The Lion's Den(45)

A well-tanned Frenchwoman of indeterminate age who is clearly the shop owner stands in the middle of the cozy space dressed in flowing gray linen, her arms crossed, unabashedly looking us up and down as we enter. As her assistant locks the door behind us, she finally bestows on us a smile.

“Welcome,” she says in heavily accented English. “I am très happy you are petite. Some Americans, they are…” She makes a gesture with her arms that clearly demonstrates her distaste for well-fed tourists. “But you, très belle. Make my job easy.”

Apparently she didn’t get the memo that fat-shaming is no longer très cool. Regardless, we accept her compliments perhaps too eagerly with a chorus of “Merci,” still unsure what exactly is going on.

The pretty girl who greeted us gestures to a row of chairs against the back wall and says, “Asseyez-vous s’il vous pla?t.”

I take a seat on the end next to Summer, and the shop owner stands before us. “You choose style; you choose fabrics; you choose embellissements. We measure, we make.”

The five of us exchange murmurs of excitement. She claps her hands twice, and a willowy model prances from behind a door, dressed in a skimpy black bikini.

“Here you see the shapes; they are black, but you choose fabric you desire.”

The model spins, and the assistant hands us all little notepads and pencils so that we can take notes.

While the model is getting changed into her next bikini, Summer bends her head toward mine with a conspiratorial grin and whispers, “I always think of Ryan—or shall I say Monsieur Stokes—when I speak French. Remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“Too bad I had to get him fired.” She sighs.

I look at her in shock. “That was you?”

She nods. “After what his friend did to you? I couldn’t let you sit in his class the rest of the summer.”

If she’d told me this a few months ago, I would have believed her, would have been touched by her revelation. But a lot can happen in a few months. Nevertheless, I bring my hand to my heart and open my eyes wide. “You did that for me?”

“That’s what friends are for, right? Having each other’s back. And I was moving anyway. It’s not like they could reprimand me.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“You would have done the same for me,” she says lightly.

I watch the model prance about in another suit, confounded by Summer’s timing. Why is she telling me this now?

Not that it makes a difference. Even if she did have my back ten years ago, it wouldn’t change what she’s done. We’ve never discussed it, but she’s not stupid. She may not realize the extent of what I know, but she has to recognize that I’m aware she’s less than a loyal friend to me.

And yet she invited me on this trip, and I’m here. Is she trying to buy me?

“That cut would look great on you.” I indicate the suit on the model.

“Yeah, it’s my favorite so far, I think. Maybe in green to match my eyes.”



Back in the Suburban on the way to the tender, I check my phone:

Hey sis,

Just because you’re on a yacht doesn’t mean you can’t be miserable. All that glitters is not gold, LOL. And don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to send you any more illicit attachments. Sounds like your host has a lot of paranoia, but remember: it has nothing to do with you. You’re just a bystander. So you’re locked in at night…OK, yeah, that’s weird but it’s only a week, right? Try to keep your head up and not get caught up in Summer’s mind games. You’ll be home before you know it, and you never have to see her again if you don’t want to. Breathe. Soak up some sun. Everything’s gonna be ok!



I’ve been friends with Summer for so long that it’s hard to imagine my life without her in it, but I have to admit that the idea of never seeing her again fills me with euphoria. This could be my final few days with her, ever. Yes…freedom lies in wait just around the bend, if I can only make it through this week and not let her get to me. Still, something tells me she won’t let me go easily.

By the time we get back to the boat, we have less than an hour to freshen up and get ready for dinner, but Amythest is occupying the shower in our room, so I get my outfit ready, selecting a pale-green maxi dress and silver sandals. When I open my jewelry travel bag, one of my earrings tumbles to the floor and rolls under Amythest’s bed.

I drop to my hands and knees and use the flashlight on my phone to sweep the plush carpet beneath the bed. I see a flash of silver and reach for the earring, but my fingers brush something else as I grab it. I jump, conditioned to think all surprise objects in dark places must be rodents, but when I shine my phone in that direction, I see not a pair of eyes glaring back at me, but a pair of sunglasses.

I take them out and look at them in the light. They’re men’s black Oliver Peoples wraparound glasses that look familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen them. I set them on the bedside table as Amythest emerges from the shower wrapped in a towel. Her eyes dart to the glasses.

“I found them under the bed,” I say. “Probably from whoever stayed in this room last, but I figured I’d ask at dinner.”

She makes a move toward the glasses, then stops herself. “Uh, yeah, probably.”