I wipe my wet eyes with the back of one hand, pull my hair out of its ponytail and give it a shake so it falls naturally over my shoulders, then glance in the mirror. There. I may not be the most glamourous woman at this party, but at least I’ll be me. I would be more me if I were wearing my favorite pair of army green wellies, and what an appearance that would be! Oh well. The heels in the closet by the door will have to suffice, although they’re starting to pinch my toes.
I take a step back from the mirror, and my tote accidentally hits the door, making it creak.
“Who… who’s there?” Jill is standing outside the bathroom door.
“Your best friend since junior high.” I walk out and confront her. “Well, not so much anymore, you gormless, people-pleasing wankpuffin.”
She looks confused at the onslaught of strange words, which completely amuses me. Then she pouts and opens her arms as though she expects me to walk into her pathetic apology hug. “Oh, Hannah, honey.”
I cross my arms over my chest and I don’t move forward.
She looks surprised that I’m standing here in front of her, quite upset. “Darling, you weren’t supposed to get hurt. You weren’t supposed to ever know about us…”
I don’t think she’s rattled because she has hurt me. She lied to me once in high school about copying my science project idea, and she has the same look on her face now that she had when I confronted her about that. She’s been caught in a web of lies, and she’s only flustered because she promised Doug she’d keep their affair under wraps. Now he’ll be angry with her, and I am all too familiar with Doug’s volatile nature.
“You’re the brunette.” I glare at her. It’s not a question.
“I am. Yes. I am. Oh, Hani. We didn’t mean for it to happen…” She finally drops her arms to her side.
“Sure. It sounds like an honest mistake.”
She hears the sarcasm in my voice and looks over her shoulder at Hank, hoping for an ally in this standoff. He’s sitting in a chair by the wet bar, putting on his black leather shoes.
I look at my old friend and quickly realize that I’m not even angry at her. I simply pity her. I pity her for falling for Doug the Slug and his every façade. She has no idea who he really is. “You know, back when I was creating my show, people whispered behind my back that Doug was sneaking around with a brunette,” I say. “I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to believe it. Besides, I figured if it was true, it was someone from out of town. Maybe a woman he met in New York. I didn’t think it could be as simple as scrolling through my contacts list.”
“Hannah-banana… sweetheart… I’m sorry.” She hasn’t called me that since seventh grade. She reaches out to touch my left shoulder, and I back away.
“Oh no. No. Don’t touch me. There’s no fixing this,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, then stares at a broken fingernail on her left hand. She’s exhausted every bit of empathy that she could muster for me from inside her cold, calculating heart. Now she wants to focus on her manicure. “I suppose you’re going to throw a glass of water in my face, now, huh?” she asks.
I shake my head as I walk over to the wet bar and stand beside Hank, who gets up for me.
“No. No that would be too predictable. Far too Hollywood,” I say.
She blinks at me, clueless, as Hank hands me a full glass. I look at it and grin.
“I’m going to pour a pineapple mojito over your head. Much more satisfying.”
I pour the entire drink over her hair, slowly, with a few little hand flourishes, like a master chef marinating a steak, tossing the pineapple wedges and two cherries at her dress as I leave the room. They mostly land in her cleavage.
“Oh! You! That’s… this is… so gross!” Jill is screeching, dripping wet, and trying to pull chunks of fruit from her chest.
“Oh, and something I should warn you about,” I pull my tote high on my shoulder, slip on my heels, then stop at the doorframe and turn back to her, “don’t ever tell Doug he’s not right, about anything. He’ll smash something valuable. Have fun with that. Bye now.”
Hank gives me his right arm, and I take it. We can’t contain our laughter as we enter the elevator together. He’s making snort noises. The couple inside stare at us. I don’t care. I feel fantastic.
“How did you know?” I ask when I finally compose myself. “To hand me the drink?”
