Cocktail Hour

By Tara McTiernan

What if your friend - someone admired, envied, and fervently sought after by everyone who knew her - was really a dangerous sociopath? In her latest novel, Cocktail Hour, mainstream fiction author Tara McTiernan answers that question as she takes you on a wild roller coaster ride of thrilling highs and terrifying lows in this gripping novel about friendship gone horribly wrong.

Spring in glamorous uber-rich Fairfield County, Connecticut is a time of beginnings: a new diet for the approaching summer spent out on the yacht, fresh-faced interns being offered up at the office as the seasonal sacrifice to the gods of money, and corporate takeovers galore. Five women in their thirties have a brand-new friendship, too, one that's fed and watered regularly at local hotspots over cocktails. With all of their personal struggles - Lucie's new catering business is foundering due to vicious gossip, Kate's marriage is troubled due to an inability to conceive, Chelsea's series of misses in the romance department have led to frantic desperation, and Sharon's career problems are spinning out of control - the women look forward to a break and a drink and a chance to let their guards down with their friends. And letting their guards down is the last thing they should do in the kind of company they unknowingly keep with the fifth member of their cocktail-clique: Bianca Rossi, a woman who will stop at nothing to have it all.

As each woman's life is affected by this she-wolf in sheep's clothing, the truth starts to come out, but will they see it before it's too late? Or will their doubts about their own perceptions and gut feelings stop them from protecting themselves in time? Exciting, chilling, and emotionally charged, Tara McTiernan delivers a delicious page-turner that will change your view of everyone you think you know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tara McTiernan
• Release date: Mar 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301328826

Tara McTiernan

Tara McTiernan lives in North Carolina with her husband and grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut and on an island in the Great South Bay on Long Island, New York, which has been the setting for her novel and short stories. Her stories have been included in multiple literary magazines including Eureka Literary Magazine and Ultimate Writer. Her debut novel, Barefoot Girls, has recently been released as an ebook with the print version to be available in late spring 2012. Visit her blog at http://taramctiernanfiction.blogspot.com/ for more information.

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Product Description

COCKTAIL HOUR

By Tara McTiernan

What if your friend, someone admired, envied, and fervently sought after by everyone who knew her, was really a dangerous sociopath? Cocktail Hour answers that question as it takes you on a wild roller coaster ride of thrilling highs and terrifying lows in this novel about friendship gone horribly wrong.

Spring in glamorous uber-rich Fairfield County, Connecticut is a time of beginnings: a new diet for the approaching summer spent out on the yacht, fresh-faced interns being offered up at the office as the seasonal sacrifice to the gods of money, and corporate takeovers galore. Five women in their thirties have a brand-new friendship, too, one that's fed and watered regularly at local hotspots over cocktails. With all of their personal struggles - Lucie's new catering business is foundering due to vicious gossip, Kate's marriage is troubled due to an inability to conceive, Chelsea's series of misses in the romance department have led to frantic desperation, and Sharon's career problems are spinning out of control - the women look forward to a break and a drink and a chance to let their guards down with their friends. And letting their guards down is the last thing they should do in the kind of company they unknowingly keep with the fifth member of their cocktail-clique: Bianca Rossi, a woman who will stop at nothing to have it all.

As each woman's life is affected by this she-wolf in sheep's clothing, the truth starts to come out, but will they see it before it's too late? Or will their doubts about their own perceptions and gut feelings stop them from protecting themselves in time? Tara McTiernan's latest novel Cocktail Hour serves up the Gold Coast's champagne-and-caviar world of movers and shakers where everything sparkles...especially knives in the back.

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Cocktail Hour

A Novel

TARA MCTIERNAN

Copyright 2013 by Tara McTiernan

Smashwords Edition

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Mimi Bark

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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For Ash, my wonderful husband

Table of Contents

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Description

Title and Copyright

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About the Author & Bonus Material

Mojito

Alone in the old building's camera-free elevator, Bianca's mask lifted, showing her true face momentarily before her false one slid back into place as a bell tinged and the elevator's doors hissed open.

She stepped out of the elevator, strode down the hall, and opened the door to the dermatologist's office in Darien, Connecticut with her head held high and a small smile playing on her lips, resisting the urge to wiggle her shoulders with pleasure at how much fun this was going to be. It had been a fabulous day for her: all of the physicians she had visited that morning and afternoon had been male which meant that, of course, they were putty in her hands, practically panting when they agreed to write prescriptions for her company's products as if she was the one doing them the favor. It was probably the tight red skirt, fitted matching scarlet jacket and achingly-high flame-colored pumps she was wearing. Men loved red.

Crossing the tastefully appointed reception area that smelled of new carpeting, she stopped in front of the reception desk. A mousy blond with an overbite and pale eyelashes looked up at her and smiled. Yes, may I help you?

