Rhonda has a headache (no mystery there) and Amythest claims one as well, so the two of them head back to the boat in the first Suburban while the rest of us pile into the second. After all the rosé and limoncello consumed at lunch, everyone is in a good mood, squealing like preschoolers as we jostle down the bumpy road. “Papa Don’t Preach” comes on the radio, and Summer calls out, “Turn it up!”
Before long, we’re all singing along, dancing in our seats.
“I feel like I’m at a bachelorette party!” Wendy cries.
“Too bad we don’t have a stripper,” Claire pipes up, laughing.
Spiciest thing I’ve ever heard her say. She must’ve had as much limoncello as I did. I grin at her, trying to get back into the spirit of things.
“Hopefully soon!” Summer answers.
“You got us a stripper?” Wendy jokes. Brittani hoots in celebration.
“No, dumb-dumbs. Hopefully there will be a wedding soon!” Summer laughs.
“Yeah, all we gotta do is get him to leave the old hag!” Brittani chimes in. “Maybe she’ll just die. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Brittani!” Summer chides her sister with a playful swat. “I was talking about Wendy! Mine’s gonna take a little more time.”
“Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid,” I tease.
“What’s that mean?” Wendy asks.
“Little by little, the bird makes its nest,” I translate, proud I was able to come up with a French proverb suitable to the moment.
“What are you trying to say?” Summer fixes me with a not-altogether-friendly smile.
I jab my finger in the air. “Paris ne s’est pas fait en un jour!”
“Paris wasn’t built in a day.” Summer rolls her eyes. “Why are you speaking in French mottoes?”
“I thought they applied,” I say, taken aback. “And we’re in France,” I add lamely.
“We’re all friends here.” She pats my knee. “You don’t need to prove how smart you are.”
Her tone is affable, but her words are combative. Regardless of the fact that she herself was speaking in French proverbs the day before yesterday, my intelligence is one of the reasons she’s always liked me, or so she said. I guess I should be grateful for this window into how she sees me now.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to . . . ” I don’t know how to complete that sentence. Make conversation? Re-create our former camaraderie? Pretend I’m not nauseated by the superficiality of my erstwhile friends?
“Next thing we know, you’ll be quoting Shakespeare,” she gibes.
I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed. I catch myself before my laugh escapes, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. It’s only afterward that it occurs to me to wonder if she meant anything more with that gibe. Has Summer been reading my emails? No, surely not. It must have just been a lucky shot.
Before the convivial mood in the car can sour, we pull up to a storefront on a cobblestone street. The driver opens our door and hands us down one at a time.
We stand in front of a small boutique with a selection of bohemian beachwear hanging in the window and a sign that reads LE REVE, and in smaller print underneath, MAILLOTS DE BAIN.
“Swimsuits,” I say automatically, then immediately regret it, lest the others think I’m showing off. Though any idiot could gather that the shop sells swimsuits by the window display. Oh my God, maybe I am insufferable. I resolve to keep my trap shut for the rest of the day.
A pretty French girl about our age opens the door of the shop and says, “Entrez, mademoiselles,” with a smile. “Aidez-vous à faire du champagne.”
I do not translate, but do take a glass of champagne from the tray on the faded teal table next to the door as we all file into the shop, and the other girls follow suit.
Everything in the store is flawlessly shabby chic, in shades of distressed beach colors—white, sand, seafoam, turquoise. The racks are made of driftwood and display a collection of tiny bikinis with exquisite detailing: embroidery over a floral pattern, well-placed transparent lace; some even have elements of leather. A rack to one side has a sign that says PRÊT À PORTER, VENTE! €500. “Ready-to-wear, sale! Five hundred euros.” I can only assume John is paying for this surprise, because certainly none of the rest of us is.
A well-tanned Frenchwoman of indeterminate age who is clearly the shop owner stands in the middle of the cozy space dressed in flowing gray linen, her arms crossed, unabashedly looking us up and down as we enter. As her assistant locks the door behind us, she finally bestows on us a smile.
“Welcome,” she says in heavily accented English. “I am très happy you are petite. Some Americans, they are . . . ” She makes a gesture with her arms that clearly demonstrates her distaste for well-fed tourists. “But you, très belle. Make my job easy.”
Apparently she didn’t get the memo that fat-shaming is no longer très cool. Regardless, we accept her compliments perhaps too eagerly with a chorus of “Merci,” still unsure what exactly is going on.
The pretty girl who greeted us gestures to a row of chairs against the back wall and says, “Asseyez-vous s’il vous plaît.”
I take a seat on the end next to Summer, and the shop owner stands before us. “You choose style; you choose fabrics; you choose embellissements. We measure, we make.”
The five of us exchange murmurs of excitement. She claps her hands twice, and a willowy model prances from behind a door, dressed in a skimpy black bikini.
“Here you see the shapes; they are black, but you choose fabric you desire.”
The model spins, and the assistant hands us all little notepads and pencils so that we can take notes.
While the model is getting changed into her next bikini, Summer bends her head toward mine with a conspiratorial grin and whispers, “I always think of Ryan—or shall I say Monsieur Stokes—when I speak French. Remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“Too bad I had to get him fired.” She sighs.
