Hate to Fake It to You

Chapter 7

lovelillibet When planning a festive meal, I always ask myself what I can offer my guests to elevate their senses. From the tablescape to the menu, I want them to feel cherished from the moment they step through our door. But while a gorgeously lettered place card can help set the mood, the most important ingredient at any gathering is the guest list. Selecting a group with the right chemistry to make your event sparkle is the most elusive magic of all. That’s where you start putting the “art” in the dinner pARTy experience.

Love, Lillibet

Image: Ink drips from the pointed nib of a fountain pen onto a square of ecru parchment with the letters “M” and “E” in elaborate script.

#celebrateyourstyle #moreismore #savoreverybite #makeamood

“It’s fine,” Libby said to the empty path. The plane wasn’t due to land until five thirty, and there was bound to be a wait for luggage—maybe one of their bags would be lost!—and then they’d have to drive around the island, which would take forever with rush-hour traffic.

There was plenty of time, in other words. She hadn’t flaked out and fucked up because of a guy. Suck it, genetics. They could still pull off a fancy welcome dinner, Lillibet-style.

The first thing to do was change her clothes. Libby couldn’t meet a potential future employer while wearing her period shorts (pre-stained and therefore worry-free) and a tatty sweatshirt the color of split-pea soup. If she’d known there were going to be attractive men wandering the beach, she would have dressed up. Not that he’d seemed to mind her old clothes or unbrushed hair or lack of makeup … or anything about her, really.

Libby shook herself. Head in the game. She sniffed her armpit, frowning as she revised her to-do list. World’s quickest shower first, then clean clothes. Or, no, check with Keoki to see if he still needed help in the kitchen. On the off chance they managed to keep the charade going until dinner.

“It will be fine,” Libby repeated, lowering her voice like the man on the beach. He’d sounded so certain, not bullshitting or blowing her off, but calm and unshakable, looking at her with those pale eyes. Maybe he was right. All they had to do was survive the next few days. Either she’d get a job offer at the end or not, and somehow life would go on. There would be walks on the beach and people to meet …

Oh no. Did that sound like a Lillibet-ism? What if it was like an infection, spreading through her soft tissues? Soon she’d be a walking grid of inspirational quotes and general pretentiousness.

“No, you won’t, because it will be fine.” It sounded grimmer this time. Deep breath. “What’s the worst that could—ahhhh!” Libby’s strangled scream died out when she realized the figure leaping out from behind the naupaka bush was Jean.

“There you are! Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Libby protested as Jean dragged her onto the grass. “We can’t cut through these people’s yard.”

“They don’t have an alarm. The mynas kept setting it off.”

She shuddered to think why Jean knew so much about neighborhood security. “Listen, sorry I stayed at the beach so long,” she said as they detoured around a massive outdoor kitchen. “I forgot my phone and … lost track of time.” The rest of the story could wait until Jean wasn’t vibrating with agitation. “It’s going to be fine,” she added, attempting to slow her friend’s headlong rush.

“Ha!” Jean tightened her hold on Libby’s arm, picking up the pace.

“Why are we running?”

They’d reached the back of Mr. L’s property, distinguished by the in-ground pool and spa designed to resemble a natural lagoon, complete with waterfall and rocky outcroppings. Jean hauled Libby all the way to the outdoor shower hidden among the trees before whirling to face her.

“Because they’re he-ere!” she announced in a singsong falsetto. “I have no idea why I said that like a creepy little girl in a horror movie, but you get the point.”

“I do?”

Flinging open the slatted wooden door, Jean shoved Libby into the shower. “Clean up. I put a dress in there.”

In a haze, Libby stripped off her clothes, then pulled the cord disguised as a vine, turning her face up to meet the splash of sun-warmed water. It was supposed to feel like standing in a gentle rain, Mr. L had explained, though the relaxation factor was diminished by Jean opening the door after five seconds to throw a towel at her.

“They can’t be here,” Libby said as she wiped her face.

Her best friend held out a sleeveless lavender shift. “You’re going to have to fast-forward past the denial stage. They took an earlier flight, because someone likes to be spontaneous.”

“Oh yeah, like taking that trip to the mountains—”

“Not her. You. ‘Some days I flow where the wind blows me, drifting on the breeze like a dandelion seed.’”

“You try coming up with eight thousand ways to caption pictures of flowers.”

“Speaking of which.” Jean plucked a hibiscus bloom and stuck it in Libby’s hair. “Did you get the shells?”

“I—did. Yes. Three really pretty ones. Because you said groupings of three are better. But then I lost two.” Lost, threw into the ocean because of a hot guy; it was a fine line. “Sorry! Can we get by without them?”

“I told them you were out foraging. To create tonight’s centerpiece.”

As opposed to last night’s centerpiece, because what kind of plebe used the same table decorations twice?

“I’m sure we can find something. Here.” Bending, Libby scooped a handful of crushed shells from the ornamental border lining the path. They looked more like broken teeth than something that had washed up on a beach. “How about this?”

Jean stared at the crunchy bits of white. “You know what? YOLO. Maybe tomorrow we can use gravel. Or dirt clods. Because she’s so earthy.” She nudged Libby in the direction of the house.

“Anything else I should know?”

“I’m your housekeeper. My life imploded but you gave me a second chance, because you’re all about women helping women.”