Hello, I'm Bianca Rossi from Mennon Pharmaceuticals, Bianca said and handed the woman her card while quickly glancing at her name tag and mentally storing her first name for when she'd make the push. Bianca noted with surprise that the woman was a relative of Grant's, or at least she had the same last name.

Dr. Grant Palmer: when she had seen that name on her routing schedule for the day her eyes had popped. Could it be the Grant Palmer? Her junior high school crush from those long-ago and best-forgotten geek years before she had blossomed into one of the most beautiful and lusted-after women in Fairfield County. And now not only was she beautiful, she was also well-married to a successful stockbroker, had a baby boy of nine months and a nanny to watch over him and do all the yucky boring stuff, a beautiful house on the water in Greenwich, and an exciting new career that was turning out to be the best thing in her life, especially now that she had graduated from all that tiresome studying and ride-alongs with her manager and the other reps.

It was all the attention: she literally had to have it. Without a constant diet of male adulation, she shriveled up quickly. This had been tested and proven during her brief and nearly deadly experience during her junior year in high school when her father had sent her away to an isolated convent after an incident that made him question his daughter's moral character. Bianca learned to be more careful after that.

Bianca continued, I wanted to stop by and see if Dr. Palmer has a moment between appointments to meet with me to discuss how our products may be a solution for some of his patients. In particular, Revita, the new collagen-builder, is something he might want to know about.

She leaned in conspiratorially and waited for the woman to lean forward, too. The blond hesitated for a moment and then ducked her head and stretched across the desk to listen.

Revita is really amazing. Look, Bianca said and pointed to the skin under her eyes. All those little wrinkles we start getting in our thirties, gone! With none of the immobility and lack of expression from Botox or any of redness or peeling of a retinoid. Amazing, huh? Especially amazing as she had never used the stuff. So what if she told a little fib or ten? All those rules and scripts, when what mattered was that she made the sale - they all knew that. Her colleagues were just a bunch of posturing hypocrites.

The woman's mouth had fallen open. Really?

Bianca pounced. Don’t you think he might have a few minutes for me, Kate? It really would be worth his while.

The woman nodded and glanced at her computer monitor. I'm sure he can spare a minute. Let me take you to his office. She got up and went around to open the door, beckoning to Bianca with a timid smile and then leading her down the hall past the exam rooms, two with shut doors muffling quiet voices and the other rooms open and unoccupied. Kate stopped outside the last door, which was standing open to reveal the doctor's private office, and gestured at it. He's with a patient right now, but he'll be with you in a moment.

Bianca felt like a cat about to eat a particularly delicious canary. Thanks so much, she said, her voice rolling luxuriantly.

She sat down on one of the leather club chairs facing the desk, putting her briefcase and bag of samples on the floor beside her. Normally, she’d be plotting her sales pitch right now, preparing that special blend of BS she spread during every office visit: one part clinical knowledge, one part affected compassion about the doctor’s problems and pressures, and a touch of implied sex that stayed just next to the line of propriety without crossing it.

Instead, she saw that there was a large framed photo on his desk that faced his chair. She had to see it. Was he still handsome or had he lost his looks or bloated up as so many of her old classmates had? She hadn’t seen him since the second to last year of junior high when he’d transferred to a private school in New Hampshire. She’d been so disappointed, especially when she started seeing changes in the mirror and in how men reacted to her. She’d wished and wished he’d come home for a visit and run into her, see her in her present incarnation. In her fantasies, he immediately fell deeply and desperately in love with her.

Bianca leaned over in her chair and stretched her neck to see if anyone was in the hallway, but it was quiet. That was the benefit of a one-physician practice – lots of privacy. She stood and tiptoed over to the other side of the desk holding her breath.

Then all the air in her lungs poured out at once.

Yes! Grant was gorgeous at thirty-three, even more so than he’d been at thirteen – assuming the photo was recent. It was a wedding photo taken in a lush rose-filled garden and his bride was…the mouse in reception. Seriously? Oh! It didn’t get better than this. This was better than a canary; this was a huge hot-fudge sundae that had no calories!

She started to clap her hands together when she heard his voice in the hallway. She spun and started back toward the guest chair when her pointed heel caught on the new nubby carpet. Bianca fell in what felt like slo-mo, her left hand stretching out to grab at the desk for support and missing and then both her hands and knees hit the rough carpet just as his shadow filled the doorway.

Oof!

Oh, no. Are you okay?

She looked at her hands on the carpet, her face flooding with heat while a shrieking outraged voice had risen above the hubbub in her head. Ruined, everything... no! She would not give up. Never! She would fix this somehow. She took a deep breath. Ah, thank you, she said as calmly as she could.

