Chapter 3
lovelillibet When you were a child, did you ever lie on the grass and imagine what it would be like to float with the clouds, weightless and free, surrounded by softness on all sides? That’s how my bespoke bedding feels: airy, buoyant, transporting.
Handmade sheets may seem like an indulgence, until you savor the heady elixir of merino and silk jacquard threads woven into pure Egyptian cotton. Once you’ve experienced a thread count that high, you’ll never go back to triple-digit percale.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A stack of plump pillows on a pristine white duvet topped with a single long-stemmed rose.
#caressyourself #luxelife #finishingtouch #sweetdreams
“Stop it,” Libby groaned, dodging the bony finger poking her in the ribs.
“No,” said Jean’s voice, because no one else could possibly be this annoying. “Time to wake up. We have places to go and people to see.”
“We do not. No jobs, no money.” At least sleep was free. Libby rolled to face the wall. She might have drifted off again if her roommate hadn’t started slamming the drawers of Libby’s dresser. “Unless we got called in?”
“You could say that.”
It was the tone that tipped Libby off more than the words. There was a lot of intent there—or rather, portent. Ice trickled under her skin, snapping her to full alertness. Shoving the sheet aside, Libby struggled upright. “What did you do?”
Jean made a show of checking over both shoulders. “Moi?”
Oh yeah. Something was up. Jean’s MO had always been, When in doubt, double down. They stared at each other, locked in a telepathic battle of wills.
You know I don’t like surprises, Libby thought at Jean.
But if I tell you ahead of time, you’ll say no, her roommate frowned back at her.
A knock sounded on the front door.
“Everybody ready?” Keoki called from the living room.
“Slugworth is still in bed,” Jean yelled back. She clapped her hands at Libby. “Time is money.”
“Am I having a nightmare?” Libby asked the ceiling of her room. She staggered to her feet, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she walked into the kitchen.
Keoki greeted her with a hug. “Big day.”
“Is it?” Libby got a glass from the cupboard.
“You didn’t tell her?”
“I was just about to,” Jean hissed. “Hey, Libs.”
“Hey,” she replied warily, sipping lukewarm water while her roommate unleashed a grin worthy of the cheap cosmetics “brand ambassador” Libby’s mother had once invited to a “party” that involved shaking down your “friends” so you could get a free lipstick.
“You remember that freak blizzard in Utah or Idaho or whatever?”
“I guess.”
“And that girl who got lost in the mountains?”
“My short-term memory isn’t that bad.”
“Well, it turns out she didn’t freeze to death!”
“Oh.” That was a twist. Most of Jean’s anecdotes tended toward the macabre. “Good.”
Keoki nodded agreement.
“And do you want to know why it’s good?” Jean continued, like she was hosting a children’s TV show.
“Um, because she’s a human being and we’re not sociopaths?” Libby guessed.
“Nope.” Jean rummaged through the piles of stuff on the kitchen counter they were absolutely going to put away any day now, once they got some of those cute canvas baskets. Or fancy plastic tubs. Whatever adults used to organize their junk.
“Check this out.” She held up her phone. The video on the screen cut from a worried newscaster in a painted-on purple dress to grainy footage of a man in heavy winter gear trudging toward the camera through hip-deep snow. In his arms he cradled a smaller person, face tucked protectively against his chest. On the choppy audio a voice shouted until the one being carried lifted her head. Her hood fell back, revealing a riot of dark curls that gleamed in the beam of sunlight that broke through the clouds at that precise moment, making the snow sparkle like a blanket of crushed diamonds.
It was like a scene from a movie. Even the weather was perfectly choreographed. “Wow,” Libby said, inadequately.
“I know.” Jean started to set her phone down, but Libby held on, rewinding the video.
“Who’s that? The guy, I mean.”
“Some dude. He found her out there in Butt Lick, Nowhere. They survived a freaking avalanche and a night in the wilderness. Hashtag Iceman Cometh.”
Libby tore her eyes from the screen in time to catch her friend’s suggestive brow wiggle. “What?”
“More like strip search and rescue. A little ice planet action, if you know what I mean.”