“Imploded how?”

“I didn’t go into details.”

Libby nodded, relieved. They had enough lies to juggle without one of Jean’s embellishing sprees.

“Sort of hinted it involved prison.” Jean waved at her shoulder, as if the delicate constellation of plumeria and ravens she’d designed could pass for jailhouse ink.

“Oh boy.”

“Also I’m Irish,” Jean mumbled, like she didn’t really want Libby to hear.

“You’re kidding.”

“It slipped out. I was trying to get in character.”

“Lillibet has an Irish ex-con housekeeper.” Was it too soon to give up? “In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.”

“Or a wee tuppence, as me mam used to say.” Jean sent her a hopeful look.

Libby shook her head. They’d have to pray their guests didn’t know any real Irish people. Or watch a lot of PBS.

“The good news is that Keoki is mixing up a batch of his li hing mui margaritas.”

“Is the plan to get them drunk or are we numbing the pain?”

“Yes,” Jean replied.

* * *

“It’s you,” the young woman in the purple maxidress said on an awestruck exhale. In person, she looked about seventeen, with flawless skin that seemed to barely contain her buzzing energy. She moved toward Libby as if in a trance, arms extended.

Was Lillibet a hugger? Libby had no idea. To be on the safe side, she opted for a ladylike hand squeeze, and a lean that stopped just shy of air kisses.

“In the flesh,” she replied. Wherever possible, Libby hoped to stick with lies of omission rather than straight-up untruths.

“You’re literally glowing. Wow.”

If she were being herself right now, Libby would have admitted that her alleged radiance was the result of Jean flicking shower water in her face while ordering her to “snap out of it.” Instead, she offered a faint smile that hopefully read as quietly confident, like a full-of-it Mona Lisa.

Glowing was the last thing she felt she was doing, especially compared to the vibrant youthfulness of their guest, with her bright eyes and abundant curls. Libby might not be that much older in years, but she was hunched like a crone under the weight of deception. And not only on the inside. A series of pokes between the shoulder blades, courtesy of Jean, let her know she was slouching.

“I can’t wait to see JJ’s face. That’ll teach him to question me. Or you!” Hildy grinned at Libby as if the two of them were in on a joke.

“I’ve always preferred quests to questions.” And if I had a blunt instrument, I’d bludgeon myself with it.

“Speakin’ o’ which,” Jean cut in, “her young fella’s gone walkabout, so he has.”

“That’s nice,” Libby replied on autopilot, mainly concerned with filling the space where a reasonable person might begin to question Jean’s Lucky-Charms-by-way-of-Outback-Steakhouse accent.

“He doesn’t like to be cooped up. It’s all about the great outdoors with Jefferson. Just a man and his camera. That’s not bad, is it?” Hildy shook her head. “Look at me, talking business. Plenty of time for that, after we get to know each other better.”

No, please, let’s talk about work, Libby thought, as a knock sounded on the front door. She waited for someone to answer.

Oh right. This was supposed to be her house.

“I’ll just get that,” she said, angling her thumb at the door like a totally normal person who hadn’t learned human behavior from sitcoms. Her footsteps were silent against the satin smoothness of the floor, drowned out by the pounding of Libby’s heart. Because a terrible suspicion had taken root in her brain, throbbing like the beginning of a migraine.

Maybe she was wrong. Hundreds of tourists arrived every day, giant planes disgorging passengers from all over the world. What were the odds? She paused with her hand on the heavy iron knob, taking a deep breath before adjusting her expression to a serene smile.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening. A spark of recognition lit his eyes, a warm flare of pleased surprise that said, It’s you. Like that was a good thing.

Libby had no idea what her face was doing, but her brain was stuck on a single thought: I was right. Iceman was hot—in a lean, serious, wolf-eyed way.

Then again, he was also the guy from the beach, which was pretty strong evidence that Libby’s intuition sucked. Because she could not possibly have been less Lillibet with him.

She drafted a silent letter of complaint to the universe: When I said I wanted to meet someone like him, I didn’t mean the exact same person! Especially since he already had a charming, young, successful girlfriend.

“What do you say, JJ?” Hildy stuck an arm between them, wiggling her fingers. “Is she gorgeous or what?”

He looked startled, less by the question than by the presence of other humans. His gaze flicked to Hildy before sliding back to Libby. Did all his friends call him JJ, or was that a pet name, just between the two of them? Not that Libby was a friend, as evidenced by the fact that all traces of warmth had fled his expression. It seemed unlikely he was looking to expand his social circle with a thirsty phony who accidentally hit on people who were happily coupled up.

“I don’t just mean superficially,” Hildy continued. “Your inner beauty shines through. Lillibet, it is my very great pleasure to present the one and only Jefferson Jones. Winter warrior, savior in the storm, my personal guardian angel, et cetera.”

“Hildy.” His voice was a grumble of warning. Libby tried not to feel it in her bones, but it was a losing battle. He didn’t have a drawl, exactly, but the low-and-slow thing was undeniably sexy.

“Fine.” Hildy rolled her eyes. “JJ, this”—she twirled her hand like the ringmaster at a circus—“is Lillibet. Who by the way is exactly how I pictured her.”

