Authors: Emily Bleeker
“That’s fine. This is about you. Whatever makes you the most comfortable is what I want. How about the kids?” The cap of a chunky red Sharpie clacked against her teeth as she reviewed her notes.
“At the neighbor’s house,” Lillian said, eyes narrowing. “I thought I made it clear I didn’t want them involved.” The kids had gone through too much already. No more interviews. She and Jerry agreed on that a long time ago.
Genevieve glanced up. “No, no, I was hoping we could get one family shot at the end. Don’t worry, Lillian, no questions.”
“Okay, maybe
one
shot.” Cameras were fairly commonplace for Josh and Daniel the past few years. They probably wouldn’t notice one clicking away in the background.
“All right, I’m almost ready here,” Genevieve snapped expectantly to the man with the headphones. “My questions, Ralph.”
The young guy with dusty-blond hair and oversize black-rimmed glasses who’d rearranged all Lillian’s pictures ran toward the reporter, staring at the ground like a dog dominated by his alpha. She flipped some rumpled pages scrawled with ink into the intern’s hand, then resumed going through her stack of cards.
“Run over those notes with Steve before we get this going,” Genevieve Randall ordered. The young man slinked away in submission. Lillian was sufficiently intimidated.
After running a sound check with the crew, Ralph helped Lillian check her mic and then called Jasmine in for a last-minute touch-up on both women, though Lillian was sure it was purely for her benefit. Then everything became eerily still with Genevieve the only one in motion. Smoothing her already perfect hair, she said, “Roll tape.” The cameras were on.
“Five, four, three, two, one . . . interview with Lillian Linden.”
CHAPTER 2
LILY-DAY 1
Fiji
The doors open easily, and the moist heat of Fiji floods in and mingles with the stale air-conditioning from inside the small airport. I take a deep breath. The smell of cooled air escaping into the atmosphere is apparently the same in all parts of the world.
“Well, Lillian, look at us, a couple of jet-setters.” Margaret slips her age-spotted hand into the crook of my arm, rushing us toward a tiny jet appearing on the horizon. “I wish you would’ve worn something a little more . . . appropriate for the occasion.”
Back at the resort I had thrown on a pair of cutoff jeans and a worn green tank top over my swimsuit two minutes before the limo arrived. I’d barely slipped on my ratty Nikes as the bellhop tossed my bags in the car. No one but Margaret cares what we look like in Fiji. I could walk down the beach naked and the cabana boys would just ask me if I wanted a refill on my cocktail.
We’ve been in Fiji a week already and I haven’t carried my own bag once. Everyone seems to be on strict orders to treat us like celebrities. Between the crazy amounts of food and the compulsory lack of exercise, I might return home twenty pounds heavier.
“Sorry, Margaret, it’s all I had clean. No one told me there’s a dress code.”
“It’s not a dress code, it’s a sense of self-respect. If you can’t do it for yourself, please at least think of me. Would it hurt to put on a touch of makeup or put up your hair?” She flips her own hair as if to illustrate the kind of work one should put into her appearance. “You have such a pretty face, why don’t you let others see that?” Dozens of comebacks dance on my tongue but I don’t say anything. I never do.
“I have some makeup in my bag. I’ll put some on when we sit down if that’ll make you feel better.” Margaret cringes, glancing at my grungy blue JanSport from college, which is my version of a purse. It totally drives Margaret crazy. I have a closet full of purses she’s given me over the nine years Jerry and I have been married, each one an effort to lure me away from the pack. I might use them for special occasions but I never use them around Margaret; it’s my super-passive-aggressive way of saying she’s not in charge of me.
“Yes, dear, thank you.” Shockingly, she doesn’t comment on the bag this time. “I think you’ll find it makes
you
feel better as well.” She pats my arm emphatically and I swallow my words. They go down harder every time.
Margaret now seems born for this lifestyle, not that she’s ever lived it. As a young widow of a deputy in rural Iowa, she was a bargain shopper and coupon clipper. But in the past week she’s mastered the art of waving toward the luggage and slipping a tip through gently touched fingers.
