STEPPING OUT OF THE YURT, DAWN SPOTTED GRAHAM LEANING AGAINST the deck railing, staring out to the tree-lined ridge. Smoke drifted over the shoulder of his short-sleeved button-down shirt, patterned with various types of fruit; well into middle age, Graham stood by his signature style of wacky hipster shirts paired with professorial blazers.
There it was now. Dawn saw a tan jacket draped over the railing next to a tumbler of scotch. She smiled, finding comfort in the familiarity of his form: six-three, narrow shoulders, that boyish lankiness. And was it just Dawn’s angle, or did he look a little heavier from behind?
Perhaps, now that he was with Cecily, he felt he could let himself go a bit. Graham’s first marriage, at fifty-two, was to a woman thirteen years younger with green eyes and dark curls. Dawn was surprised at how much the news had stung. She and Graham had been purely platonic for over a decade, and even back in the days of the Nurtury, had slept together only in furtive stretches when lonely. There had been periods when Craig was absent from the house—Dawn not sure if he was simply working or avoiding her, or Quinn, or the state of flustered panic that had settled over their home, thickening as they realized they could not soothe their baby girl. Graham had been there for Dawn when Craig had not. She and Graham had lost touch for only a short time after the disaster with the Project, then Dawn found herself coaching Graham through a grueling breakup, which involved negotiating ways to see Ethan, Wendy’s son, whom he adored but had no legal parental rights to.
That was then, Dawn reminded herself.
A lifetime ago.
Now Graham was married to Cecily Goshen, heiress to a Napa wine fortune, not yet forty and seven months pregnant. He’d be chasing a toddler around in his fifties. Dawn couldn’t believe it.
Graham dropped his cigarette into his empty scotch glass.
“Busted,” she said.
Graham wheeled around, startled. “Jesus, Dawnie! You scared me. I was communing with nature. And trying not to start a wildfire.”
“I guess whiskey and tobacco are technically natural. Sorry to interrupt.”
Dawn wasn’t snarky by nature, but Graham brought it out in her. Teasing was their mode of communication.
“Very funny,” he said, grinning. Crow’s-feet fanned around his eyes, and his hair was almost entirely gray, but the changes suited him. “I realize it’s uncouth, stubbing a cigarette into a glass, but I do have backup.” He lifted his blazer from the railing and worked a silver flask out of one of the pockets.
“How old are you, twenty? Is this a frat party?”
“Frat boys could never afford this stuff,” he said, uncapping the flask and taking a sip. “Plus, it’s the only way I can handle Mia Meadows for an entire weekend.” He beckoned and opened his long arms. “Come hither, birthday girl.”
She stepped into his embrace. He held her tight, and she let her eyes close, breathing in his scent of cedar and cigarettes.
“I’m sorry Cecily couldn’t make it,” she said.
He released her and took a step back.
He shrugged and leaned on the railing. “I was too, but now that I’m here, I think it’s a good thing. She’s not really one for the rustic mountain vibe. It’ll give her a chance to actually relax. You know Cess, she always has to be doing something.”
“Do you think that’s a rich-person thing? The need to prove internal worth?” She and Graham had always been able to dive right into it—no need for small talk.
Graham waved a hand. His gold wedding band caught the glow from the string lights. “Rich-person thing, no-day-job thing, heiress thing, woman thing, it’s hard to say.”
“Graham!” She shoved his shoulder. This was a foundation of their friendship: the freedom to say things they’d say to no one else. Testing the boundary of that had been a kind of foreplay when they were younger—and several times, after a Nurtury meeting, they’d failed the test. Ended up in Graham’s apartment in Westwood, the sex always rushed, bordering on frantic, as Graham calculated how long it would be until he needed to get Ethan from physical therapy, and Dawn the number of minutes required to speed back to Santa Monica in time for Quinn’s school pickup.
“What do you mean by woman thing?”
“Oh, come on, Dawnie. Don’t you think women are more demonstratively industrious than men? It’s not an editorial. Just an observation.”
“Not demonstratively industrious, you pig.” It felt good to test him. Made her realize how bored she’d been. Stuck at home with Quinn during the pandemic. “Just plain old industrious. I’m sure Cecily’s at home painting the nursery or something.”
“Nah. Paint fumes—not good for the baby.”
“You’re missing my point.”
“You’re hearing me wrong.”
Was he challenging her? She had an urge to push her face closer to his, make a joke. She remembered Quinn, once her baby, and now this other baby—a gift to Graham and Cecily. Sure to be typical in every way that Quinn and Ethan were not. She hated these thoughts, hated herself for having them.
“Are you excited? For the baby? Is Ethan . . .”
“It’s okay. You can just spit it out. Am I excited, as a fifty-two-year-old, to have a newborn?”
“Yes.”
