The Lion's Den(5)

Her delight is infectious. We all gather around the exorbitantly expensive vehicle, oohing and aahing appropriately—it is, after all, something magnificent—as the bags from the trunk are loaded onto the plane.

I give Summer a hug, trying to recapture our old familiarity. “It’s gorgeous, and so are you.”

“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.