Chapter One

It was another sweltering, humid July afternoon on Long Island’s Oyster Bay, a few years into the new millennium. The forecast hinted at a fifty-percent chance of rain later, gauged by the wispy clouds drifting across an azure sky above the timeworn, ten-acre organic farm. A moss-green Toyota Corolla rolled up the long driveway. It paused before the main house, then continued toward a detached guest cottage several hundred yards beyond.

The driver’s door opened, and a tall, willowy girl of twenty—easily six feet—stepped out. Her lustrous brunette hair framed a composed face and cascaded to match the tone of her sculpted, sun-kissed legs. She wore Daisy Duke shorts and a sky-blue T-shirt. Despite her youthful, alluring innocence, there was an unmistakable poise as she surveyed the farm in all directions through her slender ebony shades. After retrieving a small suitcase from the back seat, she strode to the guest cottage door and knocked.

When it opened, another girl—Bobbie, —stood there, about the same age and stature. Golden hair fell past her shoulders, and vivid blue eyes gleamed from features that belied a sharp Tennessee drawl. Raised in privilege but devoid of pretension, Bobbie was beautiful and unfiltered. A type-A dynamo with brazen nerve and a streak of rebellion. “Hello—you must be Casey,” Bobbie said, her warm smile illuminating the porch.

Casey tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Your name is—oh, sorry, I forgot.”

“It’s Bobbie McGee—my parents named me after a song.”

“What song?”

“Me and Bobbie McGee.” You probably haven’t heard it.”

Casey hummed a few bars.

Bobbie joined in. “You know that song? I’m impressed. I like it.” Bobbie cocked her head. “What do the K and C stand for?”

“There is no K, and it’s no initials,” Casey replied. “C-A-S-E-Y after my grandmother, a decorated military nurse in Vietnam.”

“Okay, Casey with a C. This cottage has two small bedrooms. I took one, so the other is yours.” Bobbie stepped inside.

“Thanks.” Casey followed her. “It’ll do—for one night, anyway.”

“Are you nervous?” Bobbie asked, folding her arms.

“About the shoot? Terrified. I’ve never modeled a day in my life.”

“Neither have I,” Bobbie admitted, grinning.

“Have you met the photographer yet?” Casey inquired.

“Only his assistant, Bridget. I think he owns the place and oversees all the shoots here. Bridget said he’ll drop by later.”

“Were you approached on the street like me?” Bobbie asked. “I was at a deli getting lunch—some woman named Lauren.”

“A man named Alan approached me while I was in a mall in Boston. I didn’t believe it until I took the card, called the agency, and ended up here.” Casey paused. “I wonder how many girls he’s contacting—telling them to call the agency. Are we just a few among many with slim chances? Do you know what he’s searching for?”

“I’m not dwelling on it,” Bobbie said firmly.

“Right. Sorry.”

Bobbie studied Casey as if inspecting a loaf at a bakery. “Have you ever been out here before?”

“I’ve rarely left within 30 miles of my town in Mass. My mom swore the trees were different down here, but trees are trees, I guess.”

Bobbie asked, “Where is this town, Mass?”

Casey said, “That’s my state, Massachusetts.”

Bobbie said with her Tennessee twang, “Massachusetts.”

Casey couldn’t help but laugh.

Bobbie said, “What are you laughing at?”

Casey said, “I just never heard it sound that way. I like the way you talk.”

Bobbie said, “I hope so. If not, those are fighting words. Maybe I think you’re the one who sounds weird, Mass.”

There was an anxious few seconds of a stare-down as it looked like things were not going to go well as roommates or much anything else.

Bobbie then slouched onto the lumpy couch, propped her Keds on the coffee table, and sighed. “I don’t know. Something about the light. Or maybe it’s just hotter than hell.”

Restless beneath the guest house’s overly air-conditioned chill and the faint odor of cleaning solution, Bobbie insisted that they survey the lay of the land. The instant the door clicked shut, the humidity struck like a sticky child’s hand—thick but not as suffocating as Boston summers. Instead, a briny undercurrent stung the nose in a way that felt sharp.

Casey retrieved her sunglasses from her shirt neckline and slipped them on—partly to shield her sensitive eyes.

Bobbie, barefoot, bolted down the warped porch steps into the grass, her long blonde hair tied back with a red bandana like an outlaw.

Casey, always cautious, followed in her battered white Keds, stepping over crabgrass that had elbowed out any true lawn.

In the yard’s center, an overturned plastic kiddie pool lay abandoned.

Bobbie kicked the cracked rim; it groaned and oozed green water. “Bet that’s full of spiders.”

