Fern pulls into Andi’s driveway and blows a deep breath through tight lips. Andi has managed to wrangle all four friends together for brunch, and this is Fern’s chance to break the news about optioning her book rights.
She’s the first to arrive, as it’s a ten-minute drive from her house in Berkeley to Andi’s place in the Oakland Hills. Carolina is running a race this morning in Dublin, an East Bay suburb a half hour away. It’s nearly an hour’s drive for Emma down from Petaluma and across the endless span of the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge. Her house is almost in wine country.
Fern stops on the front step before letting herself in. The weather is perfect, seventy degrees under partly cloudy skies. The first Saturday in June.
“Hiya.”
Andi is in the kitchen pulling a stack of plates from the cupboard. “Hey. Didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t bother knocking.” She retrieves the dishes from Andi’s outstretched arms. “Eating outside?”
“Yes, please. Thanks.”
Backyards can be tricky business in the Oakland Hills, but Andi and Dom got lucky. Their yard is flat, and despite the closeness of the neighboring houses, the space feels like an urban retreat. A thicket of eucalyptus trees shades the property line, and the air smells like jasmine. The scent of California. If Fern could bottle it, she’d never have to sell another word.
Andi reappears carrying a flatware caddy. She’s wearing an easy gray linen peasant dress, making her the only person Fern knows who buys linen without regret. Somehow, the inevitable wrinkles don’t look messy on her. “Dom offered to mix a pitcher of Bloody Marys. You think anyone will want them?”
“I don’t know why there isn’t one already in my hand, frankly.” It’s a typical lighthearted Fern comment, and yet somehow it comes out feeling alien. As if she’s just discovered after half a lifetime that she’s not from the same planet as the people she loves. She shifts gears. “Okay, what’s next?”
In recent days, she and Andi have spoken several times—about everything except Fern’s book-to-screen deal. Life at the Abdallah house has been rocky, and Cameron continues to stir the emotional waters.
Andi leads them back to the kitchen and hands over a knife, lemon, and cutting board. “I’ll tell you the whole story when everyone gets here, but Cameron got caught vaping in the women’s bathroom on the school field trip to the zoo this week.”
Fern stops her knife midway through the first slice. “What was he doing in the women’s restroom?” She’s aware it sounds as if she’s missed the headline: Cameron is vaping. But there’s something darker still about doing it in a place he doesn’t belong. “I know this seems irrelevant, but was he the only student in there?”
Andi shakes her head. “One other. A girl.”
Somehow, the presence of a female classmate lifts the veil of indecency. “And they were only vaping?”
“Yep. In fact, he says he wasn’t vaping at all. He was just hanging out.” Andi abruptly laughs like a woman gasping for sanity. “The girl’s name is Persimmon. I’ve met her mom and she’s exactly the kind of Whole Foods, Fair Trade avenger you’d expect to name her daughter after an exotic fruit.”
“Have you ever eaten one?” Fern knows she’s way off topic now. But she can also see that Andi is desperate to escape the burden of worry she’s carrying.
“Dunno. Maybe? I can’t think of what they taste like.”
Fern returns to her lemon. “Armpit sweat, that’s what.”
The doorbell rings and Carolina doesn’t wait for anyone to answer before letting herself in. “Hellooo?” She appears in the kitchen wearing two shamrock medals around her neck. “Guess who just placed first in both the women’s and men’s age group at the Dublin Green 10K?”
Fern and Andi stop what they’re doing to welcome her with a hug.
“You smell like persimmons,” Fern says.
“That’s called speed, baby.” Carolina winks and pulls a change of clothes from her shoulder bag. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, fresh as new.”
“Did you really win the men’s category, too?” Andi looks wildly impressed, even though they’ve been witness to countless Carolina surprises.
“Meh.” She waves away the awe. “It’s just a community race. Not a qualifier or anything. I mainly signed up because I didn’t have anything booked for this morning.”
“Except for Bloody Marys with us.” Fern wonders if Dom is ever going to make good on his promised pitcher.
Once Carolina is freshly dressed, Emma arrives, and the four women settle on the patio. For the meat eaters, Andi’s made eggs Benedict, hollandaise on the side. For Carolina, it’s tomato slices topped with micro greens and a creamy cashew sauce.
“The lady at the co-op assured me it’s her favorite. Vegan. Gluten-free. Organic. Blah, blah, blah, checks all the boxes.”
Carolina blows her an air kiss.
“Would we all look as good as you if we exercised like wild horses and ate less of this?” Fern holds up a bit of eggs and ham dripping with butter and lemon. “Or are we already too far gone?”
“Too late.” Andi takes a big bite.
“I like being set in my ways.” Emma’s blond hair gleams where the sun hits through the eucalyptus leaves. “Change is mostly overrated. But don’t tell my students I said that.”
“Speaking of...” Fern sees her opening. “I was hoping to change your minds about optioning the book for screen.” This is her new strategy—to let them assume she accepted the deal only after obtaining their blessing. “At least, I’d like to understand your concerns better.”
