Chapter 1: The Saturday Morning Pact

The first thing that hit you was the smell. A sharp, chemical tang of chlorine from the pool, sliced through by the rich, earthy scent of freshly ground coffee. It was the signature aroma of a Saturday morning at Linda’s house, as reliable as the Iowa sun baking the neatly trimmed lawns of their Cedar Rapids subdivision.

Inside the sprawling ranch-style home, the atmosphere was a study in suburban contradiction. The spacious, open-plan living area was impeccably clean, all neutral tones and tasteful, unobjectionable art. But through the open door to the attached garage, you could see the faint dust on the stationary bike and the clutter of tools on a workbench, hints of a life that wasn’t always picture-perfect. The real centerpiece was the sliding glass doors that framed the turquoise rectangle of the pool, its surface shimmering and rippling in the morning light.

Around Linda’s large, farmhouse-style kitchen table, the five women were settled into their usual spots. The remnants of a breakfast of pastries and fruit sat between them, but the main event was the deck of cards being expertly shuffled by Linda herself. Her blonde bob was helmet-perfect, and she wore a crisp athleisure outfit that suggested she might actually go to a gym later, unlike the rest of them.

“Alright, ladies, brace yourselves for humiliation,” Linda announced, dealing the cards for their weekly game of Hearts. “I’m feeling particularly ruthless today.”

“Big talk from the woman who shot the moon last week because she thought a ‘run’ meant something you do on a treadmill,” Carol shot back, not looking up from examining her nails. A fiery redhead with a perpetually skeptical expression, Carol was dressed in a faded concert t-shirt and jeans, a stark contrast to Linda’s curated look. She took a long drag from her e-cigarette, filling the air with a faint scent of sweet tobacco.

“Oh, fuck off, Carol,” Linda said, but she was smiling. It was their usual dance.

“Language,” murmured Anjali, the group’s serene center. Dressed in a simple, elegant tunic, she sorted her cards with quiet efficiency. Her calm demeanor was a cooling presence against Carol’s heat.

“Oh, come on, Anjali,” said Maria, the loudest and most emotive of the group. Her curly hair was a wild mane around her face, and her laughter was a frequent, booming sound. “A good ‘fuck’ never hurt anybody. God knows we could all use one.” She winked, and a round of knowing, slightly weary chuckles circled the table.

Chloe, the fifth member, offered a small, polite smile but said nothing. As the widow, she often occupied this space—present, but hovering at the edges of their more ribald conversations. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and her eyes, though beautiful, often held a distant, sad quality. Her stepson, Leo, was a constant, quiet presence in her life, a living link to the husband she had lost two years prior.

The game began, and with it, the gossip started to flow as freely as the coffee.