“Two years ago, on our trip to Martha’s Vineyard?” She looks at me, miffed. “He slipped on the dock. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Kenya. I’m having troubleremembering where I slept last night, much less what happened to other people two years ago.” It’s a feeble attempt at humor, and Kenya looks appalled. She may be a high-powered headhunter, but her number one client is Noah. He’s an only child and a good kid. He, Rachel, and Eloïse made a threesome in kindergarten at Eastbrook Elementary School and stayed a little trio, all the way until middle school when Noah suddenly realized he didn’t want to hang out with girls. By then Kenya and I had been class parents together for four of the six elementary-school years. Noah’s always been an easygoing kid, happy to be bossed around by Rachel and Eloïse, and was solidly middle of the pack in terms of looks, brains, and athletic ability. Which would be fine in lots of places in America, but in the high-stakes realm of Bethesda, kids who haven’t founded their own cancer-research nonprofit by the time they enter high school might as well make peace with sleeping under a bridge in a cardboard box.
“He’s okay now, right?” I ask.
She nods tersely. “It takes a while to recover. He couldn’t play soccer that fall. I’m surprised you don’t remember. We were worried it would tank his chances at recruitment.”
“Well, I had a lot going on fall of junior year.” Transferring Rachel from public to private, trying to get her grades back up.
“Oh right.” She makes a face. “Rachel. That makes sense.”
We let that lie there for a minute, although I feel like Kenya is tempted to compete with me even about this—which of our kids had a rougher junior year.
She cranes her neck toward the dining room table. “You’ve done a lot.”
“I just need to get the rest of these photographed andpriced.” I get up and walk into the dining room, and Kenya follows.
She stops in front of my open laptop. “You’re not supposed to be on screens, Caren. That includes taking photos and uploading them to Facebook.”
I force a smile. All of a sudden I am reminded of a Boy Scouts meeting years ago when Kenya, the troop leader, made one of the other mothers cry for forgetting to bring the baby carrots on a hike.
“I thought maybe I could get a neighborhood kid to do it,” I say.
She chuckles. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
She looks at me like I’m nuts. “You can’t just learn how to do this in an afternoon. It’s taken us years to perfect our process.” She sighs dramatically. “I’ll just do it all.”
I bristle. I’m not useless. “I got this. I’ll let you know if I need help.”
Kenya cocks her head and looks at me with pity. “Caren, what happened the other night? Shawn and I are very concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
“He saw you struggling on the street—”
“I wasn’t struggling. I was taking a breather.”
“People are saying things.” She shrugs. “I mean, people are wondering. Yumi told me she’s had to delete some inappropriate comments on the Facebook page.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“She probably doesn’t want to upset you. None of us do. We love you. Everyone loves you. But the Frosts, you know them?Kevin Frost and Shawn play racquetball together. He said he saw you walking home after the Allards’ party and you almost fell. He said you were pretty drunk.”
“I stumbled, but not because I was drunk.” The couple that was parking comes to mind, the pink-faced man in his equally pink polo helping me when I misstepped. “It’s because I was wearing really high heels. And I didn’t have my glasses.”
“You only had one shot, right?”
“Yes, I only had one shot.” I think of the ER and the tox screen that will be coming back in a few weeks. “It has occurred to me that maybe there was something in it. You know, maybe someone put something in my shot.”
“What?” She guffaws. “I mean, there was alcohol in it.”
“I’m saying that maybe it was spiked with something else.” My heart is picking up speed. “What’s that date rape drug called? Rohypnol or something?”
Kenya bites down on her lip a moment, eyes wide as if it’s taking everything in her power not to burst out laughing. Finally, she takes a deep breath and gives me a toothy smile. “So, you think someone spiked your citronelle shot.”
I ignore her condescending tone. “I don’t know. Maybe it was my wine they spiked.” Now that I hear the words out loud, it resonates with me. It fits. Why I felt so loopy. “I feel like it explains a lot. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was meant for someone else.”