Page 54 of Count My Lies

She nods as I direct her back up the stairs. I manage to get her dressed without much resistance, her limbs still heavy and sleep-laden.

When we get back downstairs, the toast is finished, edging on burnt. I butter it quickly, hoping Harper doesn’t notice. But she does. “This is too black,” she says, wrinkling up her nose.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’ll eat it. How about this one?” I hold up the other slice, slightly less done.

“No! It’s burnt, too!” She glares at me, her bedhead pointing in every direction. She’s not a morning person.

Normally, I’d fight her on it, press the importance of not wasting food, but I want to get to the beach early, and unless I give in, I’m in for a raucous brawl. I put two fresh pieces in the toaster.

As Harper eats her perfectly browned bread, I rifle through the kitchen drawers until I find a piece of scrap paper and a pen. I quickly jot down a note for Sloane, clip it to the fridge:On the beach, join us when you’re ready!

“Come on, let’s go,” I say to Harper. It’s important we get to the beach before Sloane wakes up.

We’ve been on the beach for an hour or so when I spot a woman and two children making their way from the house next to ours down the grassy path to the beach. I already know her name and the names of her two children, courtesy of a generous tip to Gina, travel agent extraordinaire. They arrived two days ago. They’re the reason I shelled out the big bucks for the house we’re in.

I watch as the woman lays out a big blanket, unfolds a beach chair, dumps a pile of sand toys out of a bag. “Come on,” I say to Harper, “let’s go make friends.”

I slip my hand into hers and we make our way across the beach toward their setup.

“Hi!” I call out as we near.

The woman looks up from a weathered paperback, her face shaded under a woven straw hat.

“We’re your neighbors,” I say. I point up toward our house. “We just got in yesterday. I saw your kids and thought it would be nice for Harper to have some playmates. Harper, can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Harper says shyly.

The woman smiles and gets to her feet. She’s a young-looking mom, light blonde hair, freckled and pale skin, tall and thin with a slightly boyish figure, birdish in her face, but cute. She has on a too-largefaded blue chambray shirt, open over a string bikini, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow. Her hip bones jut out angularly beneath the bikini ties.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Anne-Marie. And that’s Rooney and Claire.” She points to the two kids down by the edge of the water, first to the boy, then to the girl.

I kneel next to Harper. “Harper, do you want to go play with them?”

She nods, then skips off happily. I watch her, smiling, heart expanding in my chest. That’s my girl, my social butterfly, my golden retriever child.

“How old is she?” Anne-Marie asks.

“Five at the end of the month,” I say. “I’m Caitlin, by the way. Harper’s nanny.” I offer her my hand, and she takes it, her palm cool, fingers slender.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “You said you got in yesterday? Where from?”

“New York. What about you?”

“North Carolina. Charlotte. We’ve been here since Friday. You’re lucky; you just missed the storm. It was torrential, poured the first two days we got here. The kids almost lost their flippin’ minds! But then, just like that”—she snaps her fingers—“it cleared. I was worried we’d be stuck inside the whole trip, thought we might have to fly home! And the idea of getting back on a flight with those two…” She shakes her head emphatically. “Well, let’s just say I need a stiff drink just thinking about it!”

Anne-Marie is, I discover, a mile-a-minute talker, as she launches into another story about their trip down, how Rooney got airsick, which made Claire sick, and her husband was no help whatsoever,since he had downed two Valiums and a glass of wine for his flying anxiety before takeoff and was passed out against the window. “I could barely get him off the plane,” she says. “Meanwhile, both kids and I are covered in puke.” Anne-Marie rolls her eyes when she says this, like,You know, husbands. I do, of course. Mine happens to be even worse than hers, although Fitz—I quickly learn his name—seems like he’s a real piece of work himself.

After finally pausing to take a breath, Anne-Marie points behind me. “Oh,” she says, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Is that Harper’s mom?” I turn to see Sloane making her way down the path toward our umbrella. I’m pleased to see she’s in the cover-up I bought her, the oversized Dior shades, looking chic, poised. A New York mom on vacation.

I nod. “Violet Lockhart. You’ll love her. I should get Harper back, but bring your kids over this afternoon, I’ll introduce you two!”

“We’d love that!” Anne-Marie says enthusiastically.

“Come on, Harp!” I call. “Let’s go get a snack!” Then, to Anne-Marie, “Great meeting you!”

Harper comes predictably running at the promise of something to eat, and we both wave as we leave, heading back to our own setup.

“Morning!” I call to Sloane as we near. She’s situated herself under the umbrella on the blanket, legs outstretched in front of her.

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