“I didn’t, it just felt so right.” He smiles. “I’m never going to forget that look of horror on her face!” He throws back his head and starts laughing again. The couple in the elevator are staring at their feet, trying to avoid our eyes.
“We still making an appearance at the cocktail party?” Hank asks as we reach the hotel lobby and exit the elevator.
“Nope. I’ve changed my mind.” I’m still holding onto his right arm and feel him veering gently down a hallway I didn’t know about, toward a lone back door.
“Doug wants a scene,” I say, pulling out a blue “CANNES” cap from my tote and slipping it on my head. “That’s why he brought me here. Any footage of me getting angry at him is good publicity for him. Or, worse, he’ll find a way to use it for the show I’m not signing up for. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I’m walking away.”
“Just like that?” Hank sounds proud of me. He squeezes the top of my hand, then pulls his shades over his eyes as he opens the back door for me, and we walk out into the late afternoon sun.
“Just like that,” I say.
“Besides,” I add. “I need to get home.”
Thirty-six
Hannah
The ocean is a sparkling blue oasis calling my name. I can see the way to it, just past a straight row of palm trees one street over. We’d be in good shape, maybe even sitting on that ferry right now, if I could waddle in this mermaid skirt any faster than the snail’s pace I’m currently moving at.
“Do you think you could have worn something slightly more practical for an escape to the island?” Hank says. He can’t seem to contain his laughter. Of course, he’s all set for our getaway and looking the part of a handsome young spy in shades, black pants and fitted black t-shirt. I’m quite a different story. I’ve got my bright blue slicker on over the strapless green dress. I’m not proud of the look, but it was a last-minute, desperate attempt to disguise myself from the paparazzi. As it turns out, instead of being on the down-low, I’m sparkling in the evening sun. I didn’t notice when I bought it in such a rush, but my CANNES baseball cap has multicolored sequins on it. The green skirt fans out like two tail fins at the back. I’m a cartoon codfish, in heels.
“As if I had many options!” I call ahead to him as I waddle my way forward.
“The leggings and t-shirt you wore earlier would have done fine. You just couldn’t resist trying on the gown,” he retorts.
“Oh, I see how it is.” I’m trying to keep up with him and feeling quite breathless. “You play it all cute and chivalrous, but you actually have a cruel side!” I move to the cobblestone path Hank’s just directed me to walk on. Great. Cobblestone in high heels. We are never, ever getting out of here!
“Hey, you got me into this mess, missy!” Hank looks over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.”
“Trouble?” I call, slightly breathless.
“Three paparazzi, on foot, about two blocks behind us. Grab my hand, I’ll pull you along!”
I take his hand, but it’s no use. Now I’m waddling one step forward but pulling Hank three steps backwards. I yank off my heels and throw them in my tote.
“Let’s try again.” I waddle once more, encouraged that I can finally see the top of a white ferryboat at the dock. He stops, turns, exasperated, and scoops me up in his brawny arms. Then he begins sprinting forward onto the ferry dock.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s easier like this. Your Tripp can punch me out later if he want
s to. I’m just keeping you safe.”
“No, no, it’s all good,” I say breathlessly, feeling both surprised and amused. “You two are going to be friends. I just know it.”
“We will be, if we aren’t mauled by the paps or… or by… by… now who the hell are these muppets?”
Hank puts one hand on my cap and pulls me in tighter to his chest as he attempts to make his way through a crowd of angry people lining the dock. They’re shouting slogans I can’t quite make out as they spill out onto the walk-on ferry ramp. Each one is carrying a makeshift wood and construction paper sign:
THIS AVIARY IS FOR THE BIRDS!
PROTECT OUR FORESTS!
DON’T FENCE IN OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS!
My eyes are wide, my mouth gaping open, and two paparazzi on the dock just snapped a close-up of me.