Libby waited for him to say something like, Did you also picture her snarfing an entire bag of shrimp crackers while wearing shorts that should have been thrown away ten years ago? But he only held out his hand, like a civilized adult. The palm-to-palm contact should not have seemed too intimate for a public setting, and yet the slot machine of Libby’s nervous system was flashing lights and making dinging sounds so loud she worried everyone could tell she was losing it. Sensory overload.

“Pleased to meet you,” she mumbled.

“Likewise.”

“He thinks you’re great,” Hildy translated. “We both do.”

“Oh, well. You, too.” Both of you. Libby kept that part to herself, but her face flushed anyway.

“Is it time to do the centerpiece?” Hildy asked, glancing at the dimly lit dining room behind them. “I was hoping we could watch. If that’s okay?”

“Certain and sure,” said Jean, rolling each r like a bowling ball. She made a flicking motion at Libby. If that was supposed to be a hint, it flew right over her head. And it wasn’t like “Lillibet” could ask someone else for pointers. Aesthetics were her bread and butter.

Libby walked to the approximate middle of the table, which appeared to have been carved from the trunk of a massive tree. The surface was lacquered to a glossy shine, but the edges dipped and flared like a coastline, still rough with bark in spots. A river of translucent blue glass ran from end to end.

One by one, Libby unfolded her fingers to reveal the damp fistful of crushed shells. Some of them were probably embedded in her skin. How hard could it be? She’d watched Jean make art out of scraps plenty of times. After quickly discarding the idea of scattering them like glitter, she dumped the whole thing at once.

“Minimalist,” Hildy said, staring at the grayish white mound.

“Mmm.” Libby debated sticking her finger into the center of the pile to make a hole. Like what, a salty donut? “It’s an iterative process.”

“She’ll be pickin’ up bits o’ this and o’ that,” Jean chimed in. “Like a birdie buildin’ its nest.”

Hildy turned wide brown eyes on Libby, clearly expecting more.

“Because a lot of people only choose the perfect shells.” As opposed to the ones that had been ground up for landscaping. “But someone has to love the broken pieces.” She ventured a glance at her audience to see how this was going over. Hildy gave a solemn nod.

“I like to think these shells have been through things,” Libby continued, confidence growing. “There’s a story there.”

“If only the poor wee bairns could talk,” Jean said on a sigh.

Libby ignored Jefferson’s raised eyebrows. Off limits, she reminded her brain. No staring allowed. It made a desperate grinding sound in response, like the fan in her ailing laptop.

“Live. Laugh. Love,” Jean went on, when no one responded. “That’s what I reckon they’d tell us.”

“And find beauty in the unexpected.” Hildy’s eager expression clued Libby in that this was another of Lillibet’s greatest hits.

“Right.” She forced a smile, making a mental note to slap herself later.

“Is the no-ring thing a choice, or did you take it off to go gathering?” Hildy nodded at Libby’s left hand.

“Um.” They’d talked about this, agreeing that no wedding band was better than any fake they could afford, but the ready-made excuse flew straight out of Libby’s brain.

A sharp poke in the kidney returned her to the present. “’Tis about hands, tisn’t it?” Jean prompted. “Touching hands. Reaching out. Touching this and that.”

Thank you, Neil Diamond.

“Yes! I don’t like anything to block that connection. Between me and the earth. Or the sea. Sand. Grass. Flowers.” Libby looked for something to demonstrate her point, but it was tricky indoors. In a moment of desperation, she stuck her hands in her hair. It probably looked like she had a splitting headache.

“Likes touchin’ herself, too,” Jean said.

The silence felt like an empty swimming pool Libby was about to topple into. Somebody needed to say something. Like maybe the hostess of this Titanic of an evening.

“Cocktails will be ready in a jiffy.” And won’t that be peachy keen? At some point during her programming, Lillibet must have been fitted with the 1950s housewife chip.

The door to the kitchen swung open. Keoki emerged carrying a tray laden with drinks. Libby sent up a silent, Hallelujah.

“Who’s this?” Hildy asked, looking him up and down. “The mysterious Mr. L?”

Keoki froze, shooting Libby a panicked look. He didn’t share Jean’s terrifying flair for improv, largely because it was hard for him to be anyone but himself. That was reason number one they’d never considered having him play Libby’s husband, even before Mr. L leaped at the chance to fulfill his thespian dream. The second was the borderline-incest squick factor.

“Ha! Not at all. This is my … old friend,” Libby stammered, at the same time Jean said, “Cousin.”

They glared at each other.

“A cousin-friend,” Jean amended. “Doon ya ken.” She plucked a glass from the tray, draining it in one go. It looked like an excellent idea to Libby, who was headed in that direction when Jefferson’s voice brought her to an abrupt halt.

“Is your husband joining us?”

She smoothed damp palms over her hips. Talk about a loaded question. Had anyone else picked up on the subtext of, The one you failed to mention when you were making eyes at me on the beach?

“Uh, yes. He’ll be here soon.” It sounded like a death sentence.

Keoki approached with a glass, having already handed one to Hildy. Jean grabbed it before Libby had a chance.

“Beg pardon,” Jean rasped after sucking down half of Libby’s drink. “I’ve always had a terrible thirst. Curse of me ancestors. The demon liquor in our blood!”

Libby made a throat-slitting gesture but was forced to play it off as fixing her hair when she realized Jefferson was watching.

