thing.

As I tuck the large gemstones into my dresser drawer, wishing yet again that my husband would let me wear something more discreet, I don’t hear him come up behind me. I move to hide the empty bottle, but it’s too late.

“Oh, Sarah.” Warwick’s voice is heavy with disappointment. “I thought we’d agreed you were going to try.”

“I am trying.” I attempt to keep the defensiveness out of my voice and fail miserably. “It’s not working.” Tears sting my eyes and I duck my head so he can’t see my face.

“How hard can it be? Millions of women do it. I’ve heard there are women working on the rice paddies in China who squat to give birth, sling the baby around their shoulders, and keep right on working. Nothing to it. None of this indulgent one-week-in-the-hospital stuff.”

My mouth drops open. How dare he? Warwick knows I had a hard time with Elliot. The sparkle in my husband’s eyes tells me he is teasing, but I don’t care. The frustration and humiliation of the day are wearing on me. “Perhaps you should find yourself a Chinese rice-paddy worker, then,” I say, shoving past him. “I’m sure Eleanor would approve.”

He smirks. “You have a point. Mother’s a tad obsessed with appearances.”

And you always let her get away with it.

“A tad? That’s the understatement of the year.”

“And speaking of appearances...”

I stiffen. “Don’t start, Warwick. Please, not tonight.”

His hands roam over my body, paying extra attention to my swollen breasts. Never taking his eyes from mine, he moves closer for a kiss, silencing my protests. “You know I find you sexy at any size, darling. These are particularly delicious.” He gently squeezes each breast in turn and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. “But if you’re not going to breastfeed, perhaps we should talk about how you’re going to shed these last few pounds. How can I help?”

At his offer of help, my anger fades. The truth is, I can barely stand to look at myself these days. This sad, frumpy woman with the dark circles under her eyes—she isn’t me. I’d love to wear some of the gorgeous things in my closet again instead of these shapeless sack dresses.

“If you took Elliot for an hour in the afternoon, I could go for a walk along the beach. Maybe even swim a bit once I’ve regained my strength.” I adore my son with an intensity I’d never thought possible, but the idea of an hour of freedom makes my head spin.

He coaxes my sundress aside to kiss my shoulder. “Done.”

My joy is short-lived as he begins to work on the buttons, trailing kisses down my neck. I try to pull away, but he presses himself against me. His erection prods my thigh. “Warwick...don’t.”

The kisses stop. My husband gazes down at me, looking wounded.

“But it’s been three months. I need you. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not ready.” The reality is worse—I’m terrified. Elliot’s birth was incredibly painful. What if my son ruined me? I can’t bear to find out. But, like any man, my husband has needs. If I can’t satisfy him, he’ll search for someone who can. With Warwick’s looks, the search won’t take long.

“The doctor said it’s fine. You’re just scared, which is understandable.” His face brightens. “Wait here. I’ve bought you a present.”

Before I can tell him that yet another gift isn’t necessary, my husband disappears into the closet, returning with a large gold box.

My heart sinks. The box is distinctive, unmistakable. There’s no doubt where it came from.

This isn’t a gift for me at all.

Doing my best to seem thankful, I open it to find a red velvet corset, complete with garters and stockings. I’m so exhausted I can hardly hold my head up. The skintight costume presents a challenge that makes me long to curl into a ball and sleep.

A dimple appears in Warwick’s cheek as he watches me open his present. At times like this, he resembles an imp. A kinky, twisted imp. “Maybe this will get you in the mood.”

Doubtful. Still, what choice do I have? I don’t want my husband to be miserable. And it has been three months. He’s waited long enough. “Give me a minute.” I do my best sashay to the dressing room, hoping it’s sexier than my usual waddle. Sure I’m tired but children are tiring—everyone says so. It’s not like taking care of Elliot will get easier as he gets older. If we’re going to get our romantic life back on track, there’s no better time to start.

I try to convince myself of this as I wriggle into the corset. It’s every bit as uncomfortable as it looked, and it’s doing not-so-nice things to my new figure. My breasts protrude until I feel like an overstuffed sausage. Sexy is not the word I’d use to describe it.

Releasing my long hair from its clasp, I fluff it around my shoulders and endeavor to act more confident than I feel. When I open the door, I’m relieved to see my husband has dimmed the lights. This will help with the illusion.

Warwick waits for me on the bed, his toned body gleaming. He licks his lips when he sees me, and reaches for my hand. “Darling, you are good enough to eat. Come here.”

I feel a moment of panic. I can’t do this. It’s too soon.

His expression is so eager, so hopeful. He’ll never understand how I feel. My husband has counted the days until we can be together again. I should be grateful he still finds me this attractive when I gave birth a few short months ago.

Seeing my hesitation, his smile falters, and I do the only thing I can to keep him happy. I go to him, summoning the memory that has always kept me safe.

When Warwick touches me, I am transported to another place.

I’m a little girl again, wearing a patterned sundress instead of a corset. I sit cross-legged in a field of daisies, watching while my father shows me how to make a chain of the blossoms, his dark head bent over the project. Once the crown of flowers is finished, I will wear it in my hair and spin in the sunlight, proclaiming myself Queen of the Meadow.

My mother smiles when she sees what we’re doing, and says she’d like to have one once we’re finished with mine. She spreads a blue blanket on the ground and unpacks our picnic basket as Maisey crawls nearby, cooing and pulling up fistfuls of grass.

As my beautiful husband invades my body, my mind drifts further and further away.

Maisey

“Say ‘Ah,’” I said, pulling my mouth into an exaggerated O and crossing my eyes in an attempt to relax my young patient. It worked. It gave me a slight headache, but it worked. The little boy sitting on the examination table giggled, and his mother smiled briefly. She held the boy’s baby brother, and for a moment I was distracted. The skinny legs pumping in his mother’s arms reminded me of another baby, another time. I shook my head, surprised by the unexpected memory. I returned my focus to my young patient. Arinya, the Thai nurse I’m training, smiled. She was tiny, slender and so stunning, with dark brown eyes and long dark locks that should have looked sweaty and lank and tangled in this heat, but didn’t. Not for the first time I envied not only the length of her glossy hair, but her built-in air-conditioning that didn’t allow her to wilt in the humidity.

I grinned, then winked. “Ahhh.” I tried again, crossing my eyes harder (cue stronger headache), and the little boy obediently opened his mouth, his shoulders shaking in mirth as he tried to copy me. I used the tongue depressor to quickly scan his throat and tonsils, and nodded as I disposed of the thin wooden stick, not for the first time thinking I should have bought shares in that tongue depressor factory—we went through so damn many of them.

