And just like that, Sherri was gone. We thought we saw her gold back disappearing into the crowd, toward the pool. The sun was beginning to set, and the sky had taken on that lavender late-summer hue that seems particular to New England. It was that in-between light where your eyes can play tricks on you. The deep end of the pool was difficult to make out.
Most of us thought Rebecca’s mystery guest was very good-looking, sort of George Clooney-esque. He had kind eyes. It was always the kind ones who got cheated on, wasn’t it? According to what Gina said later, Veronica the Cheater had always been difficult anyway. We thought Gina was close with Veronica. But that was Gina for you: one thing to your face, another behind your back.
It must have been a little while after we all met the mystery man that the argument between Melanie and her husband heated up at the far end of the lawn. There was shouting. Names were called. Somebody said a drink was thrown in a face, but that was never 100 percent verified.
We didn’t know what had brought the argument on. Later there was talk that the argument had something to do with the summer nanny, who was from Argentina and had an accent that could make even the word hemorrhoids sound sexy, not that we’d ever heard her say that.
The cocktails were quite strong, and we’d seen Melanie’s husband help himself to seconds and maybe even thirds within the first half hour. So anything could have happened. Aperol, we learned that night, is no joke on its own, but especially when mixed with tequila.
We were all standing around the bar, still somewhat in shock, partly in awe, over what had just transpired with Sherri, when Melanie crossed the lawn and joined our group. “I need to get out of here,” said Melanie in a quavering voice. “But my car’s blocked in.” She had definitely been crying.
“Oh, sweetie,” we said. “We’re so sorry—tell us what happened.” But we were phoning it in. We were still thinking about Sherri. (Melanie does this sort of thing a lot.)
“Take my car,” said Rebecca. Rebecca always had more patience with Melanie’s drama than the rest of us did. “You know which one it is, Melanie. White Acura. Keys are in the console. If you’re okay to drive.”
“I only had three sips of my drink!” cried Melanie. “I’m okay to drive, I promise.” She swiped at her eyes and muttered, “I cannot believe this.”
Melanie ran out to the driveway.
No, she didn’t run. She was in strappy sandals with heels. She walked quickly.
The DJ ramped up the music. The bartender shook more cocktails. Then came the first cannonball. One of the husbands, obviously. We’d all worked too hard on our hair, or paid someone else to work hard, to ruin it at the beginning of the party. We couldn’t see which husband from where we were standing. It was a fairly big splash, so most likely Dawn’s or Jessica’s. (They had played football together at UNH long ago; Dawn’s husband had been a linebacker.)
You know what they say: the party doesn’t start until somebody jumps into the pool.