Page 10
Story: The Page Turner
Chapter Ten
I am stopped at the velvet rope at Le Pompeux in Sag Harbor by a single, very tan finger sporting a clear nail polish. The young woman to whom the finger belongs has her head down, analyzing a list on a screen set on the hostess stand. She is wearing a simple black dress.
There is a long line of people behind me that seems to stretch from Sag Harbor to Montauk. They are all waiting to be granted entrance into my parents’ favorite Hamptons haunt, a French restaurant famed for its food and service.
It is the place to be seen.
And my parents like to be seen.
In fact, they have rented out the main restaurant for my father’s book event—a mystery wrapped in an enigma—and this line will likely only grow more restless when they realize they will have to wait hours just to get into the bar.
But they will.
Everyone wants inside.
My generation is no longer patient for things that take time—a garden, a homemade meal, a long book, love—we want Instacart, Uber Eats, a clickbait headline and Tinder.
But, ironically, we will gleefully give hours of our precious time on this earth for a few seconds of acceptance and attention. We will give our souls for the perfect picture.
And, ironically, I want inside.
My conversation with VV bounces in my head like the lights on the water.
Is my book actually good enough to get published? Is it good enough to secure VV as an agent?
Moreover, do I really, really want my dream at the expense of my entire family?
As my father told me so long ago, fear is the one thing that holds a writer back from achieving her dreams.
A voice knocks me from my thoughts.
“Emma Page?”
The hostess looks up, and she’s instantly familiar.
“Gretchen?” I ask. “Gretchen Wright? What are you doing here?”
“Hey, Emma! I’m working here this summer,” she replies, grinning. “My family lives in New Jersey. My grandparents have a home on Long Island. Not the Hamptons.” Gretchen looks at me. “Which is why I’m working here.”
I smile. “What a small world. From the University of Michigan to here. You have one year left right?”
She nods. “How are things in the real world?”
Gretchen says “real world” with a deep voice and ominous tone as if she’s playing with a Ouija board.
I laugh. “Very, very real.”
I tell her about my recent interviews.
“Weren’t you writing a book in college?” she asks. “You discussed it in our Women’s Lit class. It sounded amazing. About sisters, women, and why we don’t stand up for and empower one another, right?”
I’m flattered. “You have a great memory.”
“I think I remember because two guys hit on me after class that day,” she says. “And two the next class.”
I laugh.
“We need that book in the world,” she continues. “Like, now.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s finished, I’m just trying to figure out that fine line between life and literature.”
Gretchen scans the snaking line that seems even longer now. A man with silver hair appears behind Gretchen. I recognize him instantly as Chaz Billari, the billionaire owner of the restaurant. He does not recognize me. He leans close to Gretchen and says, “Keep the line moving, sweetheart.” He is so close that I can see her hair move with his breath.
I feel an arm around my waist.
“Marcus Flare,” Gretchen mutters.
The velvet rope separating the real world from the one inside rises as if it’s made of helium, and Marcus steps inside.
He turns to me.
“We don’t wait in lines, Emma,” he says. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”
Before I can corral my shock at his appearance, he is gone.
“You know him?” Gretchen asks quietly.
I can see the pieces click together in Gretchen’s mind.
“Why didn’t you say something,” she says, shaking her head. “Phillip and Piper Page. This is your parents’ party, isn’t it? I’m so embarrassed.”
“No, I’m the one who’s embarrassed,” I mumble.
Gretchen turns and scans the restaurant. Mr. Billari is handing Marcus a glass of champagne.
“This is why we need your book in the world,” Gretchen whispers with a wink.
“You’re late.”
My mother appears from inside the restaurant, looking absolutely luminescent in a monochromatic pantsuit with shiny lapels and white square toe mules. She is wearing only the jacket, no blouse underneath, her long neck and collarbones gleaming. Her pants are trendily high-waisted and flared.
Her comment, as usual, is also a question-command: Why are you late?
She’s mad at me for not arriving even earlier to endure this pain.
“That’s why I didn’t say anything,” I say to Gretchen with a smile. “Mom, this is Gretchen Wright. I went to school with her at Michigan. She’s going to be a senior next year, and she wants to be a writer.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” my mother says, extending her hand.
“You, too, Mrs. Page. Your daughter is quite talented.”