“Aye,” Jean continued, like a car sliding off the road. “Both of me grannies drank like there was nae tomorrah. I was named for them, you know.”

“Oh?” Hildy said politely. “I didn’t catch your first name, Mrs. O’Malley-Gilligan.”

“Jean. Er, Jean-Colleen, that is.”

Keoki pried the glass out of her hand. “Save some for the fishes.”

“Shall we have our drinks on the lanai?” Libby said brightly. It seemed like something a hostess would propose, especially if her jailbird housekeeper with the dodgy accent was too busy getting loaded to do her pretend job.

A clap of thunder sounded, rumbles fading slowly into silence.

“Or not,” Libby muttered.

Jefferson’s amused glance lighted on the tray full of empty glasses, Hildy having dispatched her own in record time.

“I’ll make another batch,” Keoki said. “And I’ll bring out something to snack on, so you can pace yourselves.” He narrowed his eyes at Jean. “But not shrimp crackers, because someone ate them all.” The disapproving stare swung to Libby.

She tried not to look at Jefferson, but the temptation was too strong. He turned away before she could guess whether he was going to spill her secret.

“Ooh, one of your legendary pupu platters?” Hildy directed the question at Libby, who watched Keoki open his mouth to answer before remembering.

It turned out there was a world of difference between talking up Keoki’s recipes online, for an invisible audience, and taking credit for them in real life. How was she any better than the chef at Chez Jacques, who slapped his name on Keoki’s best dishes? That was another reason her oldest friend needed his own place—to finally get the recognition he deserved. And put a roof over his family’s head.

I owe you a month of karaoke, she promised him with her eyes. All the diva hits your heart desires. I’ll even do Celine.

Being a better friend than she deserved, Keoki sighed. “Lillibet wanted to keep it light tonight.”

“A liquid diet,” Jean suggested. “Like them newfangled smoothies and suchlike.”

“No, we’re having seared furikake ahi and marinated ogo. Real food.” Shaking his head, Keoki headed for the kitchen.

Hildy leaned closer, face lit with anticipation. “So. Tell me everything.”

“About what?” Libby started to tuck her hair behind her ear, then worried it was one of those gestures that said, I’m totally hiding something right now.

“What we’re drinking. Is it one of your signature aperitifs, or a special Me-mas concoction?”

“Ah.” That was an easy one. “It’s a margarita.”

Hildy pursed her lips. “There was something different about it. Didn’t you think?” she asked Jefferson.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Jean leaned against him, batting her lashes. “Sorry about that, laddie. You wouldn’t begrudge a lady her tipple.”

“Li hing mui,” Libby snapped, dragging her friend off him. “That’s what you’re tasting.”

“What’s that?” Hildy pulled out her phone, like she was going to take notes.

“Um.” Libby didn’t think salty dried plum powder was going to land the right way. “The secret ingredient in my Me-mas margaritas.”

“Mysterious! Provocative! I love it. And the red is so bold. We should have gotten a picture. Next time.” Hildy nodded at Jefferson, like he was keeping a master list of photo ops.

“Is that the royal we?” he asked.

“Yes. Princess Hildy commands it.”

It was impressive how she managed to laugh it off while still making it clear she expected her orders to be obeyed. Of the two of them, Libby suspected Hildy had a lot more to teach people about personal fabulousness.

“Ahem.”

Speaking of fabulous, their host was standing at the top of the stairs. He’d traded his suit for a blue version with a faint sheen. His ascot and pocket square were a pop of brilliant teal. Peacock colors.

That was fine. It was all fine. She reminded herself to breathe. “Here he is.”

“Who?” Jefferson seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Her man,” Jean replied, when Libby found herself unable to say the word husband.

Mr. L continued his slow descent, pausing from time to time to pose as though traversing a red carpet. “My friends,” he said, stopping a few steps from the bottom, where he was almost as tall as the other adults in the room. “Welcome to my home.”

Jean coughed.

“Where I live with my beautiful Lillibet,” Mr. L added. “Who is my wife. And so it is also our house. You might say.”

The wink wasn’t even the worst of it. But at least he looked happy, like someone had complimented his faucet. Good for you, Rudy. One of them should enjoy this train wreck.

The only person having more fun was Hildy, who was drinking in every detail of Lillibet’s invented life, her mouth puckering in a soft O. Though that might have been the lingering tartness of the li hing mui. Jefferson’s face remained unreadable, but Libby felt the weight of his attention even when she resisted the urge to look in that direction. He probably thought she was a gold digger, shacking up with an oddball older man to fund her ridiculous lifestyle. Could this night get any more awesome?

“So this is what you’ve been hiding.” Hildy lowered her voice to a confidential murmur.

“What?” Libby hoped she didn’t sound as guilty as she felt.

“There’s your life and then there’s your ‘Life.’” Hildy underscored the last word with finger quotes. “You have to keep some things private.”

“Aye,” Jean concurred. “A woman has many hidden chambers. Attics and basements. Proper full of secrets, they are.”

Outside, the wind picked up, rain lashing the windows. No wonder Jean thought they’d been transported into a Gothic novel.

“I hope the goats are okay,” Hildy said as a flash of lightning illuminated the storm-tossed yard.

Mr. L clapped his hands. “Is that what we’re having for dinner? I love a good goat curry.”

Everyone stared at him with varying degrees of horror. Jean was the first to recover.

