Day 2 #4
She laughs. “I like your dress.”
“Thanks.” I see no reason to mention I got it for twenty-nine dollars at Target. “Yours is pretty, too.”
She tilts her head and assesses me, then unclasps one of her many layered gold necklaces and fastens it around my neck. “There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”
“Thank you.” I finger the necklace, convincing myself to be grateful for her generosity instead of nettled by her need to fix me.
“You girls aren’t the only ones who are gonna find boyfriends on this trip,” Rhonda announces to all of us with a wink.
“Mom, that’s gross. You’re, like, a million years old,” Brittani protests.
“She is not!” Wendy says. “And anyway, she looks amazing for her age.”
“Thank you, honey,” Rhonda says. She leans in and whispers, “I’m actually ten years younger than John. So is Summer’s dad.”
“Yeah, but these guys date girls that are, like, our age, obviously.” Brittani rolls her eyes. “And even Summer’s dad’s wife is, like, ten years younger than he is. And he’s not even rich.”
“Who do you think taught Summer everything she knows?” Rhonda retorts.
I cringe.
“I’m not saying I have to date someone John’s age,” she goes on slyly. “I’m gonna find me a ninety-nine-year-old in a wheelchair!”
Everyone titters. “Rhonda, you’re so funny,” Amythest says.
But Rhonda continues, proud of her logic. “I’m serious! Guys that old can’t get it up anymore anyway, and girls your age need too much. The oldest men just want someone to cut up their steak and laugh at their jokes till they die. And then you get their estate.”
“Or a tenth of it, once you split it with their ex-wives and children,” I chime in.
But Rhonda is dead serious. “At ninety-nine, it’s a small time you have to work to get the reward.” Clearly she has given this some thought.
Amythest nods. “Smart.”
I can almost see my sister rolling her eyes. But I have to laugh. Every one of Rhonda’s marriages has been shorter and more profitable than the last, and finally her daughter has catapulted her into a world of wealth she never dreamed of. Summer has grown up to become exactly who Rhonda hoped she would be. Which, I guess, makes Rhonda a terribly successful mother.
At that moment, Summer herself appears at the top of the stairs, looking appropriately like a shiny trophy in a tight gold Hervé Leger dress that pushes her boobs nearly to her chin. John is close behind her in a navy linen button-down and slacks, his hand on the small of her back, the combination of her jeweled flat sandals and the doubtless lifts in his polished Italian leather conspiring to make them the same height.
Emmanuelle dings a glass, and a hush falls as we turn to face them, like some kind of bridal couple. Summer beams as John raises his glass, and we all do the same. “A toast to Summer. Thank you all for joining us for her birthday voyage.”
We all drink to Summer; then Emmanuelle dings her glass again. “We invite you downstairs. Jacques prepare a dinner délicieux for you.”
Emmanuelle wears the same black A-line dress as the rest of the female crew, but it fits her lithe body like a glove, revealing curves the day-crew uniform concealed. Summer and John follow her swaying hips down the stairs, and we trail behind.
The table is set with an array of crystal and goldware, adorned with white candles and roses. Jazz music plays softly, and the chandelier over the table sparkles in the low light.
John stands behind a chair at the head of the table, with Summer to his right. Brittani flounces over and plops into a chair across from Summer, and Julie quickly appears behind her, deftly helping her back to standing by her elbow as Brittani makes a face behind her back.
“Rhonda.” John gestures to the seat vacated by Brittani. He proceeds to arrange the remainder of us around the table. I’m seated next to Rhonda, across from Summer and Brittani, while Wendy fidgets on my other side. I can tell she’s agitated that she’s not closer to Summer and John. I’d like nothing more than to give her my seat if I could, but that’s obviously out of the question.
As we take our seats, John beckons to Emmanuelle and speaks to her in a low voice. Summer’s eyes slide from Emmanuelle’s tanned shoulders to her slender waist as she laughs and quickly responds to John. I can’t make out the words, but they’re speaking French, and Emmanuelle is clearly pleased he shares her mother tongue.
Summer catches my eye across the table. “ Je suis ravi de boire duvin ,” she announces, directed at me but loud enough for the entire table to hear.
“ Moi aussi ,” I say. I’m not sure what wine she means, but it seems the right response in the moment.
Emmanuelle turns, caught off guard, and Summer gives her an icy smile.
