Chapter 28
Penelope
I stretch forward from my haunches, straining to reach another of the liberated pearls spilled across the carpet like tiny casualties. The worst of it are the pins—some with their points buried so they stick up like tiny soldiers, others lying flat and dangerously easy to miss.
Meanwhile, scissors, tangled spools of thread, fabric scraps, and paper are strewn everywhere like the whole room’s been through a washing cycle. The way we went at it on the dining table last night, I’ll be surprised if even the solid wood surface doesn’t bear the evidence.
My body sure does.
I shift, feeling the delicious, aching sensitivity between my legs and the imprint of Tuck’s hands on my tender breasts. My god. The way he took me—possessed me. No hesitation, no restraint. Just raw, unfiltered want. And I let him.
More than that, I wanted it badly. I completely let go. Let him take.
I drag a piece of muslin from the wreckage, letting it slip between my fingers. In an era of seamless digital rendering, where entire collections can be built on screens before a single stitch is made, maybe it’s crazy that I still work like this…hands-on, visceral, kinetic. But nothing replaces the weight of fabric in my hands. The way it folds, falls, resists. The way a single cut can change everything. My process isn’t sleek or efficient. It’s instinctual.
And right now, instinct is telling me I need to rethink everything.
Until yesterday, I was fixated on airy, ethereal designs. Wisps of chiffon and barely-there tulle. But after stepping into that mansion, with its towering white stone, heavy archways, and sprawling balustrades, something shifted.
The dress I’d envisioned feels too insubstantial, too fleeting for a place like that. Mia’s gown shouldn’t float. It should command. It should stand against that grandeur and hold its own. A dress with weight. Structure. Details that demand attention.
It’s not fully formed yet. But I can feel the idea stretching, unfurling like a bolt of precious silk slipping just beyond my reach. It’s there, waiting.
And maybe that’s why I let myself stop last night. Why I didn’t care when Tuck lost control, when he turned me inside out with the force of his need. Because I could feel something in me settling. The certainty that it will come.
Because it simply must.
For now, though, I need coffee. And to get ready for this damn bachelorette party.
Jess has been on my case since seven a.m., demanding details, reminding me, again , that Mia’s security team needs to vet the venue, staff members, and the background of every service provider. The whole ordeal.
Admittedly, I didn’t get too creative. The lakeside resort Vivian introduced me and Misha to seems ideal—secluded, private, and relaxed. Not the kind of party scene Mia is dead against.
When I called to book, the spa receptionist somehow talked me into upgrading from simple massages to a fully “immersive, rejuvenating mineral sauna experience.” It sounded appropriate enough for a bachelorette gathering. And, conveniently, like I’ve put in way more planning effort than I actually have.
I let Jess handle the logistics and turn my attention to the guest list—including reaching out to Mason’s mom, Virginia. She’s always been a little standoffish, and honestly, I’m relieved when she politely declines the spa portion, citing her “sensitive skin ” , but agrees to join us later for cocktails on the bar deck.
Susan was touchingly excited when I invited her, and agreed to duck out of school early to attend. Nora, unsurprisingly, is fully on board. Misha is out—she’s already on her way back to LA.
So, along with the obvious inclusions: Mia, Jess, Violet, and Vivian, that just leaves Mia’s mom, who, according to Jess, hopped a private jet to get here. I’ll try extra hard not to judge her for the frivolous carbon emissions.
And happily, it seems Tuck has forgiven me for stirring up Mia’s wrath. Our interlude last night proved that. And today, he volunteered to chauffeur Susan, Vivian, and me to the spa.
His laser focus on the road keeps my backseat driving to a minimum. Meanwhile, Vivian spends most of the ride glued to her phone, triple-checking that Brady, the suppliers, and the restaurant manager can survive without her.
“I can still be there for service, if you need,” she offers for the third time.
Then, after a pause, she lets out a hearty laugh, finally relaxing. “Fine.” She sighs, flashing a playful look. “I’ll say it—Brady is supremely capable. I should stop stressing and have fun. I deserve it.”
A flush creeps up her neck as she presses the phone to her ear. “No, Brady, I’m with Susan, Pen, and Tuck. I’m so not saying that out loud.”
They evidently progress from Brady’s X-rated talk, and she pulls the phone aside with an eye roll. “Brady wants to know why you’re tagging along on a bachelorette trip, Tuck. And what color you’re getting your nails done?”
Tuck barely glances over. “Remind Brady he has some chicken to brine, or something, will ya?”
But when we pull up to the spa, it’s evident Tuck is set on a total avoidance strategy. He makes a quick getaway, clearly eager to stay off Mia’s radar.
Then, in synchronized precision, two sleek black SUVs roll up outside. Mia’s security detail steps out first, scanning the area before the doors open and the rest of our group spills out.