Today she’s dressed in all white, wearing an outfit that looks like it’s from 1983. She definitely looks more prepared for a ladies’ lunch than a plane trip, but she thinks it’s the height of fashion. Aside from the suit, she looks pretty cute. Her hair’s teased into a halo of creamy honey, sunglasses resting casually on the bridge of her nose. When she smiles, the delicate wrinkles on her cheeks emphasize the powdery sheen of makeup she carefully applied this morning.
“Now, here we are.” She gasps.
Up close, the jet’s even less impressive. A red-and-blue racing stripe runs down the side, making the plane look more like a prop in a movie than a machine we’re supposed to fly in. It’s small, much smaller than I would’ve guessed a jet would be. I count three windows trailing out toward the tail and no discernible cargo area.
The daily agenda slipped under our door this morning said we’d be on this plane for nearly four and a half hours. Some guy from Carlton Yogurt is supposed to meet us on the plane and escort us to the “private island.” Four hours with my mother-in-law and a complete stranger? I might need to grab one of Margaret’s sleeping pills to get through the trip.
There are only three stairs to climb to reach the entrance of the tiny gray jet. Margaret marches up the steps first and I don’t resist. This has been her vacation from the start, so I go with the flow. It works for both of us; she gets her way most of the time, and, as a trade-off, I don’t go insane.
When she called and told us she won a free trip to Fiji from a sweepstakes she’d entered, I didn’t believe her. I thought she’d been snookered by a fast-talking salesman. She lives four hours away from us in a retirement community in The Middle of Nowhere, Iowa, and Margaret’s the only person in the world who looks forward to getting calls from telemarketers.
I really
do
love Margaret, in my own way, but that doesn’t mean she’s an easy lady to get along with. Before coming to Fiji I thought of this vacation the way I think of a trip to the gynecologist: necessary but uncomfortable. But Jerry thought I needed a break from my life as a mom and Margaret thought it would be good “bonding”—so here I am.
Thank goodness I listened. Fiji is pure bliss, even with Margaret attached to my hip. I don’t know if it’s the perfect weather or the intoxicating scent of flowers in the air, but something is different about her, about us. Without Jerry and the boys around, Margaret’s “suggestions” on how to be the perfect wife and mother are at a minimum. As a result I’m finding it much easier to enjoy paradise than I originally thought.
Ducking my head through the curved doorway, I turn a little corner and take in the interior of the plane. The first thing I notice are five flawless leather seats, two lined up one behind the other on each side of a small aisle and one more in the rear middle. Margaret squeezes past our flight attendant, who’s quietly milling around in the front of the plane, and heads toward the second row of seats. There are TV screens on the back of every seat and enough snacks and drinks for Daniel’s whole kindergarten class. Looks like I was wrong. This is traveling in style. I mean, food
and
television? That’s my kind of vacation.
I should’ve trusted Janice, the Carlton rep. She kept telling us that the second half of our trip’s supposed to be amazing. She’s never actually been to Adiata Beach. Her boss usually goes on both parts of the trip, but he couldn’t make it for the first week this year, our week in Fiji. They had a huge drawing in the PR department to see who’d go instead and Janice won. I’m bummed she won’t be with us now, but she says her boss is a nice enough guy. There’s no way he’s going to make me laugh like Janice did; that lady was hilarious. She gave me her e-mail address so we can keep in touch.
“Excuse me, miss, could I have some water, please?” Margaret shouts toward the front of the plane before plopping down in her seat.
“Margaret,” I whisper, “I can get it.”
“No, dear, this is her job. Let her do it,” she says, embarrassingly loud.
A tall sandy-blonde woman strolls down the aisle. Fine lines surrounding her eyes and mouth make her seem as friendly as she sounds.
“Hey there, hon, what can I do for ya?” Her voice is coated in a honeyed Southern drawl.
“You can get me water, bottled if possible? No ice. Just a cup.” Margaret pauses to consider something silently. “I hope the water’s chilled already?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Lillian, tell this nice woman what you want.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” The last thing I want to do is make the flight attendant’s life harder. She has Margaret for that.
“She’ll have what I’m having,” Margaret says with an air of authority that keeps me from arguing further.
As the flight attendant sways to the front of the plane, I stick my hand in the front zippered pocket of my JanSport, my book pocket. It’s the perfect size for any type of novel, though certain types of Russian literature might stretch it beyond usefulness. By the time I get my book out and flip to the first page, the attendant’s back.