Keoki stuck his fingers in his ears, humming under his breath. Bedroom talk was where he generally checked out of the conversation. It would be like finding your little sister’s sex toys, he’d once explained. Instant brain bleed.
“That is not what I was thinking.” Libby replayed the part where the Iceman, for lack of a better name, hoisted the girl above the sea of white. “She got lucky.”
“I’ll say.”
“That he found her. And they didn’t die.”
Jean waved this off, as if their survival were a footnote. “Guess who the really lucky one is.”
“Um,” Libby said, after a prolonged silence. “I got nothing.”
Jean stuck the phone in Libby’s face. “Say hello to your new best friend.”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“Fun fact about the errant heiress. She loves Lillibet.”
Keoki gave a double thumbs-up, which Libby took to mean either congrats or true story. Sometimes when Jean built up a head of steam, the line between fact and sales pitch blurred.
“There’s no way.” Clearly it was up to Libby to be the voice of reason. “How does she even know we exist?”
“For your information, we’re up to like quadruple digits. Followers,” Jean clarified, though what Libby had really been puzzling over was the math.
Were there seriously more than a thousand people reading Love, Lillibet? Or at least scrolling past the pictures and maybe the first sentence of her captions? Jean had pointed out before that more followers would mean the potential for profit, or at least some free merch, but the last thing Libby wanted was to monetize that stupid account. You couldn’t call yourself a fake influencer if you were making real money. Her squeamishness on that front was the number one reason Jean handled all the admin, leaving Libby free to focus on making up words. A close second was Libby’s inability to remember passwords (or find the scraps of paper on which she’d jotted them down).
“We had a moment with that post about our day in Waimānalo,” Jean continued, mistaking Libby’s continued silence for disbelief.
“You mean the petting zoo? Where I allegedly donated four dozen imported boar-bristle brushes to groom the animals?”
“What can I say? There’s a sucker born every minute. Also, the algorithm loves baby goats.”
“Because they’re the GOAT.” Keoki held up both palms, a high one for Libby and a low one for Jean.
“To be fair, I also assumed we were being catfished the first time she reached out,” Jean admitted, shaking off the impact of Keoki’s high five. “She was all, Hey, great post, I might have an opportunity for you, and I was like, Sure, bottom feeder, here’s my bank account number. But then all that winter wonderland business went down, and I realized she wasn’t a spammer.”
“Which post was it?” It was a ridiculous thing to care about, but Libby couldn’t help herself.
“The one about foraging for pumice stones and how we should also be conscious of our ‘soul calluses.’ Classic Lillibet. ‘I’m more evolved than you and I never forget to exfoliate.’”
It was vintage Lillibet. Pretending to care about deeper things but mostly talking about her beauty routine.
“The important part of this story is that Lillibet’s number one fan did not freeze to death after all, so I was able to reach out.”
“Why?”
“Um, she’s majorly connected and could make all your dreams come true? And we’re not exactly setting the world on fire, career-wise?”
Libby shook her head. “I mean, why is she a fan?”
“Because Lillibet is totally of the moment, aesthetically and spiritually. Finger on the pulse of the zeitgeist. Those are exact quotes, by the way. More or less.”
“You mean the Lillibet we invented?”
“Yes!” Jean had either willfully misunderstood Libby’s sarcasm or was too caught up in her own spin cycle to care. “I told you it was destiny.”
“More like drunkenness.” All because a particularly rollicking retirement party had tipped them in leftover wine. There should be a sobriety test before they let you use social media.
Not that the wine was entirely to blame. The prospect of a more creative side hustle than selling ice-cold coconuts to tourists had short-circuited Libby’s sense of caution. Being “Lillibet” let her pretend that waiting tables was a temporary state. Even if the persona was only one-third her, since Keoki came up with the food content and Jean handled the visuals. Still, churning out insufferable captions was a kind of writing.
Jean punched her in the arm. “This is your big break.”
It was like biting into a poisoned cookie: the mindless rush of excitement, with an aftertaste of horror. “How do you figure?”
“Why else would she be coming here?”