Hugo appears with a bottle of red, some fancy French name I’m sure we’re meant to be impressed by, and Emmanuelle evaporates.
“Belle, you’re gonna love this mozzarella,” Summer gushes as beautifully plated, lush caprese salads are placed before us. “The chef made it fresh.”
I cut a bite, thrown by her sudden warmth toward me. “You know how I feel about cheese.” The mozzarella is somehow both rich and light at the same time, and melts in my mouth, leaving me immediately craving another forkful.
“Thank you so much for inviting us on this wonderful trip,” Wendy pipes up. “I’m so thrilled to be here to celebrate your birthday with you.”
Everyone nods and murmurs agreement.
“Tonight,” John says, his eyes landing on each of us in turn, “you will all give a toast to Summer, tell us how you met. Rhonda, you start.”
Rhonda laughs. “Well, I think we all know how I met Summer. She came out of my hoo-ha!”
Record scratch. Then everyone titters politely. “Please, stand,” John says, amused.
Rhonda stands, swaying ever so slightly. “Um, well, my beautiful Summer was born right around this time twenty-seven years ago—you’re young enough we can still say your age, right?”
“Until I’m thirty; then it’s twenty-nine for life,” Summer quips. I wonder when my best friend became such a cliché. But then, I wonder a lot of things about her these days.
“It was a hot night in Texas, so it was just me and my friend Charlene. That was back in the days before people really did epidurals, at least out in the country where we were, so they gave me some Tylenol, but that was it. It was a hard night, but the moment I saw her, it was all worth it. I could tell how beautiful she was from the very beginning, and she’s only gotten more beautiful every year.”
This is the most earnest I have ever seen Rhonda—she is actually starting to tear up, which makes the rest of us misty-eyed as well. “You’ll always be my little girl, and you know I’d do anything for you. I’m so glad you’ve found such a nice man to take care of you. I always knew you would. Thank you for sharing this trip with your little mama. I love you.”
We all raise our glasses, and Summer gives her mom a hug. “I love you, too, Mom.”
They both wipe away tears and sit as Brittani stands and looks around. This should be good. “My big sister. She’s always been the smart one.” No one says anything. “Shit, don’t everybody protest at once.” She guffaws. “For real, though, good thing I could borrow from her book reports. My teachers always thought it was weird that my book reports were so good but I couldn’t actually talk about the book in class. I’m kidding. I would never steal her book reports.”
She clearly wants a laugh here, and everyone obliges (though it’s hardly a joke: Brittani can’t stand to read and would always get Summer to do her homework).
“She’s the best sister ever and has been helping me out her whole life. And now, because of her and John, I get to go to an awesome college. So, John, thank you so much for getting me in, and, Summer, thank you for making me go to junior college so that I could ‘better myself.’ Now I just have to find a husband before I graduate so I don’t have to work. I’m just kidding. But not really. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Summer says, and blows her a kiss across the table. “And you’re smarter than you think you are.”
This is sweet but completely untrue. Brittani, God bless her, doesn’t have the sense she was born with, and that speech proves it.
John gestures to Vinny, down at the other end of the table. He stands and raises his glass. “To Summer, the most beautiful young woman. Happy birthday.”
Now it’s my turn. I stand and smile at Summer. “I met Summer when we were freshmen in high school and she moved in next door to me, way down south in Georgia.”
“Oh my God.” Summer laughs. “Don’t remind me.”
I ignore this response. “We were best friends from the moment we met, but what I remember the most was the summer before our junior year. We did a lot of trading novels, watching French movies, playing tennis…and sneaking Rhonda’s wine coolers that summer.”
“I wondered how I was drinking them so fast!” Rhonda exclaims.
Everyone laughs. I take a deep breath and continue. “Summer was truly there for me when I needed her that year, and I’ll never forget it. Even after she moved two thousand miles away, we talked as much as if we still lived next door to each other.” I don’t mention the reason I needed her was that I’d nearly been raped while escorting her to our teacher’s apartment, against my better judgment. Nor do I mention that I was a virgin until I was twenty as a result, or that though I’ve gotten past the fear of sex, the smell of Drakkar Noir can still provoke a panic attack in me. “We’ve been through lots of ups and downs together, and I look forward to many more years of friendship. Happy birthday!”
