Chapter 16
IMOGEN
The screen door banged open as Imogen entered the kitchen, trailed by Marta.
“Good morning! I guess it’s closer to lunchtime, but I’m squeaking it in under the wire.
” Celeste and Bernie were standing on either side of the kitchen island, staring at each other, and Imogen wondered briefly what kind of conversation she’d interrupted.
“It’s gorgeous out there by the lake, but I’m dying without a coffee.
” She poured herself the rest of the pot and took a long swallow as she checked her phone, where she’d left it charging on the counter overnight.
Imogen was surprised to see that a text from Mark had come through in the middle of the night, although it looked as though he’d sent it shortly after they’d arrived on Snakebite Island.
She read the message twice. Shit. This was bad. She tried to see if she could open her email, but the loading wheel just spun uselessly.
“Anyone else getting service?” Imogen asked, but no one was paying attention to her.
“Hey! Ladies!” She snapped her fingers. “Anyone’s phone working?
” She thought she was speaking normally, but it seemed like her voice was coming out at an oddly high pitch.
Marta gave her a funny look. “Something for work came up last minute and I want to reply. I don’t have any bars now, but I somehow got a new message that looks like it was sent yesterday. ”
“It’s in and out,” said Celeste. “I sent a good night text to Milly yesterday and it didn’t get delivered until, like, four o’clock this morning. I haven’t had reception since I woke up.”
Marta pulled her phone out of her pocket.
“Doesn’t look like it. Hmm, I might as well call .
. .” She lifted it to her ear, listened, and then shook her head.
“I’ve been trying Derrick’s phone every day since he left.
It always goes straight through to his voice mail, but I keep hoping that maybe .
. . Well, anyways, I couldn’t even place a call just now. ”
“Ugh, I’m sorry, babe. That . . . sucks,” said Imogen.
She tried to think of something more sympathetic to say to her friend, but the implications of Mark’s message had blown a fuse in her brain, so she gave up.
“I thought we were all going to love being offline, but I was wrong.” This couldn’t be happening at a worse time.
She shouldered Celeste away from the fridge, opened it, and stuck her face inside.
She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.
She’d have to deal with Francesca when she got back—I never should have taken her on as a client, her risk tolerance was always too low—and pray that she’d be able to sort everything out quickly.
Maybe she wouldn’t be able to salvage the working relationship (the fact that Francesca had shown up at her house .
. . did not bode well), but she’d make sure her request was satisfied.
She didn’t have any other choice. For now, there was nothing she could do about it except get drunk, and she intended to do so quickly.
Imogen pulled out a bottle of Prosecco from the clinking tower in the fridge.
“I am in dire need of a hair-of-the-dog cure if I’m going to have a hope in hell of kicking this hangover. Who wants to join me in a mimosa?”
Celeste gave a one-sided shrug. “Why not? It’s a holiday, let’s get day drunk!” But her expression was serious and nothing about her energy said she was in the mood to party.
“That’s the spirit, Cee!” said Imogen. “C’mon, girls, let’s take advantage of the day. The sun is shining and we’ve got that gorgeous dock. Let’s get changed and meet there in ten.” Imogen strode off to her bedroom, closed the door, and screamed into her pillow.
The sun was beating down on the dock and reflecting off the water, which was sparkling in ripples of blue diamonds.
In the distance, it looked like clouds were gathering—the impending storm Rick had warned them about—but for now the weather was perfect for a lakeside lounge.
The women started off with mimosas, then switched to rosé.
Celeste and Marta were leafing through magazines, Bernie was filing her nails, while Imogen was plowing her way through a bowl of wine gums and a bag of ketchup chips, alternating bites from each.
Her binges were usually far more secretive, but with everything going on, she needed a constant stream of sugar to keep functioning.
Deliberately avoiding eye contact (she didn’t need to see Bernie’s raised eyebrow or Celeste’s judgmental lip purse), she ripped open a bag of Twizzlers to add to the mix.
Imogen took another sip of wine from her plastic goblet and felt the warmth of the alcohol continue to loosen her limbs and paint her cheeks pink.
She willed herself to relax, telling herself that everything was under control.
Except it wasn’t. Mark wouldn’t have messaged her if he hadn’t been worried.
Imogen told herself again that she’d sort it out on Sunday when she had internet access.
She’d make some phone calls, move some money around, and contact that potential new investor she’d met through Ari’s piano teacher.
You can fix this. She told herself that the structural beams of the ITFF were solid, but the feeling that termites were burrowing through her abdomen persisted.
Imogen watched as Celeste poured herself another large glass of wine.
If she’d been paying closer attention, she would have realized that Celeste was also majorly out of sorts.
Celeste flicked a nervous glance in her direction, took a large drink from her goblet, then blurted out, “Who do you think it is, Imm? It’s literally crazy that we aren’t talking about this right now.
” She locked eyes with Imogen. “Who do you think is sending you those blackmail messages? You must have some idea.”
Imogen’s jaw worked furiously on a wad of wine gums. She was glad that her eyes were shielded by oversized sunglasses, so no one could see where she was looking. When she finished chewing, she snapped her response. “I thought I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Yeah, but . . . you said it’s one of us,” said Celeste.
“So we can’t sit here pretending like that doesn’t matter.
If that’s true, then maybe that person knows what actually happened to Derrick.
” In her peripheral vision, Imogen noticed Marta shifting in her chair.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t feel comfortable with these kinds of secrets between us.
If you really thought that one of us was blackmailing you, then, like, why would you even be here? ”
There was an extended silence as Imogen tipped her head back and looked up at the thickening clouds in the sky.
She felt exposed despite the dark glasses.
“I’m here because two of you are my friends, and I’m not willing to give that up just because one of you is messing with me. Now, can you please give it a rest?”
But Celeste was on a tear. Maybe she felt like she had to clear her name, maybe she felt like pointing a finger, but in either case, the wine she’d been guzzling like water was fuel for confrontation.
“Well, I think it’s Bernie,” said Celeste.
“What do any of us know about her, really? You two have known each other since you were kids.” Celeste cheers-ed her goblet toward Imogen and Marta, slopping a few drops onto her bare legs.
“And you’ve known me since our daughters were in kindergarten.
We know each other. But Bernie’s only been your neighbour for a few years, and I don’t think you should trust her.
” Looking directly at Bernie, Celeste pointed with a shaking finger.
“I don’t trust her.” Imogen was speechless. Celeste sounded utterly convinced.
Bernie adjusted herself on the lounger so she was facing Celeste.
She lifted her own sunglasses up and rested them on her head.
“Four years. I’ve been her neighbour for over four years.
You’ve been upset with me about something since this morning, so please stop beating around the bush and speak plainly. What is your problem with me?”
Celeste glared at Bernie. “I know all about you and Harry.”