“Could you go to the liquor store and pick up the things on the list I just texted you and bring it to the island? Please, please, please, please, please!”
“Mona, I don’t have a boat. How am I supposed to get it there?”
“It’s not a real island. They just call it that because it sticks out into the lake like an island. There’s a gated drive that leads to it from Downton Drive. Do you know where that is?”
“I know where it is. Give me an hour to get it and have it there for you. Will Ronnie still be there to help me unload it?”
“I’ll tell him to wait for you. You’re a lifesaver, Katie! Have I ever told you that?”
I smiled. “I think you might’ve mentioned it a time or two.”
“Don’t leave until I get there, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll wait for you.”
That was over an hour ago. I called Rogan and then left right away.
The guy at the liquor store was more than happy to help me cram my vehicle with boxes of assorted liters of alcohol. I wondered if my little car would even be able to move when I drove out of the parking lot. Heaven forbid I break down or get into a wreck. It would surely look like I have an enormous drinking problem. It seems to be doing fine, though, as I carefully take each curve on the way to the lake.
I slow down as I search for the gated drive that will lead me to the “island.” Even though I’m watching for it, I cruise right by the entrance. I drive farther down the road, searching for a place to turn around. It seems there’s just a big bunch of nothing past the very private entrance to the island. Finally, I just stop, check my rearview for oncoming traffic, of which there is none since this isn’t exactly a well-traveled street, then I steer the car into a wide arc and perform about a six-point turn right in the middle of the road. I’m relieved when I don’t get caught or hit. On my return, I watch more carefully for the gate. From this angle, I see that it’s slightly ajar. Probably Ronnie, making it easier for me to get in.
I smile as I think of him. The friendly redhead has been very very nice to me from day one at the studio. I see him almost every morning and he’s always kind and sweet.
The trees on either side of the road part farther, forming a clearing that boasts an amazing view of the lake. Six cheerfully-striped canvas cabanas housing intimate seating groups are set up in a semi-circle. They face a central tent in white canvas that covers several tables. Each is draped in linen and set with all kinds of food. Sitting along the back “wall” is a tiki bar.
I look around for signs of life. I don’t see Ronnie anywhere, but at least I know where I’m supposed to take all this liquor.
I park sideways. I’m blocking the road, but I don’t really care. It’ll be easier to unload my car this way.
I lug the first of the boxes out of the trunk. I carry it toward the lake, between two cabanas and under the main tent to the bar at the back where I set it down on the ground. Dusting off my hands, I go to turn around. I yelp when I find Ronnie standing right behind me.
“Wow!” he exclaims, his eyes raking me appreciatively from head to toe. “And I thought you looked amazing in work clothes.”
I didn’t think to change clothes before I left. Not that I would have. I mean, the jeans and scoop-necked tee I’m wearing are hardly indecent. They’re just a bit more . . . fitted than the clothes I normally wear to work, which consist of either loose cotton dresses or dress pants and blouses. Nothing fancy, nothing with much personality. It’s been years since I’ve dressed to impress anyone.
Until Rogan.
Damn it.
“Thanks,” I reply casually. “Wanna help me unload some boxes?”
“Anything for you,” he declares with his easy smile.
A dozen boxes and enough liquor to rot a small town’s liver later, we are finished setting up the bar.
Ronnie is standing with his hands in his pockets, grinning at me. “What do you say we open up one of those bottles of vodka and break it in?”
I put on my politely removed face. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”
“You sure?” he asks, walking to the bar and pulling out a clear liter. He disappears for a second and when his head pops back up, he’s holding two martini glasses, a shallow dish of something and a lemon. “I make a kick-ass lemon drop.”
I’m just about to reiterate my refusal when my phone rings. It’s Mona again.
“Did you get the liquor? Did you find the place? Was Ronnie still there?”
“Yes, yes and yes. Now breathe.”
So she does. She exhales so loudly I can hear it whooshing in my ear. “You are an angel. An absolute angel!”
Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. “It was no problem.”
“I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. White would’ve . . . Ugh! Yeah. You know how that would’ve gone.”
“I know. Not pretty.” White is anal, which is probably why he makes such a good producer. He’s a details man.
“We should be there shortly. Will you stay for a few minutes after I get there?” Her tone is hopeful.
“Meh. I’m really not in the mood to—”
“Katiiie!” I can almost hear Mona stomp her foot. “You’re never in the mood. Can’t you stay? Just for a little while? For me? Pleeease!”
I frown. This isn’t like Mona. Normally all she ever needs is White and she’s happy as a clam. Unless things aren’t going well. “Is something wrong?”
The long pause and her short response say it all. “It’s White.” Her voice is small and wounded, and I can hear the resignation in it.
I don’t have to ask what he’s done. It’s the only thing he ever does to hurt Mona. Unfortunately, he does it with disgusting regularity. “Who is it?”
“Peony,” she answers miserably, bringing to mind the mental image of a trashy, raven-haired beauty. She plays the resident freak on the show and she’s very convincing. Mainly, we suspect, because she’s such a freak in real life. Dark, brooding, daring. Admits to loving sadomasochism. Observes some pretty scary “personal pleasure rituals.” Thinks the devil talks to her. That kind of thing.
“Peony? Ewww. Why?”
“I know, right? White doesn’t even like brunettes. And she’s named after a stinky old flower. I just don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I hear the tremor in her voice and I know she’s about to lose it. Now is definitely not the time to tell her that peonies don’t stink. They actually smell quite good.
I hold back my sigh. My friend needs me. “Of course I’ll wait for you.”
Like a ray of sunshine breaking through thick, ominous clouds, I hear the pleasure and relief in her voice. She needs to be with someone who won’t hurt her. Someone like me. “Really? You will?”
“Really. I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“You’re the best, Kitty.”
When we hang up I turn back to Ronnie, who is just slurping the last sip from his martini glass and preparing to make another. “Why don’t you make that two?”
Ronnie smiles and whoops enthusiastically. I feel an answering smile curve my own mouth.
An hour later, I’m two drinks in, Ronnie is starting to slur and Mona still hasn’t arrived. I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a call.
Nope. Nothing.
“Excuse me for just a second,” I tell Ronnie when he pauses in his rambling long enough for me to get a word in.
I get up and walk toward shore, scanning the dark lake horizon for the lights of an approaching yacht. I see nothing except the reflection of the dozens of flaming tiki torches that are burning to illuminate the island setting.
I turn back and slip into one of the cabanas for a little privacy as I tap Mona’s number into my phone. The way she answers, I can picture her with one finger stuffed in her other ear so she can hear me on the phone. “Don’t leave!” she says without preamble, practically screaming. “We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”