“His throat looks good and healthy, no spots, no redness,” I told Arinya, who quickly noted the details on the boy’s medical chart.

I winked at the boy again. “Good job, dude.” I reached for him, tickling his ears as I gently felt around his throat, easily locating his lymph nodes. I chuckled as the kid squirmed. “Hey, you have to sit still,” I told him, tickling him some more, and his mother laughed as he let loose with a peal of giggles.

“Glands are fine,” I said to Arinya. I conducted the rest of the examination as quickly as I could, trying to make the boy laugh at every opportunity. This was his first-ever visit to a health clinic, such as it was, and I wanted to make the experience a positive one. We wanted this new program to work. That meant people needed to come back. I decided I’d hold off on breaking out the syringes for his inoculations until his next visit. No sense traumatizing the poor kid—or his mother, not on the first visit. No, that stuff was best introduced slowly. Suck the locals into a false sense of security, I say.

The sounds of hammers and saws, men’s voices speaking in a language I still could not master and the dull wash of waves on the shore a short distance away permeated the elevated hut. No, clinic. I had to keep correcting myself. We were making this place a clinic. I eyed the gaps in the wall between the reeds of bamboo. It rained a little every day, and then the temperatures soared north of thirty-five degrees Celsius, which I automatically convert to ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit in my head. Today was hot, and I could feel the prickle of heat, the slide of a drop of perspiration down my spine. I loved it. Give me a cold beer and a hot guy on a sandy beach, and I’m in heaven. I looked at the reflex handle that Arinya was holding out to me and smiled. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, we had a little champ waiting to see what the weird lady was going to do with this funny-looking hammer.

After testing his reflexes, then letting him hit me with that damn reflex hammer, and after measuring his height and weight, head circumference and general health overall, I finally nodded, giving the kid a thumbs-up signal. I pulled a lollipop out of the rear pocket of my denim shorts. Out of all the supplies I’d arranged to have shipped over, it was the candy that seemed to be the item in most demand. And soccer balls. Candy and soccer balls.

“You’re in good shape, young man,” I said. The kid was cute, shy and a little too skinny, with a grubby smile that could melt your heart. He needed good, regular meals, and regular baths wouldn’t hurt, but he was in a lot better shape than some of the other kids I’d seen. I glanced at his mother briefly. He may not be well fed, but it was clear he was well-loved. I wondered briefly what that would feel like, then shook off the self-indulgent thought as I turned to Arinya. “Invite his mother to the nutrition classes, but tell her I think her little man is doing fine.”

I listened absently as Arinya spoke quickly in Thai to the mother. In the few months I’d been in Thailand, I’d managed to pick up hello, goodbye and thank you—and not much else. Okay, maybe some scorching swear words. The Learn to Speak Thai app on my phone seemed like such a great idea, but only worked if I had reliable access to a phone network, which I didn’t, out here in a remote coastal village that was closer to Malaysia than it was to Bangkok. Still, the singsong sounds were relaxing as I packed up the items I’d used, and prepared the treatment room for our next patient—whenever they chose to appear.

It was still a challenge to get some of the locals to trust us enough to come for a checkup—but we were gradually breaking down their resistance. Some of the people here had never seen a doctor, which was something that I, as a nurse, found difficult to relate to. Although as far as I was concerned a good nurse was better than a doctor any day—but I’m biased. I smiled. The main building was almost finished, Arinya and two other nurses had nearly completed their training, and it wouldn’t be long before the clinic was operating in earnest. Another successful build. I straightened my shoulders. Yep. This program was going to save lives, and I was darn proud to be part of it. It felt so good to do good. I rubbed my neck, tilting my head back to stretch my muscles, and looked up at the ceiling. Well, maybe ceiling was a stretch.

Our temporary clinic was located in the barely used village school while the main building was constructed. The roof was thatched from what looked like banana leaves, palm fronds and some mud-like ingredient that could easily have been dried cow manure. I wasn’t going to look too closely.

“Hey, Lucy, that order of bamboo has arrived, and the builders want you to tell them where to start with it.”

It took a moment to realize someone was talking to me. I turned. Jake Danning, one of the backpackers helping with the construction, stood in the doorway. From his expression, he’d been waiting a little while for my response. Damn it, after all these months, I still forgot my name. Luckily, all supplies and equipment were addressed to Nurses Without Borders, so no one here knew my real name. I’d managed to laugh off most hesitations with some casual comment, but I knew I’d given a lot of these people an impression of being quite the ditz sometimes. Fortunately, I’d managed to prove myself with the program setup, training and implementation, so I wasn’t seen as a complete ditz.

My eyebrows rose as Jake’s comments registered. “You’re the site manager, why don’t you tell them?”

He folded his arms as he leaned against the door frame. I’m surprised it held his bulk. The blond American was considerably taller and more solid than his Thai contractors, and this hut looked like the next typhoon could wash it away.

“They want to talk to the nice lady,” he drawled, then chuckled.

I tried to frown, but my lips curved. Right. The builders wanted a break, and this was the most expedient way of getting one.

I gestured to the door and followed him and Arinya out to walk along the raised veranda. The sun was bright, the humidity thick, the sea breeze pretty much non-existent. As I trotted down the stairs to the ground below, one of the village kids cried out, and I waved back. These interruptions were becoming a habit, but I didn’t mind. Everyone seemed to work on a relaxed schedule, and I’d learned it was easier to work with it than against it. I may be here in my capacity as nurse and trainer, but I’d also discovered some unique negotiating skills to get builders and tradespeople to do what needed to be done—in due time.

“Some of the gang are organizing a Fourth of July party...” Jake commented casually, referring to the rest of the team of travelers involved in the health clinic program. “We weren’t sure if you’d be here, or back home in...?” His voice trailed off, and I didn’t miss his obvious attempt at getting more information out of me. At least Rich was more subtle, kept me on my toes. Jake was easy to handle.

“Oh, that sounds fantastic, what a great idea,” I exclaimed, neatly sidestepping the question. “You know I’m always up for a party—any excuse will do.” I turned my attention to greet Chatri, the local man in charge of the build. It took several minutes of gesturing and intent listening, deciphering, laughing and finally translating with the help of Arinya to communicate where the bamboo poles should go, and I brought Jake into the conversation as we turned to look at the newly formed building.