This lady’s either really good at her job or clairvoyant. She gives Margaret extra napkins, a pillow, and a blanket. She’d probably give Margaret prime rib if she asked for it, which thankfully she doesn’t. Hands on the chairs to either side, the flight attendant assesses us both.
“If you ladies need anything else, my name’s Theresa. Give me a holler.”
Margaret nods, too busy untwisting a child safety cap and sorting through a rainbow of pills to respond. She pops two small white circles in her mouth and swallows. That will knock her out for a few hours at least.
“Thank you.” I attempt to salvage an iota of politeness. Theresa nods, apparently more amused than offended.
“We should have a smooth flight ahead of us; I’m sure you’ll sleep well. Night, honey,” Theresa coos to Margaret, then thrusts a frosty water bottle at me. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks.” I toss it into the open zipper of my backpack for later.
“No problem, hon—that
is
my job, after all.” Her eyes twinkle and I know she heard Margaret earlier. “Now sit back and relax. Dave should be here soon and we can get on our way.”
“Dave?” The name sounded familiar. “Is that the pilot?”
She shakes her head; stiff wheat-colored strands tickle her face. “No, Dave’s the yogurt guy. Don’t worry, he’s nice, kinda cute too.”
“Dave Hall?” I think that was the name Janice told me.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s the one.”
CHAPTER 3
DAVE
Present
The call came at 5:30 a.m. Dave lay in bed lingering between sleep and consciousness, his eyes snapping open at the first ear-piercing ring. Way. Too. Early. The phone rested on a short black table by his side of the bed.
He glanced at his wife, still sound asleep with her black satin eye mask and earplugs snugly in place. Dave used to think that only people in movies slept that way, and then he met Beth. She had more requirements for a good night’s sleep than anyone in
The Princess and the Pea
. It used to annoy him, but he was starting to find it endearing.
The phone rang again. Despite the earplugs, Beth stirred and shoved one of the pillows over her head. Tight golden curls spilled out from underneath. Their bed had more blankets than anyone’s in hot, sunny LA. Beth kept the air at sixty-five, thumbing her nose at the environmentalists and freezing her husband in the process. Shaking his head to clear it, Dave grasped for the phone before it rang again.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice raspy with sleep.
“Hello, I’m calling for David Hall. Is he available?”
A telemarketer. His thoughts quickly turned stormy. “It’s FIVE a.m. and I’m sure I don’t want what you’re selling. Please take me off your list and never call again,” Dave growled.
Before he slammed the receiver down, the voice continued. “Sir, please wait. Lillian Linden told me to call you.”
Dave paused, then placed the phone back on his ear. “What did you say?” His heart beat unsteadily in a combination of abating fury and budding curiosity.
“Uh, I’m from
Headline News
. I’m calling with a message from Lillian Linden.” The voice was young and very nervous.
Dave turned in his bed and sat up slowly, grasping the phone closer to his ear. Shivering as his bare feet hit the wood floor, he tiptoed deftly to the master bathroom attached to their room. After closing the door with a little click, Dave let his voice rise to full volume.
“Listen, I don’t know who you are but I have my number unlisted for a reason. I’ve given you people all you wanted—interviews, photo ops, appearances. I want you to leave me and my family alone,” Dave snarled.
“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Hall, I’m calling you with Mrs. Linden’s permission.
She
gave me your number.”
“Ha, yeah right.” Dave snorted. “Lillian gave you my number? Suuure. You know what, kid? You’re lower than dirt to bring her into this. Don’t you think she’s been through enough already? Give me your editor or producer or whoever your boss is, ’cause I’m going to do my best to get you fired.”
Silence echoed from the phone. Dave started to think the kid hung up when he heard faint voices in the background, then the rustling of a phone changing hands.
“Hello, is this Mr. Hall? Mr. David Hall?” A man’s voice this time, definitely boss-like.
“Yes, and who am I speaking with?” Dave put on his most businesslike voice, the one he used when speaking to management types at work.
“My name is Bill Miller. I’m a producer over here at
Headline News
. I understand you want to speak with me.”