Everyone at that table knows it’s Emma who Fern needs to speak with most, but Emma is notably quiet. Finally, she says, “Before we do that, Fern, I’d like to address what happened at Portia’s engagement party.”
Fern’s body responds as if she’s a little girl about to be scolded, chest hot, stomach pinched. The urge to flee pulls at her heels.
“Perhaps I didn’t express it well, but it hurt when you weren’t there for my toast. It felt as if you didn’t care.”
“I did care, I just—” Fern’s palms are sweating. “I kept getting texts from my agent and I got carried away.”
Andi, too, begins to re-explain her poorly timed pop out for coffee.
Emma raises a palm. “I don’t want to relitigate it. God, listen to me. I sound like Devin. What I’m trying to say is, you’re my people, and I need you.”
A single sob comes from Carolina’s side of the table. “Ignore me. Carry on.”
“Carolina!”
“No, seriously. This is pretty much my normal state these days. I just try to do it when no one is looking.”
“See, this is what I’m talking about.” Emma thrusts her open palm toward Carolina. “We’re crying in private, falling asleep at parties—”
Andi interrupts, “For the record, I didn’t actually fall asleep at Portia’s event.”
“Regardless,” Emma continues, “we need to be there for each other. When did that stop?”
Carolina swipes at her eyes with a napkin. “It didn’t stop. We’re just busy, and life doesn’t allow for me to call you every time I have a mini breakdown.” She laughs. “That’s what Queenie’s for.”
“But if you’re crying all the time, we do want to know,” says Emma.
Andi says, “I had a panic attack at Target picking out toilet paper.”
“What?” they all say.
“Or, I don’t know. Maybe I was just exhausted. I had to sit down for a minute.”
Fern says, “Where?”
“In the aisle,” Andi answers. “I was wearing a short skirt and I think people could see my underwear.”
“What is happening to us?” cries Emma.
“When in doubt, blame hormones,” Fern says. It’s what she tells Maisy whenever she’s upset but can’t put her finger on why.
“Menopause,” agrees Andi. “Definitely.”
“This is more than hormones, you guys.” Emma is not backing down. “We’ve overextended ourselves, taken on too many responsibilities. The world isn’t going to end if we say no more than we say yes.”
Fern balks. “But saying yes is our thing. More than just our thing, now. Buy Me a Drink BINGO has gone mainstream.”
“That game was fun,” says Carolina.
“And we played it decades ago,” Emma says. “We’re not the same women we were then.”
“Alright.” Andi raps her knife against the side of her water glass. “Let’s get serious. Emma, I hear you. We’re all busier than we ought to be. But it’s not as easy as just saying no to a few things. Life isn’t a Nancy Reagan antidrug campaign.”
“But maybe it is,” Emma counters. “Maybe we’re just so programmed to say yes that we make saying no harder than it needs to be.”
“I wish that were true,” Andi says. “But I don’t think it is.”
Quiet falls over the table, the four of them each in their own thoughts. Fern pushes her food around on her plate like she’s trying to arrange bits of broken pottery.
Overcommitment may be Emma’s and Andi’s and Carolina’s issue, but not hers. If anything, she needs more to which she can commit her time, now with all three kids about to fly the nest and her writing mojo lying like a dry sponge in her brain. She needs Dakota Winters to bring her stories to life. She needs this yes.
“Emma?” Fern plunges back in. “What are your concerns about a screen deal?”
Emma’s eyes remain glued to the drying, yolky mess on the plate in front of her.
Likely trying to break the conversational logjam, Carolina says, “Just so you both know, I’ve told Fern I’m okay with it. Who cares if a TV show or movie brings us a little recognition? It won’t last. The public attention span is about five minutes long. And weren’t we just talking about supporting each other?”
Fern studies Andi and Emma for a reaction. Andi doesn’t react. Emma is studying the leaves on the trees.
Carolina goes on, “C’mon, guys. This is what Fern’s whole book is about. Signing the deal is saying yes.”
“And that’s the problem.” Emma locks her gaze directly onto Fern. “Word got out among the classroom moms that you and I are friends and now they email me to ask if we really danced in our underwear in the middle of the night at Grotta della Bolle.”
Fern laughs. “That’s what’s bothering you? Because we did do that.”
“I know we did. And it bothers me that it’s not just a memory shared among the four of us anymore.” She swirls a hand between them. “Now everyone who’s suddenly rediscovering your book believes they have a right to it. Just imagine if it gets made into a movie. Then it’s the whole world’s memory.”
“But why shouldn’t we share it? How many people get to experience a night like that in real life?” Even at the tender age of twenty-nine, Fern knew there would be few nights in her life as magical as their night at Grotta della Bolle.
Now, twenty-some years later, she looks at Emma, who says, “If it were just about the good memories, that would be different. But it’s not the good ones that scare me.”
Fern knows this. Of course, she does. But she waits to hear Emma say the words aloud, hoping that speaking them will break their fearful spell.
“What if he sees it?” Emma’s eyes glisten with the start of tears that never fully develop.
“What if he does?” And this is why Fern doesn’t feel the same fear her friends do. “He has just as much to lose as we do.”