21

The first round was margaritas—not the good kind Farah was hoping for, but the cheap chartreuse mix, left over from some party years ago and forgotten in the basement. They were all still in their rank hiking clothes when Charlie started mixing them up and passing them around. They’d brought a full pitcher down to the lake and arranged folding chairs in the shallow water, just deep enough to soak their aching calves.

Cold, sweet and synthetic, the margaritas went down quickly.

Farah leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The sun was beginning its descent behind the tree line at the west end of the lake. She could feel the water dissolving the film of dirt and dried sweat that coated her legs. Everything hurt, but in a kind of pleasant way now. She was proud of herself for having survived the hike.

Two drinks, she told herself. You’re only allowed two.

Farah was stressed about all the action she must have missed while they were on that mountain. She should have been back at the house when John Senior and Patty made the decision to go to New York for Good Morning America. She should be driving there with them right now, documenting the Senator’s every move.

Farah pulled out her phone and sent a text to Wayne.

Wayne wrote back immediately.

Farah put her phone back in her pocket and stood up. She felt wobbly on her feet, as much because of her sore muscles as the two strong drinks.

“I should get back to work.”

Charlie, who was pouring more green liquid into Philip’s cup, looked up. “No, stay for another.”

“I really can’t.”

“Just set some cameras up out here.” He gestured vaguely toward the house.

“Charlie, relax,” Chelsea said. “She said she has to work.”

“Well, we’re going swimming,” Spencer announced. He pulled Ian out of the chair beside him.

Ian pushed Spencer backward into the water, sending a small wave over the rest of them. The group laughed and splashed, and the focus again shifted away from Farah, as it should be. She walked back to her apartment above the garage.

Inside, Farah switched out batteries in two of the cameras. She uploaded hours of footage onto her external drive and wrote up accompanying notes for the files she thought might be useful later. The sound of men laughing floated up through the screen window of her temporary bedroom.

She’d spent almost no time in her room since arriving there. She hadn’t used the little electric coffeepot or turned on the TV. She hadn’t noticed the little basket of hand towels or the soaps shaped like trout. Now that she was looking around, she realized that Patty’s little touches were everywhere.

Farah walked to the window and looked out. It was just Charlie and Chelsea on the beach now. No sign of the others. Charlie was sitting in his chair, and Chelsea was standing before him. He was stroking the outside of her right thigh, looking up at her. Water lapped around their feet.

They were even more beautiful from that distance, both of them. Even in their sexless hiking clothes, they were bursting with erotic virility. It seemed to rise up from their skin as an invisible steam. Farah was reminded of a moment on the trail earlier that day, when she’d turned and bumped into Chelsea, accidentally inhaling her spicy sweat. It was the scent of ripe, new, interesting lust between two people. Something so private, but in clear view of everyone.

Charlie began kissing Chelsea’s neck. His hands moved up her shirt. She rocked softly in his grip, and her hair fell around them.

It all happened in the span of a few seconds—Farah watching the couple from the window as the clear moon illuminated them from above. That was all. And then, with his hands still beneath Chelsea’s clothes, Charlie looked directly at Farah.

In a stunned paralysis, she held his gaze there. Charlie smiled—maybe, it was difficult to tell in the distance—then turned back to Chelsea.

Farah closed the curtains and felt her face go red. She felt as if she’d been caught in the act of something shameful.

An hour later, Farah stood under the showerhead until the water changed from warm to cool. She rinsed the shampoo from her hair, shaved all the necessary parts and got dressed again.

Farah had to get back to her cameras, to keep watching them. That was her job. But she dreaded seeing Charlie after that strange moment of being caught in her voyeurism. Farah wasn’t attracted to Charlie or Chelsea—not really, though they were both undeniably attractive. It was this place, these men and their sureness that the world exists only to be enjoyed.

She dressed quickly and headed downstairs, checking herself in the mirror on the way out. She was flush from the cold shower and the hot day. Even with stringy wet hair soaking into her faded T-shirt, she looked good—a little pinker and brighter somehow.

Farah’s body didn’t feel particularly good as she walked down the back stairs and across the gravel driveway. Her legs were stiff and there was a blister on both of her heels. She knew she wasn’t in great shape, but the aftermath of the morning’s hike was ridiculous. The pain was her penance, she decided, for going on the hike and letting her guard down. It was her punishment for watching Chelsea and Charlie, for yesterday’s canoe with Philip, for feeling things.

Farah’s phone buzzed in her pocket as she entered the Bright family kitchen.

It was a text from Wayne.

“Farah’s back,” Philip announced cheerfully. He was sitting at the kitchen table working on a jigsaw puzzle with Chelsea. He seemed drunk.

She put her phone into her back pocket and tried to smile. “Do you guys mind if I turn the TV on in the living room?”

“Nope.”

In the next room, Charlie, Ian and Spencer were sprawled out on the sectional couches, drinking beer and watching an English Premier League game. They’d all showered and changed since Farah last saw them.

“You need the TV?” Charlie asked, eyes still on the television.

“I was hoping to just take a quick look at ABC, if you don’t mind. Apparently, they’re promoting the Good Morning America piece pretty hard.”

“No problem.”

Charlie changed the channel and Farah went to the camera at the corner of the room. Nothing more was said between the two of them.

A cat food commercial concluded with a jingle about wild-caught salmon, and then the faces of Lucas and Cameron Bright appeared on the screen.