Casey sidestepped the muddy puddle leaking from the pool. Sweat beaded her hairline as she squinted against the glare. The air tasted thick—something spicy tickled her nose with each inhale. She trailed Bobbie around the house where weathered timber boxes overflowed with green life. Tomato vines strained against metal cages. Mint spilled over the edges like waterfalls. Fat bumblebees wobbled between lavender stalks, too drunk on nectar to care about intruders. Casey’s fingers brushed a tomato leaf, releasing a sharp scent that clung to her skin This place smells like tomatoes.”

Bobbie paused on the cracked path, one eyebrow raised. “What—do you grow them or something? My Grandma did. I’d spend mornings picking the green ones before the squirrels came.” Bobbie’s lips quirked. “City girls get misty over dirt. My mom made me pull weeds when I pissed her off. I’ve never touched another tomato that didn’t come from Kroger.”

Casey shrugged as Bobbie marched ahead.

They passed a swing-set skeleton wrapped in morning-glory vines. Beyond the mowed grass, horseflies swarmed a pasture where two goats—tiny white specks—rammed heads with lazy persistence. The farmhouse sagged beneath its slate roof; its paint bleached the color of an over-washed shirt. A greenhouse missing half its panes stood beside a listing barn, rust bleeding down its metal sides.

“Bet that barns haunted as hell,” Bobbie said, jerking her chin toward it.

Casey pictured moonlight slicing through warped boards, cobwebs silvered in darkness. “By what, ghost cows?”

Bobbie snorted. “I’m more scared of dying from boredom. Did you know there’s no Wi-Fi here? Not even a hotspot.”

Casey let the sun press against her through the thin cotton of her shirt, sweat tracing a slow line between her shoulder blades. “Guess we’ll have to talk to each other.”

“Or we could just not talk,” Bobbie said, but she was grinning, and there was a glint in her eyes. It felt almost like an invitation. “Come on. Bridget said there’s a pond somewhere.”

They kept walking down the narrowing track, now little more than a dirt rut with grass brushing Casey’s knees. The buzz of bees, the distant thrum of a lawnmower broke the silence.

After a few minutes, Bobbie slowed to match Casey’s pace. They hadn’t spoken for nearly a hundred yards.

“What were you like in high school?” Bobbie asked abruptly.” She hopped over a half-buried cinderblock and pivoted to walk backward beside Casey. “Let me guess closet goth, bookworm, terrible at sports—but secretly good at something nobody suspects.”

Casey laughed. “Actually, I was on the swimming team … won a few medals.”

“Hell yeah. I love that.” Bobbie stopped mid-path and faced her. “Me? Debate club dropout. National Honor Society until I told the teacher to shove it. Tried cheerleading—mostly got benched for attitude. And smoked. Still do.”

Casey took it in. “Ever get in big trouble?”

“Who, me?” Bobbie feigned innocence, but her eyes sparkled. “They almost kicked me out junior year. My folks talked them down—the principal wouldn’t say no to the guy who has a building named after him.”

“Oh.” Casey winced, as if she’d tripped over something unseen. “You from here?”

“Heck no—Nashville. But my parents have a summer place here. They think New York is all Central Park and fancy dinners.” She stuck out her tongue. “I like it better like this—dirt, bugs, no parents.”

They reached the pond: a shallow oval rimmed with cattails, scummed with green algae, dragonflies flitting over the surface. A rickety dock jutted out like crooked teeth.

Bobbie tested each plank with her heel before perching at the edge, legs dangling above the dark water.

Casey hesitated, arms curled around herself, then sat down a respectful distance away.

They watched the dragonflies in silence.

Bobbie pulled a half-crushed pack of cigarettes from her shorts, flicked one loose, and offered it. Casey shook her head. Bobbie shrugged, lit up with a practiced snap, and exhaled a cloud that drifted over the pond.

Casey laughed, surprised at how easily she’d slipped into this rhythm—Bobbie’s mood swings, her self-deprecating humor. She let her hair fall forward, and the quiet settled between them.

A crow cawed overhead, its silhouette sweeping across the sky. Casey wondered how she would feel tomorrow, when the cameras came out, and the stakes got real. For now, she breathed in the fresh air, watched the dragonfly shimmer, and let everything else slip away.

Bobbie flicked the cigarette butt into the water and watched the ripples spread. “Last summer, my folks shipped me off to one of those military-style camps—for my “lack of discipline,” they said. They’d probably kill to have me join the Marines or the Army. I even thought about it … just to freak them out.”