Mia emerges first, draped in head-to-toe black, dark glasses shielding her expression. Behind her, Nora has aced the resort-wear dress code in a flowing cream-and-white caftan. Violet looks polished as ever, in tailored striped trousers and a rose-pink blouse, while Jess practically radiates sunshine, in lemon-yellow shorts and a white camisole.
Then comes a cascade of auburn waves and a flash of blood-red lipstick, accompanied by rich laughter that has the security boys lowering their sunglasses for a better look.
She strides in, statuesque and unapologetically glamorous, her snake-print bodysuit clinging to curves that defy gravity, the sheer wrap skirt doing little to conceal the full hourglass of her hips. Effortless confidence. The kind of beauty that turns heads and keeps them there.
This can only be—
“Hi, y’all! I’m Mia’s Mom!” she strides into the lounge, her husky Boston accent filling the space like a jazz singer stepping up to the mic. She flashes a megawatt smile, her manicured fingers splayed wide in greeting. “Raquel Madson. Are we gonna have a frikkin’ ball today, or what, ladies?”
“Maybe bring it down to just shy of shattering glass, huh, Mom?” Mia sighs. “And what did I say about no drugs?”
“That little thing in the car?” Raquel waves a dismissive hand. “Baby, a teeny tiny joint to take the edge off, is hardly doing drugs.”
“Mom, you basically hotboxed us the entire drive!”
“Geez Louise, lighten up!” Raquel scoffs. “Nora didn’t mind, did you, Nora? And no offense, Violet, honey, but it’s gonna take more than a puff of indica to get you to loosen up.”
Violet offers a tight smile. “Maybe after I pull off the biggest celebrity wedding of the year, I’ll consider working on that.”
“Should we get started with the treatments?” I suggest, eyeing the spa staff, who seem momentarily entranced—either by Mia’s undeniable star power, or Raquel’s sheer force of personality.
“Of course!” The strawberry-blonde attendant steps forward, clasping her hands together with enthusiasm. “Welcome, Ladies! I’m Kelly. I’m your guide for this truly restorative experience. Your immersive treatment is inspired by ancient Korean spa traditions, designed to release tension, detoxify the body, and leave you feeling completely renewed.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be the benchmark for that,” Violet quips, casting a thinly veiled look in Raquel’s direction.
Raquel, unbothered, lets out a throaty laugh. “That’s right! If you can pry Violet’s shoulders down from her ears and melt that subzero facade, you’ll be miracle workers.”
Violet lifts her gaze to the ornate ceiling, as if instantly regretting every decision that led her here.
I feel a stab of unease. Why the hell did I put myself—someone fundamentally lacking the gene for effortless female friendships—in charge of pulling off a successful bachelorette event? This might crash and burn worse than Tuck’s event. And that was almost a fatal disaster.
Kelly smooths her linen uniform and offers a serene smile. “These treatments are rooted in centuries-old Eastern wellness traditions. The combination of mineral saunas, herbal therapies, and hydrotherapy pools helps improve circulation, relieve muscle tension, and promote full-body relaxation. You’ll move between steamy saunas infused with healing herbs, crystals, and clay; followed by the rejuvenating contrast of hot and cold baths.”
“ Love it! ” Mia flashes me an approving smile.
I hang on to her positive response as we’re led down a softly lit hallway to a pristinely white tiled room lined with low stools in front of mirrors. Handheld showerheads are mounted along the walls, above an array of neatly arranged scrubs and soaps.
“We begin with a full-body exfoliation before entering the bathhouse,” Kelly explains. “Please remove all garments and store them in the designated lockers. Jewelry and cosmetics must also be removed to maintain the purity of the waters; and hair tied up off the neck to prevent contamination. We provide an organic, scent-free exfoliant to prepare your skin for maximum rejuvenation.”
Jess tilts her head. “Wait. Remove everything ?”
Kelly nods. “Yes.”
Jess still doesn’t seem to grasp it. “So, like…swimsuits or—?”
Kelly maintains her tranquil smile. “Oh, no swimsuits. The experience is completely natural. And private. Your group has exclusive access today, as requested.”
Silence.
A very heavy, very long silence.
Then—
“Huh?” Jess blurts.
Vivian chews a nail.
Susan bursts into nervous laughter.
Raquel, of course, is nonchalantly untying her wrap skirt.
Mia tilts her head, relatively unfazed.
“Nope. No way.” Jess shakes her head. “You’re saying we’re just supposed to…walk around naked? Together?”
The attendant nods, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yes. It’s an essential part of the tradition. The communal aspect fosters relaxation and inclusivity.”
I feel my face heating. A slight oversight. Maybe I should have mentioned this detail ahead of time. That’s if I’d realized the whole naked part myself.
Vivian makes a strangled sound. “I don’t think my stretch marks and plus-sized curves need a bonding moment. This is more like my personal nightmare.”
Nora soundly claps her hands. “Oh, come on, ladies,” she says, amused. “I’m the oldest one here, and if I’m game, what’s holding you back?”
