Chapter 15 Lottie
LOTTIE
It turns out, Charlie, Keelie, Lainey, Meg, Suze, and Lily were not at the spa last night as Noah suggested.
They were at a very naughty male review—to which Carlotta quickly bought us a couple of tickets.
And boy, were they pricey, but Carlotta didn’t mind.
She paid with her credits that the Bellanova gave her as part of her winnings.
I’m curious as to how much of that money she’s already torched through, but I’m afraid to ask.
Carlotta’s financial restraint has all the discipline of a sugar-high toddler in a candy store, which is to say, absolutely none.
The male strip show was exactly what you’d expect in Vegas—men with bodies sculpted by protein shakes and prayers, gyrating in costumes that started as noble professions such as fireman, construction worker, and doctor, and ended as dental floss with aspirations.
Both Lily and Keelie were pulled on stage and coerced into activities that would make a marriage counselor blush. Lily, normally so composed, found herself using a whipped cream can in ways that would void the warranty.
Keelie was instructed to perform a safety inspection on a firefighter’s hose—a task she approached with such enthusiasm that her husband Bear might need to consider a career change.
Not to be outdone, Carlotta demanded to get in on the action and physically dragged me to the stage, too.
Before I could protest, I was sandwiched between two men with abs you could grate cheese on, being instructed to perform a heart examination on a doctor who clearly skipped anatomy class but made up for it with baby oil.
Carlotta, meanwhile, was living her best life with a cowboy whose lasso skills suggested years of practice on willing volunteers.
“Give him CPR!” Carlotta shouted at me while demonstrating mouth-to-mouth with the cowboy in a way that definitely wasn’t medical protocol.
“I’m married!” I protested uselessly.
“So?” Carlotta yelled back. “I’m engaged, and I just put a twenty in this man’s G-string with my teeth!”
The memory still makes me question if we’re actually related. DNA has a lot to answer for.
But that was last night. It’s late afternoon now, and I’ve spent the morning doing normal mother things—cuddling with my babies, sharing French toast from room service with Lyla Nell, and nursing the twins.
You know, the kind of activities that don’t involve loose dollar bills and questionable hygiene practices.
Everett and Noah vanished early, mumbling something about investigating leads that sounded suspiciously like escaping baby chaos.
And just when I thought I’d get a moment of peace, Carlotta offered the girls and me a spa day.
Charlie couldn’t come. She cited something about perfecting her recipes and knowing better than to follow Carlotta anywhere else.
But who am I to refuse the siren song of hot stones and cucumber water, especially when someone else is paying?
The Serenity Suite Spa at the Bellanova makes the average luxury spa look like a highway rest-stop bathroom.
The entrance alone announces that you’ve arrived somewhere your credit card will later regret visiting by way of its massive gold-flecked marble pillars supporting a ceiling painted with cherubs that all suspiciously resemble Johnny United, while fountains shaped like naked Greek goddesses spew water that probably costs more per ounce than premium scotch.
It’s like someone took the concept of understated elegance and beat it to death with a golden sledgehammer.
“Welcome to paradise, ladies,” purrs our host, a willowy blonde whose name tag reads Seraphina but whose surgically enhanced features scream Originally Tiffany from Idaho.
Her smile has the warmth of a person who gets paid to pretend your jokes are funny and your money isn’t a complete accident by way of a Vegas jackpot.
“We have you booked for our exclusive Celestial Renewal Journey: The Goddess Experience.”
“That sounds either heavenly or like a euphemism for dying,” I mutter.
Seraphina’s smile doesn’t waver, which is impressive considering it’s probably held in place by enough Botox to paralyze a rhinoceros. “It’s our most transcendent experience.”
“Is transcendent spa-speak expensive?” Keelie whispers beside me with the kind of practical wisdom that makes her my favorite friend.
“The price actually includes an astral projection,” Carlotta announces proudly. “You don’t just get to leave your worries behind. You get to leave your body!”
“That’s just what happens when you see the bill,” Suze remarks dryly.
We’re led through a series of increasingly opulent rooms, each wafting different essential oils that combine into what I can only describe as the true scent of wealth—a mixture of sandalwood, smugness, and tax evasion.
The locker room continues the theme of aggressive luxury.
The lockers are made of some exotic wood probably harvested from an endangered forest. The benches are heated to approximately the temperature of Satan’s front porch.