Casey laughed again.

“Glad that’s funny—because it really wasn’t,” Bobbie said, half smiling. She looked out the window and saw a bearded man in his 40s walking toward the front door. “Oh! That must be the photographer.”

They walked the short distance briskly to meet him at the front door; both girls filled with excitement.

He was a suave-looking man with a trimmed black beard, nice-looking and fit. Many might guess him to be European.

“Hello, young ladies,” he said with an Italian accent. “Please come in.”

Both girls melted like he was out of a dream event in a young romance novel.

“My name is Marco, and I kiss both cheeks as the Italians do.” He kissed each of their cheeks, and they blushed. “So, I can tell by the shots taken at the agency, you must be Bobbie, right? And Casey?”

Bobbie gave a big smile. “Yes, sir.”

Casey smiled. “Yes.”

“Welcome to my home and studio. Glad you both found the place with evidently no problem, right? Ok, the session tomorrow is set up so you both do some work together and individually. Some outside and some inside. My assistant, Bridget, will come over in a few minutes to go over everything you need to know. I have to go to the city shortly for an event and will see you bright and early in the morning. Enjoy the property. If you want to cool off in the swimming hole over there, that’s fine, but please no diving, as it’s not that deep. Call Bridget if you need anything.” He left them there with a nod and the brief, dazzling flare of his teeth, and then he was gone. A man who had places to be and women to photograph.

Casey had never met anyone so at ease with himself, or so perfectly constructed, like an ad for some European aftershave. Even his handshake had been an event—a gentle cup, a squeeze just so, and then the quick touch to her shoulder, which was somehow more electric than any line of the agency’s pitch.

Bridget’s arrival was announced by the crisp slap of sneakers on hardwood and a smell of generic supermarket sunscreen. The kind that promised “sport strength” and delivered only a faint whiff of coconut. hardwood. She couldn’t have been older than thirty, but her expression carried the preemptive exhaustion of someone used to corralling chaos. Her build was small, compact—a gymnast’s angles, every muscle efficiently placed in her navy Bermuda shorts and Italian inscribed t-shirt. Her cropped hair, the shade of half-dead flame, hair was scraped into a ponytail so tight it seemed to draw her skin backward. She looked like she could tackle either girl in a footrace and not even break a sweat. She carried a clipboard and a phone with a cracked screen. Bridget’s handshake was efficient and dry, her smile thin. The guest house settled into a hush that was somehow anticipatory and brittle.

Bobbie, whose restlessness would never quite allow her to simply exist in a space, perched on the Formica countertop, eating sour dills straight from a mason jar. She dangled her bare feet in the air with the pointed carelessness of a cat flicking its tail.

Casey, by contrast, stood at the threshold of the kitchen, aware that if she sat, she’d leave a damp mark from her thighs on the pressed-cotton upholstery. She hovered, arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the wood-paneled wall. She found herself straightening reflexively, the way she did in the presence of coaches, or the rare high school substitute who ran a class like an army unit.

“Ladies,” Bridget said, in the flatly transactional tone of someone confirming a pizza order. She scanned Bobbie, then Casey, then the open jar on the counter. “Let’s get you briefed.” She set her clipboard down with a sharp click, then produced two folders from her battered messenger bag.

“Inside here is tomorrow’s itinerary, the model release form, dietary preferences sheet, and a two-page memo from Marco about what he’s going for. Please read them tonight. I need you both here at five-thirty sharp. He likes to shoot at sunrise.” Her eyes flicked to Bobbie, then Casey. “Your call times are staggered. Bobbie, you’re first. Casey, you’re on at seven.”

The forms were printed on heavy, glossy paper, the kind that made Casey’s fingers feel suddenly greasy in comparison. The first page was an hour-by-hour breakdown of the next day’s campaign shoot, detailed in a font that was more stylish than strictly legible. Marco, it seemed, did not believe in the concept of a “soft start.” The day began with “Bare Face” shots at 6:15 a.m. followed by a flurry of outfit changes. Hair and makeup would be manned by a duo “imported from Milan,” whose surnames Casey recognized from the agency’s Instagram posts.

Bobbie, who had already uncapped a black Sharpie from somewhere deep in her cutoffs, began circling times on the itinerary and writing, “NO SUGAR,” in jagged block letters on the food preference sheet. “What’s the challenge segment?” she asked, voice already rising with an eager edge. “Like, do we get doused with slime or is this some initiation-level thing where we pose with a real goat?”

