Chapter 21
MARTA
Bloody juices pooled on Marta’s plate. Dinner that night was braised short ribs—the meat tender and falling from the bones—and she was pleased with how the meal had turned out, although it seemed she was the only one enjoying the food.
Celeste announced that she was going through a vegetarian phase as she helped herself to the asparagus and a few crispy potatoes.
Marta decided not to tell her that she’d done the sides using beef tallow; the woman needed to eat something to soak up all the booze.
Bernie took her usual disciplined portions and ate mechanically, seeming distracted.
Imogen was the worst of the bunch. She picked at her food, complained that she felt fat, and lamented that Marta hadn’t prepared something lighter, like a salad.
Frankly, Imogen looked a bit ridiculous, having dressed for dinner in a fussy corset top, skin-tight leather pants that creaked when she moved, and sparkly jewellery.
Marta was still in her sweatpants and was relieved that Celeste and Bernie had also kept it casual.
“Sorry, Imm, but it’s not like we’re doing a health kick this weekend.” Marta gestured at the troop of empty wine bottles that had colonized the kitchen island. Why didn’t you help with the menu if you wanted something different? “I thought this was one of your favourite dishes.”
“No, it’s totally great and everything.” Imogen prodded the mound of meat on her plate.
“But it’s so heavy, you know? After all the wine and candy, I could do with a green infusion.
” She reached for an open bottle of red in the middle of the table to top up her glass.
“Thanks for cooking, though.” As she poured, the candlelight splintered off her cocktail ring, an emerald stone in an art deco setting.
Like a magpie, Celeste fluttered to life, abandoning her plate of vegetables to coo over Imogen’s jewellery. “Ohmygod, stunner! Are you kidding me with this? That can’t be real. Where did you get it?”
Imogen held her hand up, preening as she explained that she’d bought it at a Sotheby’s auction—“a silly whim!”—turning her wrist this way and that way so the stone caught the light.
“Here, try it,” she said to Celeste. She had to give it a few tugs to get it off, leaving her ring finger slightly red and dented.
Imogen would buy a too-small ring and force it to fit her finger, Marta thought.
How totally on brand for her to downplay the purchase as a little thing but also make sure everyone knew it was expensive—because Sotheby’s—and bring it to a freaking cottage weekend.
Marta reflexively spun her wedding ring, a simple band of gold that she and Derrick had bought on a romantic two-for-one sale at Costco, and wondered when she could reasonably stop wearing it.
After all, she should start thinking realistically about her future.
Celeste happily accepted Imogen’s offer to try on her ring, making a remark about how it would probably be too big for her—Marta caught the flash of annoyance cross Imogen’s face—but, ah, voila!
It snugged nicely onto her index finger.
Now it was Celeste’s turn to wave her graceful hand around, admiring the green glitter with covetous eyes.
Imogen took a sip of wine and waved magnanimously at Celeste.
“Wear it for the evening. It looks good on you!”
After they’d eaten, the four women stayed seated around the dining room table, having reached a post-dinner paralysis; everyone was finished, but no one had the energy to clear away the plates and make a move to the more comfortable seating options in the sunroom.
They hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light after the sun dipped below the horizon (turning the sky a purply blue, then navy, then black), so the room flickered in the glow of scattered tea lights.
The dining room had one wall of windows looking out over the lake, a stunning view during the day, but at night it was like looking out into the void.
Marta sat facing the wall opposite the windows, on which there were a number of framed maps of the lake that showed depths and currents and temperatures.
She supposed this would be useful for the type of guests who were interested in hard-core boating and fishing expeditions, but not so much for this sorry gang of drinkers and loungers.
She was already disappointed in how the day had gone, and she got her feelings hurt all over again when she suggested they get into their book club discussion.
Imogen shut her down. “Ugh, not tonight, Marty. Let’s save it for tomorrow.
I’m too drunk for a serious conversation about the ethics of true crime reporting.
” Celeste agreed and Bernie shrugged her indifference.
“Come on.” Imogen rose from the table and gestured for the others to join her.
“Let’s go get comfy and talk about stupid stuff.
Like Marry, Fuck, Kill—but we’ll leave the husbands out of it. ”