The Annual Midsummer party was in full swing, the perfectly manicured lawn dotted with Figure Eight's finest in summer whites and pastels and flowers.
Mom was already there, playing her part in her cream designer dress with a yellow flower crown, though I noticed how she kept Ward Cameron in her peripheral vision.
"Your mom's got good instincts," Rafe murmured, appearing at my elbow with two champagne flutes. "Dad's been watching her all night."
"Runs in the family," I replied, taking the offered glass.
From my position on the terrace, I could see Sarah slipping away from the party, heading toward the dock where John B was waiting.
"Barbie's playing with fire," I commented while following my gaze
"Like you're one to talk, mister, I play with fire for fun," Rafe shot back, but without heat.
Topper appeared, his perfect country club appearance slightly ruffled. "John B's here. By the boat."
"We know," I replied coolly. "Sarah's handling it."
The truth was, watching Sarah with John B stirred something unexpected–not jealousy, but a strange sort of recognition.
We'd played our parts as the perfect Figure Eight couple, Ken and Barbie, but there had never been that spark, that electricity I could see between them even from a distance.
"Your mom's distracting my dad," Rafe noted, nodding toward where Mom had engaged Ward in what appeared to be an intense discussion about hospital funding.
Through the crowd, I caught snippets of their conversation.
"The Goff family's old donation is running out," Ward was saying. "Without new funding..."
"The clinic stays open," Mom replied firmly. "Or certain documents might find their way to the board."
I watched the color drain from Ward's face, remembering the files we'd found–the connections between the Genrettes and the Camerons going back generations.
Meanwhile, by the dock, Sarah was standing closer to John B than Figure Eight propriety allowed. Their heads were bent together, her white dress a stark contrast to his worn t-shirt.
"They're going to get caught," Topper muttered, jealousy evident in his voice.
"Like you haven't been sneaking around with that girl from the Cut," Rafe shot back, making Topper flush.
I watched as Sarah laughed at something John B said; the sound carrying across the water. It was her real laugh – not the polished society giggle she used at these parties.
"At least they're honest about who they are," Rafe said quietly. "More than most of us here."
Mom caught my eye across the lawn, giving me a subtle nod. The signal we'd arranged. Ward was thoroughly distracted.
"Time to move," I told Rafe and Topper. "Sarah's got her dad's attention split between her scandalous dock rendezvous and Mom's threats. The boat should be clear."
But before we could move, I saw John B reach up and brush Sarah's hair back from her face. The gesture was so tender, so genuine, it made all our Figure Eight performances seem hollow in comparison.
"She's falling for him," Rafe observed, surprising me with the lack of judgment in his tone.
"Good," I replied. "Maybe one of us should get to be real."
Topper made a disgusted sound. "This is insane. A Cameron and a Pogue? We just broke up"
"Love's never made much sense," I said, my hand brushing against Rafes where no one could see. "Besides, we've all got our secrets, Top. Some just wear them better than others."
The party continued behind us, a perfect facade of Figure Eight privilege. But down by the dock, Sarah Cameron was choosing something different.
As we slipped away toward the HMS Issue, I caught one last glimpse of Sarah and John B. He was showing her something, and the look on her face was worth whatever scandal was about to erupt.
"Your mom's going to kill you if this goes wrong," Rafe whispered as we approached the boat.
"Probably," I agreed. "But she taught me something important: sometimes the truth is worth the risk."
Behind us, Sarah's laugh carried across the water again, mingling with the sound of expensive champagne and old money conversations. Two worlds collided, just like the secrets we were about to uncover.
The files about my parents–both Genrette and Groff–were somewhere on this boat.
"Ready?" Rafe asked.
I thought of Mom, facing down Ward Cameron with generations of Genrette steel in her spine. Of Sarah, brave enough to love openly.
"Ready," I replied, stepping into the darkness that held our answers.
Behind us, the Midsummer party continued its perfect performance, while down by the dock, Sarah Cameron rewrote what was possible in Figure Eight, one stolen moment with John B at a time.