My mother’s face actually registers surprise despite—from what I can tell—a round of Botox and filler earlier today.
“Thank you,” she says. “We’re quite proud of her.”
Her statement comes out more a question than statement.
“Good luck, Gretchen.”
My mother ushers me inside as if she’s trying to shoo a hummingbird that accidentally flew inside the house. I move inside as Gretchen says, “Next? Name?”
“You’re late, young lady,” my mother scolds.
“Planes, trains and automobiles,” I say to her with a laugh.
She stares through me, not realizing that I watched that movie every Christmas with GiGi.
“We offered you a car,” my mother says.
“I know,” I say. “I’d rather do it on my own.”
She shakes her head.
“Hi, sis.”
Jess sashays past Gretchen and the velvet rope and into the restaurant, resplendent in a gold jumpsuit that shows off every curve.
“You’re Emma’s sister?” Gretchen calls as she struts by, quickly scanning the list to check off her name.
“Unfortunately,” my sister says, pivoting on impossibly high heels. She turns and winks at me. She looks like a golden Greek goddess. Her face sparkles. Gold is literally woven into her hair.
She air-kisses Mom and disappears inside.
But she’s not late. I am.
My mother pulls me through the plush reception area and into the ladies’ room. She does a quick scan to make sure we’re alone and then begins to brush wrinkles out of my dress.
“You took the Jitney, didn’t you? In a five-hundred-dollar dress that I bought you?”
I don’t answer. She shakes her head again.
“The Jitney,” she says again, spitting the word. “Good Lord, Emma. It’s a bus . You might as well have taken a Greyhound here. Actually, it looks like you rode a horse.” My mother looks at me. “Why didn’t you just ride out here with us?”
“And spend the day here?” I ask.
My mother laughs. “Oh, right, it’s so horrible here in the Hamptons. The indignity. How awful for you.”
My mother drops her hands.
“I know you think the Hamptons are pretentious, Emma, but it’s really you that is. You can no longer behave as if you’re above everything. You’re no longer in college. The real world is filled with hard work and compromises. Take a hand when it’s offered.” My mother’s voice echoes off the richly wallpapered walls. She shakes her head, reaches into her bag and pulls out a tube of expensive concealer. She dabs it under my eyes. My mother studies my face closely. “You’re hungover, aren’t you?”
“I told you that woman is nothing but trouble,” she continues, her dabbing now more of a jab as she mutters, “VV. Very vicious. Ugh.”
“I actually had a wonderful dinner and meaningful conversation about my life and career.”
“And you can remember it? Well, that is an accomplishment.” My mother drops the concealer back in her bag and pulls out a tube of lipstick. She puffs her lips into an O as instruction for me to do the same and says, “Jess saw you at Liber. Said the drinks were flowing the entire night.”
“Did she happen to mention that she was dining with Marcus Flare?” I ask. “If you want to take issue with your children’s dinner companions, I think you should start with her. And why is he here again tonight, Mother? He’s like a roach.”
“Marcus is a legend.”
“Marcus is a pompous ass. And Jess is a sellout.”
My mother grabs my chin a bit too tightly. “Hold still please.”
She finishes the lipstick and then retrieves a brush and a tiny can of hairspray from her purse.
“You could go to war with everything in your handbag,” I say.
“I am,” my mother says, brushing and spraying, my hair going from flat to voluminous in the mirror before me.
“Well, Jess did say you looked lovely last night,” she says.
This is my mother’s olive branch.
“Have you come to any career decision?” she continues.
I know not to say anything yet.
I shake my head. “But getting closer.”
“Well, maybe hearing your father this evening will seal the deal. Our publicity team was very impressed with your intelligence and your love of books. I think we’d make a great team. And you could learn our business from the ground up.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I say, the throb of a headache beginning to return.
“I’d also love to get you back in the city,” she says. “I know how much you’re missing college. I know how much you miss GiGi. It would be wonderful to have you near us again and, of course, you’d get to see Lucy all the time here.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I offer as my own olive branch. “Those have been big life transitions.”
My mother rubs the air around my shoulder.
“I know, sweetheart.” She flicks at my hair, holding the tiny can of hairspray before her. “I’d love to be able to tell everyone tonight that you’ve joined our team. The optics would be ideal as this is such a big night for us.”