The concrete slab for the new health clinic had been poured, and most of the cinder blocks were already laid. I walked over to the newly delivered bamboo poles that would be used to partially frame up the roof, and spent the next half hour discussing the structure with the local men involved on the project, along with the university students, backpackers and medical professionals who were using their break to contribute to the remote Thai communities who very much needed this clinic.

Something slammed into my butt, and I whirled. Four kids giggled, and I could see more running up behind. A baby crawled in the sand behind them, and once again a startling memory of another little baby, crawling along the ground, slammed into me. Just as quickly, it was gone. It’s okay, don’t worry, the soothing voice in my head whispered.

One of the boys bit his finger, then pointed to the ground and I looked down. A sad little soccer ball in need of inflation lay at my feet, and I grinned.

“Oh, it’s on.” I kicked the ball back to them, then ran up, trying to sweep it out from between their feet. It wasn’t long before we were playing an impromptu game of soccer on the beach.

The rest of the day passed in a blur—much like every other day here.

* * *

I tilted my head back as the hot breeze teased my short hair, listening to Jake’s gentle guitar strumming. It was nine o’clock, the sun had long since set, but the heat and humidity were unrelenting. So unrelenting that Rich’s arm around my shoulders felt more like a hot clamp than a gesture of affection. The campfire was low, and I could see the stars twinkling in the night sky. Only the light from the fire illuminated our group, and there was an intimate feel to the evening, cloaked in darkness. Or maybe that was the alcohol, bringing us together, lowering our inhibitions, our filters. My current flame tugged me closer, and I tried to get comfortable, reminding myself that a cold beer and a hot guy on a sandy beach were supposed to be my idea of heaven.

“I miss my bed,” Rich said as we shared our secret longings to stave off homesickness. Okay, they shared their secret longings; I just listened. I wasn’t homesick. One needed a home to get homesick about. Rich rubbed my arm, waggling his dark brows suggestively. “It’s huge, with just the right amount of bounce.”

I shook my head, grinning. “And you probably change the sheets maybe once a year, right?” I joked, and the others laughed, including Rich. He may be great in the sack, but he was little help outside of it, at least when it came to housekeeping, I’d noticed. He was great on the building site, not so much in the hut we now shared.

“I miss my mother’s pumpkin pie,” Stacey, a college student from Sacramento, commented.

“Oh, my mom used to make a fantastic pecan pie,” Harry, a young med student from New Orleans, interjected. I moaned at the thought of a slice of good old pecan pie—with lashings of whipped cream.

The tie of my bikini top dug into the back of my neck, and I lifted the cotton tank top away from my chest, trying to allow some of that breeze to brush against my skin, no matter how heated it was. It was hot, and my head was beginning to feel just the slightest bit fuzzy. I wasn’t sure if it was dehydration, drunkenness or a pleasant mix of both.

The breeze shifted, and some of us sitting around the campfire moved to get out of the way of the smoke. I tried to shift, too, but Rich sidled up alongside me, that heavy, hot arm tugging me closer to that solid, heated body. He was doing that a lot lately, as though signaling to all and sundry that we were an item. Normally I don’t mind public displays of affection. Kiss me, hug me, get me hot and panting, but this was beginning to feel just a little bit more than a casual PDA. I raised my glass to my lips and took a big sip of the home brew Chatri had left for us. I still couldn’t pronounce its name, but I’d acquired a taste for it. This was my fourth and I was feeling a pleasant buzz. Well, almost. I could also feel the suffocating weight around my shoulders. I swallowed some more. Yep, there’s that buzz now. I relaxed into the warmth that spread through my chest. Chatri’s home brew could pack a punch, if you let it. It made it easier to forget.

“I miss my sister,” Stacey said softly. “There are so many things I’d love to tell her about this project...”

Nope. I wasn’t going to think about my sister.

Harry nodded. “My dad would love this whole thing,” he murmured, staring into the flames. “He’s an awesome handyman, too. We built this bookshelf together for my mom when I was twelve, for the fabric she uses for patchwork.” His expression turned sombre. “She died a few years ago.” He blinked, then smiled. “But that bookshelf is still standing.”

I sure as hell wasn’t going to reminisce about my mother. I forced myself to focus on the bookshelf part of the story.

Jake put down his guitar. “I miss my dog,” he said, staring morosely into the fire.

I chuckled. “You are such a country song.”

Jake grinned, and Rich twisted slightly to face me.

“What do you miss, Lucy?”

I kept the smile on my face, and raised my eyebrows. “What?” I asked, pretending to not hear the question as my mind raced for an answer. Okay, maybe raced wasn’t the right word. It lurched at a sluggish pace.

“Who or what do you miss from home?” Rich repeated, framing his words too clearly for me to play dumb a second time. Damn it. He was experiencing a brief moment of clarity, of purpose, when I was concentrating really hard on not letting my head loll back. Not fair.

“Ketchup,” I responded, broadening my smile. Ah, good one.

My fellow campfire huddlers groaned, and a line appeared between Rich’s brows. For the first time, my glib response wasn’t cutting it with the group. With Rich.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You’re always joking, always laughing, but you never really tell us anything. About you, anyway.”

For a moment, I wanted to argue, wanted to point out that revealing my heretofore unrealized passion for table condiments was me sharing something personal, but the intent look in Rich’s eyes, the earnestness, interest and puzzlement I read there, his eagerness to learn about me, to connect with me... It was seductive. Exhausting. Tempting. I blinked. Slowly. Chatri’s home brew was burning through my system, calming me. Lowering my defenses. Careful, that little voice inside my head whispered.

“Come on, Lucy. Can you tell us something about yourself? Anything?” Rich urged in a quiet, pleading tone.

I glanced briefly around the campfire. Everyone stared back at me, waiting, anticipating. These were people I’d practically lived with for four months, worked shoulder-to-shoulder with, laughed with, shared meals with, raged at the bureaucracy with, celebrated with, cried with... I glanced back up at the man who held me so tightly, so closely, and who stared at me so hopefully.

I looked him straight in the eye. Well, in his four eyes. I saw two of him, at the moment. I blinked. Nope. There were still two of him. “My real name is Maisey,” I blurted. The soft gasp inside my head was a belated warning bell. You idiot.

Rich blinked, then pushed me away a little. I swayed, coolness washing over me at the loss of contact, the surprising distance that yawned between us. “Shut up,” he exclaimed in disbelief.