Then a flash of an idea hit her. She sat back on her heels and looked at her reddened palms. Oh, dear. I think I've hurt my hands. They're really raw. She still didn't look up at him, holding out.

Here, let me help you up. How did this happen?

She saw his hand reach down through breaks in the curtain of her long dark hair that had fallen forward to hide her face. Oh, it's the new carpet. My heel caught, she said in a little-girl voice, not bothering to explain why she was beside his desk instead of in front of it.

Please, let me help you.

Oh, you're so kind. She threw her hair back off of her face and reached for his hand before rising as slowly and delicately as she could, as if she'd really been injured.

When she was finally standing, she turned to look up at him and melted a little before an old familiar tingle jumped up her spine. Wow. Nothing had changed. She waited for him to react, recognize her. Then the amazement and infatuation would set in. This was it.

His blue eyes were caring, but revealed nothing else. Grant shook his head. I'm so sorry about the carpet. Do you want me to look at your hands?

She tilted her head slightly. Oh, I don't want to impose, Dr. Palmer. I'm supposed to be here to help you, not myself. Minutes seemed to have slowed. Where was the aren't-you?

Here, let me look. It's no trouble.

She put her mildly smarting hands in his and felt a shock go down her arms. Oh, my.

He moved his head back and forth, looking at her palms from each angle. Well, it's a very mild abrasion. But I can get you some salve; that might help with the stinging.

She stared at his handsome and still-dear face. How could he not recognize her? Maybe he was too distracted by her hurt act. She'd stop it now. It wasn't working the way she thought it would. She pulled her hands out of his reluctantly, not wanting to stop the zinging pleasurable feeling his touch brought. No, really. They've stopped hurting. I'm fine. Please, I've taken up enough of your time, she said and gestured to his desk. Why don't we sit down for a minute and talk about Mennon's products and the needs of your practice? I won't be more than a minute; I'm sure you have back-to-back appointments.

He paused and then nodded, putting a hand out to the guest chair before moving to sit behind his desk. Sure, I have a minute. My wife – you met her, she’s the office manager here, you’ll work with her to stock our samples and materials – she mentioned that you had an amazing new product.

Sitting with her legs crossed prettily, Bianca looked at him one last time, waiting some flicker, but there was none. She would have to wallop him with it; for some reason he was oblivious, distracted. She’d wait, pick just the right time. She launched into her spiel, finally sticking to what she’d been taught. It had been tough to learn; her background was psychology, not science or biology. Still, she’d been driven ever since she struck up a conversation with a woman named Jessica at her gym while waiting for a spinning class to start.

Bored out of her mind once she decorated their new house in Belle Haven, tired already with John, her once shiny-toy husband who had gotten scuffed by reality once the honeymoon was over, she had been looking for the next big thing and Jessica showed her the way. Beautiful and charismatic, Jessica told Bianca all about the big money and success that pharma sales had brought her. As she spoke, glowing with a tan in March from a recent sales-award-earned all-expense-paid luxury trip to St. John courtesy of her employer, Bianca knew immediately what her next big thing was. The challenge of it, the heated competition - it was exactly what she loved.

But then she got pregnant, before she was even finished crafting a new artificially pumped-up resume. And at first, having a baby seemed like a fun pit-stop. She would dress the baby up in all sorts of darling outfits and host huge birthday parties with on-site carnival rides and have all sorts of Hallmark-mommy-moments. Then she became swollen in spite of the strict dieting and vigorous exercise that she continued to pummel her body with against doctor's orders, suffered through the horrible birth which no amount of flowers and gifts from her husband would wipe from her memory, and went home with little Sebastian.

After a month at home with her son she knew what motherhood really was: a lot of exhausting thankless work, most of it dull or disgusting. Once enlightened, she hurried to secure a live-in nanny and got back to work on her resume, lying to John and saying that she would still make time for their family. She didn’t even bother to cross her fingers when she said it. What did he care? He was always working, too. And she needed to have something that she was excited about. It had turned out to be the best decision of her life. And now, she was going to enjoy the ultimate fruit – Grant Palmer, at long last, crazy in love with her.

Finishing up her pitch, she decided to take a risk. Asking for the business was the last step in the process, and usually on the first meeting she only asked to schedule a five minute conversation in the next few weeks. Once they were more familiar, she’d suggest a dinner program or a lunch-and-learn. And even later, she’d push for actual prescriptions. But after her winning day, she knew she was on a roll.

So, knowing all that you now know about what this product does for women, I’d like to ask you to write Revita for the next five patients who walk through your door! They’ll love you for it. What do you say? she asked, leaning forward and smiling at him, letting the slight touch of cleavage her jacket revealed plump up from her change in position.

He didn’t glance at her breasts, which was unusual. Instead, he shook his head and smiled. I’m sorry, I don’t write that way. However, I’ll definitely take some samples and do my homework on the product. I’m always interested in the latest and greatest.

