The new closeness with Leslee is thrilling and scary, like a toboggan ride down a steep hill. On Sunday, Leslee invites Coco to lunch at Cru and when Coco asks if she should wear her uniform, Leslee says, “Absolutely not. We’re going as friends.”
Friends? Coco thinks—and yet this is what it feels like once they’re seated at a table by one of the open windows that overlook the boat basin. They order a bottle of rosé, oysters, beautiful salads topped with pan-roasted halibut.
“So how did you and Bull meet?” Coco asks. “I don’t think I’ve heard the story.”
Leslee cocks her head. “Oh. Well… it was many moons ago. I was bartending at a place called the Peppermill in Vegas and Bull came in.”
“You were a bartender too?” Coco says. Lamont told her this, but she didn’t quite believe it or believe Leslee would ever admit to it.
“I was.”
Coco flashes back to her first day of work, sitting in the library with Leslee: You remind me of myself when I was your age.
“What made you notice him?” Coco asks.
“He sat down in front of me, middle of the day, the place was empty, and ordered all the appetizers.” Leslee sips her wine and smiles. “Hard to ignore a man like that.”
Their server comes by at the end of the meal with two coupe glasses of Pol Roger champagne. “Compliments of Shawn, the bartender.”
“Who?” Leslee says. They look over at the bar to see the guy Coco met the night she was out with Kacy. Coco feels herself flush. She forgot all about Shawn.
“Oh god.”
“Is he a love interest?” Leslee says. “I have to say, I’ve wondered about your romantic life. I thought maybe you and Kacy…”
“No,” Coco says. She is now definitely bright red. “I’m straight.”
“Well, Shawn certainly hopes so,” Leslee says, and she waggles her fingers in his direction. “He’s cute. I wonder if he’ll come join us.”
“He’s working,” Coco says. Although she’s on the verge of complete mortification, she’s relieved that Leslee has no idea about her and Lamont.
“I’m going over to say thank you,” Leslee says. She walks over and takes a seat at the bar, probably assuming Coco will follow, but Coco is doing no such thing.
All three restrooms are occupied, so Coco waits in the alcove. A woman with short dark hair and cute glasses pops out of one of the doors and gasps when she sees Coco. She comes over, takes Coco’s arm. Does Coco know this woman? Was she a guest at one of the parties? Coco isn’t sure.
“My name is Blythe Buchanan,” she says. “Did I see that you’re having lunch with Leslee Richardson?” She makes it sound like Leslee Richardson is a celebrity and, well, isn’t she, sort of?
“Yes,” Coco says.
Blythe takes a breath. “I feel like I should warn you about her.”
Oh no, Coco thinks. That kind of celebrity.
“We met Bull and Leslee in Palm Beach last winter. They were very eager to join the Bath and Tennis Club and we said we’d sponsor them, but Leslee made a spectacle of herself at the Coconuts New Year’s Eve party. She lured our friend’s husband into a dark gallery at the museum…”
Coco considers jumping in and saying, That doesn’t sound like Leslee at all. But she couldn’t pull it off.
“And that was the end of the Richardsons and Palm Beach, needless to say. How long have you two been friends?”
Coco would like to dart into the restroom, lock the door, and never come out.
“Friends?” she says. “Not that long. This is the first time we’ve had lunch together.”
“This is what she does,” Blythe says. “She finds new, unsuspecting people to seduce. I know she may seem great now, but trust me, you should run as far away from her as you can before she burns you.”
Coco nods. “Thanks for the warning.”
Blythe Buchanan smiles kindly and leans in to whisper. “Also? She cheats at pickleball.”
Coco finds Leslee leaning over the bar, close enough to Shawn to take a bite out of him. She seems to have paid the bill in cash—good, they can make a clean getaway.
“Leslee,” Coco says. “We have to go.”
“Shawn just poured me another glass of champagne,” Leslee says. “Sit down, we’ll get you some as well.”
“Hey, Coco,” Shawn says.
“No,” Coco says. She pulls Leslee to her feet and gives Shawn a close-lipped smile. “Thanks anyway. We’re leaving.”
On Monday, Leslee takes Coco to barre class at Forme on Amelia Drive. Coco doesn’t like group exercise and, after being approached by Blythe Buchanan, the last place she wants to be is in a roomful of strangers—however, Leslee is in her element. She introduces herself around to the other women with their enormous diamond rings, their Cartier Love bracelets, their impeccable highlights. “I’m Leslee Richardson,” she says. “And this is my friend Coco.”
The woman on the mat next to Leslee says, “I’m Celadon Morse. Aren’t you the woman who throws the swanky parties?”
Coco waits to see how Leslee will react to the word swanky. Favorably, it turns out. “I am!” Leslee says. “Give me your number and I’ll invite you to the next one.”
Later that afternoon, Leslee treats Coco to a pedicure at RJ Miller. She takes the number of the woman who’s seated in the chair next to her, Marla.
“There are a lot of people on this island,” Leslee says once they’re back in the car with foam separators between their toes. “I don’t need Phoebe or Delilah or Blond freaking Sharon.”