“Here as in here?” Libby looked around their dingy apartment. Surely the poor girl had suffered enough.
Jean pulled up another video clip. A radiant Hildy Johnson (helpfully captioned “Snowbound So-Cal Socialite,” as if she were a contestant on The Bachelor and that was an actual job) addressed a room full of reporters. She was pretty enough for TV, with a halo of dark curls and sparkling brown eyes.
“Is that him?” Libby asked Jean, pointing at a man in a suit seated next to Hildy.
“Who?”
“The one who saved her.”
“Yeah, no. That’ll be some kind of handler. Lawyer, maybe. I don’t think this dude has ever walked on anything that wasn’t paved.”
The phantom weight of disappointment lifted. The real hero could still be closer to Libby’s imaginary version. Younger. A little raw—or at least less slick. Especially in the hair department.
On the tiny screen, reporters shouted questions. Had Hildy heard there were two different TV movies in the works about her ordeal? What really happened in that snow fort? Did the power of love keep them warm? Where was her rescuer now? Was it true he’d lost a toe to frostbite?
Hildy handled them like a pro, deflecting with a coyness that stopped shy of being cutesy. “He saved my life,” she reminded them. “I’m not going to throw him to the wolves. If you want the inside scoop, you can read all about it—in a Johnson Media exclusive.” A pause, while she flicked her hair over her shoulder, flashing a perfect dimple. “But I can assure you all of his appendages are fine.”
Laughter and a volley of camera flashes rippled across the press corps.
“Saucy,” Keoki rumbled.
“I guess she didn’t need the handler after all.” Libby watched the suit sitting next to the rescued girl try to interject something about the sizable donation her uncle’s company had made to local search-and-rescue groups.
“Yeah, well.” Jean sniffed. “She probably went to a fancy Swiss boarding school.”
“I thought that was about walking with a book on your head. Never crossing your legs in a skirt.”
“You’re thinking of The Princess Diaries. The spawn of oligarchs all get media training nowadays.”
“Ah.” Libby accepted this as gospel, though she wasn’t sure thinly veiled dick jokes would have been on the finishing school curriculum. Jean had always been far more conversant with the quirks of the one percent.
On-screen, things were wrapping up. “What’s next for you, Hildy?” a reporter called out as she started to rise.
“Let’s just say I’m going someplace nice and warm. With a special someone.”
“No more questions,” her companion announced.
“Is she talking about the guy who saved her?” Libby asked as a new video started playing.
“Backcountry Beefcake? Probably. But that’s not the main takeaway here.” Setting down her phone, Jean wrapped her hands around Libby’s upper arms, punctuating each word with a shake. “This. Is. It. Opportunity with a capital O. The fact that she almost bit it the week before Me-mas is like the universe sliding into your DMs. Hey, girl, ready to say hello to your destiny? Because she is on her way to meet you.”
“You mean Lillibet. Who I am not.”
“You know that and I know that, but she doesn’t.”
“Pretty sure it’s going to come up.”
“Not if we play our cards right.”
Uh-oh. Libby had seen that demented gleam in her roommate’s eyes before. “What does that mean?”
“All we need to do is pretend. It’s a couple of days, totally manageable. Fake it till we make it.”
“You mean all we have to do is lie.”
“Potato, potahto. I’m not going to cry for the poor little rich girl. She probably wears fur.”
“Jean. It’ll never work. I’m like the anti-Lillibet. I can’t cook, I know diddly about yoga, and I don’t speak in inspirational slogans. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, we live in squalor.”
“It’s taken care of.”
Libby froze as if a brick wall had materialized inches from her face. “What is?”
“We found the perfect spot.” Jean linked her arm through Keoki’s. “Some guy K knows from the restaurant. The most incredible house. It’s so Lillibet. You’re going to wet yourself when you see it. Although I guess not, since Lillibet is the queen of Kegels.”
“Please never say that out loud again.” Libby might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull.
“She works that pelvic floor like … a loaf of homemade rye. Something-something sauerkraut fermenting, harness the power of your gut biome?”