He stood. She startled and looked up at him. This was nothing like she expected, knew she deserved. Well, I hope you’ll consider a five minute appointment in a few weeks. We have many other products, some even more exciting.

His eyebrows went up. Really? Well, certainly. I meet with reps regularly. Just see Kate. She’ll get you scheduled. Here, let me walk you out.

Bianca slowly gathered up her things while he walked to the door of his office and waited for her. She stood, shook her head and smiled at him playfully, as if it didn’t matter. And it shouldn’t have. She had changed so much. But once he knew… You really don’t recognize me, do you?

Grant's expression was mild, polite. I'm sorry?

Scofield Junior High? We both were in the same class. Bianca Moretti?

Ah, Scofield. Wow, that was eons ago. We were in the same class?

It wasn't possible. How had he not noticed her? Every boy in her class remembered her: skinny Spaghetti Moretti with the big meatball-zits. She'd been a joke. She swallowed. Was she going to have to say it? Ah, it's funny, but they used to call me Spaghetti Moretti.

He let out a little mirthless laugh. Kids can be cruel, can't they? I guess I'm glad I wasn't too social back then, just played football and hit the books, he said, and shook his head. So, Scofield, huh? Small world. Sorry my memory isn’t better. I guess I stuffed too much information in my head during med school to remember anything important like old schoolmates. I’m amazed you remember me.

Ah…, Bianca said, at a loss for the first time in years. He was supposed to be floored, be awed, be enamored! His smile was friendlier now but still reserved. He turned and led her out of the office and she followed, feeling an odd tumbling-down feeling and wondered if she was going to fall again.

He stopped at the front desk and addressed his mouse-wife, who turned away from her computer as they approached. Hey Kate, guess what? Bianca here went to the same junior high I went to. I guess I’m going to be running into a lot of old classmates now that we’re living near my home town.

Kate smiled. Really? Were you two having a trip down memory lane?

Nope, I can’t remember her at all. Isn’t that terrible? I’m sorry, Bianca. I’ll have to start cramming with the old yearbooks, my memory isn’t what it should be, Grant said, tapping his head.

Bianca looked at him. He seemed almost cheerful about the whole thing. She looked again at Kate, a skinny little no-looks blond that didn’t fit at all with Grant. No, this was not how it was supposed to be. It was not how it was going to be. She was going to make him remember her, make them both remember her vividly, even if the all the memories were fresh. She always got the man she wanted, even if she had to try harder with some than with others. And she wanted Grant, now more than ever.

But there was something else happening. Her solid world seemed to have come unhinged and for the first time in years she felt fragile, floating. The office reared up around her while Grant and Kate's laughter morphed into snickering in her ears. The smell of the new carpet was overpowering. She looked down and the carpet seethed, and she knew that if she was able to peel it back from the floor, she'd find thousands of trundling beetles and shiny slithering millipedes convulsing under it.

Swallowing back the rising bile in her throat, she put out a hand and placed it on the reception desk to steady herself. Ah, who…, she said, and took a breath before continuing. Who can remember everyone? She paused and took another breath through her mouth, careful not to breathe through her nose and smell the carpeting. Game face, now. This weird feeling would pass, but a first impression was forever. And she would prevail. She straightened, raised her chin, and plastered on a smile. Thank you so much for meeting with me, Dr. Palmer.

Please, you can call me Grant. And it was a pleasure. We'll see you in a few weeks. I've got to get to my next patient, so I'll see you then.

She widened her smile. Of course. And I'll leave some samples and materials with Kate.

Do that. Thanks, he said, a hand briefly raised before turning away. No lingering gaze, no dragging out the conversation. What was Grant made of, rock? And why was he so damn attractive? Sizzling, really. She remembered his touch, the shock and the pleasure of it. It had to be the old infatuation still at work. Or was it something more? Was she actually falling for him? She had no idea. She had never fallen for anyone; they fell for her.

She turned to look at Kate, her game-face still plastered on, when an idea occurred to her. A brilliant idea, actually. So, you two just moved back?

Kate nodded enthusiastically. Yes, a couple months ago. Well, it’s back for him. I’m from Vermont. Where we lived before?

Bianca could imagine Kate in Vermont, her pale cheeks made rosy by the cold wind in winter, bundled up in a parka. Maybe that was when Grant had become attracted to her. But he couldn’t be now. Well, this may seem a little forward, but I know what it’s like to be new in town. My family moved a lot when I was little, she said. She had never lived anywhere but Fairfield County, with the exception of the disastrous stint in the convent. I know how hard it is to make new friends, trust me. Anyway, a few of my friends are getting together tonight at seven for cocktails and I was wondering if you’d like to join us? Other than Chelsea, who had invited her and was Bianca's only friend, a sweet little pushover she’d known since high school, Bianca didn’t know the other girls at all, but knew not to pass on that information and possibly scare this little mouse away.

