Thin, Rich, Pretty

by Harbison, Beth

  Lexi Henderson wasn’t worth all of this. She was just a nasty, rotten girl who got everything she ever wanted. This wasn’t going to mean much to her. She could probably just have her father buy her a new ring, real or not real.

  It certainly wasn’t worth Nicola and Holly risking their lives.

  “As a matter of fact,” Holly went on, “this has probably gone far enough. Let’s go back to the cabin and just forget about it. It’s too dangerous for you to climb that high up.”

  “Almost there,” Nicola said, and her voice sounded far away.

  Holly looked up. She couldn’t exactly see Nicola, but she could see a shadow moving in the shadow of the trees.

  And it was way up there.

  “Oh my God.” Holly gasped. “You’re going to get killed!”

  “I am not!”

  “Come down! Come down now!”

  “I’m almost there!”

  “I don’t care—you’re going to get killed if you keep climbing up there.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Holly’s heart was positively pounding in her chest. So much that she thought she might drop dead of a heart attack. And Nicola would probably fall out of the tree and land right on top of her. And when they finally found them—if they finally found them—they’d wonder what on earth had happened.

  “We can’t die for Lexi.”

  This brought either a scoff or a laugh from Nicola. At this distance, Holly couldn’t tell for sure which it was. “We’re not going to, Holly. Geez, get a grip.” There was the sound of crackling branches and falling leaves. “I can’t quite reach.”

  Now Holly was sure Nicola would fall to her death. “Then stop trying! Seriously!”

  “We came all this way.” More crackling. “Hang on, I’m . . . almost . . . there.”

  Holly worked to keep the hysteria out of her voice. “Nicola. Come. Down. Now. I mean it.”

  “Got it!”

  Holly let out a long breath that she hadn’t quite realized she’d been holding.

  She watched intently in the dark as the shadow of Nicola moved slowly but surely down the tree, branches breaking under her movements. “Slow down!”

  “I’m fine.”

  Holly couldn’t help but admire her, even while she wanted to go over and strangle Nicola for scaring her so much. She wished she were so brave. She also wished she were as thin so she could do things like climb a tree or swing effortlessly onto the top bunk, or ride horses without fear of getting taunts for “torturing” the animals with her weight. There were a lot of things she envied about Nicola, but her mobility and the confidence she had in her body doing what she needed it to do were right up there.

  Holly heard the sound of Nicola jumping to the ground, then heard her footsteps coming toward her accompanied by her dark silhouette.

  “I can’t believe we did it!”

  “You deserve the credit. I can’t believe you were brave enough to climb up there in the dark.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  But it was. “So what did you do? Did you hang it from the birdhouse?”

  They started walking across the inky terrain, picking their way carefully over the path, accompanied by the songs of crickets and frogs and the occasional owl hoot.

  “Nope, I just tossed it through one of the little holes.” Nicola sounded tremendously pleased with herself. “The ring went in, but the chain’s probably still hanging out. I can just pull it back out.”

  Holly tripped over a ropey root in the ground and felt Nicola’s hand shoot out to steady her.

  “Next time, let’s bring a flashlight,” Holly said with a nervous laugh.

  “Good idea.”

  They continued on through the dark. This time Nicola led with a lot more confidence, and it seemed to take far less time to get where they were going.

  When they were within sight of the half moon of cabins at the edge of the lake, Holly stopped Nicola.

  “Whatever happens, we can’t ever admit what we just did.”

  Nicola gave a somber nod, which Holly could barely see by the light of the waning moon. “Agreed.”

  “Even if they torture you. Even if they tell you I confessed, you cannot believe them, because it will be a lie. Okay?”

  “Okay. You, too. No matter what they say, it won’t be true. Only believe what you hear from me.”

  “Pinkie swear.” Holly held out her pinkie.

  Nicola linked hers with Holly’s, and they looked at each other and nodded before letting go.

  “I wonder what she’ll do when she wakes up,” Nicola said excitedly.

  Holly pictured Lexi waking up, realizing her loss, and wailing miserably before realizing that it was all due to her own horrible actions. Maybe she’d have a big turnaround then. Apologize to everyone she’d wronged. Try to make it right.

  “. . . don’t you think?” Nicola asked.

  “Sorry, what?” Her pleasant imaginings disappeared.

  “She’s going to have a cow.”

  “Oh.” Holly nodded, and they began to walk toward cabin 7. “Yeah. She’ll totally have a cow.”

  And hopefully it would all give her something to think about other than ways to torment Holly and Nicola.

  9

  The Present

  “Have you ever modeled?”

  The question took Holly by surprise. She looked behind her, completely certain that Guy Chacon, an artist whose work sold extraordinarily well in the gallery, was talking to someone else.

  In fact, she was ready to think worse of him for using such a tired cliché of a come-on, but when she looked around, there was no one there.

  He laughed. “I’m talking to you, Holly.”

  She raised a hand to her chest. “Me?”

  He nodded. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Honestly, yes.” She narrowed her eyes. Surely this man she’d liked so much over the years wasn’t trying to make a fool of her. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Because I’d like to paint you.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’d actually like to do a figure study in a series. It’s hard to find a woman with curves these days who’s willing to pose.”

