Sumner hiccupped. “The dock was fun. Sometimes a woman needs to let loose.” She pulled free of her husband’s grasp. “I am woman. Hear me roar.”

Neither her light-pink linen shift (embroidered with dancing shrimp), nor the blurriness in her baby blue eyes spoke of strength or roaring.

“Rahhr!” Sumner curled her free hand until her fingers looked like claws.

We waved our goodbyes and walked toward Libba’s cabin and her stash of gin.

“Tonight should be a hoot,” Libba deadpanned.

Inwardly, I cringed. I could be at home with my new husband, curled on the couch watching television, cooled by an air conditioner that didn’t sound like a take-off at Cape Canaveral, with nary a hint of doom in sight. Instead… “If this ends in disaster, I blame you.”

“Oh, please.” Libba rolled her eyes. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter Two

Liz and Willa, who’d organized this weekend, had hired a caterer to handle our meals. Because, as Liz wisely pointed out, it wasn’t a weekend getaway if she couldn’t get away from fixing breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Instead, the woman who regularly catered events at their husbands’ law firm had arrived with a van full of food and a handful of helpers.

Those helpers had strung fairy lights in the gazebo near the lake and covered a long picnic table with a blue and white gingham cloth.

Fiesta ware platters filled with cold fried chicken and grilled corn on the cob covered the table. They were joined by bowls of potato salad, baked beans, coleslaw, and sliced cucumbers, tomatoes and onions floating in vinegar water.

Daisies and Queen Anne’s lace in mason jars dotted the center of table.

A second table, also covered with a gingham cloth, held enough gin to souse half the British navy, bottles of tonic water, fresh-sliced limes, and a pitcher of lemonade. White wine and beer cooled in a galvanized tub.

Citronella candles’ sharp scent perfumed the air. Whether the citrusy odor prevented mosquitos from biting was debatable. I’d hedged my bets and wore OFF rather than perfume.

Charlie and Anarchy sat at the far end of the picnic table with Perry and Tommy. Occasionally, I caught a few words of their conversation. They were discussing lures.

Fishing.

I’d rather watch paint dry. Literally.

I’d brought an easel, tubes of acrylics, and a selection of paintbrushes, and planned on getting up early with Anarchy. Not to fish, but to paint. Maybe I’d go to the lake and watch as my husband cast a line, then I’d paint the morning mist rising from the water.

For now, I sat between Willa and Sumner. If the two women were aware their spouses were vying for the same job, they hid it well. They’d been unfailingly polite.

Buffy sat next to Sumner, and the two women exchanged cool pleasantries. Golf handicaps. Tennis league gossip. The lovely post-swim-team lull in volunteer commitments.