Kate’s pale blue eyes became huge and bright. Really? That's so nice of you.

Oh, no, it’ll be fun. We’re going to that new little tapas place, Ibiza, in downtown Stamford. Say you’ll come.

Okay, really? I'd love to! I haven’t met anyone here yet. Outside of the office, I mean?

Her balance back, a curling warmth filled Bianca. Oh, this was going to be good. Great. We'll see you there at seven. Okay, so let’s talk samples and that next appointment.

Bianca scheduled the appointment, loaded Kate up with samples and colorful shiny pamphlets, and then strode out of the office with her head swimming with a variety of different schemes, turning each over in her mind and examining them for holes.

Chardonnay

Lucie approached the customer service desk at Farmer's Day Market in Westport with trepidation and her typical uneven gait, her right hip having never healed properly from being shattered in a car accident when she was twenty-one. She stopped just in front of the rustic wooden desk where a slim older woman was bent over an open notebook, erasing something with a vigor that was almost violent. Lucie stood, waiting, but the woman did not acknowledge her, perhaps distracted by her attack on the paper with the pink end of a pencil.

Finally, the woman put down the pencil and looked up, her grey-eyed gaze cool. Yes? How may I help you?

I..., Lucie said and swallowed. She would have to get over this fear. She was starting her own business, wasn't she? She had to be bold and confident. She had to do whatever it took not to end up being an administrative assistant again. Just the thought of returning to that living hell bolstered her. She straightened. Yes, I see that you have a community board here and I wanted to find out about posting a flyer for my business.

The woman's expression remained stony. She put out a hand. Certainly. May I see it?

Lucie smiled, hoping it would melt the woman a little. It didn't. She opened the manila folder she had placed the flyers in, only five remaining after an afternoon of canvassing local stores and community spots with bulletin boards, and handed the woman one. She took it and examined it. Then she started blinking. Then shaking her head.

Lucie faltered. I'm sorry. What's the matter?

The woman let out an exhausted-sounding sigh, her head still shaking as she looked up at Lucie. We can't advertise a catering service. We have our own. It would be at cross purposes.

But, Whole Foods let me-

Whole Foods can afford to let you. They're national. We're just a little local market, she said and thrust the flyer back at Lucie. Thank you, but really, you should have thought a bit.

Lucie felt heat rise in her face. She took the flyer and tucked it back in her folder, struggling to straighten it as the rip-off tabs with her company name and number on them caught on each other. They wouldn't straighten, remaining stubbornly tangled. She slapped the folder shut, the sheet still hanging halfway out. I did think. It didn’t seem like it wouldn't matter to you. I just do little parties. 'Petite Soiree'? Little party? Nothing like the big weddings and corporate things that Farmer's Day caters.

The woman sneered a little half-smile at her. I assure you that we cater little parties, too. Anyway, we can’t allow competitive marketing on our board. But, please, shop! I’m sure we can provide some of your supplies, she said, gesturing toward the interior of the store.

Tu plaisantes! Lucie found herself saying before she could stop herself. Her blush growing hotter, she nodded and turned away. She was really getting mouthy lately. If Mere was still alive, she'd be appalled. At that moment Lucie's cell starting ringing, her stepsister’s ringtone, and she hobbled out of the market as fast as possible to get away from the woman before answering.

Coming to a stop just outside the door near a cluster of hand-woven baskets, she picked up. Erin! How are you?

I can’t believe you. Why do you always have to top me?

What?

I was thinking about starting a catering business. I told you.

Lucie took a deep breath. Really? She didn’t remember this one. But Erin was always coming up with new ideas for starting her own business - or jumping onto the latest pyramid scheme - when she wasn’t job-hopping. Not that Lucie could point a finger. Lately she hadn’t been able to hold down an administrative job, her attitude so bad it got her fired only months after being hired. But she had held long-haul positions in her twenties where she had performed well; Erin had never held a job for more than two months. And that was why Lucie was frequently put in the position where she needed to help her stepsister get another job or had to call a creditor and make promises.

She had also co-signed on Erin’s apartment lease and, recently, got a call from the landlord asking about overdue rent. Her next conversation with Erin was supposed to be about that, but now it was going to be about her new catering business. Lucie should have just kept her mouth shut last night when her father inquired about what she was doing career-wise over dinner at his and Florence’s house. Of course Flo would pick up the phone afterward and call Erin, probably to prod her daughter with it.

Lucie shook her head to clear it. No, you didn’t tell me.

Well, I thought I did.