Even the air feels like it’s been imported from the Swiss Alps, filtered through unicorn manes, and personally blessed by whatever deity oversees extravagant pampering and poor financial decisions.
“I feel underdressed, and I’m not even naked yet,” Lainey says, eyeing the golden swan faucets that dispense cucumber-infused water.
“Don’t worry about it,” Meg responds, already stripping down with the casual confidence of a woman who professionally body-slams other women while wearing patriotic lingerie. “When you’ve had an audience chant Madge the Badge while you’re in a glitter thong, modesty becomes optional.”
Lily carefully folds her designer clothes into her locker in a way that makes me wonder if she irons her underwear. “What exactly is a Celestial Renewal Journey, anyway?”
“According to this brochure,” Keelie says, reading from a gold-leafed pamphlet, “it’s a transcendent experience that combines ancient wisdom with modern luxury for a complete renewal of body and spirit.”
“That tells us absolutely nothing,” I point out, struggling to shove myself into a plush white robe that could double as a winter coat for a small nation.
“It’s like those restaurant menus that describe a dish as an elevation of flavors without telling you what you’re actually eating.
For all we know, we’re about to be sacrificed to the spa gods. ”
“As long as it doesn’t involve colonics, I’m in,” Suze declares, tying her robe in a knot so tight it’s going to require razor blades to cut her out of it. “I did not fly to Vegas to have my insides pressure-washed.”
Seraphina returns, gliding across the marble floor as if gravity is merely a suggestion. “Ladies, are we ready to begin our journey to inner harmony?”
“Does inner harmony involve alcohol?” Carlotta asks with far too much hope.
“We’ll be serving champagne after your treatment,” Seraphina assures her.
“Then lead on, celestial guide!” Carlotta exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement. “Put us in all the trances you want. Make us transcendent. Just don’t make us broke.”
We follow Seraphina through another series of rooms, each more ridiculously luxurious than the last, until we reach a chamber that looks like it was designed by someone who once heard about Zen but decided it needed more gold.
In the center of the room sit seven large black lacquered boxes with elaborate gold detailing that suggests funeral chic meets Vegas excess. Each box has a cushioned top and, curiously, a heart-shaped cut-out in the center that looks suspiciously like it serves a very specific purpose.
The room is warm—unusually so—and smells of exotic herbs and flowers I can’t quite identify, but I suspect they might be illegal in several states.
“Your Celestial Renewal awaits,” Seraphina announces as if unveiling the secrets of the universe rather than fancy spa furniture. “Please disrobe completely and sit on your assigned throne.”
“Disrobe?” Suze repeats suspiciously. “As in naked?”
“The energy must flow freely,” Seraphina explains, handing each of us a small towel. “These are for your lap. Now, I’ll leave you to prepare. When you’re all seated, I’ll return to begin your journey.”
She floats out of the room, leaving us staring at the black boxes with varying degrees of skepticism and growing horror.
“Anyone else getting weird cult vibes?” I ask, eyeing the heart-shaped cut-out warily.
“Please,” Carlotta scoffs, already dropping her robe. “I’ve been in actual cults. This is just standard spa weirdness.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is,” Lily points out while clutching her towel like a security blanket.
Despite our hesitation, Carlotta’s enthusiasm is contagious, or perhaps it’s just the prospect of free pampering paid for with her gambling winnings.
One by one, we shed our robes and perch awkwardly on the black boxes, with small towels draped across our laps and boobs for minimal modesty and maximum false security.
“This better not be some oddball Vegas prank show,” Keelie mutters, adjusting her towel.
“If cameras pop out, I’m suing,” Suze agrees, because she’s always thinking practically about legal ramifications—and a quick buck to make via the legal system.
“If cameras pop out, I’m charging extra,” Carlotta counters.
Just as we’re all seated, Seraphina returns with several assistants. They place small copper pots beneath each of our boxes, into which they pour steaming water infused with herbs.
“Ladies, welcome to our Sacred Feminine Steam,” Seraphina announces with a reverence typically reserved for religious ceremonies or really good chocolate. “An ancient practice to cleanse and rejuvenate your most intimate self.”
There’s a beat of silence as the realization of what’s happening dawns on me and my brain processes exactly what most intimate self means in this context.
“Wait,” I say slowly, “are we getting our—”