The Lion's Den(51)
Beach club. That means I don’t have to shower, right? I forgo the shower in favor of a spray of perfume and a layer of deodorant, and throw on a simple white bikini under a red sundress. A layer of mascara, a little stain on my lips, and I’m done in just enough time to scour our room once more for my bottle of Dramamine, but turn up nothing. Odd. Or maybe, all things considered, it’s not so odd.
I grab my bag and slip out the door, thankful to escape the cloud of Amythest’s hair spray and perfume. We exchange compliments with Wendy and Claire in the hallway before heading up to the main deck to wait for the tender.
Brittani and Rhonda are already reclining on the loungers sipping champagne when we arrive. Camille offers us a tray, but I decline, instead requesting Dramamine. Camille scurries off in search of it.
“Party pooper!” Brittani declares.
“I’m feeling a little woozy,” I explain.
Claire gives me a side hug. “Sorry. All this rocking’s not great for me, either.”
“You okay to go to lunch?” Wendy asks.
I nod. “It’ll do me good to get off the boat.”
Curiously, Camille is unable to find a single pill or patch for motion sickness anywhere on the boat, but I am not to be deterred. I steel my resolve and board the tender, praying I don’t throw up on the choppy ride to the beach club.
Vinny slides onto the bench seat next to me, watching me like a hawk. The vibration of the motor is almost worse than the bumping up and down, but if I lean slightly over the side and trail my fingers in the water just so, focusing on the coolness of the sea, I can hold on. Vinny leans into me, sweating in his black blazer. The stench of his perspiration singes my nostrils and tugs at the bile in my throat. He keeps his gaze trained on the horizon as he murmurs, “You should know, Emmanuelle was fired because she stole a necklace, not because she was pretty.”
Every nerve in my body jolts to attention. I steal a glance at him, thankful my big dark glasses hide my eyes. But his lumpy countenance is inscrutable, his eyes also hidden behind a pair of shades. On the other side of him, Bernard mutters something I can’t hear over the alarm bells ringing in my head, and Vinny turns his attention to him, leaving me wondering whether I imagined the entire exchange.
No. I may be nauseous, but I’m not crazy. It was a warning: he’s reading my emails. Jesus. In my mind I thumb back through every email I’ve sent and received from the hardwired computers. Nothing too nefarious, I think. I’ve been careful. But still…
We lurch onto the shore, and Dre and Hugo drag the boat out of the surf and hand us down onto the sand. I’m so unsettled, I hardly notice the transparent turquoise water and golden beach. I can’t take in the perfect temperature of the breeze or the laughter of vacationers playing in the sand and water.
My sandals in hand, I take a few steps into the sea, soaking my feet in the refreshing water, my focus on the skyline. If Vinny’s reading my emails, who else is? John? Summer? How stupid of me. I should have known. And now I do. No more emails from the hardwired computers, clearly.
“Come on, Belle.” Wendy’s damn fingernails on my arm. I recoil.
“Sorry,” I say. “Not feeling well.”
I want to strip off my dress, dive under the water, and let it consume me. Let the surf wash away my memory, forget I ever met Summer, forget this fucked-up trip, forget Eric, forget everything. Instead I reluctantly turn and follow Wendy across the sand, through the maze of blue and white umbrellas and loungers, past the heavy tables in the shade, into the indoor reception area that feels strangely like a hunting lodge, and straight out the front door, where we’re dumped into a dusty parking lot.
The sun beats down mercilessly, the breeze that was so cooling on the beach side nowhere to be found. Vinny’s revelation on the tender has just made my seasickness worse. How long can it last? Surely the rocking will stop now that we’re on land. I’d google it, but I can’t imagine focusing on my phone.
Vinny and Bernard indicate that we should sit on a bench in front of the restaurant, and we exchange confused glances. “But there’s a bar inside, and I think I saw a ninety-nine-year-old in a wheelchair!” Rhonda exclaims.
Everyone but me titters. I’m too busy trying to stop the ground from moving before my eyes to pretend to think this is funny.
“Mom!” Brittani cries. “That’s impossible. You can’t have a wheelchair in the sand!”
“Okay, maybe it was a walker. I can’t be sure.”
“You need to stay together,” Bernard instructs us. Or is it Vinny? I can’t determine the difference in their voices while staring at the sandy shale.
“We can stay together at the bar,” Wendy offers him with a wink. “Aren’t you thirsty? I’ll buy ya a drink.”
“Mr. Lyons said wait here, so we wait here,” he says. “You can sit on the bench.”
The slick green wood of the bench is hot to the touch, but sitting at least grounds me somewhat. We wait in sweltering silence as chauffeured cars deposit occupants armed with beach bags, hats, and sunglasses. I wish I’d brought a freaking hat. Even Wendy can’t hide her annoyance.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispers to me, shading her face with one hand and gathering her hair off her neck with the other. “I’m sweating, and I don’t need any more sun. I’m getting darker than my foundation.”