I begin to ask why, but my mother continues.
“We have so many incredible families here tonight to support The Mighty Pages. It’s been a tough year in publishing as you know. We need a shot in the arm.”
I again open my mouth to ask what is going on tonight, but my mother fogs the room with a final spray.
“There,” she says.
As the air in the bathroom clears, my mother is smiling. Her unsaid words— There…now you look presentable!— dissipate with the fumes.
“Let’s go charm the wallets right out of their Birkins, shall we?”
It is a dreamily Gatsby evening on Sag Harbor.
The doors to Le Pompeux patio are open, and the lights of the yachts blink on the water beyond. People spill from the restaurant to the patio. The plush banquettes are filled with those who not only need to be seen but also yearn to be noticed. They only look up—and occasionally stand—to greet those who meet or exceed their imagined criteria.
There seem to be four waitstaff for every guest, and no glass goes unfilled after more than a few sips of champagne, rosé or red wine. People nibble on caviar, seared sea scallops, crab and avocado, and Le Tartare de Thon, yellowfin tuna with a sesame dressing on a wonton crisp.
This is not my grandmother’s idea of an appetizer. She would be serving ham and pickle pinwheels.
How much did this shindig cost? I wonder. And what is the reason for this Met Ball-esque occasion?
I watch a hedge fund manager who could be Jess’s great-grandfather chat her up. He owns a $150-million estate on the ocean in Southampton. His hand moves steadily and stealthily down her back, and she giggles as it does. Her voice lilts, and her words sound like a question—an invitation. My stomach lurches.
The hedge fund manager’s wife is watching all of this. She has had so much work done that she resembles a trout. Her face is frozen, her eyelids barely able to close, her mouth cavernous, and only her jaw moves up and down. She has published a string of self-help books over the years, ironically promoting good nutrition and yoga over plastic surgery to stay young—and, now, she is trying her hand at a novel.
She needs Jess’s help so, of course, she will turn a reworked eye.
“Champagne?”
I turn, and a young server is standing before me with a bottle wrapped in a white cloth.
“I’m just having water tonight,” I say. “Thank you.”
A glass chimes, and Chaz Billari walks to the back of the restaurant—framed by the patio, boats and water behind him—and welcomes everyone.
“You’re all very lucky to be here tonight,” he says in an accent that I can’t quite place. “You know this is the hardest reservation to get all summer!”
People laugh and applaud.
“But instead of being surrounded by Real Housewives and movie stars, this evening we’re blessed to be in the presence of literary heavyweights. Phillip Page is here to discuss his latest novel, and a new vision for his esteemed publishing house, The Mighty Pages.”
I turn and look at my sister and mother, but they have their backs to me, watching Chaz.
“Phillip will be in conversation with none other than the world’s number one bestselling author, Marcus Flare!”
I am taking a drink as Chaz finishes the last part of the sentence, and I aspirate water.
A few people glare at me as if I should be removed from the premises.
I see Jess out of the corner of my eye. She finally looks at me.
What the hell? I mouth.
She smiles.
I sear a hole into the back of my mother’s skull until she actually turns. I raise my brows, silently asking, Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
She ignores me.
Marcus Flare slithers in front of the crowd and raises his glass of champagne.
“To books!”
“To books!” the crowd responds.
Without any semblance of embarrassment or humility, he launches into his usual schtick about inventing his own genre and how he is single-handedly saving publishing.
I roll my eyes so many times I think that they might get stuck in the back of my head, and—despite my residual hangover—I cannot deal with this, and grab a glass of champagne from a passing server and slam half of it to calm my escalating nerves.
“And now,” Marcus says with his usual flare, “the man of the hour, Phillip Page!”
My father takes a seat next to Marcus, and they discuss their writing processes, tropes they don’t like and their favorite authors.
“Your greatest influence?” my father asks Marcus.
“Let’s answer at the same time!” Marcus offers. “Three, two, one, go!”
“Dostoevsky!” they both say.
The crowd laughs and applauds.
The internal gag I intended manifests itself into a booming sarcastic “HA!”
My mother does not look, but she shifts her body just so, an intended move to let me know how gravely disappointed she is with me and my childish, brutish behavior.
I finish my champagne as their conversation swings to the state of publishing.
