My relationship with my mother is complicated. She doted on me and my sister when we were growing up, but once Sophie hit her teen years, something changed. Mom changed. She still loved us, of course, but once she and Sophie started butting heads all the time, Mom became very passive aggressive. She started working later, going out to social events and fundraisers with Dad more, leaving notes around the house or texting me and my sister instead of just talking to us. Looking back, I can see that it was probably because Mom would rather avoid us than get into arguments, but at the time it felt like she wanted nothing to do with her daughters. Which only made Sophie push back harder, get even more confrontational whenever Momwashome.
Then, after Sophie died, Mom did a complete one-eighty. She wanted to know exactly where I was and who I was with at all times, she barely left the house, she insisted on checking in with me every day after school and before bed. I hated it at the time, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the reason she holds onto me so tightly is because she’s scared of losing me, too. Which is why, as hard as she is to take a lot of the time, I try toremind myself that her being so overprotective is just proof that she cares.
Scrambling to assemble an outfit, my hair still dripping wet, I have a lightbulb moment. I’ll just tell my parents that my final spa appointment at Espadrilles ran late. Thank God for all the overpriced but heavenly scented spa products that Brooke and I bought there. My bright red manicure still looks perfect so I can pretend I was getting my nails done too.
I unzip my toiletries case and start slathering myself in lemongrass scented lotion and scrunching my hair with rosemary-lavender oil. Once my mother gets a whiff of me, she’ll have no reason not to buy my story. After slipping into a pair of palazzo pants and a sleeveless mock neck top, I give my hair a quick towel-dry, put on some gold hoops, and reapply my lip gloss. Dashing out the door and down the hall, I call the front desk on my cell and confirm my checkout, hanging up just as the elevator arrives.
It's only a short Uber to the members-only resort my parents are staying at. In fact, it’s in the same direction that Scowl and I went this morning for a dip in the private pool. The back of my neck prickles. What are the chances that I might be going to the same resort now? It’s hard to tell. The hotel properties here tend to run into each other, with tropical flowers and overlapping groves of palm trees and poincianas in the spaces between. I didn’t pay much attention to exactly where we were anyway. I was too caught up in the moment.
Instantly, I flash back to him laying me out on the lounge chair, his hands and mouth everywhere, the sweet taste of champagne on my tongue. Heat flushes me from my head to my toes and I can’t help thinking that someday, when I take over running the team from my parents, I’ll be able set my own schedule. Maybe then I could fly out to Chicago or L.A. or wherever Scowl is and see if he’s interested in meeting up again.Implausible, maybe, but not impossible. It’s an effort to shove all my memories of him aside and snap back to the present as the Uber pulls up at my parents’ hotel, The Quattuor Club.
Wow. This place is even fancier than I imagined. The architecture is clean and modern and harmonious, with almost a Japanese influence. There are lots of glass walls and manicured foliage indoors and out. The path leading up to the entry doors is lined with thick stands of bamboo, and I walk over a little wooden bridge with clear, koi-filled waters flowing beneath it. The second I walk inside, I’m greeted by name by a smiling staff member and I catch the subtle scents of aloe, cucumber, and ocean breeze. I actually let out a sigh, feeling my shoulders relax. This is so much nicer than Espadrilles.
The lobby is gorgeous. Cream sofas, plush boucle armchairs, dark stone floors, soothing charcoal walls and brushed brass light fixtures everywhere. The space is huge and yet gives off a cozy vibe.
“Shall we check you in?” the staff member asks.
“Um, actually, I’m running late to meet my parents for dinner and I don’t know my room number yet,” I say.
She nods. “Of course, Miss Tisdale. The bell desk will handle everything.”
Another staff member appears at my elbow to whisk my bags away and then I’m escorted directly to the restaurant. By the time I get there, I actually feel calmer. I’m late, yes, but only by about twenty minutes.
As I walk into the restaurant, however, my anxiety reappears full force—because the first thing I see is a sign that readsClosed for Private Event. Of course it is. Why do they have to act like this? Who cares if other equally rich people eat near them? Booking out the entire restaurant is so unnecessary.
It’s something they’ve done on occasion since I was a child, purchasing a few rows of seats for our family at the opera orthe theater, renting an entire museum for the afternoon, buying out all the tickets for the botanical garden. But over the last few years, their desire for solitude has extended beyond special outings. It’s gotten so much worse. Ever since Sophie died. As if they’re afraid other people will see their grief and ask questions or offer sympathies.
While I can understand wanting to sequester themselves from the world, I think they’re taking it too far. At least after they retire, they can spend all the hermit time they want. Maybe they’ll start to feel a bit more social again once they’ve had enough quiet time to themselves.
“Miss Tisdale.”
I whip my head toward the voice and see an elegant woman standing behind an onyx podium.
“Yes?”
“This way, please,” the hostess says, leading me into the dining room.
Following her, I see that there are no other guests here, thanks to my parents reserving the entire place just for us. The room is empty and echoing, devoid of any signs of life save for Mom and Dad taking up a massive table by the picture windows that look out at the ocean. They both have wine glasses in front of them, as well as a basket of bread that I’m sure my mother hasn’t touched.
I glance around in the desperate hope that I might spy one other person, just one, anyone who can act as a buffer. But the only other people I see are two servers and a bartender behind an extravagant mahogany and hammered brass bar with his back turned to us.
As I walk up to the table, I notice my mother is nervously twisting a cloth napkin in her lap, her brows knitted, but my father immediately rises from his seat to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Darling, you look beautiful.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He pulls a chair out for me across from him, clears his throat at my mother, and then sits back down. Mom just gives me a tight, fake smile.
“You should have called,” she says. “Your hotel said you’d checked out already, but you weren’t here, and I couldn’t stop thinking that something had happened?—”
“Victoria, please,” my dad admonishes. “She’s just on island time, that’s all.”
“No, Mom’s right. I’m sorry,” I say. “My spa appointment ran late, and I left my phone in my room, and then I had to rush to get here.”
I fluff my damp hair a little in an effort to waft the rosemary oil in my mom’s direction.
“So. How have you been spending your time on the island?” Mom asks.
