Lupe took a folding director’s chair from her cart. “We’ve come to make you beautiful,” said Deena, whose voice had a bright Texas twang.
Hannah laughed. “Hope you’re good at your jobs.”
The women exchanged glances, but none laughed with her. Deena gestured to the chair. “Have a seat. Rox, why don’t you pour Hannah a nice glass of wine?”
That sounded better than Pomegranate Splash Nutra-Water. Hannah sat in the director’s chair as Deena draped a cape over her robe. Rox brought a large wineglass, filled to the brim. Hannah took a sip, being careful not to spill. The white wine was light and dry, with gentle citrus undertones. Perfect for a late afternoon in the Caribbean. “This is excellent.”
Rox smiled. “Have as much as you like.”
As Deena tugged a comb through her thick, hyper-curly hair, Hannah winced. “The humidity really does a number on it. I hope you can do something to control the frizz.”
“We’re not going to control it,” said Deena. “It’s part of your look. You’re Everywoman, not a glamour queen.”
Everywoman, not a glamour queen
. Yup, that was her. The vanities worked and chatted to one another, and Hannah let her mind drift far from Resorte Siete Mares. She was back at the Port Pleasant Country Club, three summers ago, at Rachel’s wedding.
Hannah often joked that she and Jack finally got together because of a stone-skipping contest. Not one where she’d challenged him and won, in a cutesy rom-com sort of way, but rather, a contest she lost.
The wedding party was being photographed by a pond on the country club grounds when Darren and a few of the groomsmen started skipping stones across the water. Rachel watched for a minute, and then grabbed a stone and strutted over, brimming with the confidence that came with being fabulous at everything. “You guys are goin’ down,” she said and, with a graceful flick of her wrist, sent the stone skimming across the water.
A gorgeous stone-skipping bride was too greeting-card perfect for the videographer to pass up, so he’d urged them into a little contest. One by one, Rachel bested each guy, and they loved every second of it. When it was the bridesmaids’ turn, Hannah tried, but couldn’t get the hang of it. Each of her stones sank like, well, stones. The others rolled their eyes. The videographer quit filming. Hannah felt like crap. When it was over, she’d turned to Rachel and asked, “Where did you learn to do to that?”
Rachel had given her an odd look. “Learn?”
The moment ate at her the rest of the day. Granted, it was silly, but it was also so indicative of her life. She was an A-student at an Ivy League university, and that summer had an internship at one of New York’s biggest publishing houses, but no one batted an eye. Meaningless stuff like bouncing a rock over a pond? That impressed people. Later, fed up with Rachel’s awesomeness and older relatives’ whispers about “poor little Hannah with the Feldman shape,” she’d wandered out to the terrace. Her heart quickened when she saw Jack, who’d come to the wedding with his folks, sitting alone, his feet propped on the balustrade, drink in hand.
“Hey there, Hannah Banana.” There was a slight slur in his words.
Hannah’s heart thrummed. “Hey yourself.”
He pulled out the empty chair beside him, but kept his gaze turned to the twilit golf course. Hannah fought the butterflies that his presence often brought and tried to think of something to say. Jack sipped his cocktail and sighed. “They told me to study law, not theater. Score well on the LSAT? Did that, too. But none of it fucking matters, because at the end of the day, I’ll never be a brain surgeon.”
Hannah winced. This must be about his older brother, who actually was a brain surgeon.
“Tonight, when your dad came over to congratulate me for getting into law school, you know what my dad said?”
“What?”
Jack dropped his chin and lowered his voice, in a
Hannah laughed. “Hope you’re good at your jobs.”
The women exchanged glances, but none laughed with her. Deena gestured to the chair. “Have a seat. Rox, why don’t you pour Hannah a nice glass of wine?”
That sounded better than Pomegranate Splash Nutra-Water. Hannah sat in the director’s chair as Deena draped a cape over her robe. Rox brought a large wineglass, filled to the brim. Hannah took a sip, being careful not to spill. The white wine was light and dry, with gentle citrus undertones. Perfect for a late afternoon in the Caribbean. “This is excellent.”
Rox smiled. “Have as much as you like.”
As Deena tugged a comb through her thick, hyper-curly hair, Hannah winced. “The humidity really does a number on it. I hope you can do something to control the frizz.”
“We’re not going to control it,” said Deena. “It’s part of your look. You’re Everywoman, not a glamour queen.”
Everywoman, not a glamour queen
. Yup, that was her. The vanities worked and chatted to one another, and Hannah let her mind drift far from Resorte Siete Mares. She was back at the Port Pleasant Country Club, three summers ago, at Rachel’s wedding.
Hannah often joked that she and Jack finally got together because of a stone-skipping contest. Not one where she’d challenged him and won, in a cutesy rom-com sort of way, but rather, a contest she lost.
The wedding party was being photographed by a pond on the country club grounds when Darren and a few of the groomsmen started skipping stones across the water. Rachel watched for a minute, and then grabbed a stone and strutted over, brimming with the confidence that came with being fabulous at everything. “You guys are goin’ down,” she said and, with a graceful flick of her wrist, sent the stone skimming across the water.
A gorgeous stone-skipping bride was too greeting-card perfect for the videographer to pass up, so he’d urged them into a little contest. One by one, Rachel bested each guy, and they loved every second of it. When it was the bridesmaids’ turn, Hannah tried, but couldn’t get the hang of it. Each of her stones sank like, well, stones. The others rolled their eyes. The videographer quit filming. Hannah felt like crap. When it was over, she’d turned to Rachel and asked, “Where did you learn to do to that?”
Rachel had given her an odd look. “Learn?”
The moment ate at her the rest of the day. Granted, it was silly, but it was also so indicative of her life. She was an A-student at an Ivy League university, and that summer had an internship at one of New York’s biggest publishing houses, but no one batted an eye. Meaningless stuff like bouncing a rock over a pond? That impressed people. Later, fed up with Rachel’s awesomeness and older relatives’ whispers about “poor little Hannah with the Feldman shape,” she’d wandered out to the terrace. Her heart quickened when she saw Jack, who’d come to the wedding with his folks, sitting alone, his feet propped on the balustrade, drink in hand.
“Hey there, Hannah Banana.” There was a slight slur in his words.
Hannah’s heart thrummed. “Hey yourself.”
He pulled out the empty chair beside him, but kept his gaze turned to the twilit golf course. Hannah fought the butterflies that his presence often brought and tried to think of something to say. Jack sipped his cocktail and sighed. “They told me to study law, not theater. Score well on the LSAT? Did that, too. But none of it fucking matters, because at the end of the day, I’ll never be a brain surgeon.”
Hannah winced. This must be about his older brother, who actually was a brain surgeon.
“Tonight, when your dad came over to congratulate me for getting into law school, you know what my dad said?”
“What?”
Jack dropped his chin and lowered his voice, in a
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