I may have been slightly drunk, but even I saw the faint horror, the hurt, in his eyes, the slack-jawed shock. I heard the crashing silence around the campfire. I felt the brittle coolness of our separation like an Arctic blast that was more effective than a cold shower could ever be, freezing the effect of Chatri’s hypnotic potion in my veins, and I saw the crystal clarity of consequences unraveling in my mind’s eye, and what I had to do to avoid them. Fix it, now.

I reacted. Curling my hand into a fist, I slugged him playfully on the shoulder. “‘‘Course it’s not, you idiot,” and laughed as I’d practiced for years, injecting levity that bordered on hysteria, but was apparently enough to void my brief, insane moment of honesty. Rich guffawed as he slung his arm over my shoulders again, tugging me off balance. I kissed him briefly on the lips to shut him up, and Jake started strumming his guitar again as Harry reminisced about his dad’s jambalaya.

I settled back against Rich, pasting a smile on my face as I surreptitiously tipped the rest of my drink into the sand, letting that truth serum poison soak into the beach, never to betray me again.

I let the conversation ebb and flow around me as I stared into the golden flames. That was close. Too close.

* * *

An hour later, I stumbled as Rich leaned on me, but managed to catch my balance before we both face-planted in the scrubby brush that formed a natural barrier between the sea and the village. Rich sniggered. I fetched my phone from my shorts pocket and used the light to illuminate our way back to our hut.

“You would love my mother, you know?” Rich slurred into my ear. “An’ she would love you.”

I almost wished I was drunk enough for this conversation, but I’d stopped drinking after my stupid-ass confession, and my brain function was nearly back to normal. Well, as normal as I could get, anyway. And I was hearing way more than I wanted to. God, I can’t believe I slipped up so badly back there. Moron. I didn’t do sharing, I didn’t do intimacy, I didn’t do truth or dare and I certainly didn’t play happy families. Why hadn’t I seen this coming? Was I blind as well as stupid? Or was I so desperate that I was willing to fool myself into a facade of a relationship with Rich?

“You know, Lucy, when we get back home, we are going to have so much fun,” Rich breathed in my ear, his hand sliding down my back to cup my butt. “Not that we’re not having fun now.”

I shot him a sidelong glance, then turned my attention to where I was going to put my feet without twisting an ankle. “I like fun, too, Rich,” I replied. Maybe he’d get the hint. Fun and games, no strings.

“We’ll buy a house, something that backs onto a beach, great views,” he said, gesturing widely with his arm. “An’ a ham—” he hiccupped “—hammock. In the yard. And we can swing and watch the kids play.”

I stumbled again, my stomach twisting in a coil that threatened to expel Chatri’s homebrew. “Kids?” I tried to keep my tone casual, but Rich was apparently too drunk to notice the high-pitched panic in my voice.

“Yeah, at least two, so they can play together. I’ve always wanted four, but I’ll settle for three. Yeah, three...” Rich nodded, then lurched and had to brace himself against the trunk of a palm tree to prevent himself from falling down.

I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. Three kids. Oh. Dear. God.

“You’re great with kids, you know,” he murmured, pulling me closer and kissing me on my cheek. “You’re going to be a great mom.” That voice inside my head gasped, then choked with laughter, rejecting the concept immediately. Instinctively.

I blinked. No. No, no, no, no. I’d make a horrible mom. I’d make a horrible wife. How could he not see that? I was not settle-down material. The very idea of creating a home, one that couldn’t be packed in twenty minutes and hauled over my shoulder in a backpack at a moment’s notice, was enough to make me want to puke, then cower in the fetal position in the dark somewhere, in a place where I could hide and never be found.

I took a deep breath. It was time to move on.

I sighed in relief when our hut came into view, and I managed to help Rich up the stairs. He was too involved, too invested, in what should have been a trivial, unimportant, fun little hookup. I had to leave.

Overwhelming sadness made me halt in our doorway. I watched Rich stagger toward the mattress on the floor. He was cute. Sexy. Dark hair, dark eyes and a physique that had made me drool when I first met him. He was also nice. Really, really nice. Not complicated, he said what he thought and was casual, laid-back. Where had this serious attachment come from? When had it flared? And why hadn’t I quashed it before now?

Now, he wanted a home by the sea and a hammock we could swing in to watch our three kids play. Talk about suffocating strings.

Rich turned to me, and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, are you coming in?” he asked, and despite the fear clenching my stomach, I had to smile as he swayed his hips suggestively. See—this was fun. He peeled his shirt off his shoulders with an expression that told me he thought he was being sultry and erotic, but in reality looked like he was having a seizure.

I stepped forward and helped him get rid of the garment. He really was a beautiful man, and I knew that as much as I hated doing it, I was going to hurt him. I hated him for putting me in that position, and I hated myself for doing it.

He cupped my cheek, his face going from sexy to concerned in a matter of a few drunken blinks. “Hey, why so sad, sweetheart?”

I opened my mouth. Hesitated. For a moment, Rich blurred, and the memory of Pedro and the orphanage in Belize flashed through my mind.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Pedro cried, running his hands through his hair. “You can’t.”

“Please, Pedro. This was only ever going to be temporary. No strings, remember?”

“No strings?” His voice rose, and I winced at the pain and anger that seemed magnified by the tears welling in his eyes. “That was ages ago, mi amor. We have shared so much, done so much—” he took a step toward me, his expression pleading “—loved so much.”

I swallowed, fighting back my own tears. “I’m so sorry, Pedro. I—I just can’t do this.”

“This? This!” Pedro beat at his chest, and I flinched at the raw pain in his face as his tears fell. “This is my heart—my love! I thought we were good together.”

I closed my eyes against his agony. God, this is not what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to hurt him... For a moment, I thought of nodding, of just running to him and hugging him, easing his pain and whispering that everything was going to be all right. I’d made a stupid, horrible mistake. But the thought made goose bumps rise on my arms, and my stomach heave at the thought of living this life with him, day in, day out, trapped by a man’s love.

I couldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry, Pedro. I have to leave. It’s not you—” I stopped talking. I couldn’t trot out that trite little speech that had been so useful so many times before. Pedro deserved better. “I’m broken, Pedro. I’m damaged goods. You deserve better than that.” Better than me.

Pedro shook his head, reaching for me. “I’ll fix you,” he whispered, and I tried to dodge his hands, to turn away and leave, but he caught me, pulling me in close. “Let me help fix you. Our love—we can fix anything, mi amor.”

His arms felt like tight bands of steel enfolding me, crushing me, suffocating me. I struggled, and I could feel his tears soaking the back of my shirt.

