I squeeze Lark’s hand, and when she looks at me, she says, “I was working a brunch at the country club yesterday.”

“The Ladies Who Lunch?” my mom asks. “I was supposed to be there, but I was in Manhattan with a school event for Marina. Now I’m sorry I missed it.”

“It was ugly,” Lark says and then sighs. “I’m glad you weren’t there.”

“Tell them why, Lark,” I say, keeping my voice low, though the others can hear me. “The details are important.”

I’m shot a devil’s glare. My dad asked the question, but somehow, I’m the villain?

Looking between her dad and my mom, she replies, “I spilled tea on one of their expensive purses.”

“One of them was a bitch to Lark.”

“Harbor,” my dad says. His tone isn’t irritated but more indifferent. “You shouldn’t talk about people like that.”

“She shouldn’t have been a bitch.”

John chuckles when he says, “I never much cared for pretenses. Although I do give people the benefit of the doubt—they’re having a bad day or wrecked their car, which is something I see a lot of in my shop—kindness matters. When someone is rude to service workers, acting like they’re above it all, they’re not good people.”

Wise words.

He’s gruff, like Lark said, but he’s honest, and you get what you get with him. I like that.

“It’s not only how she acted,” I start, trying to coax her into revealing the details. Tapping the toe of my shoe against the side of hers, I say, “Tell them what she said to you.”

I can only imagine that she’s hesitant to say bad things about anyone in my parents’ social group, but I don’t mind being the bad guy. “The lady told Lark that her turquoise bag was worth more than Lark’s life.”

“What?” My mom gasps. “That’s horrible.”

“That’s what I think,” Lark says. “Who would say that to another person? To another human, much less someone serving you. It was an expensive bag, but do I mean so little to her that she values that more than a life?”

Leaning forward, John’s eyes are wide. “No offense to our guests, but The Pointe is full of assholes.”

Dad taps his can against John’s drink. “Well said, John.”

“It was a turquoise bag?” Mom asks.

Lark angles toward her and replies, “An Hermès bag. I recognize it from Sex and the City. They had a whole episode about the bag.”

My mom stands and walks to the end of the deck, looking out over the yard. Port gets up and goes to her. “What is it?”

She rubs her hands over her arms like she’s cold. “Betsy owns an Hermès. Turquoise specifically. She bought it on a trip a group of us took to London.” A mischievous grin settles on her face, making me think there’s more to the story. But then her expression sours. “She always makes a scene over that purse, once even demanding it have a seat in a sold-out event. Laila ended up standing the rest of the night just to shut Betsy up.” The memory wrinkles my mom’s face, but then she asks, “You spilled tea on it?”