“Thank you,” Summer says, her hand over her heart. I search her face as I take my seat, trying to see how sincere she is, how sincere she thinks I am. But her eyes are nothing but a shimmering, shallow pool.
Bernard stands and raises his glass. “People think men rule the world, but a beautiful woman can have all those men in the palm of her hand, and you, my dear, deserve it. The smile, the eyes, the body, you have it all. Happy birthday!”
Lecherous old fart. We raise our glasses nonetheless and once again drink to Summer. “That’s so sweet. Thank you, Bernie.” She bats her eyes. “I’m glad my Spin classes are paying off.”
Amythest is next. I wonder what she can possibly say about Summer, having met her yesterday, and I can tell from the slightly amused look on Summer’s face that she’s thinking the same thing. All eyes turn to Amythest expectantly as she stands, spinning her already empty wineglass between her fingers. “Well, I met Summer yesterday,” she starts, “through her awesome little sister, of course.” She smiles at Summer. “I always hear such awesome things about you from Brittani, and I can tell they’re totally true.”
Summer returns her smile. “Aw, thank you.”
Amythest continues. “You’re someone I totally look up to. I hope I’m just like you when I’m older.”
The smile on Summer’s face evaporates as Amythest finishes. “Thanks for letting Brittani bring me on this awesome trip. Happy birthday!”
John nods to Claire, who stands nervously and speaks in a rushed, soft voice. “I met Summer through Wendy. You guys have such a wonderful friendship, and I know we don’t know each other that well, but you’re so sweet, and I’m just so glad to be included, and so happy to be here. Happy birthday.”
She raises her glass and sits in one motion, out of breath.
“You’re the sweet one, Claire,” Summer says. “I’m glad you could come.”
Wendy stands and looks around at the table with a smile. “I’m going to break things up a little, and before I give my toast to my best friend, give one to her wonderful boyfriend, John, without whom none of us would be here. John, thank you for being so great to Summer and for taking us all on this fantastic trip.”
She raises her glass and everyone chimes in, “Thank you, John!”
John throws Wendy a wide smile, pleased. Wendy’s good like that. She always knows when to stroke whose ego and how to strike just the right note so that she doesn’t come off as obsequious.
“Now…” Her gaze lands on Summer. “I met Summer through Belle, who I met in college.”
“We were all at UCLA together,” Summer says.
Not true.
Recognizing the danger in that direction, Wendy seamlessly changes course. “I’ll never forget how Summer took care of me after my accident. I broke my leg last year jumping,” she explains. “Horses. My parents couldn’t come out for my surgery because my father’s a senator, and it was right before the election—which he won, thank God.” I notice she’s failed to mention he’s a state senator, but no matter. “Summer was there for me, though. She was right beside me in the hospital when I had the pins put in my ankle, holding my hand.”
Okay, no, that was me. Missed a callback for a guest-star role on a network show to be there. Summer was supposed to be there, too, but at the last minute she got a date with some guy she was into and bailed.
Wendy casts a glance about the table. Am I imagining it, or is she avoiding my eyes? “She got me such a big arrangement of sunflowers—my favorite—that it barely fit through the door.”
I scrutinize Wendy’s countenance, looking for any sign as to whether she’s totally lost her memory or is intentionally spinning lies. Surely she hasn’t forgotten I sent those flowers. She was so overwhelmed she actually sent me a snail-mail thank-you note.
But she has not finished assigning my kindnesses to Summer. “Then, afterward,” Wendy rattles on, “Summer was there every night, bringing me home-cooked meals, driving me around to doctor’s appointments. I saw what it means to be a real friend during that time, and I’ll never forget it.”
Okay. Summer has never made a “home-cooked meal” in her life, and she didn’t even have a car at that time. She was sleeping on my couch (or rather, in my bed) while she got her life together after the guy she was living with kicked her out when he found out she was cheating on him. Admittedly, I was far from the only one who drove Wendy to doctors’ appointments—she has a plethora of friends—but if Summer ever did, in fact, drive her anywhere, which I highly doubt, it was in my car, which she borrowed.
Wendy’s poker face is so strong, I can’t tell whether she believes her own story or has related it to ingratiate herself with Summer and John, but regardless, it’s worked. John pats Summer’s hand as she beams at Wendy, saying, “Oh, it was nothing. That’s what friends are for!”
