The Lion's Den(20)

“And she’s, like, totally okay with this?” Wendy asks, incredulous.

“It’s not exactly her call,” Summer says. “And anyway, she gets a three-hundred-foot yacht and the cachet of being his wife, so you can’t exactly feel bad for her.”

“If my husband gives me a three-hundred-foot yacht, he can cheat on me as much as he wants,” Amythest chimes in.

She and Summer clink glasses.

“As long as you get to pick the crew, of course.” Wendy cuts her eyes toward Dre, who is doing something with a rope, his sleeves pushed up, muscles glistening in the sun.

“I think somebody has a crush,” I chide.

“Me? No. I’m totally in love with my boyfriend!” Wendy demurs, not totally convincingly. “But I do appreciate a nice view.”

Summer eyes Dre. “Don’t we all.”

I stare out over the ocean, my hunger finally satiated, champagne buzz and lack of sleep combining to make me feel slightly removed, like I’m floating.

Which, of course, I am. On a yacht. In the Mediterranean. It’s all very surreal, euphoric almost—except for the niggling sensation in the back of my mind like a grain of sand stuck in the gears, reminding me I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here. And yet here I am, thanks to Summer. My old friend. Could I have ever imagined, when I met her at sixteen, all the events that would conspire to land me on this yacht, in this immensely unlikely scenario?

“Belle? Belle.” Wendy interrupts my reverie. “Earth to Belle.”

They’re all standing, trying to move out of the banquette, and I’m blocking the way. “Sorry,” I murmur, sliding out of the seat.

We each take a cold bottle of water from a basket offered by Hugo and follow Julie’s flaxen ponytail from the outdoor dining area into a large living space with built-in navy-and-white-striped couches that face the sea. “This is the main deck,” she says.

She leads us deeper into the boat to a more traditional sitting area. The decor is understated luxury, with muted colors, clean lines, and soft fabrics. “As you see, we have two sitting areas and the main dining room.” She leads us into a dining area with a long table and an ornate chandelier hanging over it. I look up at the chandelier and notice a camera in the corner of the room. There’s one in every corner of the room, actually. I wonder who’s watching them.

“Here to right is the kitchen, where Jacques does the magic,” Julie continues. “No need go there. Anything you need is here in the bar and kitchenette.” She opens the door to the refrigerator, revealing rows of sparkling and flat water, pressed juices, and wine, as well as fresh-cut strawberries, yogurt, cheese, and other snacks. “You ask and we give anything you require.” Julie gestures toward a door down a short hallway past the spiral staircase between the kitchen and kitchenette. “Through this door is Monsieur and Madame Lyons’s room.”

Apparently the crew has not been informed that the missus is not the wife. Summer gives me a quick wink. “Show it to them,” she says.

“Of course.” Julie threads her way through the group and opens the door to the master suite.

The king-size bed, with its polished wood headboard and built-in bedside tables, is centered on the back wall, an assortment of pillows displayed atop a woven gold comforter. His-and-hers closets are to the right and left of the bed, window seats centered under the large windows that look out over the sea on either side of the room, a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall across from the bed.

Julie opens a door to the left of the television. “The bathroom.”

The entire front wall of the white marble bathroom is glass with a view of the water, a large Jacuzzi tub positioned underneath to take in the vista.

Brittani hops into the Jacuzzi. “Holy shit. I’m so taking a bath in your hot tub!”

On the wall next to the steam shower is a framed picture of Summer. She’s lying on her side, naked. Her arm is draped so it just covers her nipples, her top leg positioned to cover her crotch, bedroom eyes directed at the camera. No surprise there. It’s the bed she’s lying on that draws my attention. The light and focus fall off behind her, leaving the room in soft shadow, but I’d know it anywhere. It’s my bed.

I also know who was behind the lens. Which is why I’m surprised to see it displayed here.

I’m careful to hide my reaction, but everyone’s focus has shifted to Summer, whose voice takes on a shrill edge behind us. “Julie, where’s the comforter set I picked out?” she asks. “This quilt thing looks like it belongs in a Holiday Inn.”

“I will find it for you.” Julie’s smile never wavers. “Always, if there is anything we do to make your stay more comfortable, please to let us know.”

We trail behind Julie as she exits the room. She gestures to a closed door just outside the master. “Monsieur Lyons’s office. Please do not go there.” She heads up the wide spiral staircase in the hallway. “Your rooms are all just down the stairs. We see after the tour.”

We follow her into an informal room with comfortable couches and another huge flat-screen TV, as well as a large desk with two sleek computers. “This is the upper deck,” she says.

I stare up at the life-size oil painting of John that presides over the room. As I move, his deep-set eyes seem to follow me. It’s unnerving.