“Ah,” said Charlotte knowingly. “It tastes of thyme.”
“Does it?” said Cord. His mother’s cheeks were flushed. He shuddered, imagining she’d been reading some honey-drenched sex scene in one of the filthy books she and her pals trafficked in. Church ladies! They were some down-and-dirty gals.
“I’ve never had real Greek honey,” said Regan forlornly.
Their bus driver spoke into a microphone. “Rhodos,she means rose,” he said. “My island makes many items for sale, including carpets, brandy, cigarettes, and soap.”
“Faaa-scinating,” said Charlotte.
Cord suddenly wished for Giovanni so much he felt dizzy. He wanted Giovanni to meet his eye when Charlotte said, “Faaa-scinating,” to wink at Cord, making him feel loved and understood. Giovanni was so kind and untarnished. He would help care for Charlotte. He would laugh at her jokes, compliment her J. Crewish outfits. And she would adore him—his sweet asides, his belief in the kids he taught, his ironic sense of humor. Charlotte would fall for Giovanni entirely…if only she were someone else, or if Giovanni were a woman.
AT TSAMPIKA BEACH, PERFECTazure waves lapped at white Greek sand. Next to Regan, Lee untied her bikini top and stretched, her impossibly symmetrical breasts glistening in the sun.
“Lee!” cried Charlotte. “Your top!”
“Oh, Mom,” said Lee. “In Europe, people aren’t so ashamed of their bodies.” This was true, Regan realized. There were many leathery old breasts on display. (And leathery old penises, for that matter.)
Lee stood, then said, “I’m going for a dip!”
When they were kids, Regan was desperately jealous of her glamorous older sister. But now, watching Lee watching men watch her made Regan sad. When had Lee become pathetic? A slim guy stood up as Lee passed. She waded into the ocean and he followed like a shark smelling blood.
Regan had been aping her sister all her life, trying and failing at being a stunner. But Regan was realizing that she might be ready to put that burden down, to leave horny men’s gazes to women like Lee, who seemed to want them.
Although most of her magazines and many of her mom-friends seemed to believe otherwise, Regan knew in her gut that the person she needed to love and nurture was herself. Trying to keep her face unlined and her body teensy was a battle that would take all her might. Regan wanted to use her mind for other things—creating art, raising her girls, understanding what was happening in the world. God had given her a big bottom, strong thighs, a Rubenesque stomach. Her chest and pillowy arms were made for comforting, for loving. She could go to Orangetheory every day and drink only Shakeology drinks, but she wasn’t going to look like Lee. That was the truth, and Regan was tired of pretending the truth didn’t exist. Charlotte’s staunch insistence on denying anything real was exhausting. Regan wanted to live another way.
She stood, her own bathing suiton,and walked along the beach. In the waves, she spotted an older Greek couple frolicking. The woman was deeply tanned, her hair mashed unattractively, her breasts long and veiny. The man’s breasts, too, were paunchy and full, his round tummy gleaming in the sun. The woman was splashing water up into the air, and the couple danced as it rained back down on their shoulders. Regan smiled.
And then she ran into the sea.
LEE SWAM UNDERNEATH CRAGGYcliffs toward a rock painted with the Greek flag. Her period hadn’t come, but the cold water cleared her mind of worries. Tsampika was so different from the beaches in L.A., which had always struck Lee as pretty, sure, but lackluster. This beach had character. It looked exclusive. It was the kind of backdrop you saw in famous people’s Instagram photos—you could simplytellit wasn’t some low-class American shoreline.
And the man who approached her in the water wasn’t American, either. His teeth were the giveaway—they were yellowed and a bit crooked; an American would have had them fixed. He was tall, his very tanned chest sleek as an otter’s. Gazing back at the shoreline, Lee pretended she didn’t see him.
“You’re an actress, right?” said the man in a British or maybe Australian accent.
Lee pretended to be startled, letting her manicured hand flutter to her elongated neck. (She’d read somewhere that both swans and humans exposed their necks to attract the male gaze.) “I am,” she murmured.
“I knew it. That movie about the bank robbery?”
Lee looked at him through her eyelash extensions. “No.”
“The one in outer space, where you’re wearing a silver suit and those fabulous moon boots?”
Lee laughed. “No,” she said.
“I know! Wait…the TV show, the one where you’re the coach of a Little League team, and one of the kids goes missing?”
“Yes,” said Lee. “My God, that was ages ago.”
“But those red shorts.”
Lee laughed.Run All the Way Homehad been one of her last big roles, though at the time, three years before, she’d thought it had been herfirstbig role. How depressing. Almost as depressing as the news about Matt. Lee pushed Regan’s problems out of her mind and turned to her new suitor.
“I’m retired,” said Lee, trying out the words.
“Retired?” said the man. “Lucky girl.”
“I’m finished with the rat race,” said Lee airily. “I’m on to bigger and better things. L.A. is in the rearview mirror, if you know what I mean.”