I’m sorry. Listen, this doesn’t have to be a competition. It’s not like that. You know how much I love to cook and-

And your mother was some big French pastry chef, I know. Blah blah blah. But I’m the one with the business head, not you. You should just go to cooking school or something.

I don’t have the money for that and, besides, this is what I really want. I thought you’d be thrilled for me. Do you want to be a part of the business? Lucie’s shoulders jerked up. Why had she just offered that? Why did it seem as if her brain had become completely disconnected from her mouth lately?

No! I want my own business.

What about that wedding planner business you were thinking about?

I want to be a caterer.

Okay, okay. We can both have catering businesses.

No. It’s not fair!

Are you seriously telling me not to pursue my dream? I’m always there for you, Erin. Can’t you be there for me?

You don’t understand. Mom said-

Flo is unreasonable in her expectations about you. We’ve talked about this and you agreed, Lucie said, remembering all the hours of tears she had endured, consoling Erin again and again every time her mother launched into her, calling her a failure. And if she wasn't attacking her daughter, she was pushing her toward some new career she'd decided her daughter should pursue. This, instead of leading to the dreamed-of achievement Flo expected, only made her daughter fail, and flail, more.

There was a pause and a sniffle on the other end of the line. Finally, Erin said, "I know...well. You're right. Well, maybe I should help you. At least Mom would leave me alone then; I'd be doing something."

But you are doing something. You're at Candlewicks and you're learning so much! You really could have your own gift shop, all you have to do is work there a little longer, take some notes, learn the ropes. When you’re ready, I'll help you apply for a loan like we talked about.

Well, Erin said in a rising apologetic tone. See... A loud sigh breathed into Lucie's ear.

Oh, no. What happened?

I…, Anne just kept bossing me around-

Yeah, she's your boss.

I quit.

No! Why? And now how are you going to pay your rent?

Well...I was hoping...

Lucie slumped, leaning against the glass window of Farmer’s Day and looking down at the baskets at her feet. The whirls at the base of the baskets reminded her of her life, an endless go-nowhere circle. She had savings that she had stockpiled in order to be able to start her business, but they were going to disappear quickly if she kept rushing in to save the day with Erin. Yet she couldn't help herself. Flo had insisted on cutting Erin off two years before and her father agreed; her sister had nowhere else to go. All right. How much do you need?

Two thousand?

That much! I thought you were saving?

Well, that's another thing. I didn't want to tell you, but...

But what?

Erin told her all about Liftique, a cream that she'd heard about through a customer at Candlewicks that was purportedly developed by a dermatologist and, applied twice a day, gave the effects of a facelift. The woman convinced Erin that it was essential that she sign on immediately, that the product was about to go viral and then everyone would want to jump on the bandwagon. Of course the woman was a sales manager for the product, and it turned out to be yet another pyramid scheme. Except this time, Erin had felt it was necessary to invest the entirety of her small savings in the product, snap it up before it sold out, which was sure to happen in a matter of weeks.

Well, does it work? Maybe you could sell it after all, now that you have the time.

Erin moaned a little and said, No, I should have tried it out first. It makes your face all stiff and weird. I don't think anyone would want to use it. You can't even smile when you've got it on!

Realizing how late it was getting, Lucie pushed away from the window where she'd been leaning and slowly hobbled across the parking lot to her car while reassuring Erin that everything would work out. Sinking inside, she agreed to have Erin help her with her new business and they planned to meet the next morning at a local cafe to discuss what Erin's role would be over coffee.

After saying goodbye, nodding quickly while Erin thanked her, Lucie hung up and climbed into her Audi, a high school graduation gift that had been given to her with much ceremony, a reminder of when they'd all had high hopes for her: that she would go on and become a brain surgeon or an astrophysicist or a lawyer. She’d been a straight-A student, top of her class, editor of the yearbook. In her father’s favorite words: a winner.

And she’d done very well in college until her mother died in a freak accident, slipping in the shower in her little Paris apartment and hitting her head. It had happened only days after Lucie had left after visiting over Christmas break and Lucie found herself illogically blaming herself for not being there, not saving her mother. It had all been too much: her parents’ divorce earlier that year, Mere moving back to Paris and then dying just when she was getting her life back together.

Things had seemed so hopeful when they toasted each other with glasses of champagne on Christmas Eve while sitting in her mother's cozy living room next to a fat tinsel-covered tree, Lucie exercising her rusty French under Mere’s patient but strict tutelage. Her mother had glowed from within that evening, speaking of a patisserie she and a friend were discussing opening on the Left Bank, her beautiful emerald eyes looking off into the distance as she spoke, as if seeing her dreams play out on the far wall. Everything was going to work out in the end. Except it didn't.

