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CHAPTER 1

Gemma Taylor’s stomach twisted with hunger as her gaze strayed to the sophisticated assortment of canapes she’d prepared for her book club meeting. Today was her turn to host. Nobody was eating, of course, since all the ladies obsessed over their dietary intake down to the micronutrient and carb percentage level. But form dictated that Gemma couldn’t just serve sparkling Evian water.

There had to be food, even though its only purpose was to complete the perfect tableau.

After weeks of agonizing over what snacks would impress the most, she’d settled on figs stuffed with goat’s cheese and truffle-infused honey, crudités with baba ganoush, and smoked cheddar croquettes.

The book club ladies sat in the expansive, beautifully landscaped garden of the home Gemma shared with her partner Nigel. Thankfully, the fickle British weather was smiling on her plans, choosing to drench the back yard in warm spring sunshine. Like all his possessions, the garden’s chief value to Nigel was as a status symbol. His gleaming Porsche, this country home in Surrey, and Gemma herself, all served as tokens of his success to make him look good.

Nigel had urged Gemma to cultivate friendships with these women, particularly the Honorable Jane Fenton-Grant. She and the other book club ladies were the spouses of Nigel’s associates, who all belonged to an exclusive gentlemen’s club he’d joined last year.

The ladies met once a month at each other’s homes to discuss whatever book was the current darling in fashionable circles. An invitation to the book club was like a golden ticket into Hatbrook’s social elite. Today was Gemma’s first time to host, and her gut was in knots.

Thankfully, it seemed to be going well. The ladies sat in the octagonal gazebo, each holding a copy of the book of the month. Gemma had slogged through the glossy hardcover tome, finishing it only last night. Oprah and Reese were hailing the author’s experimental style as visceral, mold-breaking, and brave. Gemma had dutifully finished the rambling, self-indulgent, stream-of-consciousness rant, even managing to scrape up a comment or two to contribute to the discussion.

The Honorable “Call-me-Jane-darling” Fenton-Grant put her copy of the book onto the glass-topped coffee table. “Sorry, girls. I know we’re all here to talk about this lovely book, but I can’t hold back my news any longer.”

She flashed the toothy grin that, along with her title, made her a perennial favorite in Hello! magazine. “The last round of IVF was successful. I’m ten weeks along!”

Gemma’s eyes moistened as the ladies erupted into showers of congratulations. All of them knew Jane was desperate to have a child, a prospect that seemed less and less likely since they’d all attended her lavish forty-fifth birthday party last fall.

Lucky Jane. Gemma’s stock answer when asked about children was that she was child free by choice. And that was partially true, since the choice was Nigel’s. At the time they became a couple, he’d already had twin daughters, and he’d informed her upfront that he was done with fathering children. Only eighteen while he’d been in his mid-thirties, she hadn’t fully realized what he’d expected her to give up for him.

Listening to Jane’s news, a yearning void sucked at a place deep inside Gemma. She shoved the ache aside. Ten years since they’d met, she and Nigel had a good life. She had a lot to be grateful for. Why brood over the few things she couldn’t have? She would do her best to be fully happy for Jane.

Smiling, she asked, “How will the pregnancy affect your wedding plans?”

Jane sighed. “We’ll have to move everything up, so all of that needs organizing. I wouldn’t have minded waiting until after the baby is here, but my grandmother would be absolutely scandalized if I had a child out of wedlock.”

Raising a thin, heavily jeweled hand to the side of her mouth, she spoke in a mock whisper. “Don’t tell Nigel, but George is pushing to get married before the arrival of his heir. I know both of them talk loudly about how marriage is nothing but a piece of paper, but George is a lot more old-fashioned than he lets on. So, looks like it’ll be an October wedding.”

The book was completely shunted off the agenda as all the ladies chattered about Jane’s accelerated wedding.

Nigel often trumpeted his opinion of marriage in front of his friends. Just like fatherhood, he’d done it before and was firmly decided against going down that road again. Gemma would be neither a mother nor a bride. But she had her partner, their lovely home, and their friends. There was lots to fill up her life.

Gemma topped up everyone’s water glasses and offered round a tray of stuffed figs, which, as expected, was turned down yet again.

Sylvia West, a former runway model now married to a hedge fund manager friend of Nigel’s, turned to Jane. “Darling, be honest with me now.” Sylvia used both hands to push her blond hair away from her face, stretching her skin upward as though she were wearing a tight ponytail. “Do you think I should go ahead with the procedure? Dr. Manuel might be able to squeeze me in within the next two weeks, which would give me enough time to be fully recovered by your wedding.”

Gemma was long over her shock at these women’s openness about their surgical beauty enhancements. The day they’d first met, Sylvia asked her who had done her breast enlargements. Sylvia was incredulous when Gemma said she’d never undergone that type of surgery. She’d given Gemma an appraising look and commented, “You Black women are so lucky. You’re amply endowed, your skin doesn’t age as fast, and your lips are naturally plump.”