“I’m trying to keep the entire industry afloat, but my back hurts,” Marcus jokes. “Where are we headed, Phillip? What does the future of your esteemed house look like?”
“As many of you are aware, this has been a hard couple of years for the publishing industry,” my father says. “Retailers are taking fewer books overall. Costco has nearly eliminated its once grand book section.” He stops. “For those of you who don’t know, Costco is a place where you can buy things in bulk or purchase a hundred-ounce box of cereal.”
Many in the crowd gasp, I kid you not.
“Can you even imagine?” Marcus asks.
I still can’t with this jackass.
My dad continues after the attendees stop laughing.
“It’s becoming more and more expensive to produce books, and as costs rise, we try to do the same work with fewer people to save money.” My dad takes a dramatic pause, looking into the eyes of every person in Le Pompeux. “We are a small but mighty publisher. We require the voices of independent booksellers and independent publishers more than ever these days to bring new voices and important books to the forefront.
“But the landscape has changed,” he continues. “The Big Five continue to dominate publishing. It’s hard for us little fish to compete for big authors. We cannot afford to pay what they do, and our promise of personal attention doesn’t seem to sway today’s writers as it did in the past. But that doesn’t mean we give up, or refuse to compete. No, we think outside of the box.”
My father nods at Marcus.
“As a result, I’m excited to announce a brand-new venture with The Mighty Pages,” Marcus says. “I will continue to publish my books with PRH, but I am thrilled to launch a new imprint, Books with Flare, with The Mighty Pages next year.”
The crowd bursts into applause.
The world around me ceases to move. Voices sound as if they have been slowed.
“I will be publishing books like mine,” Marcus continues. “I will be looking for brand-new writers—authors like myself—who are inventing, or redefining, genres. And we need your support! We are seeking investors who want to keep independent publishing alive and well!”
As the crowd breaks into applause, I beeline through Balmain dresses and Louboutin heels to make my way onto the patio. I lean against the railing of the deck and gasp for air.
“Dramatic much?”
Jess is standing a few feet away, arms crossed.
“You knew about this, didn’t you?”
“They can trust me,” she says.
“This makes me sick. He makes me sick. Why?”
“It’s business, Emma. We need a shock to the system to stay relevant. To stay afloat.”
I look at Jess, my eyes imploring her for more of an explanation.
“Things aren’t great,” she says. “They’re actually worse than what Mom and Dad are saying or the trades are reporting. We need Marcus. This is actually fortuitous.”
“But we’re in bed with the devil.”
“A very rich, powerful devil,” Jess says. “He is capable of saving us, Emma.”
Jess takes a deep breath and seems to calm herself. She is as gold and shimmering as the glass of champagne she’s holding. “At some point in your life,” she says, “you are going to find yourself in an extremely difficult position that not only impacts your future but also the future of your family.” Jess pivots and looks into the harbor. “You will have to make a choice.”
“No, I won’t, Jess, because the decision will already have been made.”
She turns.
“I will always choose my family,” I continue. “Do you ever wonder why I’m so outspoken, why I act like such a brat sometimes? It’s because every decision this family has made since GiGi died has taken us one step further from who we are. The Pages are not an image or a logo, we’re not simply socialites like The Swans who glide effortlessly through life. We are a family. And though we hurt each other, we should trust one another and love each other more than anyone else in this world.”
“Do you trust me, Emma?”
“Do you trust me , Jess?”
The hull of a boat moans in the harbor.
Neither of us answers.
Jess heads back inside to the throng.
I stand alone outside for the longest time. I shut my eyes and listen to the cacophony of old and new money blend with songs from French singers édith Piaf and Charles Aznavour.
“I take it you didn’t care for the big announcement?”
I open my eyes. Marcus Flare is leaning on the railing beside me.
“Why do you keep seeking me out?” I ask. “You’re either taunting me or you desire my approval. You’re like that kid on the playground who pushes everyone down and then cries because no one will play with him. What do you want?”
“I don’t play games,” he protests, “and I don’t need your approval, but your family does. You should be grateful to me. You should be genuflecting in my direction. I’m literally saving your ass, young lady. Why don’t you show me more respect?”
I think of VV. “People either love or hate cilantro,” I say. “Different tastes.”
He laughs.