Graham had always been averse to having children; he believed it would impede his ability to create books. But then he’d fallen in love with Wendy, ten years his senior and the divorced mother of Ethan, a shy, wide-eyed boy with a host of developmental issues that Wendy’s travel-intensive job prevented her from properly addressing. Graham had stepped in to help, and he’d surprised everyone by becoming even more smitten with Ethan than he was with Wendy.
“I’m stupidly, pathetically excited for the baby,” Graham said, taking a swig from the flask and offering it to Dawn. She tipped it to her lips and drank. The whiskey was rich and mellow. She felt happy all over again. A blush of something youthful and illicit.
“I’m glad,” she said. “I never thought you’d do it, honestly. Have one of your own.”
“I just needed to meet the right person. You told me it would happen.”
“Even you, a contrarian dick and a romantic at heart.” Dawn felt a tinge of sadness.
“I fell madly in love with Cess, and having a baby no longer seemed anathema to my happiness. It’s so cringingly cliché, isn’t it? But we’re all just embodied clichés when you get down to it.”
“I guess.” She’d heard more about Cecily Goshen than she needed. She looked up at the darkening sky and saw the first pinpricks of stars emerging. “Hey, how’s your cabin?”
“Promise not to tell Mia?”
Dawn smiled. “Promise.”
“It’s kind of a shithole.”
“Mine too.”
“Well, it’s our secret then. Mia would flip. She’s obsessed over every detail of this weekend. You don’t even know the half of it, since she left you off most of the planning emails.”
“Mia-in-charge,” Dawn said, then froze. That had been Mia’s name during the Project.
Not a single fucking mention.
She was relieved to see that Graham appeared not to notice her slip. “I think if she knew my cabin was an utter fucking dump, she’d skewer that sweet old lady with the wolf who owns the place.”
“Twyla. She is sweet. And already terrified of crossing Mia.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Nope,” she said. “You know, there was actually some sort of disgusting brown sludge in my shower when I got here. Poor Twyla had to clean it up.”
“What? That’s disgusting. I went to put my own sheets on the bed and found—get this, dude—” Graham paused for dramatic effect. She knew he was drunk when he started calling her dude.
“Wait, hold on, you brought your own sheets? Marriage has made you soft,” she teased. Allowing her face to inch closer to his. “Okay . . . what was on your bed?”
“Pine cones! The mattress was covered in pine cones!”
“What?”
“Pine cones, dude. Like a giant nest of them. All over my bed. Some were crushed into pieces, so it took me like a half hour to get rid of them.”
“Bizarre,” said Dawn. “Sounds like a summer-camp prank. I think that would’ve freaked Quinn out even more than the brown—”
“What? Quinn’s here?”
“Yep. Courtesy of Craig’s self-centeredness.”
“And, uh, she’s staying—overnight?”
“Yes.” Dawn felt a spike of irritation. Couldn’t he simply be glad that Quinn was here? Hadn’t their children brought them together in the first place? “Where else would she stay? You know how she is. Refuses to be with anyone but me and Craig.”
“Right. I just thought—” He was fumbling for words, which was out of character. “This was supposed to be your weekend of, you know, total freedom. Mia said it was the Nurtury group only, and a few plus-ones. No kids.”
“Well, Quinn is here,” said Dawn, feeling hurt. It was unlike Graham to question the presence of her daughter. “Mia’s well aware.” Dawn pictured her daughter alone in the drab cabin right now, hunched over her book, sucking her Corn Nuts and spitting them into a cup, a habit Dawn barely tolerated, and the happy feeling Graham had sparked in her was dead. “Quinn can fend for herself,” she fibbed. “It’s me who might not be able to find my way back to the cabin, thanks to all this whiskey you’re making me drink.”
“Don’t worry, I can help you find your way back after dinner. It’s your birthday. Let a man handle the logistics.”
Dawn groaned and shoved him. Though . . . was that an invitation?
Mia’s voice sailed from the yurt. “Dinnertime, bitches! Come sit down, pronto.”
Graham sighed. “Am I really being summoned to dinner as a bitch by Mia Meadows?”
“I’m afraid you are. I probably shouldn’t have abandoned Reece in there.”
Graham’s posture seemed to stiffen. “Reece seems . . . good, though, doesn’t she? Solid? I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times since . . .”
Since everyone’s lives were shot to hell after the Project.
Well, Dawn thought, except her own.
“Grahammy and Dawnie!” Mia’s voice came again. “Now.”
“Lead the way, birthday girl.” Graham reached for his whiskey glass on the railing and missed, knocking it onto the ground below.
“Shit,” he said. “Let me go grab that. Mia brought a fucking Waterford set up here.”
“Of course,” said Dawn. “And we’ll get it after dinner.” She would not be late for Mia twice in the same night. Dawn grabbed his hand. “Let’s go, bitch,” she said, and Graham laughed as she led him toward the yurt and twilight gave way to darkness.