“They’re at the groomer.” Realizing she’d dropped the accent, she added a hurried, “doon ya fash, lassie.”

That’s Scottish, Libby mouthed. Though what she really meant was, Please stop. And also, No more Outlander for you.

“I’m excited to see your Me Tree.” The artificial brightness of Hildy’s tone said Subject Change. Thank goodness one of them had social skills. “JJ and I have been dying to know which theme you settled on.”

Me, too, Libby almost said out loud. The only thing Jean had let slip was that it was going to “rock your world.” Which could mean a lot of different things, Jean being Jean. At the very least, it had to be less pathetic than the shell heap on the dining room table.

“And what presents you got yourself,” Hildy added.

“We’ll have to wait a few days.” Or at least until we find something to wrap. “I can’t open my Me-mas gifts before—” Libby’s throat closed, refusing to say the word twice in the same sentence.

“Me-mas?” Jefferson supplied.

“We so appreciate you inviting us into your home,” Hildy cut in, linking her arm through Jefferson’s. “It’s an honor to witness the very first Me-mas. History in the making!”

“Right.” Libby dragged her gaze from the trusting way Hildy was clinging to Jefferson. “The, um, Me Tree is in here.”

She set off confidently in what she thought was the right direction, only to be hit with a wave of doubt in front of the pocket doors. Was this the living room?

The doors slid apart with the whispering glide of expensive engineering. Libby peeked inside.

So many books. Shelf upon shelf of them. Floor-to-ceiling, in fact.

“I thought you might like to see the library first,” she chirped, like it was a special treat. “And now we can—continue our journey together. To the living room. Because it’s not the length of the journey that matters as much as the spirit of … discovery.”

Jean flashed her a covert thumbs-up.

Hurrying to the other end of the corridor, Libby flung open a nearly identical set of doors with a game-show worthy, “Tada!”

Her fist clenched in victory at the sight of the “tree” in the corner, and not only because it meant she had the right room. Jean had strung together driftwood branches of varying lengths, backed with brown butcher paper, the straight edges suggesting a frame. The whole thing was suspended from the ceiling by metal rods and cables, the industrial elements contrasting against the weather-bleached wood strewn with bits of coral and fresh flowers.

Despite the pressure-packed situation, Libby took a moment to appreciate her friend’s artistry. Jean’s found-object kinetic sculpture phase had been one of Libby’s favorites, even though she’d developed a permanent forehead bruise trying to walk through their apartment.

This might work after all. The flush of hope brought prickles of sweat to Libby’s hairline.

“As you can see,” she said, crossing to the sliding glass doors to let a little fresh air into the room, “the Me Tree is a focal point for the meditative aspect of Me-mas. A place to sit and contemplate your place in the universe.”

Libby sucked in a lungful of rain-scented evening before turning back to her guests. She expected Hildy at least to appear interested, but no one was paying the slightest attention to her rambling. Their startled expressions were trained on the Me Tree, which had spun in the breeze. The side facing Libby was the same rustic evocation of a trunk and branches she’d seen before. Apparently there was something surprising on the back, judging by the reaction it was getting.

What did you do? She tried to catch Jean’s eye, without success. Swallowing a spike of dread, Libby walked slowly to that end of the room to see what they were seeing.

It was a naked woman. Or, to be more precise, a gigantic painting of an undressed lady—with Libby’s face.

The larger-than-life figure wasn’t totally nude, if you wanted to get technical about it. Long hair snaked down to cover her pubes and she was feeling herself up with one hand. That left her other pale round tit hanging out like a fried egg.

It was a good enough copy of that famous painting of the blonde standing on a giant shell that you recognized the reference, but Jean had given her version a hot-pink-and-pistachio palette, like you were seeing it through a druggy haze.

It was outrageous. Unbelievable. And also a really cool piece of art, if you could get past the shock value. In other words, totally Jean. Libby could feel the unholy glee emanating from her best friend.

“Oh my goddess,” Hildy breathed. “That is amazing. It’s like the Birth of Me-mas. Is it a self-portrait?”

“No!” It came out a little too emphatic. “It was a commission,” Libby improvised.

“It’s striking.” Hildy cocked her head to one side, considering the epic nude. “As if you’re saying, Here I am, au naturel, with nothing to hide. A glycolic peel for the soul.” Libby nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Was it a local artist?”

“Yes.” Libby didn’t look at Jean. “Who unfortunately died shortly after painting it.”

Hildy made a noise of sympathy. “Were they in poor health?”

“It was murder.” Some might call it justifiable homicide. Everyone stared at Libby, waiting for the gory details, until Keoki rounded the corner.

“My eyes,” he groaned, nearly dropping the tray he was carrying. He stopped in the doorway, as if he couldn’t bear to get any closer.

“Not to be tasteless, but that makes your portrait even more valuable.” Taking the tray from Keoki’s unresisting hands, Hildy set it on the marble-topped coffee table and started pouring drinks. “Which obviously you would never sell, but still.”

“Aye, she’s a keeper, all right,” Jean chortled into the glass she’d grabbed before anyone else was served.

“I’ve seen the original,” Mr. L informed the room.

Not me, Libby wanted to scream.

“The Botticelli is in the Uffizi Gallery,” he went on. “In Italy. It was almost as lovely as my liebling. Wonderful fountains.” He made a spurting gesture with both hands that felt slightly lewd.