Now Jane tilted her head to the side and appraised Sylvia’s face. “I’d leave it until after the wedding. If you really must freshen up, I’d stick to a touch of collagen and Botox. No need to do the full-on surgery just yet.”

Sylvia looked around at the other ladies. “Do you all think I should wait, too?”

Murmurs of agreement met her question.

Jane sipped her water and looked toward the regimented flower beds. “Your garden is absolutely glorious, Gemma. Ours is in complete shambles. The last fellow we hired had no clue what he was doing. You’ve got to give me your gardener’s details. I promise I won’t poach him, but our place needs help. Especially if we decide to have the wedding at home.”

Gemma hesitated. Should she tell Jane? A few months ago, she’d recommended Nigel’s personal trainer to Jane. The trainer ended up dropping Nigel as a client, but was still working with George. Nigel had been furious at losing the services of the trainer responsible for sculpting the bodies of an impressive number of B-list actors. Would he mind if she gave away their gardener’s details? Gemma made a quick calculation and decided Nigel would rather lose a gardener than fall out of favor with the Honorable Jane Fenton-Grant. She smiled. “Of course. Remind me before you leave, and I’ll pass his details on.”

The ladies chatted for a few more minutes until Jane stood up. “Gemma, darling, thanks so much for having us. It’s been lovely, hasn’t it, girls?”

The other women took Jane’s cue and got to their feet, murmuring their farewell niceties. Their gatherings always ended when Jane decided it was time to leave.

“Thanks, Gemma.”

“You really must give me your baba ganoush recipe.”

“Give my love to Nigel.”

Jane ran a lacquered nail along the spine of her book. “Oh dear, we never got around to talking about this. Never mind, there’s always next month. At yours, Sylvia, right?”

“Yes, we’ll be at my place,” Sylvia said. “Shall we do this book again or move onto the next one?”

Gemma listened as the women decided to stay with the same book. Good. At least she wouldn’t have to spend time reading something else. In all the months she’d attended this book club, they had not yet chosen anything she liked. But since her taste leaned more toward cheap supermarket paperbacks than the Booker-acclaimed literature the club liked, she kept her opinions to herself.

She followed the ladies through her house as they headed to the front door.

In the living room, Jane touched her arm. “Darling, I almost forgot. Would you give me the gardener’s number?”

“Yes, of course! Give me a minute. I keep all those details in my desk.” Gemma crossed the hallway to the small den she used as her office. Her writing desk was here, along with cases filled with the books she liked to read—the ones not suitable for display in Nigel’s custom-made black oak and gold living room shelves.

She pulled open a desk drawer and rummaged inside. Where was that gardener’s contact information? It should be in the folder where she kept the details of all their service providers—personal trainer, cleaning service, massage therapist, hair stylist, house sitter. Gardener. She pulled a card out of the folder.

“‘What is the gospel? The best news you have ever received.’”

Gemma whirled around.

Jane had followed her into the den and now stood at the bookshelf, holding a small, bright red booklet.

Gemma’s face burned as Jane continued to read. “‘Find out why the gospel is the best news you have ever received. Who is Jesus and why did he come? Can we believe the Bible?’”

She lowered the book and leveled her gaze at Gemma, arching a perfectly molded eyebrow. “I would never have pegged you as religious. What is all this?”

“I am... It’s nothing, really. Just something I picked up.” Why had she left that book out where Jane could find it?

Jane glanced at the book and dropped it onto a nearby table with a laugh that sounded more like a snort. “You keep surprising me, Gemma. I definitely don’t see you as the churchy type. What would those blue-rinsed, pearl-clutching matrons say about you and Nigel living in sin?”

She laughed again. “Anyway, have you got the gardener’s details there?”

“Yes, here it is.”

Jane held out her hand to receive the cream-colored business card, her diamond rings sparkling with a hard brilliance. “Thank you, darling. I’ll call him and see whether he can help us. And I guess I’ll see you next week on holiday.” Her lips curved upward. “That is, unless you don’t get a fit of religion and go to church instead of vacationing with hedonistic heathens like us.” Her laugh tinkled as she left the room.

Face still hot, Gemma walked to the table and picked up the booklet Jane had dropped. It was the reading material from the “What is the Gospel?” course she’d attended at the small village church last fall.

Driven by a hunger she could not define, wanting to believe in something out there that was bigger than herself, Gemma had turned up every week for the course’s ten sessions. By the last session, she was convinced that what they were saying was true. She accepted that God existed, and he’d sent Jesus to connect humanity back to himself.

But after the course ended, she’d balked at the invitation to attend regular services. Church wasn’t for her. It was one thing to lurk in the back of the sanctuary, listening. But how was she supposed to bridge the gap between what the church people said and what her life was actually like? What if they found out that she was living with Nigel, a man who never intended to get married? Those welcoming smiles would surely fade.

She shoved the booklet back onto the shelf and headed toward the door to see Jane out. It was time to tidy up. Nigel would be home soon.