Page 103 of Swan Song

“My name is Blythe Buchanan,” she says. “Did I see that you’re having lunch with Leslee Richardson?” She makes it sound like Leslee Richardson is a celebrity and, well, isn’t she, sort of?

“Yes,” Coco says.

Blythe takes a breath. “I feel like I should warn you about her.”

Oh no, Coco thinks. That kind of celebrity.

“We met Bull and Leslee in Palm Beach last winter. They were very eager to join the Bath and Tennis Club and we said we’d sponsor them, but Leslee made a spectacle of herself at the Coconuts New Year’s Eve party. She lured our friend’s husband into a dark gallery at the museum…”

Coco considers jumping in and saying, That doesn’t sound like Leslee at all. But she couldn’t pull it off.

“And that was the end of the Richardsons and Palm Beach, needless to say. How long have you two been friends?”

Coco would like to dart into the restroom, lock the door, and never come out.

“Friends?” she says. “Not that long. This is the first time we’ve had lunch together.”

“This is what she does,” Blythe says. “She finds new, unsuspecting people to seduce. I know she may seem great now, but trust me, you should run as far away from her as you can before she burns you.”

Coco nods. “Thanks for the warning.”

Blythe Buchanan smiles kindly and leans in to whisper. “Also? She cheats at pickleball.”

Coco finds Leslee leaning over the bar, close enough to Shawn to take a bite out of him. She seems to have paid the bill in cash—good, they can make a clean getaway.

“Leslee,” Coco says. “We have to go.”

“Shawn just poured me another glass of champagne,” Leslee says. “Sit down, we’ll get you some as well.”

“Hey, Coco,” Shawn says.

“No,” Coco says. She pulls Leslee to her feet and gives Shawn a close-lipped smile. “Thanks anyway. We’re leaving.”

On Monday, Leslee takes Coco to barre class at Forme on Amelia Drive. Coco doesn’t like group exercise and, after being approached by Blythe Buchanan, the last place she wants to be is in a roomful of strangers—however, Leslee is in her element. She introduces herself around to the other women with their enormous diamond rings, their Cartier Love bracelets, their impeccable highlights. “I’m Leslee Richardson,” she says. “And this is my friend Coco.”

The woman on the mat next to Leslee says, “I’m Celadon Morse. Aren’t you the woman who throws the swanky parties?”

Coco waits to see how Leslee will react to the word swanky. Favorably, it turns out. “I am!” Leslee says. “Give me your number and I’ll invite you to the next one.”

Later that afternoon, Leslee treats Coco to a pedicure at RJ Miller. She takes the number of the woman who’s seated in the chair next to her, Marla.

“There are a lot of people on this island,” Leslee says once they’re back in the car with foam separators between their toes. “I don’t need Phoebe or Delilah or Blond freaking Sharon.”

Coco gets a text from Kacy. Have you asked if you can come to dinner on Thursday night? My dad chose Ventuno and my mom wants to make a reservation so she needs to know how many people.

They’re driving down the Polpis Road toward home. Leslee taps the steering wheel as Taylor Swift sings, I’m drunk in the back of the car, and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar. It’s been a cruel summer for Leslee, but right now she seems relaxed. Should Coco broach the topic? It’s just dinner, and Coco so rarely ventures out at night, this won’t be a big deal.

“Kacy invited me to dinner on Thursday with her parents,” Coco says. “It’s her dad’s retirement celebration at Ventuno. Is it all right if I go?”

The car veers ever so slightly toward the center line, but Leslee straightens it out. “The Chief’s retirement celebration?”

“It’s just dinner,” Coco says. Why the hell did she use the word celebration? “He’s retiring. It’s only family, I think.”

“And yet you were invited.”

“Family and close friends, I guess.”

“Like Delilah and Phoebe, of course. And insufferable Addison and that overcooked potato Delilah is married to, I can never remember his name.”

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