“That’s … sweet,” Hildy said uncertainly.

He edged closer to Libby, arm outstretched as if to wrap it around her waist, before pulling back with a shudder. “I keep seeing my mother in that dress.”

Hildy looked from Libby to her supposed spouse. “How Freudian of you.”

“Thank you.” Snapping his heels together, Mr. L bowed.

As Libby reached for a drink, a feeling akin to resignation settled over her. So this was how their cursed experiment was going to end. Definitely more of a whimper than a bang. Maybe some high-pitched keening.

“Cheers,” she said to no one in particular, throat burning as she swallowed. “I hope you like your drinks strong.”

“Like you like your men?” Hildy teased, with a significant glance at Keoki.

He and Libby exchanged matching ew-yuck frowns. The insinuation was so far off base, it hadn’t even factored into the long list of “things that will give away the game.”

It wasn’t like Libby could quickly explain how she and Keoki ran wild together as kids because her mom was never around and his grandmother had practically raised her. Or tell Hildy that once you’ve helped someone wash his sheets to keep his older brothers from finding out he wet the bed, you might as well be related by blood. Not to mention the pending arrival of Keoki Jr. None of that belonged to Lillibet.

“Keoki is very talented,” she said instead.

“Oh, I bet he is.” Hildy’s tone was twice as suggestive as a brow wiggle.

“He’s going to open his own restaurant.” Which was way more impressive than anything Lillibet had pretended to do.

“With my help.” Mr. L patted his lapel, indicating either his wallet or his heart.

“So you’re a patroness of the arts.” Hildy was still focused on Libby. “Generous with your assets.”

Generous was not the first word that came to mind when people described Libby’s assets. There was a reason Keoki’s older brothers had called her Tiny Lychees, and it wasn’t because she could put away so many of the spiny little fruits. Though that was also true.

“I need to get into that,” Hildy said. “The arts. I worry the symphony is too obvious. So then I was like, maybe theater could be my thing?”

“Oh, aye begonia. ’Tis your lucky night. Luck o’ the Oirish!” Jean’s arm twitched in a salute. Sticky red liquid splashed from her glass onto the floor. Mr. L hissed like a cat.

“I’ve got it,” Libby said before his head could spin around. She knelt in front of Jean, grabbing a napkin from the tray to wipe up the spill.

Hildy set down her glass. “This is so educational.”

As a PSA about drinking too many margaritas, or the importance of hiring a dialect coach? Libby kept those thoughts hidden behind what she hoped was a smile of polite interest. As opposed to the look of a woman on the verge of losing it.

“Sometimes it’s easier to take care of business yourself.” Hildy gestured at Libby, who was trying to rise from the floor without flashing anyone. “Other times you delegate. Preferably to someone who looks like the Rock, only soft.”

“Dad bod,” Keoki said with unmistakable pride, jiggling his belly like Santa. Libby half expected him to bust out the ultrasound pictures to prove it, but he was too busy patting his topknot. “And I have hair.”

“Excellent hair,” Hildy agreed, fluffing her own curls. “Although I’m kind of off men lately. Besides JJ, of course.”

Who wouldn’t swear off other guys after finding someone like him? Libby guzzled more of her drink.

“Good on ya,” Jean slurred, tapping the side of her nose. “Menfolk canna be trusted, with their lying eyes and wee wandering willies.”

“I think somebody could use a sandwich,” Keoki said, reaching for Jean’s arm.

“I’ve heard a sandwich can fix anything.” Libby gave Jean a syrupy smile, wondering how she liked being on the receiving end of patronizing sandwich discourse. Keoki raised his eyebrows (unlike the Rock, he couldn’t do one at a time), reminding her that Lillibet was too evolved to be passive-aggressive. “Did you know I grind my own millet?”

Hildy looked delighted by this non sequitur, but before she could ask for details, Mr. L cleared his throat. “Has anyone used the bathroom?” It sounded like he was about to accuse one of them of leaving a floater.

“My—he designed all the plumbing himself,” Libby explained, gesturing at her faux-husband.

He preened. “Let me know if you experience any problems. Not that you will.”

“The pipes, the pipes they’re callin’,” Jean warbled. “No doubt everything’s flowin’ like a river for these spry young things. Unlike me poor old uncle Malachi. Speakin’ o’ dribs and drabs, can I get a refill?” She rattled the ice in her glass.

Hildy had gone back to studying Lillibet’s Me Tree centerfold. “So do you decorate a Me Tree?”

Sure, Libby thought. It’s like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, only with nipple tassels.

“Aye,” Jean said. “She’ll be needin’ the finishin’ touch.”

“A beret?” Mr. L guessed.

“Nay. Though she can wear it on her head if she likes. Sure, an’ our Lillibet can reach that high, bein’ the tall drink o’ water that she be.”

Libby was always aware of her height, but the combination of too-short dress and everyone staring made her feel particularly giraffe-like, as if her knees were growing knobbier by the second. Since she wasn’t really twelve feet tall, she set down her drink and headed for the ladder propped against the wall. Jean must have left it there after setting up her special surprise.

When Mr. L showed no inclination to move, Jefferson walked slowly across the room to join her. The set of his mouth was grim, like she was a hitchhiker he’d picked up despite the high probability she’d turn out to be an ax murderer. “Let me help you.”

