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“You can’t lose five minutes?” I plead
She reaches up and musses my hair. “No. Not all of us are able to pull a hand through our hair and be ready to go.”
“Fair point,” I say. “Afterward?”
“Definitely,” she confirms. She heads toward the bathroom, that perfect ass swaying with every footfall. At the door, she pauses and turns. “Oh Rhett?” she says.
“Yeah?”
“We may not be able to swim,” she says. “But I suspect that this shower is big enough for two.”
My grin widens. “Sure about that?” I ask.
“Guess you’ll have to come and find out.”
* * *
The room is gorgeous, the shower orgasmic, the service impeccable. Everything about the Alencars’ island mansion seems tailor-made to be perfect.
Except for the people.
Liz and I sit side-by-side at a teak-wood banquet table surrounded by the most unfriendly faces I’ve seen this side of a lineup.
Directly in front of us sits Paul Morgan, stuffed into a dinner suit, his assistant, Clark, standing at his elbow like an old-timey manservant. It’s immediately clear from his expression that he knows we’re responsible for the Livonia painting getting yanked out from beneath him.
Unfortunately Paul isn’t the only guest we screwed over this weekend. Rutherford and Ebeneezer Walton are seated at the foot of the table, and they too appear completely aware that we’re to blame for getting them booted off Table One at the welcome dinner.
The rest of the guests are strangers, but I’m not optimistic that we’ll be making any lifelong friends on this trip.
Seated to Liz’s right are a couple closer to our age who introduce themselves as Dudley and Tiff and their occupation as “heirs”. They seem completely disinterested in Liz, but perk up slightly at my last name. Sadly, even when perky, the pair conjures the imagery of dehydrated plants.
Rounding out the numbers is a blonde woman in her late forties who seems to assume we know who she is as she doesn’t make any attempt to introduce herself after we do; a guy in his early thirties who’s playing on his phone and doesn’t look up once throughout the entire meal; and a pair of well-off looking women who are engaged in a heated, whispered debate while the matching toy poodles sitting on their laps lick at the appetizers on their plates.
It appears that in Chicago we were playing on easy mode. This is a tough crowd, and even Liz, always the professional, looks a little strained as she glances around the room.
Marie and Bill are late again, but finally enter just as the atmosphere starts to lean toward uncomfortable.
Gone are the formal darks of Chicago; the couple are dressed in clothes as white as their house. As stylish as they look, neither of them appear very happy, and Marie even seems to be flushed around the neck. Were they just arguing? From the way they refuse to meet each other’s eyes, I’d bank on yes.
They sit in a bluster. Bill is seated to my left, Marie across from us. They share a pointed look before suddenly seaming to realize there are other people in the room.
“Ah, Rhett and Liz!” Bill says, a smile breaking over his craggy face. “We thought you were never going to get here.”
“Neither did we for a minute. The distance looks a lot shorter on the map,” I joke.
“A beautiful place you have here,” Liz says. “Thanks a lot for inviting us.”
“Well, we have to do a little something after the conference,” Bill says. “Not that it’s the same kind of commitment it used to be.”
“It can join the club,” Marie mumbles under her breath. Unfortunately the acoustics in the room are spectacular and her words echo clearly.
Maybe it’s because we’re late to the game, but Liz and I are seemingly the only ones made uncomfortable by her words. The Alencars’ friends are in varying states of bored or self-interested. Only the blonde woman whose name remains a mystery quirks an eyebrow.
“Yes well I suppose we got more out of it back in the ‘80s,” Bill grumbles back.
“The ‘80s were a long time ago,” Marie snaps.
“I’ll say!” Rutherford Walton bursts out of a sitting doze at the opportunity to complain. “My morning line in 1983 would put me in a coma today. Not to mention you can’t even do coke in the privacy of your own bathroom stall anymore without someone running to HR with their panties in a twist.”