“Well, I’m saving your family’s business with my good name and taste. I’m saving your family’s future with my influence and money.” He waits for me to meet his gaze. “I’m saving your future if you’d just open your eyes—and mind—and see that.”
“My eyes are wide-open,” I say. “And my future doesn’t need saving.”
“You do realize The Mighty Pages is drowning in a sea of red, right? Let me be clear with you since it’s obvious your parents have not. They have a couple of years left before someone sweeps in and buys them before they go belly-up, a year if they publish another of your fatuous father’s novels.”
I start to speak, but Marcus holds up a finger to silence me.
“I know your family has money, but how much is left? Do you even know? Do you even realize how close your parents are to losing everything, and yet they glide along as if their facade will protect them from doom. You do not strike me as the type of girl who would be happy, say, living in a studio apartment and writing press releases for an ambulance-chasing law firm.”
“Why would that be my future when I have a degree from the University of Michigan?” I ask.
“An English degree.”
“English majors can do anything,” I say. “Do you know what’s ironic?”
“What?”
“You actually do seem like the type of man who would call a grown woman a girl and expect her to do worse than you simply because of her gender.” He actually snickers. “Can we just cut to the chase since I’m so out of the loop? What do you want with my family? Why would you want to be a part of a small publisher that seems like such an antithesis to your entire being?”
“Antithesis? Big word,” he says, lifting a dark brow. “That’s an easy answer.” He looks around. When the coast clears, he whispers, “I want to destroy your family.”
His tone is casual as if he’s ordering an iced coffee.
My heart stops. I look at him to make sure I heard him clearly.
“You heard me,” he says, nodding. “But this little secret is just between us for now.” He smiles and then says in a sad, little voice, “Now I am that kid on the playground you just described, and it’s all your fault.”
He takes a step toward me. I square my shoulders.
“Why us, though? Who are we to you?”
“We,” he says, pointing at each of us, “are more alike than you know.”
“Enlighten me, then, please,” I say. “Right now, you just sound like a villain from those old movies who twists his handlebar moustache while tying the heroine to the train tracks. Why would you want to hurt my family? You don’t even know us.”
“That’s quite an old movie reference for such a young…” he catches himself “… woman .”
“Old soul,” I say. “Thanks to my grandmother. You would have hated her, too. I’m a lot like her.”
“So, I take it I’m the villain, and you’re the heroine?” he asks. “Perhaps you have the characters backward.”
“I don’t,” I say. This time, I take a step toward Marcus. “But you haven’t answered my question. Why us?”
“Because your family is a bunch of hypocrites,” he says.
“I totally agree,” I say.
Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise.
“You make a fortune already,” I continue. “I’m sure your current publisher would even consider launching an eponymous imprint for you. Why do you need The Mighty Pages? It makes zero sense.”
“A great author never gives away the surprise ending so early in the book, don’t you know that?” Marcus says. “Let’s just say I not only know a good business opportunity when I see one, but I also know a secret about your family that they would never want revealed for, well, vanity’s sake. Because of that, I want the Pages to be like the Joads in The Grapes of Wrath . You read that book in your fancy college, didn’t you? I want you all dirt poor and living in a hovel in the middle of nowhere, totally depleted of resources and ego. And if you ever say a word about our little talk with your parents or sister, I will have you in that motel sooner rather than later, and—believe me—it won’t be a comedy to any of you. I think this whole experience will be good for all of you. Who knows? Maybe one day you’ll write a memoir about it. You can call it The Page Turner ,” he cackles. “I won’t publish it, of course, because you are—and will always be—an ungrateful little bitch.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this.
Marcus crosses his arms in satisfaction.
“Go ahead and cry. I love to see women cry.”
I can smell his musky cologne.
Of course, he would need a scent that made him smell more like a man.
“You don’t know me very well at all, or my family. The Joads were strong and proud. I may be able to call my parents hypocrites, but no one else has that right. And that’s why the female characters you write are such failures. You don’t understand women at all. We don’t cry. We get even.” One step closer. “You’ve poked the wrong hornet’s nest, Mr. Flare. For every ounce of hurt and pain you intentionally inflict upon my family, I will return to you a thousandfold.”
“There actually might be a writer in there somewhere,” he says, jabbing his finger into my shoulder. “An unpublished writer, of course. Now be a good little girl and fetch me a drink.”