“You can’t fix me, Pedro,” I whispered. I couldn’t be fixed. I broke free of his grip and scooped up my backpack. “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

I ran to the door before he could grab me again. I slammed it shut behind me, and felt the door shudder as he hit it on the other side. I flinched, and stepped away warily, my gaze on the doorknob.

He hit the door again, and then I heard the rustle of fabric as he slid down to the floor on the other side, sobbing. I backed away, tears streaming down my face. I turned and fled.

I smiled shakily at Rich. That memory was a shock. I’d happily avoided it, and had only really taken stock when I was out on the street, stunned to find myself operating on autopilot. At the time, it had felt like a gap in my memory, but every now and then, something would surface, something from the black void that hid so much that I’d gotten used to its murky protection. I bit my lip gently. I wasn’t going through that again. I didn’t want another scene. It was cowardly, it was pathetic and it was the only way I could do this. I learned from experience. I tilted my head into his touch, and closed my eyes. I’d leave in the morning. Before he woke.

“It’s nothing,” I said, finally meeting his gaze, masking my pain, my intent. My pathetic cowardice. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

He drew me closer, his muscled arms enfolding me ever so gently. “Are you...too tired?” he murmured, dipping his head to nibble at my ear.

I blinked back tears. I shouldn’t, but I’m selfish. I’d be gone tomorrow, but we still had tonight. “No, I’m not...too tired,” I whispered, sliding my arms around his neck.

He moved his head, trailing his lips from my ear to my mouth, and kissed me. I hated myself, but I kissed him back. He tasted of home brew and coconut, responsibility and obligation. He tasted of dreams, and for one night I was going to cheat forever, and grab my happily-ever-after and have it right now. For one night, I’d indulge Rich, I’d indulge me. The cruelest of sweet fantasies, I was going to pamper that daydream. Tomorrow, with all its regrets, remorse and recriminations, would come. But tonight, right here, right now, tomorrow could kiss my ass.

Rich scooped me up, and I wrapped my legs around his hips as we kissed, long and languidly. Even drunk, Rich was a fantastic kisser. I writhed against him, and he panted as he turned and lowered me to the mattress. I hit it a little harder than I’m sure he intended, but I didn’t mind. A perverse voice in my head whispered I didn’t deserve softer, kinder consideration for what I was doing.

I pulled the tank top up over my head, gasping as Rich pulled my bikini top aside and bared my breasts. I moaned, arching my back as his hands lifted and molded my breasts, and he tweaked my nipples as he took my mouth in a scorching kiss.

I raked my nails down his back, and he lifted his head briefly, groaning in delight. I fumbled for the waistband of his shorts, unbuttoning them and sliding the zipper down to grasp him, already hard, in his boxer briefs.

He groaned. “God, Lucy, I lo—”

I moved up to kiss him, to stop him from uttering words that couldn’t be unsaid, from using that name that wasn’t mine. It was like unleashing the beast. He growled, his fingers sliding into my short hair, angling my head so he could deepen the kiss.

He rocked his hips against mine, then ran his hands over my body. We twisted in the sheets, dragging at each other’s shorts. When we were both naked, I rolled over on top of him, straddling his hips. He glanced up at me, a sexy, goofy smile on his face, as he slid his hands over my hips. I dipped my head and kissed him, caressing the dark hair off his forehead, then gasped as he rolled us over and slid into me.

It was beautiful, it was hot and it was so bittersweet. Every sigh, every muscle clench, every caress, was laden with tenderness, with an unspoken farewell.

When it was over, Rich rolled to the side, breathless, his arm lying across my chest.

“Good night, Lucy,” he murmured, his eyelids flickering as he tried to stay awake. I watched him lose the battle as his chest rose and fell evenly, and his eyelids slid shut.

“Goodbye,” I whispered when I knew he was asleep.

You’re doing the right thing, Maisey. I frowned at the voice inside my head. Sometimes, doing the right thing sucked.

I slid from the bed and gathered my things. Twenty minutes later, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, grabbed my wallet and passport and slunk out into the night.

I didn’t look back.

Sarah

“Sarah, how wonderful to see you. It’s been ages.”

Plastering a smile on my face, I return Genny Winton’s greeting with the ubiquitous air kiss on both cheeks. If there was one advantage to being pregnant, it was having a legitimate excuse to avoid Genny and her tribe. But those days are over—no one can miss the East Hamptons Village Fair, especially when Eleanor is one of the organizers.

“It’s for charity, Sarah. The hospital needs us,” she’d say whenever I’d invent a new excuse. To make matters worse, the sadist had put me in charge of the bake stand. The aromas of sugar and cinnamon are a constant siren call.

“So this is the little man,” Genny says. She appraises my son with a frown. “He doesn’t seem happy.”

Elliot’s face flushes scarlet as he fusses, kicking his little legs and seizing a lock of my hair in a tiny fist. He yanks, and I manage not to shriek in pain. Instead I disentangle myself and bounce him on my hip, doing my best to channel Super Mom. It’s not easy, but then again, nothing is in the 1950s tea dress Warwick insisted I wear. It’s his favorite, and I couldn’t talk him out of it. He refuses to acknowledge that the majority of my clothes no longer fit.

“He’s not normally like this.” I wish Genny would go away so I can give my son another bottle. That’s what he wants, but I don’t dare do it with an audience. “He’s colicky.”

Her frown deepens. “How old is he?”

“Three and a half months.” I watch her brain struggle with the simple math until I’m surprised smoke isn’t coming from her ears. Go away, you stupid cow. Go away and leave us be.

“He should be past that by now.” Her voice oozes with fake concern. “He’s a bit old for colic. Perhaps you should take him to the doctor. Is he sleeping through the night?”

“Sometimes.” More like never, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. I already felt like a failure in the shadow of her perfection. Genny had given birth to her twins, what, a year ago? And within a month or two, you wouldn’t have known she’d ever been pregnant. What was she, a size zero? Double zero? It took every ounce of willpower not to push my old “friend’s” face into a lemon meringue pie. “What would you like, Genny? Is that sweet tooth of yours still plaguing you? I have a few of Tessie’s caramel buns left.”

As I’d hoped, Genny’s appraisal of my son is replaced by an expression of horror. “You know I don’t touch anything made with white flour or sugar. I have to watch my figure.” This last she says with an unmistakable smirk of triumph as she pats one nonexistent hip. I feel like an elephant in comparison. “Actually, that’s what I came over to talk to you about. I heard about Warwick’s little problem.”