After the funeral, Lucie had returned to school in body only, her heart and mind elsewhere. As a result, her grades were plummeting the following spring when she’d been sitting in the back seat of her friend’s car on the way to a party on a Thursday night, her two best friends in the front. They’d been t-boned at an intersection only minutes from their destination, the other driver running a red light. Michelle had died almost instantly, crushed in the driver's seat. Lucie, not wearing a seatbelt, had been airborne before she slammed into the opposite side of the car's interior, breaking her hip in three places. Jenny, who’d been in the front passenger seat, had been wearing her seatbelt and was the only one who was able to walk away from the wreck. After a year of surgeries and physical therapy it was clear that Lucie would never walk normally again.

Lucie had started the car and was saying her usual prayer before backing out when her phone rang again. This time, it was Ryan’s ring-tone and she grabbed at the phone gratefully. Hi!

Hey, you. How’s it going?

Lucie leaned back and smiled. This was the best part, the thing she loved most about living with Ryan and not just dating each other: telling him the mundane details of her day. And the crazy thing was that he actually wanted to hear it all. Great! Well, except for Farmer’s Day. The woman there was such a mega-bitch, you would not believe.

I’m not surprised. I don’t like that place. Too snooty.

Good. Let’s boycott it forever.

Done. The hell with them. Sooooo, I was wondering… any chance you’re in the mood to cook tonight? I was fantasizing about your coq au vin and I thought you might make my dreams come true and actually make it. Please? I’m willing to get down and crawl, seriously.

Her soft smile turned into a wicked grin. Really? Too bad, I’d like to see that. No, don’t you remember? I’m going out with Chelsea and some other girl she knows for drinks at that tapas place in Stamford. We’re probably going to get something to eat, too.

Damn! Forgot. I guess I'll have to suffer. But consider my desperate situation next time you decide to cook. I will grovel if necessary.

All right. You're on! This weekend: grovel-fest. Bring it.

In the inimitable words of Kendra Wilkinson, 'It's been broughten'.

Can’t wait. Adieu ma chérie!

Stop that talk. You know it makes me crazy, you sexy French minx.

Je tiens à vous rendre fou!

Agh! Stop!

Lucie burst out laughing. Recovering after a minute, she said, Okay, I'll stop. I better go; I don't want to be late.

Okay. See you later. And don't let Chelsea keep you out too late.

I won't. Love you!

Love you, too.

She hung up and put the phone back in her purse, suddenly seeing their apartment in her mind’s eye and wanting to be there, go there now and finally relax. The earthy elemental colors of their furnishings, the paintings on the walls that they’d found on their Saturday scavenging's at local flea markets and garage sales, the sweet scent of the lavender wreath that hung near the front door – they gave her comfort and a sighing peace. She loved their place, her and Ryan’s combined sensibilities. It was the opposite of the ornate showplace she’d grown up in, a home that fed her father's need to display how successful he was and ignored her mother’s simpler down-to-earth ways. At first, after her parents' divorce, Lucie decided she didn’t want to marry, afraid of having to sublimate herself to a man. That was what marriage was, right?

But then Flo came along, her father’s perfect counterpart, and showed her that a good marriage was possible with two birds of a feather. Her parents had simply been polar opposites. Like Lucie's father, Flo was an unstoppable powerhouse, a woman you couldn’t help but admire. Lucie’s mother was strong, but subtle, careful, quiet. Flo didn’t know what quiet was. She was a force to be reckoned with, someone that didn’t take no for an answer. Her real estate business was evidence of that, still kicking along and turning a profit while the recession pushed others into bankruptcy. And, in spite of Flo’s fraught relationship with her own daughter, she had been a great help to Lucie, always cheerleading and giving advice: advice Lucie knew she would have suffered without if it hadn’t been for her father remarrying.

In fact, it was Flo who had hopes for Lucie, not her father. Donald Spencer Scott had given up on his daughter years ago. When he'd asked about her career last night, it had been in the tired polite voice he spoke in whenever he asked about her life, only glancing at her briefly when he asked. He did his duty as a father: he provided. All you had to do to see his fatherly love was to look around at the grand Georgian Colonial house where they lived in New Canaan, see his name in gold on the door of his office: Scott Publications, look down at the expensive steak dinner they were sitting down to on a Wednesday night. Asking his daughter questions was extra credit work that he didn't need to earn.

Lucie had put her hands in her lap, glanced over at Ryan, who had nodded at her with encouragement, and forced out the words. Well, I've got exciting news actually.

Her father continued cutting his steak, his eyes on his plate. Really? he said, his tone still bored.

Oh? What! Flo asked, leaning forward across her plate, her short pixyish red hair glinting gold in the candlelight.

You know how I love to cook?

