Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
Did Savannah rub anyone else the wrong way, too? Pauline wondered. Maybe because she was so pretty and vivacious, everyone was content to let her dominate the conversation. Things had probably been that way ever since she’d been a girl, so maybe it had never occurred to Savannah to share the spotlight.
Pauline glanced at the serving tray as the steward finished slicing fresh mango, pineapple, and native Jamaican Ugli fruit. Everything looked perfect. There was only one nagging worry
in the back of Pauline’s mind—the storm that was building in the center of the Atlantic was looking more troublesome, and although the brunt of it would miss them, they might get hit by heavy winds toward the end of the week. Pauline made a mental note to check that the house had plenty of alcohol, candles, and a few boogie boards in case the guys wanted to catch the big waves.
She smiled and walked down the aisle. Just as she’d expected, Savannah didn’t move, and Pauline slipped into a new seat.
Savannah hadn’t explained why Gary wasn’t coming, and Pauline would never be rude enough to ask. But wasn’t it obvious?
Savannah’s ring finger was bare.
THEY’D ENTERED PARADISE.
All one could see from the great stone rooftop patio was denim-blue sky, turquoise water, acres of tropical trees, and an explosion of coral, pink, and purple flowers. Their villa sat on a bluff overlooking the Caribbean, and wooden steps led to a pristine white-sand beach with a fire pit, lounge chairs arranged under blue-and-white-striped umbrellas, and a floating wooden pier. Two woven hammocks swung between trees, right by the charming little tiki bar. At one end of the patio was an infinity pool that seemed to drop off into the sea, at the other end, a hot tub.
And that was just the outside.
A smiling maid in a khaki uniform took them on a tour of the house, pointing out the chef’s kitchen trimmed in rose granite that flowed into an enormous, open-air living room. Just a few pillars separated the house from the outdoors, but heavy, retractable awnings could be pulled down to form walls in case of bad weather.
The dining room furniture was crafted using native bamboo, the maid explained, and the lower level held a gym, a steam
room, and what the guys clearly considered the crown jewel of the house: a game room with a huge sectional couch and leather recliners, pinball machines, pool and Ping-Pong tables, and a Wii attached to a flat-screen TV. There was also a closet full of games—everything from Twister to Pictionary—and a bookshelf stocked with novels and current issues of a dozen glossy magazines.
“Uh . . .
wow,
” Ryan said.
“I’m glad you like it,” Dwight said.
“Like?” Ryan repeated. “Dude, I
like
Cool Ranch Doritos. This place . . .” He shook his head.
“Dwight, it’s perfect!” Allie cried. “Something out of a dream.”
“I can smell the salt water, even from here,” Tina said. She closed her eyes and inhaled. “Doesn’t it smell like summertime?”
“Our bags should be in our rooms by now,” Pauline said. “Ryan and Allie, you’ll be upstairs next to us, and everyone else is down here. Sheila”—she smiled at the maid—“will show you the way.”
“I need to change into my bathing suit,” Savannah said. “The beach is calling my name!”
“How do outdoor massages sound?” Pauline offered. “The ladies can also have mani-pedis if they choose.”
“Oh, my God,” Tina said. She put a hand over her heart. “Stop it. You’re kidding me.”
“Tina should go first,” Allie said. “She needs it the most! Oh, I’m sorry, Dwight—it’s your birthday week. You take the first one.”
“We’ve got two masseuses coming,” Pauline said. “You can both go first. They’ll be here in thirty minutes, and— Tina? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” Tina said. She wiped the corners of her eyes and sniffled. “I’m just so happy right now.”
Allie laughed and put her arm around Tina’s shoulder. “She
really needed this trip,” she said. “You have no idea how badly.” Allie caught Dwight’s eye and noticed his cheeks were flushed. She winked at him. “You did good, old friend.”
Dwight held Allie’s gaze for a moment, and she let go of Tina and reached for the Nikon slung around her neck. “Don’t move,” she said, raising it to her eye. “I want to capture you just like this. You know what, Dwight? You don’t look a day over twenty-five!”
“We should hate him for that,” Savannah said. “But we’ll forgive him because of the villa. If he’d booked us into a Motel 6, though, it’d be all over.”