Now it’s my turn to be horrified. I pull away from her as if she’d slapped me. “What are you talking about? What problem?”

“Well...” Genny simpers. She drags the word out as she toys with her long hair, twisting a silky strand around one perfectly polished finger. “Tad played a few rounds with your husband last week, and, well...the subject of your weight may have come up.” She smiles at me, her teeth sharp as a serpent’s.

Fire ignites my face, beginning at my neck and rising into my cheeks. It’s impossible to stop, so I pretend to be engrossed with arranging a price card in front of Gretchen Tildle’s shortbread. “Oh?” I try my best to sound unconcerned. The heat of the day, which was just tolerable before, has become unbearable. Sweat trickles down my chest to soak my unflattering nursing bra. My unrelieved breasts ache something awful. Shut up, Genny. Just shut up and go away, please.

She moves even closer, reminding me of a wasp in her yellow dress. I catch a whiff of alcohol on her breath, but I’m far too miserable to take any joy from it. When her lips almost touch my ear, she whispers two words. I’m so startled I have to ask her to repeat them. Her smile is smug, the triumphant grin of a kid who won the spelling bee. “Toilet paper,” she says again. It still doesn’t make sense.

Maybe she’s drunk. Flustered and reeling from the fact that my husband bemoans my weight gain to his golf buddies, I stumble over my words. “Is there a problem with the bathroom?” I paw through my purse. “I don’t have any toilet paper, but I have a pack of Kleenex somewhere.”

Genny’s laugh rivals her smile for smugness. It’s her tinkling aren’t-you-the-cutest-thing giggle. “It’s not for me, silly. It’s for you.”

I straighten, clasping my hands behind my back and digging my nails into the palms. I’m aware this pose strains the buttons of my dress even more, but the temptation to whack Genny in the face with the contents of my table is growing too strong to resist. Is she high?

“What are you talking about?” I focus on relaxing my jaw. I’ve been clenching my teeth so hard they ache.

“You eat it,” she says in a conspiratorial tone.

“Why would I eat toilet paper?” Maybe this is a nightmare I’ll soon wake up from. It’s making about as much sense.

“It’s an old dancer’s trick. You eat nothing but toilet paper and popcorn for a few weeks, and bam! Bye-bye, baby weight.” She giggles again, and this time there’s a maniacal edge to her laughter. I turn my shoulder toward her so my son is safely out of reach.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I stare at Genny like she’s insane, knowing I’m alienating her but unable to do anything but gawk. Fumbling for a better response, I say the only thing that comes to mind. “But I’m nursing.”

Rather than seem shamed, she shrugs. “So put him on a bottle for a while. Or don’t. It didn’t hurt the twins. It’s your choice, but you don’t hear Tad complaining about my weight, do you?”

That’s it. It’s time to treat my old friend to some dessert. My fingers unclasp and are reaching for a pie when a familiar voice cuts the tension.

“Genine, is that you? You’re looking stunning, my dear—absolutely stunning.”

My so-called friend spins around in time to be embraced by my mother-in-law. As put together as Genny is, it’s no contest. Eleanor has the kind of untouchable beauty you usually only find in history books. Her cornflower blue suit perfectly complements her eyes and pale blond hair. She looks like she’s emerged from an English garden party instead of the raucous village fair. Her clothing doesn’t dare wrinkle.

“As are you, Mrs. Taylor-Cox.” Genny returns the expected air kisses with the deference drones always show the Queen Bee.

“Please, darling.” Eleanor waves a hand in the air so her diamonds sparkle. “Call me Eleanor. You’re a grown woman now.” Pretending to notice me for the first time, her mouth forms a tiny O of surprise. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Certainly not enjoying myself.

“Manning the bake stand.”

The slightest hint of a frown creases her forehead. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all. You should be in charge of the flower stall, or in handicrafts. Somewhere with less temptation.”

Genny’s hand flies to her mouth but not fast enough to block her snigger. My face burns hotter. Before I can remind Eleanor that she was the one who assigned the tables, my mother-in-law makes a tsking noise.

“I swear I would lose my head if it weren’t attached. I forgot my coconut cake in the car.”

“Oh, you can’t forget that. It’s the most popular item at the fair,” Genny says, all but batting her eyelashes. “There’ll be a revolt when people see it’s not here. You’re such a wonderful baker, Eleanor.”

Yeah, right. As if Her Royal Highness would ever risk getting her hands dirty. Everyone knows Hannah, Eleanor’s Michelin pastry chef, is the baker of the house. I suspect no one cares enough about the woman to give her proper credit. She’s only a servant, after all.

“I’ll pop out and get it. No sampling while I’m gone, Sarah.”

Before I can so much as snarl in reply, my mother-in-law disappears in a drift of French perfume.

“I should go, too. It was great to see you. Remember what I said.” Genny winks at me as she walks away. “It’ll help.”

A scream begins in the pit of my stomach, bubbling toward my throat. Only one thing can stop it. Opening my Louis Vuitton diaper bag, I stuff it with the last of Tessie’s sweet buns. For good measure, I throw in some of the shortbread, too.

Andrea Waterton coos in delight when I roll Elliot’s stroller across the path that separates our stalls. Her expression changes to sympathy when I explain my predicament. “Are you all right? You’re a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine.” The smile feels frozen on my lips. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Well, of course I’ll watch him. We’re in this together, aren’t we? Take your time.” She grins. “It’ll only cost you a cookie.”

My smile is faltering. The facade is slipping. I can’t keep up appearances for much longer. “Help yourself,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry to the toilets.

Luckily the stalls are empty. I lock myself in the one farthest away from the entrance after checking to make sure the toilet is clean. Close enough. I crouch on the seat, hiking my dress around my thighs to ease the strain on the fabric. Popping the clasp on the diaper bag, I inhale the sultry scent of sugar. Heaven.

Genny’s voice whines in my brain like a mosquito I can’t escape. The subject of your weight may have come up...

Remembering the disapproval on Eleanor’s face makes my head ache.

No sampling while I’m gone, Sarah.

No sampling...

“Of course not, dearest Eleanor. Why sample when you can eat the whole thing?”

My control lasts until the first morsel of bread passes my lips, and then I stuff the caramel buns and cookies into my mouth, faster and faster. Crumbs shower my vintage dress, but I don’t care. When every last sweet is gone, my stomach lurches. I lift the lid of the toilet.

Hoping I’m still alone in the washroom, I vomit until my body shakes with dry heaves. Take your toilet paper and stuff it, Genny. I know a few tricks, too.