Keoki was too traumatized to protest, so Libby spoke for both of them. “Step away from the metaphor.”
“Fine. The point is that the stage is set. Still working on the goats, but how hard can it be?”
“One of our suppliers makes his own chèvre,” Keoki volunteered, earning a slap on the back from Jean.
“See? It’s all happening.”
“Slow down. Rewind. What’s this about a house? I thought this was supposed to be a work thing.”
“That girl almost died, Libby. But through the darkest hours of the night, she held on to a dream.” Jean pressed her hands to her heart. “A dream of meeting a hot yoga wife with money to burn who isn’t afraid to tell other people how to live.”
“Seriously?”
“Wouldn’t you want a tropical vacay after almost freezing your nads off? Besides, it’s like they say. The end justifies the means.”
“You do realize that’s not a motivational quote?” Libby summoned her best for-real-this-time expression. “Give it to me straight. Is she coming here for Lillibet or mai tais by the pool?”
“It’s a package deal,” Jean said with the pseudo-casual air of someone who didn’t want to discuss the fine print. “Enjoy some sun and surf, stage a bunch of photo ops with the guy who saved your life—”
“So that is who she’s bringing?”
“Who cares? The important part is your future boss.”
Libby wouldn’t have minded talking about Mr. Wilderness a little more if her world wasn’t on fire. “But they don’t even know me. I mean her.”
“You did say you prided yourself on always being ready to welcome unexpected guests. And with the way you talked up Me-mas, who could resist?”
“I guess I should have been more careful about our imaginary character talking out her ass about her hostessing mojo. Or her nonexistent holiday!”
“I told you. It’s all good. K has a whole menu planned.”
“He gave me carte blanche,” Keoki said.
Usually Libby appreciated his mellow vibe as a counterweight to Jean’s manic energy, but right now it grated on her nerves. “Who?”
“Mr. L. One of our regulars. I talked to him about Keoki’s Kitchen. He might be willing to invest.”
“Really?” For a second Libby forgot about the rest of the mess. “Tutu will be so pumped.” Especially since she was the one who’d taught Keoki to cook. And unironically love cheesy pop music, but that was more of a mixed blessing.
“It’s not a done deal. That’s part of why he’s letting us use his house. This is like an audition. A chance to show him what I can do.”
“This?” Libby asked, hoping the answer wasn’t, This disaster waiting to happen. The Lillibet fiasco. Impending doom, on a silver platter. “What about work?”
“I had some time off coming.”
Libby might have been taken in by Keoki’s breezy delivery if she didn’t know what a hard-ass Jacques was about vacation. “Please tell me you’re not using your paternity leave.”
“It’s okay, because I’ll be my own boss by then.” He smiled like this was the most logical plan ever, instead of a horrifying new layer of catastrophe.
“What about my make-believe husband?” Libby demanded, trying to slow this runaway train. “Is that also magically falling into place?”
Jean waved this off. “Worst-case scenario, we say he’s away on business.”
“Lillibet’s husband is skipping out on Me-mas? What kind of douche do you think I fake-married?”
“I might have a line on that, actually.”
Libby rounded on Keoki. “What, you went to the Husbands-4-Less sale at Longs Drugs?”
“Whoa, there.” Jean tugged her by the belt loop. “You need to keep your eyes on the prize.”
“Humiliating ourselves in front of strangers?” One of whom happened to be a real-life hero. Libby couldn’t imagine the kind of guy who stoically rescued people from a snowy death ever doing something this shady.
“If we pull this off, you could have one job. Just one.” Jean narrowed her eyes at Libby, making sure she appreciated the enormity of the stakes. “That pays all the bills. And doesn’t involve touching other people’s food.” She glanced at Keoki. “No offense.”
“You have your art, I have mine,” he said philosophically.
“And Libby has hers,” Jean concluded, as if that tied a bow on the whole conversation.
“I hope you’re not talking about Lillibet. Because I don’t think pretending to be the world’s biggest phony counts.”
“You’re a great writer, Libs. They’d be lucky to have you. If this is how you get a foot in the door, so be it.”
