“Can I get you ladies something else?” the waiter asked.
“How about some airbrushing?” Pandy asked, as Suzette and Portia screamed with laughter.
It was past two when Pandy picked up her phone and saw that she had three texts from Henry. She held up her phone so that it glinted annoyingly in the sun. “My goddamned agent,” she said loudly. “Why won’t he leave me alone? Doesn’t he know I’m busy?” Without bothering to read his texts, she wrote, “Yes?”
Henry immediately replied: “Have you read my texts?”
“No,” Pandy sent back. She put the phone down and lay on her stomach, resting her chin over the edge of the chaise. She closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to wander. The mechanical bleeps of other people’s devices turned into the sound of crickets; the hum of conversation became the lazy buzz of bees. As she was drifting off, a vision came to her of a smattering of reddish freckles marching like ants across the bridge of a turned-up nose.
She lifted her head with a start. The freckles belonged to SondraBeth Schnowzer.
She tried to push the image away, but it was too late. SondraBeth was lifting her gold aviator sunglasses, lowering her gaze to focus on Pandy. And there it was: the smile.
Monica’s smile.
Pandy shook it off and sat up sharply, her sudden movement causing the world to spin ever so slightly.
She glanced around. The pool was quieter now, the heat having driven away all but the die-hard sunbathers. Suzette was sleeping. Portia was at the bar, in the middle of an animated conversation with someone Pandy couldn’t see.
Suzette’s reading glasses had fallen into the space between the two chaises. Pandy picked them up, put them on, and read Henry’s texts.
“Call me.”
“Where are you?”
“We need to talk.”
And finally, “Where and when can I meet you?”
Pandy shot up. She was suddenly wide awake and stone-cold sober. Henry had had word. That was why he wanted to see her.
Her hand trembled as she tapped in his number, walking briskly to the shaded awning at the far end of the pool. The phone rang and rang, until it went to voice mail.
“Damn,” Pandy said aloud, hanging up. She immediately sent him a text: “Do they LOVE it?”
“Where are you?” came the reply.
“Pool Club.” She was tempted to add, “Answer your damn phone,” but couldn’t be bothered to tap in all the letters.
“On my way!” Henry wrote back. He’d added an exclamation point; that meant it had to be good news. Suddenly feeling giddy with anticipation, Pandy hurried toward her friends, waving her phone in the air.
The club was filling up again, this time with mothers and children who must have just gotten out of school. Pandy skipped around a toddler wearing so many flotation devices, he looked like a small astronaut.
“Henry’s coming!” Pandy said to Suzette, who was now awake due to the screams of the many children who appeared to have taken over the club. “I think it’s good news.”
Unable to contain her excitement, Pandy began pacing, circling around the nest of deck chairs as she mumbled incoherently. “After all this…I can’t believe…Ohmigod.” Overcome, she had to sit down.
“Honey, are you all right?” Suzette asked.
Pandy put her hand to her chest. She wished she could explain to her friends how important this was, but she knew they’d never quite understand. She vigorously nodded her head instead. “Where is Henry?” she cried out impatiently.
“Henry’s coming?” Portia asked, strolling over with a drink in a plastic martini glass sloshing onto her hand. She looked at Pandy assessingly. “Doll, you’re all sweaty. Why don’t you take a dip in the pool?”
“Don’t want Henry to see you all sweaty like that,” Suzette joked pointedly.
“Maybe I will,” Pandy replied, realizing that the excitement of her impending triumph had indeed made her perspire. She grabbed her cell phone and walked to the edge of the water. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she tapped in Henry’s number.
He picked up after the first ring.
“Henry,” she said eagerly. “They do love it, right?”
“We’ll talk about it when I get there.”
“When you get here? What’s that supposed to—”
What felt like a giant sponge slammed into the back of Pandy’s knees. She took a step forward, her arm swinging upward to correct her balance. The toddler in the astronaut suit rolled past her and splashed into the water as Pandy watched her cell phone plunge into the pool.
As her phone hit the bottom, the realization that Henry had bad news dropped like a brick into the pit of her stomach. Motioning wildly, she stumbled back to her friends. “I need a phone!” she screamed.
“Why?” Portia asked.
“I need to call Henry.”
“I thought he was coming here.”
“I need to know. Before he gets here.” Pandy choked out the words, reaching for Portia’s phone and dialing.
And then the sun must have gone behind a cloud because a shadow began to darken Pandy’s vision. A wave of nausea caused her knees to buckle as she dropped onto the chaise and Portia’s phone fell out of her hand.
“Sweetheart. Are you all right?” Portia bleated as Suzette picked up the phone and held it to her ear.
“Henry?” Suzette asked.
She looked over at Pandy and nodded. “I see. Yes, I will,” she said briskly, and hung up.
“Whadhesay?” Pandy screamed.
“He’ll be here any minute. He’s hired a car.”
“A car?” Pandy asked in confusion. Black and white squares began pinwheeling in front of her.
“I don’t understand. What just happened?” Portia demanded, talking over Pandy as if she weren’t there.
“I think her book just got rejected,” Suzette said in a stage whisper.
“What?” Portia gasped.
“Her new book,” Suzette hissed. She made a slicing motion across her throat.
“Ohmigod,” Portia screeched. She paused, then added, “Is that all?”
“What do you mean, is that all? Isn’t that enough?” Suzette’s voice rose.
Portia shrugged. “I thought maybe Jonny wasn’t going to give her a divorce. Or he wanted even more money.”
Pandy struggled to sit up. “He’s giving me the divorce!” she shouted.
“Well, then. There’s no problem, is there?” Portia continued blithely as she draped a towel over Pandy’s shoulders. “If it’s only the book—you can just write another one, right?”
“Oh, good. Here comes Henry now,” Suzette exclaimed with false cheer.
“Pandy?” Henry asked, leaning over her.
Pandy was now frozen in place, her hands soldered over her eyes.
Henry peeled back her little finger and then slowly pulled her hands away.
“The book?” Pandy gasped.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, as Pandy’s throat closed in terror.
It took a stiff slug of vodka before Pandy was able to speak again.
She swayed on her barstool, alternating between sobs of grief and valiant reassurances. “It doesn’t matter!” “It’s all for a reason!” And most of alclass="underline" “It will all be all right.” In between these statements were longer moments that felt like some sort of punctuation that would never end: a very long dash, for instance.