I don’t care about bad press. I’m concerned about Tripp’s safety and well-being. This is one infuriated mob! How did they find out about Tripp’s plans and organize such a large protest so quickly? I count at least twenty of them, and I remember that the ferry allows twenty-five walk-on passengers. More may be coming. I look around anxiously as Hank finds a safe little corner for us. He places me down on a wooden bench and gives my sequined cap an affectionate pull over my eyes.
“You okay?” he asks, raising his voice so I can hear him above people chanting:
“For the birds! For the birds! For the birds!”
I look up at him. “A little shaken, but otherwise fine. Is there no security here?” I ask.
Hank glances around the small ferryboat, and motions with his head to the one man at the ferry’s edge, lifting anchor. “There’s the captain and that guy.” He raises a questioning eyebrow.
“Yeah, he’s a jack of all trades—I remember that he drove my taxi to the house when I arrived. So, great. No security. What if this protest grows rowdier than this?” I have to shout over the raucous chanting.
“I don’t know. I’ll notify the police, but it’s a small island. They’ll only be able to send one or two officers to meet us at the other end.” He takes his phone and starts keying in a number.
“I’m glad you’re here, Hank.” As I say it, he purposefully moves in front of me, just in time to avoid my nose from colliding with the back of someone’s sign. I zip up my blue slicker and pull my cap farther down over my eyes. Thankfully, the paparazzi were left behind on the dock, but the last thing I want is anyone else recognizing me.
I’m not just a cartoon codfish, now I’m a wet one. Hank wasn’t able to get us upstairs to the covered, glassed-in part of the ferry. There are eight cars at the ferry’s center, so the walk-ons get whatever space remains. I’m in a shower of sea water by the open railing. I wrap my arms around myself and lower my face to avoid getting sprayed any more. Normally, I’d laugh at this situation, wipe my cheeks dry, and look to the gorgeous orange and red sunset as a positive sign, but this protest is a shock to me. It could ruin everything Tripp has been working for. I need to find out where these people got their information.
“Uh, excuse me.” I stand up and tug gently on a woman’s sleeve. She’s also wearing a rain slicker in thirty-degree Celsius weather. Hers is red. Perhaps she’s a little kooky, like me. Maybe she just hates getting splashed by the sea water, too. If we’re similar, maybe she’ll be receptive to my questions.
“Yes?” The woman has long, straight, jet black hair, peace-sign covered overalls under her slicker, and dark John Lennon style shades. She’s holding a CUT A TREE, KILL A LIFE! sign in her left hand. I smile at her.
“How did you hear about the island aviary project? They haven’t even begun building it yet?” I try not to yell, but there’s still lots of chanting going on. I hope I don’t sound too defensive.
She looks me up and down before responding. “It was in the newspaper this morning. I’m not sure who’s behind it, but the ‘unnamed source’ got their information from a government division called Island Planning. The paper printed recent records. This guy Tripp Wilson has filed for environmental protection, and that means he’s up to no good!”
“Does it really? How do you know that? If he’s trying to get a forest protected, maybe he’s doing everything right,” I argue.
“Oh, that’s what they want you to think.” A man steps into our conversation and puts his arm around the woman’s waist. The first thing I notice about him is that he’s rather hairy. He’s got curly chestnut hair, a long, full beard, and kind eyes. He extends his hand to me.
“I’m Sandy. This is my wife Nadia.” He smiles, and she nods at me politely. “You want to join our protest?”
“Your protest?” I ask, surprised I’ve met the leaders already.
“Oh, no, we didn’t start it. We joined in. We’re from Withybrook, England. We were camping on the beach in Cannes when we read the newspaper piece. It got our interest.”
“We’re minimalists,” Nadia says. “We live in a tiny house on a lavender farm.”
“Ah, I see.” I smile, biting my cheek. She’d probably think stringing up our balcony with white lights was just a wee bit excessive. How do I win over someone who’s so different from me?
“We’re also environmentalists. We felt compelled to join in the protest.”
“But you don’t even know what you’re protesting!” I raise my voice. I can’t help it.