“Okay, crazy episode over,” Tina said. “The beach! Massages! I’m ready!”
“Allie and Ryan, do you want to follow me upstairs and I’ll show you your suite?” Pauline suggested.
Allie sighed when Pauline opened a door, revealing an enormous bed, bright woven rugs scattered across hardwood floors, and a wide, wooden balcony overlooking the sea. A bathroom twice the size of the master one in Allie’s home revealed double sinks, a separate glassed-in shower with a dozen wall jets, and a Jacuzzi tub for two.
Their bags were already set on stands by the closet. Allie meant to dig out her bathing suit, but instead she kicked off her shoes and flopped on the bed, still slightly tipsy from the two drinks she’d consumed on the plane.
“Hey, beautiful,” Ryan said, lying down next to her and rolling her toward him.
“Hey, you,” Allie said, looking into his eyes. The first time she’d seen him was in a bar in Ocean City beach in Maryland, two summers after she’d graduated from college. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend—she’d just broken up with a guy she’d been dating for a year—but his eyes were so kind that she couldn’t turn him down when he asked her to dance. She’d
planned to slip away after a song or two, pretending she had to use the restroom. But then Ryan had started goofing around, striking
Saturday Night Fever
poses and picking up Allie by her waist and swinging her around, and she couldn’t stop laughing. Her friends all went back to the hotel when the bar closed, but Allie had ended up sitting on the edge of a picnic table at an outdoor pizza place, sharing a pineapple-and-red-pepper pie with Ryan. Much later, he admitted he’d picked off the pineapple and tossed it under the table when Allie wasn’t looking. “Putting fruit on pizza is sacrilegious,” he’d joked.
“Why didn’t you tell me you hated it?” she’d asked.
“Are you kidding?” he’d said. “And risk you running away with another guy who likes your weird pizza toppings?”
Now his sandy blond hair was receding and he’d put on a little weight, but his blue eyes hadn’t changed. And their inherent promise had held up through the years: Ryan was kind to her mother, rarely lost his temper, and was content to stay home and watch TV on Saturday nights or gather with friends at a restaurant—whichever Allie preferred. She could count the times they’d fought on one hand, and even then, they’d always made up within a day.
“Not used to drinking in the daytime,” Ryan was saying. “I need a nap.” He stretched his arms over his head, and Allie heard his back crack.
“Sounds like you need a massage, too,” she said. “I can’t believe Pauline arranged all this.”
“Why do you think they’re doing it?” he asked.
His tone was mild, but Allie felt an old, familiar flare of protectiveness for Dwight. Few people had understood him in college or realized that his awkward exterior hid such a gentle heart. He had told her once that his parents had been older—Dwight was born when they were in their late forties, which was highly unusual back then—and he had no siblings. Instantly
Allie’s imagination had filled in the rest: His father had probably never tossed around a football with Dwight, or wrestled with him on the living room rug. His mother wouldn’t have had any friends with young kids, so he wouldn’t have had playdates. It was a shame, because Dwight was the kind of boy who needed a nudge from his parents to invite a friend over for a game of tag or Monopoly. He could’ve used someone to give him tips on how to approach girls for dates—but his parents wouldn’t have known how to guide him; things were completely different for their generation. Now Dwight was starting to come into his own, but it was no wonder he’d struggled to fit in while growing up.
“Dwight’s a nice guy, that’s why he’s doing it!” she snapped.
“Whoa, Mike Tyson,” Ryan said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “No one’s criticizing him.”
“Sorry,” she said. She snuggled against him and put her head on his shoulder. “I guess I feel a little . . . I don’t know, guilty about it. I want to make sure Dwight has fun, too. And Pauline, of course.”
“What do you think of her?” he said.
Allie considered the question. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “She’s a little cold . . . or maybe
cold
’s not the right word. Just, controlled. She acts older than all of us, even though she’s younger. But she seems like a good person. I mean, she organized this whole trip just to make Dwight happy on his birthday. She doesn’t even know any of us. And she’s certainly beautiful, don’t you think?”
“I guess,” Ryan said. “She’s not my type, though.”
He kissed her hair. “I like redheads.”
She knew he was referring to her, but Allie couldn’t help but think about Savannah sitting on the plane, her skirt slit up the side of her leg, her laugh drawing the eyes of everyone on board.