She was too tongue-tied to argue. Now that they were sort of alone, as they’d been on the beach, Libby was painfully aware of the undercurrents filling the room like one of those crisscrossing laser security systems in an action movie. In silence, they lifted the ladder, positioning it next to 2D Naked Libby.

“It’s just there,” Jean called out to Jefferson, pointing at a box on one of the end tables. “Be a love and fetch it for her.”

If the accent was the main problem with Jean pretending to be a domestic, a close second was her habit of ordering people around while she lounged and guzzled cocktails.

Jefferson started to reach into the box. “Are you sure?”

Libby’s first guess was severed head, followed closely by the shriveled remains of my personal dignity.

He held up the desiccated corpse of a fish that would have been hideous even in life. It looked like a cursed experiment in papier-maché, round-bodied, with nasty needle teeth and beady eyes.

Even Hildy was temporarily at a loss for words. “Is it—symbolic?”

This was clearly directed at Libby, or rather Lillibet, which meant Hildy expected more than, Hell, no! It’s a joke.

“Toxic waste.” The words seemed to come from nowhere, boxing Libby into a corner. How was Lillibet supposed to bring that back around to Me-mas? “Sort of like with the food chain.” She looked at the fish for inspiration. “And mutations. Because I’m using the occasion to … shine a light on environmental issues.”

“It’s just an ugly fish—” Keoki began, but Jean cut him off.

“Change! Always nipping at our heels.” She made a biting motion with her hand. “Our Lillibet loves all the little beasties of the sea.”

“Deep thoughts,” Libby said, hoping that would put an end to the conversation. “Brought to you by Jose Cuervo,” she added under her breath as she stepped onto the ladder.

It wasn’t until she paused to hold her hand out to Jefferson that she realized the mask had slipped. He’d heard her make a highly un-Lillibet remark. Libby wasn’t sure how she knew, since he didn’t so much as twitch a brow, but the zing of awareness when their eyes met was undeniable.

Great. More fuel for the fire. Or maybe pyre was more accurate, since she was kindling her own funeral, one lie at a time. He’d probably added “basic bitch” to her cv. Right under “exhibitionist.”

He turned the fish so she could take it without touching the spiky fins, then braced the ladder as Libby climbed another rung. She was so acutely conscious of his presence, her legs trembled.

“Careful,” he said, and she tried not to jump at the phantom sensation of his breath caressing the back of her knees.

“Eyes over here.” Mr. L snapped a hand in Libby’s direction, and she felt the ladder vibrate as Jefferson stiffened. When she glanced down to make sure everything was okay, he was staring determinedly in the other direction.

Oh right. Because otherwise he could see up her dress. Libby wasn’t used to taking the geometry of miniskirts into account.

Her clothing was not Mr. L’s issue, however. He gestured at the hideous fish, sketching a sightline from its protruding eyeballs to his own face to make sure the angle was just so. She might need to pull him aside later to explain that as her “husband,” he should pretend to care if a ruggedly attractive man had his face up his wife’s dress. Think of me like your favorite showerhead.

Libby was close enough to read the suppressed amusement on Jefferson’s face as he studied the fish, which had come to rest in her portrait’s hair like a demented fascinator. She wondered what he thought of the rest of it, assuming he’d looked. That’s not really me, she wanted to say. I have a lot more moles.

“Guess that’s his good side,” Jefferson’s voice rumbled, for her ears alone.

Something about the moment cut through all the pretense, transporting them back in time. He was talking to Libby, the girl on the beach, like he knew she was still in there. Without meaning to, she leaned toward him. Jefferson must have thought she was losing her balance, because his hand cupped the back of her calf for an instant before jerking away like he’d touched something hot.

“Okay?” he asked.

She nodded, telling herself to climb down before she did something stupid. Stupider. “Vertigo.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be on a ladder?” He side-eyed her supposed husband. To be fair, even if they were actually married, it wouldn’t make sense to put someone that vertically challenged on climbing detail.

“Hold on to your knickers,” Jean called out, hiccupping as the lights switched off, plunging the room into darkness. There was a rustling sound, and then a click. Electricity hummed as a network of tiny bulbs flared to life behind Libby’s portrait. One of them had been positioned directly behind the exposed nipple.

Libby felt for the next rung down with her toes, ready to put some distance between herself and this glow-in-the-dark peep show. She assumed Jefferson would move away as soon as she started to descend, but his hands stayed braced on either side of her body until it was almost as if those strong, warm arms were cradling Libby.

She knew she needed to move, but maybe she could get away with a few more seconds. He was close enough that she felt the cotton of his shirt brush her bare shoulders when he exhaled. Libby really needed a hug, even if it was an accidental one. Not a sexy hug necessarily, but that was a nice bonus.

The overhead lights flickered on. Libby froze in place for a tortured instant before hopping to the side and then back, like a solo line dancer.

“I think we should have a toast.” Hildy raised her glass, and Libby braced for the kind of scorched-earth speeches she occasionally witnessed as a cater waiter. Like the anniversary party at which a wife had thanked her husband of forty years for “honoring at least one of his wedding vows.”

Maybe Hildy was about to let it rip with something like, To my shameless hussy of a hostess, who clearly doesn’t want a job with my company, since she can’t stop throwing herself at my boyfriend!