“Except the number one job qualification for a journalist is telling the truth. Which this is not.”
“It’s satire. Performance art. That’s a totally separate category. I’m sure she’ll understand. Eventually. Besides, that ship has sailed. Although it’s more like ‘that plane is about to take off.’” Jean squinted at the clock on the stove, which only ever showed the time as noon—or midnight, depending on your perspective. “We have less than twenty-four hours to get our Lillibet on.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Come on, Libs. Buck up. This is going to be our most amazing adventure yet! It’s too late for second thoughts.”
“These are my first thoughts, though.”
“What I’m saying is we don’t have time for regrets, Lillibet. What’s the one thing you never want to do on a waterslide?”
“Oh, so we do have time for rhetorical questions?”
Jean pinched Libby’s love handle. “Focus.”
“I don’t know.” Libby sighed. “Lose your bathing suit?”
“Nope.”
“Drown?”
“Stand up.” Jean lifted a hand toward the ceiling. “Once you’re in the chute, you have to ride that puppy all the way to the end. Otherwise, the next person who comes along will mow you down and suddenly you’re doing the horizontal tango with a hairy insurance salesman. Assuming you don’t get lodged in the pipe like a massive turd.”
“Is that … supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s funny you brought up plumbing.” Keoki huffed a laugh.
Libby was afraid to ask. She was still imagining herself watersliding through a sewer.
“Come on.” Jean pulled her keys out of the junk drawer. “Let’s get ready to dazzle your fairy godmother with a warm island Me-mas.”
She swiveled her hips in a terrible approximation of the hula. Keoki did a step-slide to Jean’s side, dipping one shoulder and then raising it again in time with his chin thrusts. He beckoned for Libby to join them.
She shook her head, gripping her stomach instead.
“Keoki will feed us when we get there,” Jean promised. “Right, K?”
“I could throw together a smoked marlin Caesar. Made a big batch of croutons with leftover baguette. And the fish is from my cousin Jimmy. So ono.”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Libby lied. “I feel too sick.”
“You’ll get over it when you see the house. Did I mention the hot tub? This is going to be the best week of our lives.”
Libby had her doubts. In fact, her doubts had doubts of their own, tucked away like baggies of worry inside a doubt drug mule—who had just been pulled aside by airport security.
Keoki pulled her into a one-armed hug. “Cheer up, Li’l Bit.” It was a funny nickname for a six-foot tall woman. Or at least it used to be, until it got twisted into that other name. Lillibet. “You know what you need?”
“Don’t,” she warned, but he was already hoisting Libby off the floor, squeezing her like a chew toy he wanted to hear squeak. Her teeth rattled as he set her down.
“Feel better?” he asked. “Or do you need me to sing?”
“No!”
Keoki actually had a nice voice, but it was hard to notice when he always sang the kind of song you least wanted to hear. Pure Top 40 earworms that would get stuck in your head for the rest of day, with a side of Disney ballads. The mainland kids in college all expected him to show up to parties with his ukulele and strum something mellow and beachy, only to get hit with the acoustic version of “My Humps.”
“I was trying to shake out the bad feelings.”
“You almost shook out my breakfast.”
“Ginger tea. That’s what I make for Cici. Did I tell you I felt the baby? Little KeCi kicks up a storm if Mama eats something sour.”
“Nothing but black coffee and regret kicking around in this one.” Jean thumped Libby’s midsection like Libby was a vending machine that wasn’t giving up her Oreos.
“Don’t forget the rice crackers,” Keoki said. “She’s more snacks than blood.”
Jean held up a finger as inspiration struck. “You should think of this as a mini-retreat. Our own little spa vacation, complete with healthy meals.”
“I feel so relaxed already.” Libby added two thumbs way up in case the sarcasm wasn’t coming through.
“Come on, Libs. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Examples flooded Libby’s memory of other “foolproof” plans Jean had presented with equal certainty. They won’t even check the guest list. I’m sure those are complimentary. Why would there be a gate if they didn’t want people to use it? “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“No,” Keoki and Jean said in unison, pushing her out the door.