“Savannah’s looking good,” she said.
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. Maybe a little too quickly?
Allie gave herself a mental shake. Ryan was the best husband anyone could ask for, and she was acting like an idiot. She’d noticed how pretty Savannah looked; why shouldn’t Ryan have, too? She trusted him completely. Those two cocktails had affected her more than she’d thought. She needed a nap on the beach, then a long jog to clear her mind.
She looked into Ryan’s eyes again, and he blinked three times:
I. Love. You.
It was the special signal they’d arranged with the girls, a way to connect secretly when they dropped them off at school or at a friend’s for a sleepover.
But now Allie’s heart went into a free fall. She saw her paternal grandfather, a man she’d never met, sitting in a wheelchair in a small, gray room, blinking to communicate while his body slowly shut down.
“Allie?”
“Sorry,” she said.
But her eyes flitted to her bag just a few feet away, which contained a slip of paper with the phone number for a genetic counselor. She hadn’t made the call yet. But she’d found the number on the Internet, and even though she’d vowed to give herself another week, something had made her tuck it into her toiletries case. She wondered now if bringing it had been a mistake. She felt incredibly aware of the scrap of paper, as if it was a gun or bomb she was hiding from Ryan.
How easy it had been to keep this secret from her husband, creating a space between them where none had existed before, she thought with a wisp of sadness. But she would never ruin this vacation for him, especially since after her initial panic, she’d begun to develop the sense, deep in her gut, that she was going to be fine. Wouldn’t she be able to feel it if something was so very wrong with her? Of course she would.
“Should we hit the beach?” she asked as Ryan covered a yawn. “Or do you want to take a ten-minute siesta first?”
“Whatever,” he said. “I could go either way.”
“The beach,” she decided.
She sprang out of bed and reached for her suitcase. Her hands were trembling, and it took two tries to unzip it. She hung up a few dresses, then found her swimsuit. “Race you there.”
“MMMM,” SAVANNAH SAID, FEELING
the masseuse’s strong fingers dig into her neck. “That’s the spot.”
Dwight and Tina had already gotten massages—Pauline had turned down the others’ urging to go first, saying she’d just had one the previous week—and now Savannah and Gio were lying side by side on woven mats in the warm sunshine.
“Have you and your husband been to Jamaica before?” the massage therapist asked.
“Oh, he’s not my husband,” Savannah said. Gio’s face was smushed against the mat next to hers, but his one visible eye opened and it looked amused.
“Sorry,” the massage therapist said.
Why are you apologizing?
Savannah wanted to ask, but she just closed her eyes and let her mind drift. She had a husband—or at least she’d have one for a few more months. But if she’d known how things were going to turn out, she never would have sauntered up to Gary at a bar eight years ago. He’d been drinking a single malt scotch and reading the newspaper after a long exam during his third year of medical school. She didn’t know he was in med school then, but Savannah had felt certain he was the
type of guy who’d be successful. She’d liked the look of him: tall and lean and elegant, and sitting upright on his stool instead of slumping over like other men. She’d also liked the way he didn’t glance up from his newspaper as she slid onto the seat beside him.
“Hi,” she’d said. “I’m Savannah.”
He’d finally looked up, and blinked twice, then he’d folded his paper and put it down on the bar. He’d never finished the article he’d been reading.
After they’d dated for a year or so, he’d suggested going to the movies—but after picking her up, Gary had kept driving out of the city, on and off the highway, and through streets that grew progressively narrower and bumpier, while she’d laughed from the passenger’s seat and demanded to know what was going on. Then she’d looked up and seen a beautiful little winery with an attached café come into view. A private table on a wooden deck awaited them. They’d sampled wines, Brie with fig spread on a crusty French bread, olives and cured salamis, and then he’d reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small velvet box . . .
“Is this spot tender?” the massage therapist asked, jolting her back to reality.
“What?” Savannah said.
“You were tensing up.”
“I’m fine,” Savannah said, but she didn’t close her eyes again.
It was always interesting to see people’s bodies under their clothes, she mused as she glanced at her friends. They could appear so different, as if they’d suddenly revealed a staggering talent, like the ability to play the piano by ear—or a major flaw, like a gold membership in Yanni’s fan club.