I manage to maintain a pleasant demeanor but am quiet the rest of dinner, still flabbergasted by Wendy’s convoluted version of events. No one notices my silence, though, as John and his men dominate the conversation with a discussion about the best strategy for convincing some Chinese investors to partner with John’s company on what sounds like an incredibly complicated development project. I try to follow along, but all I can gather is that John seems bent on meeting with the men before showing them the property, and Bernard and Vince disagree. John, of course, wins.
When dinner is over, John presents Summer with an emerald set: a necklace, bracelet, and earrings to match. It’s gorgeous, if your tastes run toward “Russian matron at the opera.”
Afterward, I head to the upper deck and log in to my email on one of the computers under the watchful eye of John’s portrait. I send a quick message to Lauren_Carter812:
Hi sis,
Made it to the boat! It’s ridiculous. We’re somewhere near the border of France and Italy, headed toward Saint-Tropez. Summer’s a little removed from all of us, attached to John at the hip, but is at least being nice to me. I’m rooming with a girl named Amythest (yep, you read that right) that Brittani brought. She has eyes to match her name, in case you were wondering. Rhonda’s here too…hasn’t changed. John has two of his men with him, Bernard and Vinny, who are everything you would imagine in a billionaire’s henchmen. There’s no cell service and no Wi-Fi on the boat (writing from one of their hardwired computers, remember those?), so tell Mom and Dad not to worry if they can’t reach me immediately.
Weather’s beautiful, and I’m feeling good, regardless of not sleeping much on the plane. Nothing else to report for now.
Will keep you posted.
Love,
Belle
It’s hard to feel totally relaxed sending messages I’m sure are being read, but I remind myself that no matter how creepy his painting, John has no reason to care what’s in my emails. No more reason than he does anyone else’s, anyway. Given John’s concerns about privacy, the hardwired system is probably mainly for his own protection, to prevent hackers from being able to access his servers without physically being on board. Still, it makes me uncomfortable, so I log off without checking social media. A shame, because I bet the pic I posted from the tender got a boatload of likes.
I despise social media, but the sad truth is that it’s necessary for my career these days. Some actors even put their followers on the top of their résumé. That would make me Isabelle Carter: 21.5K Insta, 34K Twitter, 6K YouTube . Not great, but not horrible. Most of my followers are fans of a cheesy sitcom on the Family Channel that I had a supporting role in a few years ago. I know I should work on growing my following—I could get free stuff for posts, or money. And I need money. But I’m a terrible millennial. I just feel so gross being all, “Hey, look at me!” I didn’t get into acting for the fame. I got into it for the art.
I know, what a loser.
I count seven surveillance cameras on the path from the upper deck to my room. Nearly the entire yacht is covered, save the bathrooms and bedrooms. Unless there are hidden cameras…The thought makes me shiver. I wonder who’s monitoring them, the little tech guy?
I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. No one’s watching me pee.
Back in the room, I’m more tired than I expected after my earlier nap. Definitely too tired to engage with Amythest, who prattles on excitedly about the boat and who we might meet and how awesome it all is. I try to hold my eyes open and nod politely, but they keep closing involuntarily, and after a while she gives up and reads a magazine.
I guess walls on yachts aren’t that thick, because as I fall asleep I can hear Rhonda and Brittani talking through the partition between our rooms. It’s muffled, but the gist is something about trying to get John to marry Summer so that all their problems will be solved.
I wake in the middle of the night to a pounding headache and a burning thirst. How much wine did I drink? I’ve got to be better about hydrating.
I reach for the water bottle on the bedside table, but it’s empty. Damn it. Amythest’s is empty, too. Going upstairs is the last thing I want to do right now, and I’m tired enough I could probably ignore my thirst and get back to sleep, but I know this will only make my headache worse. I swing my feet off the bed and push myself to standing.
I grip the doorknob and attempt to turn it, but it moves only a fraction of an inch before sticking. I jiggle it and push the door. It doesn’t budge. What the…? I throw my shoulder into it, to no avail.
We’re locked in.
Amythest stirs, woken by my beating onthe door. She looks at me, confused. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to worry her. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”
We’re fucking locked in.
I refill my water bottle with water from the tap and lie staring at the ceiling. But this time it takes me hours to finally fall asleep.