“This way!” shouts the photographer, and we all obediently swing back.
“So you were behind everything? Does that include the lounge at Heathrow?” Lottie turns her head to see my guilty look. “How could you? And the peanut oil! I was in agony!”
“I know, I know,” I gulp, almost crying. “I don’t know what got into me. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to protect you.”
“You always try to protect me! You’re not my mother!”
“I know I’m not.” There’s a sudden shake to my voice. “I know that.”
I meet eyes with Lottie, and suddenly it’s as though a silent, sisters-only set of memories is transmitting between us. Our mother. Our life. Why we are who we are. Then something shuts down in Lottie’s eyes and it’s over. Her face is closed up and unforgiving again.
“And big smiles, everyone.” The photographer waves his arms. “Look this way!”
“Lotts, will you ever forgive me?” I wait breathlessly for her answer. “Please?”
There’s a long, agonizing silence. I don’t know which way this will swing. Lottie’s eyes are unfocused, and I know better than to rush her.
“Smile! Nice wide smiles, everyone!” the photographer keeps exhorting us. But I can’t smile and neither can she. I’m clenching my fingers, I realize. And my toes.
At long last Lottie turns her head to face me. Her expression is disdainful, but the hatred has lessened a tad. My towel is slipping and I take the opportunity to wrap it around me again. “So,” she says, her eyes flicking over me. “Did you actually go swimming in your underwear?”
I give a little inward cheer. I want to hug her. In our code, that’s forgiveness. I know I’m not completely off the hook yet—but at least there’s hope.
“Bikinis are so over.” I match her detached tone. “Didn’t you know that?”
“Nice panties.” She gives a reluctant shrug.
“Thanks.”
“Underpants!” shouts Noah. “Underpants! Hey, Aunt Lottie, I have a question,” he adds chattily. “Have you put the sausage in the cupcake?”
“What?” Lottie says, as though stung. “Does he mean—” She stares at me incredulously.
“Have you put the sausage in the cupcake yet?”
“Noah! That’s … that’s none of your business! Why shouldn’t I have? Anyway, why are you asking me?” She seems so flustered that I look at her, suddenly alert. The way she’s behaving, it’s almost as though—almost as though …
“Lotts?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“Shut up!” she says frantically.
Oh my God. She’s totally giving herself away.
“You haven’t?” My mind is working overtime. They haven’t had sex yet? Why not? Whyever not?
“Stop talking about it!” She seems near tears. “Just butt out of my marriage! Butt out of my honeymoon! Butt out of everything!”
“Lottie?” I look at her more closely. Her eyes are wet and her lips are quivering. “Are you OK?”
“Of course I’m OK!” She suddenly flips out. “Why wouldn’t I be OK? I’ve got the happiest marriage in the world! I’m the luckiest girl in the world, and I’m totally utterly, ecstatically—” She breaks off and rubs her eyes as though she can’t believe her own vision.
I squint past her, trying to focus, and suddenly I see what she’s staring at. It’s a figure. A man. Coming over the beach toward us, with an unmistakable, heavy, sure-footed gait. Lottie has turned so pale, I’m worried she’s going to faint—and no wonder. I stare incredulously at the familiar figure, my mind scurrying with possibilities. He vowed he was going to stay away. So what on earth is he doing here?
32
LOTTIE
I think I’m going to have a heart attack. Or a panic attack. Or some other kind of attack. The blood is zooming from my head to my feet and back to my head as though it doesn’t know what to do with itself. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t … anything.
It’s Richard. Here.
Not zillions of miles away, leading a completely new life in which he’s forgotten I exist. But here, on Ikonos. Walking toward me over the beach. I blink at him rapidly, my eyelids almost in spasm; I’m unable to speak. It makes no sense. He’s in San Francisco. He’s supposed to be in San Francisco.
Now he’s making his way steadily through the audience. I’m shaking all over as he draws near. The last time I saw him was in that restaurant, telling him I didn’t accept his nonexistent proposal. That seems like a million years ago. How did he even know where I was?