I look at her in shock. “That was you?”
She nods. “After what his friend did to you? I couldn’t let you sit in his class the rest of the summer.”
If she’d told me this a few months ago, I would have believed her, would have been touched by her revelation. But a lot can happen in a few months. Nevertheless, I bring my hand to my heart and open my eyes wide. “You did that for me?”
“That’s what friends are for, right? Having each other’s back. And I was moving anyway. It’s not like they could reprimand me.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
“You would have done the same for me,” she says lightly.
I watch the model prance about in another suit, confounded by Summer’s timing. Why is she telling me this now?
Not that it makes a difference. Even if she did have my back ten years ago, it wouldn’t change what she’s done. We’ve never discussed it, but she’s not stupid. She may not realize the extent of what I know, but she has to recognize that I’m aware she’s less than a loyal friend to me.
And yet she invited me on this trip, and I’m here. Is she trying to buy me?
“That cut would look great on you.” I indicate the suit on the model.
“Yeah, it’s my favorite so far, I think. Maybe in green to match my eyes.”
Back in the Suburban on the way to the tender, I check my phone:
Hey sis,
Just because you’re on a yacht doesn’t mean you can’t be miserable. All that glitters is not gold, LOL. And don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to send you any more illicit attachments. Sounds like your host has a lot of paranoia, but remember: it has nothing to do with you. You’re just a bystander. So you’re locked in at night . . . OK, yeah, that’s weird but it’s only a week, right? Try to keep your head up and not get caught up in Summer’s mind games. You’ll be home before you know it, and you never have to see her again if you don’t want to. Breathe. Soak up some sun. Everything’s gonna be ok!
I’ve been friends with Summer for so long that it’s hard to imagine my life without her in it, but I have to admit that the idea of never seeing her again fills me with euphoria. This could be my final few days with her, ever. Yes . . . freedom lies in wait just around the bend, if I can only make it through this week and not let her get to me. Still, something tells me she won’t let me go easily.
By the time we get back to the boat, we have less than an hour to freshen up and get ready for dinner, but Amythest is occupying the shower in our room, so I get my outfit ready, selecting a pale-green maxi dress and silver sandals. When I open my jewelry travel bag, one of my earrings tumbles to the floor and rolls under Amythest’s bed.
I drop to my hands and knees and use the flashlight on my phone to sweep the plush carpet beneath the bed. I see a flash of silver and reach for the earring, but my fingers brush something else as I grab it. I jump, conditioned to think all surprise objects in dark places must be rodents, but when I shine my phone in that direction, I see not a pair of eyes glaring back at me, but a pair of sunglasses.
I take them out and look at them in the light. They’re men’s black Oliver Peoples wraparound glasses that look familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen them. I set them on the bedside table as Amythest emerges from the shower wrapped in a towel. Her eyes dart to the glasses.
“I found them under the bed,” I say. “Probably from whoever stayed in this room last, but I figured I’d ask at dinner.”
She makes a move toward the glasses, then stops herself. “Uh, yeah, probably.”
But as I step into the bathroom and turn to pull the door closed behind me, I see her stuff them in her purse. Here I was feeling bad for the girl that she didn’t get to design a ridiculously expensive bikini today, when clearly she’s had a far more interesting afternoon than I have.
At eight sharp, Amythest and I make our way up the spiral staircase to join the others for hors d’oeuvres on the main deck, but when we reach the landing, we’re diverted by a commotion in Summer and John’s room. Summer’s voice rises above another female voice, both upset, while Claire, Wendy, and Brittani hover in the doorway, looking on. Peering over their shoulders, I see Summer at the foot of the bed, the emerald necklace John gave her dangling from her fist. Rhonda’s arm is around Summer, and Julie has a steadying hand on the back of a tearful Emmanuelle.
“Apparently Emmanuelle tried to steal Summer’s necklace,” Brittani explains under her breath.
Julie and Emmanuelle confer in French too quickly and quietly for me to catch the exact words, but I can tell that Emmanuelle is vehemently denying the charge.
“I saw you put it in your pocket!” Summer maintains.
I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder and turn to see Vinny, with John on his heels. We step aside, and the two men enter the room. Summer clings to John. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I caught her”—she points at Emmanuelle—“trying to steal the beautiful necklace you gave me.”
“It’s not true!” Emmanuelle protests. “I put the necklace in the box.” She indicates Summer’s gold jewelry box. “That is all. I promise.”
“Liar,” Summer snaps.
John looks between the two women, weary.
“Emmanuelle is an honest person,” Julie pipes up. “I have worked with her for three years and never had trouble. I believe it is a simple misunderstanding.”
“You’re just covering for her,” Summer accuses. “We should call the police.”
“Okay,” John says. “Emmanuelle, Julie, come to my office.” He turns his attention to Summer. “Our guests have just arrived. Please take your friends and go entertain them until I return. And not a word about this. Understand?”
She nods. John and Vinny exit with Julie and Emmanuelle trailing behind like scolded dogs. Rhonda hugs Summer as the rest of us pile into the room and gather around her.
