Melissa

An unfamiliar woman is striding barefoot toward them, not smiling but blazing, as though for battle, coming from or going toward. She’s easily the most beautiful woman Melissa has ever seen. The light from the bonfire licks along her limbs so her dark skin gleams as though wet. She walks the way models do, dipping on each side with every step. Her dress is red, her cheekbones glitter. She looks like a warrior, Melissa thinks, and finds herself wanting to cheer.

“Gracie.” Martin is the first to recover from surprise. “You got away after all.”

“Welcome.” Eric’s voice is gentle as he hands her a flute of champagne. It’s the voice Melissa’s heard him use to quiet the animals, and the woman, Grace, is like an exquisite animal, a fine racehorse perhaps, strung tight and trembling. She doesn’t reply. Eve deposits her son in Melissa’s lap, damp and surprisingly heavy. Melissa bends her head to his, she feels a rush of warmth; she can’t remember holding a child since Izzy was little.

“Hi, stranger.” Eve holds her arms out as Grace advances. Her kisses, one for each cheek, are unreturned. “You smell wonderful, strawberries! That’s so funny, it’s exactly like Poppy . . . but gosh, your dress is soaking wet!”

Grace steps back, she doesn’t reply. Melissa feels a pulse of admiration; she would have apologized, explained, made some awkward joke.

“Let’s find you a towel.” Eve gestures to the house. “There are heaps upstairs. Eric can—”

Grace frowns and shakes her head, the sort of woman who doesn’t like a fuss.

“Well, at least take my wrap.” Eve hands over a length of pink material from the back of her chair. “I’m so glad you made it after all,” she continues easily. “You must be exhausted. There’s plenty to eat. Do sit down.”

She gestures to the chair next to Martin, but Grace sits by Melissa instead.

“Hi, I’m Melly.” She smiles, feeling chosen. “Izzy’s mother.”

Grace says nothing; she is watching Martin and has started to shiver despite the warmth of the evening.

“Congratulations on the washing-machine repair.” Martin raises his glass to his wife.

Eve laughs but Grace doesn’t; she downs the contents of her glass in one swallow, standing to reach the wine for a refill. The neat outline of her buttocks is printed on the chair. Melissa bites back questions as Grace sits down again; her hand is oozing blood from a graze along the side of her palm. Martin spots it at the same moment.

“Hey, Gracie, what have you done to your hand? Oh, Jesus, look at your face. Did you collide with the washing machine?”

“Exactly that.” Grace’s hands slide into her lap and she shakes her hair over her face. “Fucking clumsy of me.”

Her words arrive in a little silence and deepen it; as if in response, Eric walks around the table, reaches over her shoulder, and puts the wine bottle by her elbow. Martin shakes his head; Paul is the first to speak. “Well done for surviving your accident.” He raises his glass to the newcomer and smiles his most winning smile.