Bridget didn’t smile, but her mouth twitched as if suppressing one. “It’s more conceptual. Marco believes a model isn’t just a face, but a story. Sometimes that means an athletic challenge, sometimes an improvisation, sometimes he’ll hand you a prop and see what happens. I’d suggest not overthinking it. Just show up ready, and the rest sorts itself out.”

Casey flipped to the second page, which was a scattershot mood board: vintage Polaroids of sunburned teens in cutoff jeans, close-ups of wildflowers in glass vases, a pair of hands smeared with what looked like berry juice, and, curiously, a photo of a young woman standing alone in a field, arms raised as if she’d just won something important. The caption was handwritten and underlined twice: “Nothing staged. Everything true.”

The kitchen felt suddenly airless. Casey, now more nervous than ever, hadn’t exhaled since Bridget started talking. The idea of “everything true” sounded like a threat, or maybe a dare. She tried to picture herself at five-thirty in the morning, face bare, hair wild, nothing between her and the lens but a layer of sweat, hoping whatever Marco found in her would be enough.

Bobbie, meanwhile, was already planning their breakfast. “If we’re up before dawn, there better be some coffee. None of that decaf garbage, okay? And, like, granola or something?” She reached across Casey to open the fridge again, then thought better of it when Bridget’s gaze landed on her.

“I’ll have food brought to the cottage,” Bridget said. “There’s a selection of yogurt, fruit, and whole-grain bread. No sugar added. Marco prefers you don’t eat processed carbs before a shoot.” She paused, as if waiting for a protest, then continued. “You’ll wear the wardrobe provided unless otherwise noted. Please don’t use your own products—our artists are very particular.”

Casey nodded, too quickly. She could feel the old prickle in her stomach, the one she got before every swim meet, the sense of not quite fitting into her own skin. She thought of her mother’s grave pronouncements about “grown-up world” responsibilities, and then of her grandmother’s equally grave pronouncements about being “tougher than the boys.” Five-thirty wasn’t so bad. It was just another contest, another chance to hold her breath and beat the clock.

“Any questions?” Bridget looked from one girl to the other, her fingers already tensing on her clipboard. Casey wanted to ask what happened if you failed the “challenge segment,” or if you could back out last-minute, or if Marco ever just … gave up on a girl, but she didn’t.

Bobbie glanced at Casey, then grinned at Bridget, as if they were all in on the same secret. “We’re good. See you at five-thirty.”

As the assistant receded down the porch steps, efficient as ever, Casey felt the tempo of the day shift. She tried to imagine herself in front of the camera, mouth set, hair flying, nothing posed. Part of her was already counting down the hours; the rest of her was trying to memorize this moment in case it was the last quiet she’d get.

“Guess I’m the opening act,” Bobbie said, still sitting on the counter and twirling a pickle spear between her fingers. “Not sure if I should be honored or terrified.”

Casey looked at the forms, then at the moonlit pond outside. She thought of all the ways to get ready, all the things she might become between now and sunrise. Maybe, she told herself, that was the whole point.

It was 8 p.m. Casey couldn’t sleep because she was uncomfortable in a strange bed, and her mind wouldn’t slow amid nervous anticipation. She lay on her back and listened to the house settle—pipes ticking, wood creaking, the faint clatter of Bobbie in the next room. She thought of Marco’s handshake and the peculiar way Bridget’s eyes had drilled through her, searching for any hint of weakness. At some point, about a half hour later, she heard Bobbie slide open the glass door and pad out barefoot toward the cars. Casey almost followed, but stopped herself, unsure if the moment would be improved by her presence or ruined. It started raining with a strong, scary howling wind.

Changing her mind, Casey walked out to Bobbie and admitted she couldn’t sleep—she was too nervous about tomorrow.

“I can’t either,” Bobbie confessed. “I was really looking forward to smoking a joint to help with my anxiety about everything. But I don’t want to run out to my car in this typhoon.” Bobbie glanced at Casey. “Do you smoke pot?”

Casey shook her head. “No—really not a pot or even an alcohol person.”

Bobbie sighed. “Well, what else can we do? It’s only 8:30.”

“We have to get up at 4:15,” Casey reminded her. “I’m going to read my notes and set my alarm. Want me to wake you when I get up?”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

Casey smiled. “All right, then—see you later.”

Outside, the rain fell harder, and the wind howled even louder.

“Damn it,” Bobbie muttered, hugging herself.

“What’s wrong?” Casey called from the darkness.

“I still don’t want to run to my car to get that joint.” A flash of lightning split the sky. “Freaky.”

“I know,” Casey replied, stepping inside her room. “Good night.”