My hands tremble as I fix my makeup in the cloudy bathroom mirror. My color is too high, my eyes too bright. Eleanor will realize something’s up. Patting my French twist into place, I clean my face with a damp paper towel. My mascara is smudged and there’s nothing I can do about it—not even baby wipes will budge it. Deciding I’m as good as I’m going to get, I straighten my dress and leave the washroom, hoping my mother-in-law won’t notice the smirk on my face.

By the time I return to the bake stand, Eleanor is waiting. She’s making small talk with Andrea, but keeps glancing in the direction of the bathroom. Her mouth curves downward when she sees me. Crap! How long was I gone? Any bravery inspired by my little act of defiance disappears, and I quicken my step.

“Really, dear, if you’re going to leave the table for that long, you should have let me know.”

“It’s okay. She asked me to keep an eye on things.” Andrea brings over my son’s stroller. “It’s not like anyone goes near that table, anyway. God forbid one of these ladies ate a carb.”

As Eleanor glares at her, the laugh dies in Andrea’s throat, but the damage is done. My mother-in-law’s reprimand has lost its sting. I decide I really like Andrea. Back in the days before Elliot, I didn’t spend much time with her. She wasn’t considered glamorous or sophisticated enough for our group of friends. But things have changed.

Everything has changed.

Turning her back on Andrea, Eleanor thrusts the coconut cake into my arms. It’s heavier than expected, and my little episode in the bathroom has left me weak. My hands shake as I search for the right place on the table—front and center, but not too much so. Eleanor wouldn’t want anyone to think she abuses her influence.

“Have you heard from your sister yet?”

The question comes from out of nowhere, startling me so much I almost drop her cake. Caught off guard, I blurt out the truth. “No, not yet.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it? How long ago did you contact her?”

I sigh, using the task of rearranging the table as an excuse to avoid her eyes. She knows exactly how long it’s been because she’s asked me the same question multiple times. “It’s been two weeks. But I’m not sure how often she checks email when she’s traveling. Maybe Wi-Fi isn’t available where she is.”

Maybe she doesn’t feel the need to jump when you snap your fingers. Even though I haven’t seen my sister in years, I suspect she doesn’t jump for anyone. My sister is having adventures I can only dream of.

My mother-in-law’s eyes narrow. “Wi-Fi is available everywhere. What kind of girl can’t be bothered to keep in touch with her own family? It’s terribly rude, if you ask me.”

I didn’t ask, not that it matters. I struggle to keep my temper under control, but my shoulders stiffen at her criticism of my sister. Where does she get off? Maisey is a million times better than anyone in Eleanor’s sad, shallow family.

“Maisey’s a nurse who spends her days helping people in developing nations countries, Eleanor. She has less time to check her phone than the rest of us.”

If I’d hoped that would shame her, it failed miserably. Eleanor lifts her chin, managing to look even haughtier than usual as she shifts the baked goods around—anything to better show off Hannah’s masterpiece. “The party is in two weeks. How can I be expected to welcome your family properly when I don’t know if they’ll trouble themselves to attend? All I’m asking is for you to get in touch with your own sister. I can’t understand why that’s so difficult.”

Before I can respond, her attention is captured by something over my shoulder. Her face brightens as she yanks Elliot’s stroller from beside me. “Ah, there’s Grace. I have to show off my grandson.”

“No, wait!” But she’s already gone. My son’s tiny hand waves in the air like he’s bidding me goodbye. Cramps ripple through my stomach and I’m afraid I’ll be sick again. I lean against the table, breathing heavily, as a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. This is ridiculous. Eleanor is his grandmother. She’d never hurt him. Still, I can’t stop scanning the crowd for my son. My mother-in-law has vanished into a cloud of women in pastel suits, and for a minute I’m tempted to run after her.

A tentative touch on my arm makes me flinch. It’s Gretchen, channeling Grace Kelly with her soft waves and demure sundress. It’s obvious from her figure she doesn’t eat any of her own shortbread. “Are you all right? You look like you’re about to faint.”

The kindness in her voice almost fools me—almost. Gretchen is no Andrea, and my old crew surrounds her. The women eye me as if I’m a cornered tiger, destined to bite.

“I’m fine.” Sounding as cheerful as I can, I move behind the table. “What can I do for you ladies?”

Tessie peers at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I smile harder, hoping it doesn’t seem like I’m baring my teeth. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Well, your makeup is smudged, for one thing. I don’t think I’ve ever see you look less than perfect.” Tessie’s nose wrinkles as if she smells something bad. My waterproof mascara has clearly committed a criminal offense.

“Ladies, ladies, be kind. She’s just had a baby. She’ll be back to her old self soon, won’t you, Sarah?”

I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse, but I’m tempted to hide under the table when I see Jessica is the one who’s come to my rescue. While the other women are demure flowers in their pale frocks, Jessica is an exotic bird in her emerald green dress. It plunges in the front, displaying her assets.

“Well, I don’t know about that.” I’m relieved my voice is steady. “They say motherhood changes you forever.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” Tessie says, but I can hear the doubt in her voice.

“Of course it’s true.” Jessica’s eyes glitter, betraying her amusement. “Everyone gains weight during pregnancy. It can’t be helped. She’ll lose it, won’t you, Sarah? She just needs my personal trainer.”

“Hey, you’re sold out of my shortbread already,” Gretchen says. “That’s great.”

Tessie rushes over to inspect the table. “My sweet buns are sold out, too. That’s even faster than usual.”

“Really? Who bought them?” Jessica asks.

Icy fingers creep up my spine. “What do you mean, who bought them?” I roll my eyes and gesture to the crowd. “There must be hundreds of people here.”

She pins me to the spot with her unwavering scrutiny, and I panic, terrified she can read my mind. She focuses on my hips, where my dress pulls the tightest. “Yes, but we both know the majority of them won’t touch a sweet, and the rest aren’t allowed to.”

Smelling blood, the other women lean in for my reply. I think I might faint, after all.

“Okay, ladies, sheath your claws. I can hear your hissing from over here.”

My face breaks into the first genuine smile of the day as Warwick pushes past them to snag one of my Imperial cookies. “How much for this one, darling? No matter what you charge, it can’t be enough.” Before I can answer, he takes a huge bite.

Kissing a crumb from the side of his mouth, I briefly press my forehead to his. “Three dollars.”

“A veritable bargain!” He selects a five-dollar bill from an embossed clip and tucks it between my breasts before I can stop him. “Keep the change.”

