Page 79 of Swan Song

“Day-Drinking in Denpasar,” Delilah says to Jeffrey. It’s ten o’clock on Saturday night and Jeffrey is already under the summer-weight blanket. “Party tomorrow at the Richardsons’.”

“You go,” Jeffrey says. “I don’t do day-drinking.”

“It’s supposed to pour rain,” Delilah says.

“I’m well aware,” Jeffrey says. “I’m a farmer. I’m doing paperwork tomorrow.”

Fine, Delilah thinks. She’ll go alone. She’s been meaning to talk to Leslee anyway. Corwin at the food pantry has not yet received the donation Leslee promised. He doesn’t feel comfortable pestering her, so Delilah volunteered to follow up, which she’d meant to do during pickleball, but last week Leslee had been strangely unavailable, so they’d had to cancel.

Delilah texts Phoebe: Jeffrey not going to 888. Can you pick me up?

Phoebe texts back: We’re Ubering. Followed by the cocktail emoji.

Delilah texts Andrea, who says yes they’re going, Ed will drive, he’s not planning on drinking. Thank god for the Chief, Delilah thinks.

Eric shows the invitation text to Avalon, who still isn’t feeling well. (“It’s like I got bitten by a tsetse fly,” she said, whatever that means.) “Do you want to try to go to this?” he asks.

“Hell no,” she says. “Why is that woman still inviting us to things? Can she not take a hint?”

Eddie calls out to Grace, who is in the bathroom brushing her teeth, “We got invited to another Richardson party tomorrow. The theme is Day-Drinking in Denpasar.” He pauses. “What’s Denpasar?”

Grace pokes her head out. “The capital of Bali.”

“Really?” Eddie says. “How did you know that? Did you just google it?”

“No, I didn’t just google it,” Grace says. “I’m brushing my teeth.” She flashes Eddie her pearly whites. “I read Eat, Pray, Love.”

Sharon hasn’t heard from Romeo in days, despite the fact that she has called three times, left two voice mails, and sent half a dozen texts, including one with a lengthy apology.

Sharon’s fantasy about reconciling with Walker lasted only a matter of hours. The act he put on inside the Club Car was just that, an act. Once they were out on the cobblestones, Walker’s contrition turned into amusement that Sharon was actually dating Romeo from the Steamship.

“I thought it was a rumor,” Walker said. “I had no idea you were that desperate.”

“Speaking of desperate,” Sharon said, “how’s Bailey from PT?”

Walker spilled the beans: Things with Bailey had been “magical” and “incandescent” until the middle of July, when Bailey left New Canaan for a share house in the Hamptons. “She went to Surf Lodge every night, and some nights I heard from her at three a.m., some nights not at all. I know how much money she makes, and there’s no way she was paying for her own drinks.”

He got dumped, Sharon thought.

If Sharon had been smart, she would have hightailed it back to the Club Car at that point, but she clung to some romantic notion of saving their marriage and returning to their old life. She imagined being able to send a holiday card with the five of them smiling on the front. With this in mind, Sharon drove Walker back to their house, but the whole time in the car, he was texting on his phone.

“Who are you texting?” she asked.

“No one,” he said. “Work.”

Work? At ten o’clock at night? When they got home, Walker tried to kiss her but he was sloppy about it and his breath was sour, and Sharon was distracted by the hairs in his nose and it felt disturbingly like kissing someone she was related to.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” she said. Before Walker could protest—“A guest in my own home?”—Sharon went into the primary suite and closed the door. And locked it. Still, even then, she thought they might be able to make it work. She would learn to trust him again; she would ask him to tweeze his nose hairs; their sex life would resume. In the morning, Sharon knocked softly on the door of the guest room; she wanted to discuss how they would explain things to the kids.

“Come in,” Walker said.

He was sitting at the desk with Sharon’s laptop open. He was… reading her character study, which Sharon was working on turning into a story. She had the characters down; she just needed a conflict.

“Excuse me,” Sharon said, slamming the laptop shut. “That’s private.”

“Hey, I didn’t get to finish. That was good. You wrote that?”

“I did.”

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