“An aviary in an old-growth forest? It won’t be good for anyone but the guy making a profit on it,” Sandy says, leaning back and stretching his arms across the railing. I can see the island behind him. We’re nearly there. I have to find a way to stop them.
“You don’t know that guy,” I say, pleading with them with my voice, my eyes. “He’s an ornithologist, and a good one. He isn’t cutting down any trees. He’s protecting that forest and the rare birds in it for the first time ever, and he’s creating an open aviary where we can observe those birds, safely, in their natural habitat.”
“He’s not taking down trees?” Sandy asks. His brows furrow in concern.
“No, it’s going in an open field beside a road that’s already there. He’s building on what’s already been touched and protecting the rest. It’s going to be educational, and it’s not for profit.”
“Bloody hell.” Nadia looks around at the mob of angry people, shaking their signs. “How come the article stated that he was looking to make money?”
“Because it was probably sent to the paper by someone looking for revenge. This is directed at me. It really has nothing to do with the environment.” I can think of three possible culprits: Joyce, Jill and Doug. All of them want to make my life miserable. All of them want me running back to Hollywood, spilling my horror story to their cameras.
“I’m Hannah Storm,” I say. “Tripp Wilson is my… boyfriend. And he’s a great guy. I promise. I’ll take you to meet him. He’ll explain everything.”
They give me a clueless look as I say my name, and I can tell that they don’t know who I am. This is so refreshing. I could get used to this.
“Baby?” Nadia turns to Sandy and kisses his cheek. “Baby, I have one of my good feelings about Hannah. We need to help her turn this protest around!”
Sandy looks at me, then glances at his wife. He takes her sign and puts it with his, face down on the bench. “Okay, baby, whatever you want,” he says, and he takes Nadia in his arms and kisses her hard on the lips. He looks like he’s going to make love to her then and there. Nadia doesn’t resist. She leans into him more. Normally, I’d want to vomit, seeing a couple making out so casually in public like this, but something about this pair is enchanting. Magical. Kinda kinky. I really like them.
As they continue embracing, Hank walks over to us, finishing up his phone call. He slips his phone in his back pocket, looks at the kissing couple, and shrugs his shoulders.
“Saving trees—a real turn on to some, I suppose. All that wood,” he say
s, and I laugh out loud. People are still chanting “For the birds!” as they line up in preparation to leave the ferry. Hank points to the dock, where I see a white cop car and a male and female officer standing beside it.
“Hannah, it’s considered a peaceful protest at this point, so we can’t shut it down.” As Hank says it, my heart sinks for Tripp.
“But,” Hank continues, “when I told them about the paparazzi following us, they said they’ll escort us anywhere you want to go.”
“I just need to see Tripp,” I say.
The text I just received from Tripp makes my full, hopeful heart deflate once again.
Won’t be there? He’s referring to my text about returning to The Lighthouse. He won’t be there?
I’m bordering on tears now, and I can’t breathe. I text him back:
I lean back in the parked cop car, squished between a chatty Nadia and Sandy, with Hank pushed up against the window at the far left side. I’m doing my best not to hyperventilate. I’ve taken off my cap, and my hair is a netted, wet mess.
“You should put these on. You could cut your foot on broken glass,” the kind officer says, and she turns around and hands me a pair of purple wellies.
“Don’t look so worried! They aren’t from a crime scene. We often keep lost and found items in the trunk to cover up our… uh… indecent exposure cases.”
I laugh out loud, shaking my head as I take the wellies from her hands. Perfect. I couldn’t feel any sexier. I’m a wet blue codfish, wearing some naked man’s rainboots.
I slip on the wellies, which feel too big but will have to do, then close my eyes and imagine I’m with Tripp relaxing on our balcony, sipping Earl Grey tea. The image helps calm me until someone starts banging furiously on the top of the police car. Now I can hear others joining in, and the loud chanting begins again.
Good Nights Page 15