“Are you okay?” Wendy rubs Summer’s back as Rhonda and Brittani hug her.
Summer nods, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I just feel so violated, you know?”
Am I the only one who remembers that just yesterday Summer told us all she was going to get this girl fired? I can’t understand why she’s even bothering to pretend now that John’s left the room. I contort my face into a mask of sympathy to match the others, but I don’t for a second believe that Emmanuelle was trying to steal her gaudy necklace. Summer’s wanted Emmanuelle off the boat since dinner the first night and has doubtless been stalking her since, waiting for the right moment to strike. The poor girl never had a chance.
Over Rhonda’s shoulder, Summer catches my eye and winks. Then, in a flash, the tears return.
(one year ago)
Los Angeles
On a suffocating Tuesday afternoon in late August, I lay prostrate on my couch sipping an iced coffee and half watching Arctic Worlds in an effort to cool down. Even with the curtains closed against the sun and the window unit in my bedroom chugging away, the heat remained thick as fleece.
Hunter stood at the window, peering through the drapes at the outside world. “There goes another one,” he announced as a man jogged by. “Shirt off. My God, look at that six-pack! That’s five so far today. Eight if you count the short ones.”
“This is why you should move back from New York and take the empty apartment on the first floor. It would be like old times.” Hunter had moved to New York for a part in a musical eight months ago and was now recording an album there as well, so I no longer got to see nearly as much of him as I’d have liked.
“But I get to stay for free on your couch,” he reasoned. “And this way you have a place to stay in New York, too. It’s like we’re bicoastal. Oh. My. God. Another one!”
“It’s the hiking trail at the end of the street. It draws them like flies.”
“We should get a baby pool and sit in the front yard,” he suggested.
“So you can out-six-pack them with your rock-hard abs?” I giggled.
“Yes.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me up to sitting. “We have to get out of this apartment. I’m dying.”
I groaned as he peered through the slit in the curtains.
“Speaking of dying, your plants don’t look so good, either,” he said. “Come on, let’s water them. It’s not like it’s any cooler in here. We can put up the umbrella, catch a breeze . . .”
Clearly he was not going to be deterred, so I filled the watering can and followed him onto the balcony, where he promptly stripped off his shirt, revealing rippling muscles under smooth dark skin. Two girls walking by caught sight of him, and one almost walked into a street sign. He waved.
“Too bad you’re playing for the other team.” I laughed.
I watered my poor shriveled plants while he leaned on the railing posing like Adonis awaiting his Prince Charming. I couldn’t help myself. I had to pour the water on him. He swatted at me, which only made me splash more on him. “I’m just adding to your allure,” I teased.
“Whatever,” he returned. “It feels good.”
An Uber pulled up to the curb outside my building, and a blond head emerged from the back. “Is that who I think it is?” He peered over the top of his sunglasses.
We watched as the driver helped Summer heft two huge bags from the trunk. “No way is that tramp getting my spot on the couch,” he said through his teeth as he waved to her with a bright smile.
“Oh, come on. You know you’re gonna pick up one of these hikers this afternoon and I won’t see you again for months.”
“You mean until you drive my ass back to LAX next week. ’Cause you know you ain’t getting out of that, girl.”
I laughed. Despite his bravado, Hunter was a gentleman, and he bounded down the stairs to help Summer with her bags.
She dragged herself through the door and flopped on the couch, looking the worse for wear.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Ugh.” She sighed. “Brian found out about Eric and kicked me out.”
Finally. I’d
been wondering how long that would take.
“How did he find out?” I asked.
“A freakin’ condom.”
I stared at her, incredulous. “You did it in his apartment?”
“But the good news is, you were using protection,” Hunter chimed in.
“So stupid, I know,” she admitted. “But I’ve hardly seen him, I swear! He wanted to shoot pictures of me for this series he’s doing, and the view there is so amazing, and then, you know how it is . . . We got carried away.”
“So what are you gonna do?” I asked, as though the answer weren’t obvious.
“Can I stay here for a sec? Just until I get a job. I may die if I have to stay with Rhonda in the Inland Empire again. Pretty please?”
“You’ll have to duke it out with Hunter,” I said. “He has dibs on the couch.”
“I can just sleep in your bed with you.” She must’ve seen the hesitation on my face, because she added, “For just a little while, I swear.” She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for having my back.”
“You don’t wanna stay with your new boyfriend?” Hunter asked.
She shook her head. “He lives in his art studio downtown, and he’s traveling a lot right now. I wouldn’t want to be there alone.”
For the past year I had mostly avoided discussing Eric with Summer for fear she might sniff out my sensitivity surrounding the subject and become suspicious. But finally the question begged to be asked. “What’s the deal with you guys, anyway?”
“I mean, he totally wants to be with me,” Summer said. “But he’s, like, broke. So I don’t know if it can go anywhere.”
“But he’s a successful artist,” I said. “He doesn’t make any money from that?”
“I guess he does.” She shrugged. “He’s super weird about money. He never spends anything—he doesn’t even have a car. But he owns that entire building his art gallery is in. Apparently his family is, like, superrich, and I guess he has a trust fund and everything that he won’t even touch.”
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 14