  Holly looked at him. “I find that very hard to believe.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “You got me. It’s hard to find a curvy woman with a lovely face who is willing to pose. And that’s the truth. You are perfectly proportioned, and you have a beautifully feminine figure.” He shrugged. “And I think you know me well enough to know that this is not me making a pass at you.”

  Actually, she knew herself well enough to know that that sort of thing didn’t happen to her.

  “By curvy do you mean ‘fat’?” She pictured herself, recognizable, in a series of grotesquely exaggerated paintings.

  “No.” He looked genuinely surprised. “I mean ‘feminine.’ ”

  “Not exactly by today’s standards.”

  He sighed. “By my standards. A voluptuous figure is a lot more interesting than the skeletal ones so many models have. I’ve done those. Admittedly, jutting bones and deep hollows are an interesting challenge for an artist, and can be beautiful”—he said this with a completely straight face—“but there is a cry for more traditional figures these days. Surely you’ve noticed.”

  “What do you mean? In art?”

  “On the runway, on television, in magazines, and yes, of course, in art.” He smiled. “But I’m not looking to talk you into this. If you’re not comfortable with it, you’re not comfortable with it.”

  She scrutinized him very quickly. Was he serious? He looked serious. Could she really do it? Probably not. But how flattering! Guy Chacon was an up-and-comer. Almost there. A real talent. It was an honor that he’d asked. But there was no way she could do it. Take off her clothes for a man she barely knew? It was hard enough to take off her clothes for a guy she did know, as Randy could attest.

  Then again, Randy wanted her to lose weight, and Guy want
ed her just the way she was.

  For artistic purposes, that was. Not for sex. Which made the whole comparison irrelevant and actually kind of stupid—

  “. . . Holly?”

  She returned her attention to Guy. “I’m sorry. You know, I am so flattered that you’d ask. If you’re serious.” She raised a questioning brow, even though he’d just said he was.

  Patiently, he nodded and said, “I am. My offer stands. But I can see you aren’t ready to accept.”

  “I’m not. I’m not sure I ever will be.” She felt her face flush. “But thank you.”

  Guy gave a nod and stepped back, surveying another painting on the wall. “How does Heller sell?” he asked. The look on his face made it clear he didn’t think Heller should sell very well.

  Truthfully, Holly didn’t, either. She wasn’t going to complain, but one of Erik Heller’s paintings—a canvas painted entirely with acrylic white and signed with a toothpick so the signature was visible only at certain angles—had merited a bidding war that took the price up to 400 percent of her initial asking price.

  But she was smart enough not to alienate Guy with that news. “We choose only artists who sell,” she said lightly. “But you know you’re one of our best sellers.”

  He didn’t acknowledge what she’d said, but drew his mouth into a tight line, looking at Heller’s Blue Sky at Night.

  It was a ridiculous painting: a silly mixed-media experiment with an acrylic, oil, and fingerpaint on barn wood, with primitive disproportioned cows stamped all over a background of blue sky and white blobs that were apparently supposed to look like clouds, but that looked more like spilled paint. A child could have done it. In fact, a child might have done it. In Holly’s estimation, Erik Heller was exactly the kind of guy to let his four-year-old paint on a canvas, sign it, and then, literally, laugh all the way to the bank.

  But Holly was in business, so for her to stand on some moral ground and say that was wrong would have been to cheat herself out of some pretty handsome commissions, so she said nothing.

  Eventually, Guy turned away from the painting and said, “There’s much to be said for integrity.”

  “I agree one hundred percent,” she said honestly, then went behind the register and opened the safe where they kept commission checks. “And I’m not going to say anything more than that.” She winked and handed him the envelope with his name on it.

  He took it and smiled at her. “You are much more beautiful than you know, Holly. I hope you’ll change your mind and let me paint you.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot and cursed the gene that made her blush so damn easily. “I appreciate the thought, Guy. Truly.” But there was no way she could ever ever have the kind of figure that she could show to another person. Even with her dieting, there were too many horrible imperfections. One or two could be charming. Or ignorable.

  But she was full of them.

  “But there’s no way,” she finished.

  He tilted his head. “You know where to find me.”

  She nodded, then looked over his shoulder as the bell above the door jingled and a couple of middle-aged women walked in.

  “Good-bye, Holly,” he said, then gave a gallant bow to the women before passing them.

  “Was he an artist?” one of them asked eagerly as soon as he’d left.

  Leave it to Guy to give her the perfect in for a pitch. “As a matter of fact, he is. If you look at this wall right over here, you’ll see his latest collection. . . .”

  “I’m not sure, but I think there’s less to love here.” Randy pinched Holly’s hip four weeks into what felt, every minute of every single day, like starving.

  It hurt. “Ouch!” She stepped away from him, and from the stove. Because of course, this kind of conversation had to take place in the kitchen while she was trying to prepare a romantic—and low-fat—dinner for him. For them both. “It doesn’t pull off, you know.” She rubbed the spot. “At least it’s not supposed to.”

  “It feels like you’ve lost a few ounces already.”