Tessie gasps. “Warwick, you’re a scoundrel.”

My husband winks at her. “Guilty as charged. Tess, Gretchen, you’re lovely as usual. Jess, you need to quit blending into the background. You’re turning into a regular wallflower.”

The three women titter in response. “You haven’t changed,” Jessica says, slapping him on the arm. “You’re a bad boy.”

He grins, deepening his dimples. “Why should I change? You can’t improve on perfection.”

“Well...” Jessica draws the word out, letting it roll on her tongue. Her hand snakes up to caress my husband’s shoulder, and as I watch, unbelieving, his other arm encircles her waist. “That is true.”

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Warwick winks again, and I can hear the gruffness in his voice. He’s getting turned on.

As Jessica and my husband ogle each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, my chest tightens. How can he do this to me? He knows how I feel about Jessica, knows she’s always trying to take my place with the other women.

I clear my throat, and when neither acknowledges me, I lose it. “Warwick! Earth to Warwick?”

My husband turns from Jessica long enough to shoot me a warning look. His blue eyes have deepened to a dangerous hue. “What is it, dear heart?” His words are friendly enough, but they’re forced from between clenched teeth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a satisfied expression creep across my rival’s face.

“Your mother took off with our son quite a while ago. I’m getting worried. Will you go find him, please?”

“If Mother has him, I’m sure he’s fine. You could use a break, darling. Why don’t you relax and enjoy your few minutes of freedom?”

Disentangling himself from Jessica, he slips behind the table to stand next to me. His fingers tighten on my hips as he pulls me into him, and I startle at the suddenness of it. His lips graze my ear.

“Your panties,” he murmurs. “Take them off. Now.”

I don’t believe what I’m hearing. We’re surrounded by people—surely he isn’t serious. “I can’t,” I whisper, praying the other women didn’t hear what he said. They still watch us with interest, but Jessica’s smirk has faded away.

“You can. Give them to me.”

He leaves me then, sauntering around to Jessica and crew like the prize rooster in a henhouse. “So, Tessie, where are those sweet buns of yours? I’ve had a craving.”

Tessie giggles.

“Haven’t you heard? Your wife is running the most successful bake stall in the history of the East Hamptons fair,” Jessica tells him. “Almost everything is sold out.”

Bitch.

“Really?” Warwick cocks an eyebrow at me as he runs a finger over Jessica’s bare arm. The hateful woman practically quivers with ecstasy. “That’s a shame—for me. I’m hungry. What did you bring, Jessica dear?”

While he has her distracted, I duck under the table, using the gingham cloth that covers it to hide what I’m doing. “I might have some more of the buns under here,” I say, yanking at my sweat-soaked panties. I’m wearing a magenta lace thong—ridiculous underwear for a nursing mother, but Warwick detests what he calls “Grandma panties.” He refuses to let any in the house. At least the thong is tiny enough to hide in my hand, but getting it over my feet without the other women noticing is another story. Finally I tear the flimsy lace off my ankles. There’s no way I’ll want to put it back on, anyway.

When I pop up from under the table, exhausted from my efforts, Tessie looks at me expectantly. “Well?”

My husband has apparently said something humorous, since Jessica is laughing and leaning against him as if she can no longer support her own body weight. It takes every inch of self-control not to roll my eyes, and for a minute I’m so distracted I forget Tessie is waiting for an answer.

“Sarah? Did you find any?”

Right, the sweet buns.

“All gone, sorry.” I tuck my hands behind me to hide the incriminating lace. “It was a long shot, anyway. You know they always sell out first.”

Imagine her reaction if she ever found out most of her masterpieces were flushed down the toilet. I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning.

“No luck, darling?” Warwick leaves Jessica long enough to lean over me. He uses his broad back to hide his hand, which plucks the underwear out of mine so deftly I barely feel it.

“No, they’re sold out.” My voice catches in my throat, sounding garbled, but only Tessie appears to notice. She wrinkles her nose at me again, but before she can say anything, my husband seizes me by my wrist, pulling me out from behind the table.

“Warwick, what are you—”

“Jessica, can you do me a small favor?” he asks.

“That depends.” She continues playing the part of the seductress, flipping her red hair over her shoulder, but her mouth tightens when she sees my husband holding me.

“Can you watch the stall for a few minutes? I have something I need to show my wife.”

My stomach flips. What on earth is he thinking? Is he really going to insist on having sex here, in front of all these people? I try to wrench my wrist away, but he holds it fast. “Really, Warwick, it can wait.”

“No, really, it can’t. What do you say, Jessica? I’ll buy you a cookie.”

Warwick thanks her before she can refuse and drags me along with him, clutching my arm close to his side. “What about Elliot?” I ask, scanning the crowds. For a minute, my heart quickens as I spot my son’s blond head, but it’s a false alarm, another baby. “If your mother comes back and I’m not there, she’ll go ballistic.”

I don’t dare tell him about my first encounter with Eleanor that morning. Warwick is too smart. The long visit to the bathroom, the sold-out baked goods—no one will have to connect the dots for him.

“Hey, Warwick!” It’s Tad, the now-detested golf buddy, long-suffering husband of Genine. I’m not up for making polite conversation with him, especially after the bombshell Genny dropped on me. Thankfully, my husband doesn’t slow his step, only waving in response.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Warwick squeezes my arm when I don’t reply. “Smile, my love. We’re about to have some fun.”

He walks so fast I stumble to keep up. “Where are we going? It’s too crowded here. Your mother—”

“Forget Mother. I don’t want to talk about Mother. I want to talk about you, and how good you smell.” His voice deepens, growing husky, and I know he’s not referring to my perfume. “Maybe it’s your proximity to all that sugar, but you smell good enough to eat.”

To my surprise, he stops in front of the washroom, the very same bathroom where I’d binged.

“Do you have your phone?”

Nodding, I pat my pocket. About the only positive thing about this dress is that it has pockets. I wish I’d thought to call Eleanor. Just then I see her over Warwick’s shoulder.

“There they are!”

Elliot shrieks with delight as a group of older women fuss over him. Every sign of his morning tantrum is gone, and my arms ache to hold him close, to bury my face in his neck. This horrible day will fade into the background once I have him next to me again.

Warwick blocks my path.

“What are you doing?” My voice sounds angrier than I’d meant, but I don’t have time for his games. Not now. Not after the way he cozied up to Jessica in front of me.

“Go into the bathroom,” he says, and gives me a little shove.

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