“I’m so glad you could come.” She squeezes my hand. “Nice sunglasses.”
“Thanks!” I finger the large black knockoff frames. “I thought you’d like them. I found—”
“Honey, does this mean I can have the Mercedes?” Rhonda interrupts.
Summer smiles, but her eyes convey a different message. “Mom,” she cautions with a little shake of her head.
“I’m joking! Tell my daughter to give her old mom a break,” Rhonda appeals to John as Summer looks on, clearly having second thoughts about having invited her mother.
“Rhonda, you’re not old.” John flashes his Cheshire-cat grin. “And the Mercedes is yours.”
Rhonda drops her chin and squints at him over the top of her sunglasses, trying to tell whether he’s serious, but he’s already turned his attention to the valet, confirming he’d like the car parked in his usual spot.
As the Bentley pulls away, Wendy lays a light hand on John’s arm. “You’re such a great boyfriend. Thank you so much for this trip. We’re really looking forward to it.”
I turn up the wattage in my smile. “Yes, thank you.”
“Thank you,” Claire echoes softly, lowering her eyes.
He nods magnanimously. “My pleasure. Glad to have you girls along.”
And with that, he’s off toward the plane, precipitating a flurry of activity as the crew prepares to greet him.
The couple of times I’ve met John he’s been pleasant, if deliberately so, with the occasional flashes of brilliant charm common to a man who’s gotten as far as he has in life. He and I have only had briefly superficial conversation of the type you’d expect with a billionaire whose age is somewhere between that of your parents and your grandparents—still, I’m never sure that if I dropped dead in the midst of chatting with him and was replaced by another girl of vaguely similar genus, he’d actually notice.
When I was a kid, we had this goldfish with bulging eyes, Eddie. Periodically, Eddie would die, and my parents would covertly replace him with a new Eddie. This went on for years undetected by my sister or me, until finally one day I happened to be the one that discovered Eddie belly-up in the fish tank, eliciting a confession from my parents (who I now realize were holding back tears of laughter, not grief) that this was in fact Eddie VI.
If Summer’s friends are Eddies to John, what does that make Summer? Is she replaceable, too? She admits he’s had other mistresses and taken other groups of pretty young things on exorbitant vacations (apparently it’s good for business), but seems to genuinely believe he’s never felt about any of them the way he feels about her. And she claims to be head-over-heels in love with him. Hasn’t been sleeping around on him, either. Not since Eric, at least.
To each her own, I remind myself. It’s not like all the guys I’ve been with were princes, exactly.
Brittani pushes Amythest in front of Summer. “This is Amythest,” Brittani says. “She’s the best. You’re gonna love her.”
My brain shorts. In no world would Summer agree to Brittani bringing a friend she’s never laid eyes on.
“Hello.” Summer’s smile doesn’t falter as she extends her hand to Amythest, but I can see her taking in the platform stilettos, the violet contacts, the curvy body swathed in black.
Amythest takes Summer’s hand with a smile, and for a minute I think she’s going to curtsy, before I realize it’s just a crack in the asphalt she’s having trouble navigating in those heels.
Summer meets Brittani’s eye with intent. She’s got a great poker face, but I know her well enough to read the distress she’s covering. “Can I talk to you for a minute, sis?”
She steers Brittani by her elbow to the foot of the airstair, where John is talking with two men in suits. He takes leave of the men and listens intently with a hand on each of the girls’ shoulders as Summer speaks in low tones and the rest of us pretend not to be trying to hear what they’re saying, while Amythest fiddles with her bracelets and stares at the pavement. After a minute, Brittani calls Amythest over and introduces her to John. He says something to her that sends her fishing in her bag and beckons to one of the men in suits. Amythest hands the man her passport, and he jogs up the steps to the plane with it in hand while she stands chatting with John, twirling a long strand of purple-streaked hair on her finger.
“Brittani was supposed to bring someone else,” Rhonda stage-whispers. “But the girl got sick.”
Wendy and I exchange a bemused glance. “Did Summer know there was going to be a switch?” Wendy asks.
Rhonda chuckles, eyeing her younger daughter with admiration. “Sly little bitch didn’t ask because she knew Summer’d say no. Didn’t tell me, either, until we were picking Amythest up.”
“Bold move,” I say. Maybe Brittani’s smarter than I’ve given her credit for.
Over by the plane, the man in the suit has a quick conversation with John, who then says something to the three girls, hands Amythest her passport, and trots up the steps.
“I guess she’s been approved,” Wendy breathes.
“Something tells me that was John’s decision, not Summer’s,” I return.
Summer strides toward us, her expression dark, leaving Brittani and Amythest whispering behind her.
“Everything okay?” Wendy asks as she approaches.
Summer narrows her eyes at her mother. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t know,” Rhonda professes. “I can’t keep up with her friends, I figured that was the one you okayed.”
“No,” Summer fumes, sotto voce. “But now John has decided she’s fine, so we have to spend the rest of the trip with her. Thanks a lot.”
“I’m sorry—” Rhonda reaches out to hug her daughter, but Summer turns and marches toward the jet.
An older stewardess with short gray hair escorts the rest of us to the airstair, where Wendy insists we snap a flurry of pictures before finally boarding. As I step through the door of the plane, my sandal catches on the metal and I trip headlong into John, knocking him into the younger flight attendant, who spills the cup of coffee she was in the process of serving him all over me.
“Shit!” I say. “Shoot. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Well, this is a great way to start off the trip. The stewardess is as mortified as I am. She quickly grabs a napkin and begins dabbing at his suit.
“I’m fine.” He brushes her away without a hint of the charm he usually radiates. “Clean her. She’s dripping all over the floor.”
The stewardess hands me the napkin, which I use to clean my legs and dab my sundress. At least this will provide me with an excuse to change into the more comfortable outfit in my carry-on. I can hear Summer asking John what happened, then apologizing for me.
Wendy grabs my elbow. “You okay?”
I nod, my cheeks on fire as I follow her into the cabin.
The inside of the plane is refined luxury in shades of cream and beige, and refreshingly cool after the sauna we’ve been baking in for the past hour. Having discovered long ago in the way-back of my mom’s station wagon that I get violently ill riding backward, I’m careful to pick one of the forward-facing seats. I slide into the buttery leather captain’s chair that would make any first class look like economy and take a swig of cold water from the bottle conveniently placed in the cup holder at my fingertips.