It was her day off from the store and she’d planned to try to catch up on the orders flooding in on the heels of the New York Times article. Last night, at Connor’s after the fireworks, she hinted around about meeting his investor contacts while he was busy trying to get her into bed. They both ended the night unsatisfied.

And now this.

Celeste drove the five minutes to the meeting place.

The house didn’t seem to belong in Provincetown. High atop a hill on Province Land’s Road, it was new construction, mostly glass. It looked as if a strong wind had plucked it from East Hampton and dropped it there. Gemma had biked past it on her way to the beach but never imagined she’d see the interior.

“You’re sure this is it?” she said to Celeste.

“I’m sure this is it,” Celeste said, double-checking her phone before parking in the circular driveway. “And I have to say, I’d been wondering who built this monstrosity.”

“The owner is Sloan Pierce’s friend?”

Celeste nodded. “I think the woman buys a lot of art at auction. Her name’s Sandra Crowe. I asked around at the party last night and Maud said Sandra came to town just a few years ago. She lived on the East End while building this. She also apparently bullied her way into showing her amateur paintings in one of the galleries.”

Gemma glanced behind her to take in the sweeping view of the bay, the jetty, and the marshes. They walked toward the front door, white pebbles crunching under their feet. Before they could ring the bell, a young woman emerged dressed in a white linen button-down and matching pants.

“Welcome! I’m Samantha, Ms. Crowe’s assistant. Please follow me out back to the pool.”

So much for seeing the interior. White hydrangea bushes framed the path to the rear of the house. The grass and hedges were among the most manicured Gemma had seen in town.

The pool was large and oval-shaped, the water a breathtaking aquamarine—the color of the Caribbean Sea. Elodie was already seated in an Adirondack chair alongside Sloan, drinking a tall glass of pink lemonade. As soon as Gemma took her own seat, another assistant pressed a glass of it into her hands.

“So glad you could join us.” Sloan Pierce stood from her chair. She wore a khaki-colored, safari-style shirtdress that looked casual but was probably Ralph Lauren Purple Label. Gemma didn’t know how she was meant to greet the woman who, the last time they’d spoken, had basically threatened her career.

Celeste bridged the awkwardness by shaking her hand and then sitting in the chair between them. All four seats had been assembled around a glass table with a bottle of Cristal on ice.