“Then she can learn what eighteen hundred sounds like underwater.”
Sloan’s face broke open. “Harrison, take it! That’s mine!”
Eleanor turned from the pool. “Now we’re even.”
Sloan started forward on her strappy heels, peach dress flashing. “You bitter old—”
“Get your shoes. Both of you. You’re done here.”
For a moment no one moved. The pool held its two sunk treasures. The linen on the gift table fluttered once in a thin breeze and went still again. Harrison’s jaw worked. Sloan’s mouth remained open around the unfinished insult. Eleanor stood with her hands empty and her gold studs quiet against her ears, and the quiet cold fury in her did not need to raise its voice because it had already done what it came to do.
Then the afternoon began to rearrange itself.