“To new friends and new beginnings,” Hildy said with a cheerfulness that gave no indication she’d noticed Libby fawning over Jefferson.

Jean leaned forward to clink glasses with their guest. “Hear, hear. And to the old ones. May the road rise up to meet them, so’s they ne’er forget where they’re meant to be a-going. Especially them what has a great deal on the line. Ahem.”

Okay. Hint taken. Time to get back on the Lillibet train. Libby looked around blankly, trying to remember where she’d left her glass.

Silently, Jefferson held it out to her. He hadn’t lost track of her drink. Or failed to notice she was empty-handed. If he was this nice to a vapid, philandering disaster, Libby could hardly imagine how well he must treat Hildy. Young, rich, and oh-so-lucky Hildy.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, before tossing back half of her margarita. Without thinking, Libby licked some of the tangy red salt from the rim. Oops. That wasn’t a very Lillibet thing to do. She rubbed her lips together, hoping no one had noticed.

Jefferson was staring at her mouth. Even though she knew he probably thought she had the manners of a preschooler, the cold drink turned to hot coals inside her.

“So what time is sunrise?”

Libby jumped at the sound of Hildy’s voice.

“We’re all doing yoga together, right?” the younger woman continued. “On the beach?”

The power of speech deserted Libby. All she could think of was blabbing to Jefferson that she wasn’t a morning person.

“Ach, no,” Jean said, shooting Libby a get-it-together glare. “She’ll not be a-stretching and a-panting like a doggie.”

It was Hildy’s turn to frown at Libby. “But I thought you said the countdown to Me-mas would start at dawn? With the union of body, breath, and spirit?”

Libby swallowed. “I did. Say that.” Because I am completely full of shit. “The truth is—”

“She’s gone and hurt herself, hasn’t she?” Jean supplied when Libby faltered.

“Yes! I … must have strained something. Doing my other yoga moves.”

“Hamstring?” Keoki guessed, apparently forgetting they were making the whole thing up.

Libby thought of Jefferson watching her run across the beach. “No, it’s not that.”

“She sprained her bloomin’ arse,” Jean announced. Like that would smooth over the awkwardness.

“Yes,” Libby forced herself to say. “I did. Strain a butt muscle.”

Keoki sucked in a breath. “Glute injuries are tough.”

“You should take a soak in the hot tub. With your friends!” Mr. L clasped his hands, delighted by his own suggestion. “I designed the jets to provide powerful deep muscle palpitation. Like making schnitzel.” He demonstrated the pounding motion.

“Sweet Jaysus,” Jean muttered, holding out her glass.

“Anyone else?” Keoki asked, clearly hoping to keep her from drinking it all.

“Why not?” said Hildy. “Since we’re sleeping in.”

Keoki filled her glass before giving the dregs to Jean.

Libby looked around the room. There were so many different agendas at play, and that was only counting the ones she knew about. Meanwhile, their cover story had sprouted more weird growths than an aging potato. It would take a spreadsheet to track the added flimflam, and this was only the first night.

Her attention strayed to Jefferson. Again. He shouldn’t be her main concern right now, and yet her thoughts kept tugging in his direction, relentless as the tide. Would he still tell her everything was going to be fine now that he knew who she was?

Or thought he knew.

Probably not. Because Lillibet would never let on that she was worried. That would require her to admit she didn’t have everything perfectly under control.

“Could I grab a quick shower before dinner?” Jefferson asked.

“You smell fine,” Hildy assured him.

Libby caught herself nodding and tried to pass it off as a cough, like she hadn’t noticed any intimate details about him. Not the way he smelled or his calf muscles or the color of his eyes or his body heat. Nope. Not her.

“My feet are sandy.” He didn’t look at Libby. “If that’s okay? I don’t want to mess up your plans.”

Ha! Too late for that. Before Libby could think of a less damning response, Mr. L leaped into the breach.

“A shower is never ‘okay,’” he sniffed. “Not in this house.”

“Because our showers are so very exceptional,” Libby said into the confused silence.

Her pretend-husband nodded. “Indoor, outdoor, steam, monsoon, thermostatic—”

“I can show you,” she cut in, hoping to spare them the full catalog.

“Are you sure that’s wise, now, lassie? What with the servin’ o’ dinner to supervise and all?”

If only I had—I don’t know—a housekeeper to help with things like that, Libby glared back at Jean.

“Go ahead.” Hildy picked up the bowl of mixed arare crackers, tossing one into her mouth. “Maybe JJ can try one of your scented oils?”

Was the condensation on the windows from the rain, or had Libby fogged the glass by imagining her hands gliding across Jefferson’s chest?

“Hurry back.” Jean tapped the corner of her eye, their signal for, I’m watching you.

“Time is honey, as I like to say. Sticky and everlasting.” While everyone grappled with that stunningly opaque Lillibet-ism, Libby tried to slow her galloping pulse. It wasn’t only the prospect of alone time with Jefferson making her heart race. Or the showering, though that was certainly front and center in her consciousness. Full frontal, you might say.

Escaping this room would be like stepping offstage, away from the harsh glare of the spotlight—some of which was emanating from an artistic rendering of her left breast.

She turned to Jefferson, swallowing to keep her voice from coming out too husky. “Follow me.”