Bobbie remained wide awake on the couch, listening to the pounding rain and relentless wind. Lightning and thunder crackled in quick succession, each clap drawing her heart into her throat. She sighed and sat up as Casey emerged from the bedroom.

“Still can’t sleep, huh?” Casey asked.

“I’ve hated thunder since I was a kid.” Another thunderclap rattled the windows and made her jump. “Between being nervous for tomorrow’s shoot and the thunder, I don’t think a joint would help now.”

Casey sat down beside her. “Funny—you’d think thunder would bother me most, but it’s lightning. Since I was little, lightning has frightened me more than anything. Add tomorrow’s test to that, and I’m wide awake too.”

The two friends exchanged a weary glance.

“Bobbie,” Casey raised her voice another level, “I’m tired of being afraid of lightning—and of being afraid my whole life. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll blow tomorrow’s test—the biggest opportunity I’ll ever have.” She drew in a breath. “Driving up here, I realized I’ve got to be braver. Maybe not as brave as Nana used to be, but braver than I’ve ever been if I’m ever going to get anywhere.”

Bobbie nodded. “Screw that lightning,” she said with growing resolve. “And the thunder.”

“Yeah,” Casey agreed. “Screw them.”

At that moment, the storm knocked out the power. Darkness set over the guesthouse, illuminated only by sporadic lightning strikes.

Without a word, Casey began to remove all her clothes to be stark naked.

Bobbie stared in disbelief. What are you doing?” she gasped.

“Just watch,” Casey said. “If I’m ever going to make something of my life, I have to conquer my fears now.” She marched like a determined soldier to the front door and flung it open, standing upright against the monsoon wind, rain lashing her skin.

Bobbie hesitated, then shed every bit of her clothes from head to toe. They took each other’s hands and, driven by defiance, ran through the wind and rain toward a small swimming pond thirty yards from the house. They jumped and screamed the whole way until the water reached their chests, and they submerged headfirst.

A lightning bolt struck the pond’s surface about a hundred yards away, sending ripples across the water.

Casey yelled, “Screw you, lightning! I’m not afraid of you anymore!”

Bobbie answered a booming thunderclap with, “Fuck you, thunder! I’m not scared!”

Casey echoed, “Fuck you, lightning!”

The storm raged around them—lightning after blinding lightning, thunder after deafening thunder. They found a boulder at the pond’s edge, climbed on it, and continued to scream defiance at their fears. Suddenly, a massive strike hit a tree that hung over the pond just seconds after they left the pond. The shockwave knocked them both from the rock into the dark water. They have sunk beneath the surface, disoriented, and panicked, lungs burning for air.

Casey surfaced first and called, “Bobbie! Bobbie, are you okay? Where are you?”

Moments later, Bobbie’s pale face broke the surface a foot away.

Casey grabbed her hand. “Let’s go!”

Together, they sprinted through the rain back to the open front door. Inside, they collapsed, dripping onto the wooden floor.

Bobbie grabbed two towels and wrapped one around her shoulders before draping the other over Casey’s head like a cowl. The sour scent of detergent and faint mildew in the fabric slapped Casey’s senses. They stared at each other, shaking, and soaked, before bursting into laughter so loud the guesthouse seemed to vibrate. They dried off on the battered plaid couch, the cold air hitting their wet skin. Neither spoke.

Finally, Bobbie said, “Are you crazy? Out of your mind?”

Casey smiled. “I’ve always been upset with myself for not being courageous like my grandmother.”

Bobbie shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a problem right now.”

They laughed again, the sound merging with the storm outside, more liberated than ever. Casey considered kissing Bobbie but decided against it. She realized she had never had a thought before to kiss another girl. It felt a bit odd, but not wrong, and exciting.

Casey met Bobbie’s gaze. “Promise me something?” she asked.

“Anything,” Bobbie replied.

“When you get to Paris, don’t forget about me.”

“Forget you?” Bobbie laughed. “You and your crazy lightning stunt are burned into my brain forever.”

They laughed again, the sound filling the guesthouse. Casey realized she was exactly where she was meant to be scared, soaked, naked, and alive.

Bobbie wasn’t excited about getting up. “4 a.m.? Who gets up at 4 a.m.?”

Casey replied, “We do—for what might be the biggest day of our lives.”

“And you know what, my new friend?” Bobbie said. “I’m not afraid of today, thanks to our little swim in the pond.”

“I’m not nearly as nervous either. I think we’re both going to get signed. Seize the day, girlfriend. Seize the day.”

They parted for their rooms and, after the adrenaline subsided, each managed a few hours of sleep.