“Do you have your membership card?” dock boy asked.
My heart raced.
“Tanner has it,” Caroline said.
He grinned. He was very, very cute. I turned toward Emerson, but she didn’t seem to notice. “By all means, go right ahead.”
Caroline linked her arms through mine and Emerson’s.
“It’s good to have friends in high places,” she said.
“Who’s Tanner?” Emerson asked.
“Top of the food chain,” Caroline said. “The person who runs it all.”
I assumed she meant the owner or manager, but when Emerson cocked her head to the side, Caroline said, “The bartender, of course.”
Before we had even reached the clubhouse across the street, yellow-and-white-striped beach loungers with matching umbrellas had been swept out for us.
“Ms. Murphy,” our beach attendant said to Emerson, “someone is bringing down morning refreshments for you right away.”
“Oh, OK,” she stammered. “Thank you.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You used Emerson’s name to get us in the club for the day, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did,” Caroline said, as if offended I would ask something so obvious. “I do it all the time.” She grinned at Em.
I settled into my cushioned chair.
“Maybe you aren’t so insignificant, after all,” Caroline said to Emerson. Suddenly I was more certain than ever that Caroline was always up to something. She was making sure her sister knew that while, no, she might not have made it as big as she had dreamed, she had made it pretty far.
Emerson was already sunning her long, tanned limbs, and I admired—and envied—the line of muscle that ran from her ankle all the way up to her hip bone. She was spectacular. The beach club probably granted us entrance so people could stare at her all day. “We’ll talk about this later,” Emerson said, “when I’m not so relaxed.”
“Excuse me.” I looked up to see a woman about our mother’s age in a huge hat and sunglasses, standing over Emerson with a napkin and a pen. “Emerson Murphy? May I have your autograph, please?”
Emerson smiled. “Of course.”
“I just loved you inSecret Lovers.Youmadethat movie. I can’t wait to see what you do next.”
Caroline and I smiled at each other.
“Miss Murphy,” another beach attendant said quietly, “your publicist told us when she called that Bellinis were your favorite. These were made from organic, local Georgia peaches and Moët and Chandon, as requested.”
Emerson lowered her sunglasses at Caroline, who was trying to avoid her glance. “Really, Caroline? Moët and Chandon in aBellini?”
“Take a sip and see what a difference it makes.”
It was terrific.
“I will ignore, just this once,” Emerson said, “that Bellinis areyourfavorite, not mine. If you’re going to use my name, at least get my drinks right.”
“They don’t carry Smirnoff Ice here, Emerson,” Caroline joked.
Only, that’s where Caroline was wrong. An hour later, a very handsome young beach waiter was asking, “A fresh towel, Mrs. Beaumont?”
Caroline unrolled it and, hiding inside, was a Smirnoff Ice. A hot one.
The game of “icing” someone had been out of practice for years as far as I knew, but it was something my sisters and I used to love to do to each other. Like a champ, Caroline, perfectly coiffed and manicured, got down on one knee in the sand, popped the top, and chugged that hot Smirnoff Ice. She dramatically wiped her mouth—while Emerson howled with laughter.