“Coming up tomorrow—our exclusive interview with the Bright family and several members of the so-called Footy Fifteen. We’ll talk about their narrow escape from the terrorist attack that has rocked Spain, and what’s next for former Senator Bright and his family.”

Spencer sat up. “This should be interesting. I would love to know what’s next for the Bright family.”

Charlie laughed in agreement.

Ian shot Spencer a give-it-a-rest look, and Spencer ignored him.

“Anyone want more margs?” Philip yelled from the kitchen.

“I think the last one is burning a hole in my gut,” Charlie said.

“Just one for Chelsea, then.”

The feeling in the room was oddly friendly. Philip appeared to harbor no hostility about his brothers’ coordinated attack on him from earlier that day. Everything was just fine now. More than fine; they seemed bonded over a new shared resentment for JJ and their father, which had been reignited by their forthcoming TV appearance.

“Here.” Chelsea appeared beside Farah, holding a margarita out in her direction. “Drink this. It will help with the boredom.”

Farah looked away from her camera. She wasn’t bored, but she took the cocktail. “Thanks.”

“Leave the camera running and come sit outside with me, okay?”

She wouldn’t have agreed, but for the desperate look in Chelsea’s eyes. “Sure.”

They carried their drinks through the living room and out the back door.

“So how’s it going with all this?” Chelsea asked as the screen door slammed behind them. They relaxed into deck chairs. “How’s your documentary coming along?”

The sun was down, but there was still a glow on the lake. Peepers were screaming in concert around them.

“It’s fine, I think. I don’t really know what this is going to be yet. If it’s going to be something. That part is hard.”

“Are you bored? I’m sooo bored.”

Farah swatted a mosquito. “Um, not really bored, no. I’m kind of stressed out, actually. A promotion at work kind of hinges on this. You’re bored?”

“It’s not boredom exactly.” Chelsea ran a hand dramatically through her long hair, and it was clear that she was drunk. “It’s just too intense here. The Madrid thing, and the TV cameras, and now all of us just holed up together here. Like, I know what you’re doing here. And I know what Ian is doing here. But what am I doing here? I barely know Charlie.”

“Really? I thought you guys...” Farah felt her face go red again and she took a sip of her drink.

“Well, I know him, but we’re not exactly at a meet-the-parents stage in our relationship. This is way more than I signed up for...not that I had any other options.”

Farah nodded, unsure of how to help.

“Sorry, I’m just blabbing on like this. I don’t really know you, either.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad you are.”

“You’re just the only person here who isn’t...one of them, you know? I feel like we’d hang out in the real world.” Chelsea suddenly looked embarrassed, like she’d been coming on too strong. “Sorry, I’ve had a few too many of these.”

“No, we would. I agree.”

“Will you get drunk with me tonight? It will make me feel so much less alone and bored.”

“I can have another, at least. But we have to avoid the cameras. The shots that I’m in are unusable.”

“Deal.” Chelsea gave her a little squeeze.

A light came on and Ian appeared a few seconds later. He walked to the grill and started turning knobs. “You guys want tuna steaks? I’m gonna do seared tuna and corn on the cob.”

Farah and Chelsea said yes, then went back inside to join Philip at the table with the puzzle. Farah was careful to make sure the two nearby cameras were running and to seat herself as far outside the frame as possible.

Charlie went outside to help Ian with the grilling.

Spencer made a salad.

They left the TV on in the other room to be periodically reminded of their family members in New York.

And the margaritas flowed until they reached the end of the dusty Jose Cuervo liter. It was beer after that.

The group ate a late dinner on top of the partially finished puzzle, then got back to work on it when the dishes were cleared again. It had 1,500 pieces and, when completed, illustrated the most common bird species of the White Mountains. It smelled like mildew and fireplace.

The puzzle was just the pretense for sitting around drinking, telling (or listening to) stories about the funny things the Bright men had done as children and teasing one another in sweet, harmless ways. It made Farah miss her own family, her parents still in New Jersey and two siblings with their own families on the West Coast. They’d all followed their professional ambitions, and it led them so very far away from one another.

Farah was sitting beside Philip at the table, and it was no mistake. Ever since their canoe ride, she had been hoping (despite herself) to talk more with him. Philip reached across the table to fit a piece into the far end, pressing his shoulder against Farah as he did. His closeness felt purposeful to her.

“You’re no help at all,” Philip teased.

Farah blinked. His face was inches from hers. “What do you mean? I did that whole corner section.”

“That’s like five pieces! You’re going to have to apply yourself more if we’re ever going to finish this.”

“Philip, this isn’t a hazing.” Ian pushed a piece in from across the table.

Farah laughed. “Isn’t it, though?”

Philip smiled wide, his canines peeking out. “Maybe it is.”

It was definitely something.

“Is that the last of the beer?” Chelsea asked.

Charlie stood up. “Nope, I’ll grab more.”

He returned with a six-pack of Long Trail, handing the first one to Farah. “I knew we’d get you drunk with us eventually.”

She laughed and took a sip. And as she drank, Farah realized that she’d been charmed, snared in the Bright net. Whether for sincere or manipulative reasons, the Brights had brought her to their side. She had barely resisted at all. It was precisely what Wayne had warned her about. Don’t go native and don’t fall in love with any of them. That’s what he’d said.

And here she was, doing both.