Her father speared a piece of steak, held his fork poised with his wrist resting on the table, and finally looked at Lucie. Yes, of course. That’s a great hobby. Very useful if you ever have important clients to dinner. Much more impressive than having caterers bring food in. He nodded firmly and then tore the bite of steak off his fork with his teeth. His handsome strong-featured face - superman-like with a prominent square jaw and an aquiline nose - became vicious looking as he bit at the meat, his white teeth flashing.

"But that’s the thing. So many people have important clients or other people that they want to invite to dinner, but they can’t cook. I thought I could help them. It would be what you always call a ‘win-win’, Dad."

Her father grimaced and shook his head before visibly swallowing. What? Teach them? Oh, please. There’s no money in that.

No! I meant I’d be a caterer. I’d go to their houses and cook up fancy meals for their little parties and times when they need to impress someone. And I'd be low-key, so it would seem as if they made it. No van plastered with logos and 800 numbers, no huge staff. Just me.

Oh! Flo trilled. That’s fabulous! People do need that. No one cooks anymore. You know I don’t.

Her father pointed at his plate with his fork. What do you call this?

Flo shook her head at him. You know that you cooked the steaks on the grill. All I did was toss the salad and bake some potatoes in the oven. That’s not cooking.

"What else do you need? Steak is the world’s most perfect food. Lucie’s mother never made it often enough. It was always fish or chicken or, worse, eggs for dinner."

Lucie felt the sting again, and it felt just as fresh as the first time she'd heard

Reviews for Cocktail Hour

[mmoj_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is the story of five women women Chelsea, Bianca, Lucie, Kate and Sharon who become friends, or so they think. Chelsea and Bianca are friends from high school who have a very dysfunctional relationship. Chelsea knows Lucie and Sharon through work and has invited them out for drinks along with Bianca, who has met Kate and invited her to the girls' night out or Cocktail Hour. What I love about this book is that it is written from the perspective of each of the women allowing for the author to both develop good characterization as well as allowing the reader to know from the beginning that one of the woman had an agenda that had nothing to with friendship and to see into the reasoning of an evil woman. I also enjoyed the end of Chelsea's story and glad the author didn't give her a typical happy-ever-after ending. The reason I only gave the book 3 stars was because of all the question marks in the story. I'm blaming it on bad editing however if this was the authors intention I would change my rating to 2 stars. It was distracting to say the least and reminded me of high school students. I'm going to look for the paperback version at the library to see if the question marks are in hardcover as well.

[lauramoore_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

At the time that Tara McTiernan asked me to read and review her newest story, I was working in Fairfield County. CT, so this book was fun and interesting to me. I knew many of the spots that she wrote about and many of the characters featured in her book, I could easily corrolate with someone that I knew in my real life, so that made the book that much more enjoyable for me. I've always been a huge fan of chick-lit, and every once in a while I crave the girly, fashion-fueled, drama fests that are chick-lit novels, and I think when I read this one I wasn't in that mindset, which ultimately lead me to take a really long time to get through this book. It wasn't that it was bad AT ALL, but this book is so much more then a typical Chick-lit story, It was deeper then that, and had some real substance to it. Although it took me a lot longer then it normally does to get through a book, I still really enjoyed this book in the end, it was fun and light-hearted at times, but serious and heart-felt in others, and if you are a fan of womens fiction or chick-lit I think you would really enjoy this story.* I did receieve this book from the Author for free to read and review. The thoughts and opinions in this review are my own.

[literarychanteuse · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book takes you to many dark corners that your usual chick lit inspired read does not. Five women who will surprise and entertain you. Each character brings an intensity to the over all story. While each story develops their true selves become brighter and stronger pulling you into a very intricate web of friendship and deceit. One of my favorite endings!I received a copy for an honest review.

[spicedlatte · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cocktail Hour is an intriguing story about five very different women in uber-rich Fairfield County, Connecticut, who enjoy each other’s company and discuss their hopes and dreams during couple of cocktails.

Kate, Sharon, Lucie, Chelsea and Bianca all knew each other for years and even with their busy lives they still managed to always find time for each other. Being all together made them feel better and they trusted each other. But none of the women ever knew what a back-stabbing b*tch Bianca was. With her evil but genius mind she goes out of her way to get what she wants. And Bianca will get everything she wants, even if it’s dangerous and will ruin their friendship.

OMG this book was absolutely incredible!!! I was always a fan of chick lit but Cocktail Hour is way beyond what I ever imagined it would be. I was really impressed with every single character that the author executed and Bianca was one of those people that you hope you don’t have in your life. Every women had different attitudes and personality and it was interesting to see how all-through the book their struggles and frustrations were starting to come out and how different they have become.

McTiernan is a very powerful and talented writer. Every word drew me in and before I knew it, I was always couple of chapters in. Cocktail Hour is a well-written and incredibly entertaining read that’s perfect for this summer. Every fan of chick lit that likes a little spice in their books – This is a MUST read for you!