It’s a gorgeous bonfire, with rustic split-log benches circling it. A few guests are toasting marshmallows over the flames, and there’s some sort of make-your-own-s’mores station on a table. Nearby, white lights are strung on a cedar pergola, beneath which three lanes of horseshoes are set up on sandy ground.
“Want to play?” Kendrick asks Lennon. “I have to warn you, I’m pretty much a horseshoes genius, so I’ll probably beat you.”
“Is that right?”
“Legendary,” Kendrick confirms. “At least, I was when I was ten, which is the last—and, well, only time I’ve ever played.”
Lennon chuckles. “If it’s like ring toss at the fair, I kill at that. Let’s do this.” He glances at me. “You in?”
“Hand-eye coordination is not my strong suit,” I tell him. Every time I’ve ever played games where you have to get up in front of others and do something in a spotlight—like bowling or charades—I generally am too concerned about onlookers watching me and end up looking awkward. “Maybe I’ll watch a game and see how it’s played first.”
“Throw a horseshoe, try to hit the stake,” Lennon says.
“You make it sound easy.”
“No, I think you’re making it harder than it really is,” he says, one side of his mouth tilting. “Sometimes you just have to say screw it and go for it.”
Summer chimes in that she wants to play, and it’s only now I notice that Brett is missing. Maybe he hung back with Reagan to talk to Candy. Or maybe he’s staking out the bartender. Who knows. But I wish he were here so that we could revisit his earlier interest in taking photos of the moon—and maybe so that he could be a natural buffer between me and Lennon.
While we’ve been talking, all the horseshoe lanes have filled with teams. So we stand at the edge of the pergola and wait for a free stake, watching the games in progress. That’s when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.
I look up to see a woman about my mom’s age, with pale brown skin and her hair pulled tightly back in a smooth ponytail. “Aren’t you Dan Everhart’s daughter?”
“Yes.” My shoulders tighten. Then I recognize the woman. Razan Abdullah. I’ve seen her in the clinic. She runs a video production company. She used to be one of my dad’s patients.
“I thought I recognized you,” she says with a smile. “Is your family here?”
“No, I’m just vacationing with some friends.” I glance toward Lennon and Kendrick. Lennon nods in greeting.
“Ah,” she says. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? I’ve been here the last few days filming a promo video with a small crew.”
“That’s really cool.”
She nods. “It’s been a great shoot. We leave tomorrow morning. How’s your dad doing? I haven’t seen him since he worked on my back this spring.”
“He’s okay.” I feel like I should say something more positive than that, but honestly, it’s hard for me to muster the words.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She makes a face, gritting her teeth. “Is your mom still with your dad?”
I’m baffled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I must be . . . confusing them with another couple.” Rapidly blinking eyes dart sideways as she seems to be thinking about something, hesitating. “You know how it is. I meet so many people for work. . . . They all blur together sometimes.”
“Right,” I say. But now a strange, quiet panic is rising inside me. Did she really confuse my dad with someone else, or has she heard a rumor? Please, please, please don’t let her be someone my dad’s had an affair with. I think she’s married, but I’m not sure.
Before I can press her for more information, her phone lights up and she excuses herself.
I watch her walk away, head muddled, and realize that if she’s getting phone service, we should be in Wi-Fi range. I check my phone, and sure enough, I’ve got a signal. I also have several texts. Two are from my mom, and as I meander away to answer them, I can’t help but think about Razan’s question. It doesn’t take long for thinking to become obsessing, and now I’m picturing my parents splitting up.
But not for long. Pulling me out of my thoughts, Brett jogs toward me, Reagan in tow. “It’s happening,” he says excitedly, urging me to follow them while Reagan gets the rest of the group’s attention. “We have to go—now.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Lennon dusts his hands off. “What’s happening?”
“The bar,” Brett says. “I convinced one of the guests to order three mixed drinks.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“Which means,” he says, “the bartender will head back to the kitchen to fetch them. The bar will be unguarded. Now is our chance. Are you going to sit around throwing scraps of iron with old geezers, or do you want to have fun?”
“Fun!” Summer says.
“Come on, then,” Brett says, grinning wildly. He winks at me. “Let’s go, Everhart.”
He takes off, and I follow, slipping around the backside of the pavilion. Summer and Reagan are racing ahead across the darkening lawn, and when they make it to a short set of stairs that lead up to the smaller side deck, they pause for several seconds until Summer flashes us a thumbs-up sign.
We all climb three steps cautiously onto the narrow strip of deck circling the pavilion, staying hidden. The bar is only a few yards away, bathed in a strong cone of light. Like Brett predicted, the bartender seems to be headed toward the kitchen, and stops to talk to a pair of the serving crew, who are sweeping the floor and turning chairs upside down on top of the tables.
“That guest you convinced to order the drinks went to the Sunset Deck with her friends,” Summer reports in a loud whisper. “I think she was telling the bartender to bring the drinks out there.”
“Excellent,” Brett says with a grin, waving Reagan and Summer behind him. “Where’s my wingman?”
I realize he’s talking about Lennon, and glance around. He’s nowhere to be found.
“No time to wait,” Brett says. “Zorie, you’re taking his place. Stay here at the steps and keep a lookout in the shadows. Everyone else, follow me when Zorie gives the word.”
Keep a lookout? Why me? I frantically glance around while the others clamor onto the side deck. What am I supposed to be looking for? I check the lawn. I don’t have a decent view of the bonfire from here. And the people mingling on the Sunset Deck don’t seem to be paying attention to us. The only person who has a sightline on the bar is the acoustic guitar player. Can he see us? I can’t tell.
“Is it clear?” Brett whispers.
This is too much pressure. I do one last survey of the inner pavilion and wait until a server turns his back. “Okay, now!”
Brett crests over the top step and takes three strides toward the bar, slipping behind it. He punches the air with a victory fist and then ducks out of view. When he pops back up, he has two wine bottles. He hands them to Summer. She tries to pass them to Kendrick, and he waves them away—at least, at first. She says something to him that I can’t hear and shoves one of the bottles against his stomach. He caves and accepts it.
More bottles emerge. The clink of heavy glass echoes across the bar. It’s taking them forever. Why are they giggling? Someone’s going to hear. And just how many bottles of wine do they need? Summer’s already holding three.