Chapter 18
MARTA
Marta poured the remainder of a bottle of rosé into her plastic goblet, wishing she was anywhere else. She’d thought the weekend would be a relaxing escape, and had imagined the others rallying around in her time of need, but she felt even more invisible than usual.
Even though it was unkind, learning about Harry’s hidden drug use had made Marta feel a little better about her own relationship.
Not that addiction compared to Derrick’s issues, but at least she’d finally get a break from having Celeste rub her perfect husband in her face all the time.
Celeste was currently crying messily between sips of wine as Imogen comforted her, and Bernie had returned to filing her nails. Great dock hang, everyone.
Marta heaved herself out of her lounger, the backs of her thighs sticky, and walked out to the end of the L-dock.
The blue sky above was now streaked with white, and across the lake there were heaps of grey-black clouds piling up.
A sudden gust of wind almost blew her sun hat from her head.
“Guys, look.” Marta pointed out over the water.
Imogen released Celeste from her embrace and straightened up.
“Oh shit, here it comes. Let’s get inside.
” A distant roll of thunder sounded, snapping everyone into action.
They quickly gathered their magazines, snacks, and drinks, and hurried to the cottage.
The first fat drops blooped onto Marta’s top as she shut the kitchen door behind them.
The storm slammed into the cottage in full force, pounding the roof, splattering against the windows, gushing through the eaves.
Marta found the noise soothing. The women made their way to the sunroom, which was now gloomy and grey, illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning.
The lake had all but disappeared behind sheets of rain.
Bernie circled the room, flicking on lamps, then excused herself to freshen up.
Marta went to the kitchen and puttered around, loading a tray with cold cuts, buns, chopped vegetables, and a large pitcher of water.
She thought everyone could probably do with some proper nutrients.
However, when she placed the tray down on the coffee table in front of Imogen and Celeste, her offerings were largely ignored.
Marta poured a glass of water for Celeste and shoved it into her hand.
“Here, you should drink this.” She was unmoved by Celeste’s droopy expression.
Yes, the whole addiction thing with Harry was dramatic.
However, Marta’s husband was currently missing and would it kill Celeste to take care of her instead of the other way around?
But Marta hated thinking of herself as uncharitable, so she tried to squash those feelings by being overly solicitous.
“I’ll get you the tissues while you hydrate, okay? ”
When Marta returned with a box of Kleenex, she almost hurled it at Celeste’s head.
Because there she was on the couch, cradling a fresh glass of wine, her water untouched on the floor beside her.
Celeste’s head was resting on Imogen’s shoulder, and Imogen was stroking her arm and cooing at her in a low voice.
Marta couldn’t remember the last time Imogen had treated her like that (maybe never) and the intimacy of the moment jammed a splinter of jealousy through her heart.
Fine. I hope she drinks herself sick. Marta turned on her heel, stalked off to the kitchen, and extracted the heaviest knife from the butcher’s block.
Slicing carrots for dinner prep—the satisfying thwunk of the blade against the cutting board—was the only safe release.
Marta popped in her earbuds, turned on an old episode of Filthy Funds, and let herself pretend she was enjoying a cottage weekend with Claudia and Leo.