  A few ounces? That was like throwing a couple of deck chairs off the Queen Mary. “I think it’s at least a couple of pounds,” she corrected tartly. She’d been afraid to get on the scale and confirm, but her pants were quite a bit looser. One pair—once known as her “fat pants” but now merely her “gray pants”—even needed a belt.

  In almost a month, Holly was pretty sure she’d lost something in the neighborhood of ten or twelve pounds. She’d thought the change was dramatic. Certainly the dieting had been.

  And every day she’d waited for Randy to say something complimentary about it, and every day, instead, there would be some small barb about whether or not she really wanted to eat that tiny nibble of cheese (which was Cabot’s half-fat cheddar) or if using stimulants (coffee) was the healthiest way to go about losing weight.

  Granted, these small things were said amid a lot of bigger, more important and less critical things. Daily talk, about politics, the people at the office, the people who came into the gallery, TV shows, and so on—they had normal, good interaction apart from the occasional weird and controlling moments he’d had about her eating habits.

  Which was why it was hard for her just to write him off.

  When they weren’t talking about her weight, she really loved being with him.

  So why was it that when they did have these little tangles, every nice thing he said and did went out the window and all she could think about was the criticism?

  “Really,” he said, arching one eyebrow. “A few pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s good, then!” He sniffed the chipotle-lime-honey glaze she had cooking in a pot on the stove. “Needs more orange.”

  “There’s no orange in there.”

  He gave a laugh. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “Is there really a problem with not adding orange to a lime glaze that doesn’t call for it?” she snapped. But she heard herself and realized immediately that her anger was disproportionate to his offense. “Sorry. I’m a little cranky.”

  Because you’ve barely eaten for weeks, she could hear Nicola admonish in her head.

  Or maybe that voice she always attributed to Nicola was, in fact, her own conscience.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “And, seriously, that’s really good if you’ve dropped a couple of pounds.” She noticed the if, but maybe she was being oversensitive. “I’m proud of you.”

  She knew he meant that last part kindly. Supportively. But something about I’m proud of you sounded so condescending, it made her want to scream.

  She needed a snack.

  “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was stiff; she could hear it herself.

  Apparently he could, too. “Now, come on.” He put an arm around what he undoubtedly thought of as her considerable waist and pulled her closer. “I know this is a sensitive subject for women. That’s why I’m not really sure what to say. But believe me, I am impressed with the effort you’re putting forth. I know it can’t be easy.”

  “It’s not.” She swallowed. No point in acknowledging the coffee-all-day method might be a little easier than eating sensibly and exercising. “But this is my fault. I’ve got a bit of low-blood-sugar personality withdrawal.” She picked up a piece of celery from the crudité platter and dipped it in the light caramelized French onion dip she’d made. Hopefully the light sour cream had a little bit of protein in it. “I’ll be fine.”

  The dip was good.

  At least she’d gotten that right.

  Randy watched her do this, and she was worried he was about to say something about how she shouldn’t be eating creamy dips or something when he actually said, “I think this is my fault.”

  “What is?”

  “This”—he waved a hand in front of her—“weight issue. You’re freaking out about it and maybe trying too hard to diet. I think I made you feel like you had to do this for me—and, Holly, that is not the
case.” He moved toward her and pulled her into his arms. “I love you exactly how you are.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. For weeks, she’d been attributing every hunger pang, every snappish response to a customer, every fist on the car horn in traffic, to Damn Randy and his whole Dieting for Matrimony idea, when it turned out she was doing it all to herself.

  She should have realized that, though, because she’d barely spoken to Randy this week. The fact that he was in her head, wagging his finger at her, required considerable imagination, in retrospect.

  “I love you, too.” She sank against him. “I’m sorry for being such a bitch.”

  “It’s okay.” He stroked her hair. It should have been soothing, but he may as well have been tugging on it.

  There was a long moment of silence. She felt like crying, but now that the crisis was over, that would have been stupid.

  Finally, Randy drew back. “So what are you making to eat, here?”

  Holly wiped her eyes. “Broiled chipotle lime shrimp on brown rice with oven-toasted almond green beans.”

  Randy’s jaw dropped. “Have you been watching the Food Network again?”

  She nodded. “It’s my porn.”

  He chuckled. “Lucky for me.”

  “So, are you hungry?”

  “I could eat. Is there wine?”

  Wine. She missed wine. But the empty calories were inexcusable. “In the fridge.”

  “Do you mind?” He gestured toward the door.

  “Not at all.” She stirred the glaze as it thickened on the stove. “Can you hand me the lime juice?”

  “Sure.” He took the bottle out and handed it to her.

  She was tempted to ask for the butter, too. That would have taken the glaze to a new, silky, luscious level.

  But she wasn’t supposed to go there right now.

  “Thanks.” She squirted some lime juice into the pan, hoping that it would satisfy Randy’s request for orange. Surely he’d just meant citrus.

  For the next twenty minutes, Holly deveined, stirred, broiled, cooled, stirred some more, then did a final quick sauté, all the while feeling Randy’s eyes on her.

  “I love watching you cook,” he said.