Everyone has secrets. Don’t they?
Mitchell didn’t like champagne, but by the time he made it downstairs, Andrea had already poured two glasses. She handed one to him as he entered the small, galley style kitchen. He couldn’t very well decline the alcohol, not if he wanted to maintain some semblance of normality. He couldn’t afford for Andrea to become suspicious.
‘What should we toast to?’ He realised that she probably already had some idea of what she wanted to celebrate, and the past had told him it was best to let the woman get it out of her system.
She stood momentarily confused. She had no idea what to toast to. In her experience, the men she had brought to the lake had always had some corny sentiment they wanted to toast. She was flustered.
‘I’m not sure, Mitch. I thought . . .’ she remembered what Marcus Adams had toasted to and smiled. ‘How about, the future?’
‘To the future,’ he agreed. They touched glasses, a crystalline tone echoing through the kitchen. He sipped the champagne first. She smiled as he did so, and mirrored the action seconds after Mitchell swallowed the mouthful of drug-laced Moet.
Andrea knew she needed to move quickly, as it wouldn’t take long for the sedative to take hold. She picked up the Moet bottle and walked out of the kitchen.
‘Let’s head out to the lake for a little bit, before dinner.’ She heard Mitchell follow her out onto the back patio, and thought his footsteps had begun to sound heavy, his breathing laboured.
She continued down off the patio, down the slightly sloping yard, towards to private jetty. A battered but useable rowboat was moored there. It had been in Andrea’s family since she was a child, and she could remember the many times when her father had to make small repairs in order for the boat to stay afloat.
Andrea confidently stepped off the jetty and into the boat. Mitchell hesitated. He was not fond of boats of any variety, and she clearly wanted him to get in. He wondered if she was really going to be worth it, as he stepped in and sat down opposite her. The boat rocked with his movement.
She thrust the champagne bottle and her glass in his direction. He fumbled with the items as she freed the boat from its mooring, picked up the oars and rowed them away from the jetty.
. . . To be continued . . .