I glance at Susan, who purses her lips. “I’m just trying to remember when I might have last waxed,” she confesses.
Gosh. This is kind of wild. I’m not sure I should ever be privy to Tuck’s mom’s personal grooming habits.
Then, Raquel saunters past, completely bare, pulling her hair into a high ponytail. “I’m going to need industrial-strength makeup remover,” she informs Kelly.
“Well.” Vivian blinks. “Looks like we’re doing this.”
It’s definitely revealing. Literally and figuratively.
Jess, by far the youngest and arguably the firmest of us all, is the most hesitant. Meanwhile, the older women take it in stride, seemingly more at ease in bodies that have carried them through demanding careers, childbirth, and the highs and lows of life.
Mia, ever the glamorous movie star, sheds her clothes with the practiced ease of a European woman within a half-mile radius of a beach. Helped, of course, by the fact she inherited her mother’s knockout curves and endlessly long legs, plus the simple fact she’s acclaimed as one of the sexiest women alive.
But…somehow, our individual looks become totally superficial against how we fit into something larger: our shared femininity. In the gentle heat of the sauna, the shapes of our bodies blur into something universal, something beyond size or age. Breasts, stomachs, hips—soft, firm, scarred, and stretched—simply are.
It’s strange how quickly an unfiltered glimpse into our varying degrees of body confidence becomes… ordinary . Somehow, the novelty of nudity fades amongst the warm wood and softly rippling water. Without clothing, makeup, or the usual armor of presentation, we’re left with nothing but ourselves. Unfiltered, and oddly at ease.
I find myself drawn to the small, beautiful details I might never have noticed before. The even crinkles at the corners of Nora’s bright blue eyes, the way they hold an undiminished spark of fun against her sun-weathered skin. Susan’s hair, unusually brushed back off her face, revealing the blush of a blue vein at her temple—delicate and striking. Her hands, long and fine-boned, move like a pianist’s with the shifting of tendons beneath her skin.
Suddenly, this whole experience feels unexpectedly liberating. Freeing, unifying, almost sacred.
The icy plunge pools are brutal, stealing my breath, making my teeth chatter. But oh, how that biting cold makes the heat that follows all the more decadent. I sink into the silky warmth with the others, a deep sigh escaping as my body adjusts.
Conversations swirl around me, blending with the rising steam. I let my mind drift, following the invisible threads that connect the women here, considering how Mia and Mason’s engagement has woven together so many different lives. The old, deep-rooted friendships, like Susan and Nora’s. The newer bonds forming, like Vivian slowly finding her place in Blue Mountain Lake.
Their stories.
Just like Misha said about how stories inspire her designs, how they breathe life into fabric.
That thought snaps me back into the moment as Raquel, mid-story, leans forward with a wicked grin, relaying tales from her recent trip to Lisbon— specifically, the “Seduction Class” she took at an ex-brothel on Pink Street, complete with pole dancing.
She pauses, letting the words soak in, taking in the raised eyebrows and widened eyes. Then, with perfect timing, she smirks.
“Relax, ladies. No need to clutch your pearls in horror,” she drawls, her voice thick with amusement.
“What ‘ pearls ’? We’re stark naked here,” Nora points out, laughing.
“She means like Great Aunt Carrie,” Mia explains. “Who never went far without her string of pearls.”
“And she always acted scandalized by my behavior,” Raquel adds. “Then left those pearls to me —to pass down to you. ”
“She did ?” Mia grins. “Pretty sure that was just to mess with you.”
“She was a character,” Raquel says dryly.
“The best,” Mia agrees. “Always full of stories. Like, she was so proud that our relatives can be traced back to the Pilgrims who arrived on the Mayflower—”
“And never let us forget it,” Raquel says drolly. “She also used to go on about how, in some ancient time, she was one of the school children who got to vote on what to make the state flower— also the Mayflower.”
Mia sighs, stretching her legs in the water. “It’s a real shame Mayflowers aren’t suitable for bridal bouquets. They symbolize hope and new beginnings.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Did you know it’s now illegal to remove them from their natural settings because they’re endangered?”
“Listen to you!” Raquel teases, her smile full of affection. “My tough-as-nails baby, getting all sentimental now she’s gettin’ married.”
The warmth between them is palpable, easy. And I can’t help the sharp pang of loss that presses against my ribs. Not just for Mom, but for everything we never had. There was no easy affection, no effortless bond. Love was there, I know that, but it was complicated, hidden away in all the things we never said, never quite got right.
If I were to ever get married, what pieces of my past, what stories could I weave into something meaningful? A dress, a bouquet, a “something borrowed”? Who would pass that on to me? Any family members I knew are dead or absent. Who would even give me away?
But seriously. What does it even matter? It’s not like I need to worry about any of that. Because me getting married? That’s about as likely as me moving back to Blue Mountain Lake.