As if on cue, a server passes by. I nab a glass of champagne from his tray and toss the contents into Marcus’s face.
I hear the crowd gasp. I didn’t realize until this moment that a large group was watching our interaction.
Marcus licks his lips.
“At least your parents had the good sense to serve Veuve this time,” he says with a smile. He leans in and whispers, “They’ll be drinking Budweiser out of a can this time next year.”
Marcus grabs a napkin, dabs his shirt and jacket.
“She can’t handle her liquor,” Marcus announces loudly as he rejoins the party. “Why do young women think they can hit on me. I’m a happily married man!”
The crowd titters. Someone takes a photo of me.
“What have you done, Emma?”
My mother is at the front of the gathered crowd. She remains composed, so much so that even the glass of champagne in her hands does not tremble. And yet I see a sea of rage in her pupils.
“Mom, I can explain.”
“Please, Emma,” she hisses. “You always want to explain after it’s too late. I can’t tolerate one more lie that leaves your mouth. You insist on meeting with VV, who hates our family, and then confront Marcus Flare, who only wants the best for us.”
Marcus stands behind my mother, absolutely beaming.
“He’s not what you think, Mom.”
“Stop!”
My mother’s voice echoes across the harbor. She takes a breath.
“Only you make me like this,” she says. “You were drunk last night, according to your sister, and you’re inebriated again. This isn’t college, Emma. It’s real life. I think it’s best if you just leave. Now.”
“I’ll head back to the city tonight, stay with Juice and fly home tomorrow.”
My father comes out to the patio and slides his arm around my mother’s waist.
“No,” my mother says to me with a definitive tone. “We’re staying at the Cutlers’ mansion on the ocean in East Hampton. They’re out of town, and it’s breathtaking. I think a good night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered.”
“I agree,” my father says in a hushed voice. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure with these interviews. We should talk in the morning after you’ve had some rest.”
“This was supposed to be a celebration, Emma, a huge night and a new start for our family and The Mighty Pages,” my mom says. “What is wrong with you?”
Her eyes implore me for an answer. Marcus hovers behind her.
Well? he mouths.
I keep my mouth shut.
Good girl , he mouths, walking back inside.
“We have a surprise for you tomorrow that just might change your mood and perspective,” my father says.
“I don’t know if I can handle another surprise.”
“Emma,” my mother warns.
“Go get some rest, sweetheart,” my father says.
He leans toward me to give me a hug and a kiss, but my mother touches his arm, and he stops.
“Please, Emma.” My father’s voice is raspy.
“Fine,” I finally say.
“This is all good news, Emma, I promise,” my father says as I leave. “It’s a new chapter.”
I walk back into the restaurant. As I pass by Marcus Flare, now sequestered in a VIP area cordoned off by a velvet rope, he covers his face with a napkin and yells at me, “We’re all out of champagne!” People laugh.
I move past Jess, who shakes her head, and Babe, who looks at me sadly, and out the front door of Le Pompeux.
“You’re leaving already?” Gretchen calls when she sees me.
I slow my pace and turn.
“I think I’m on the wrong side of the rope,” I say.
“There’s always a rope keeping someone out of a place they want to be,” Gretchen says.
A security guard lifts the velvet rope for me to pass.
“But,” Gretchen continues, “sometimes it’s not the place they really should be.”
Her words hit me harder than the martinis I shared with VV last night, and I stumble sideways stepping off the curb. The guard catches me by the arm as if I’m made of nothing more than the cottonwood that used to float in the summer sky in Michigan. He pulls me upright just before I fall headfirst into a planter box filled with flowers.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I look at him, bewildered, feeling like a child who has misbehaved and has been sent home scolded.
But I have done nothing wrong.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I stare at the flowers. A bee—even in the midst of this chaos—floats from bloom to bloom, doing his job, unnoticed.
You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.
GiGi used to say this to us all the time. Though she was tough as nails, she learned to play nice when she had to.
Because she had to in order to survive in this world.
“There is nothing better than keeping your head down and your mouth shut for a while,” she also told me.
I think of how Marcus’s silence unnerved me on the beach.
I have finally been pushed to my limits.
Perhaps I need to put Marcus Flare to my own modern-day Bechdel Test in which women talk to each other about a man for the sole purpose of deleting him from the script.
I mean, what happens in every romance?
The brutish man-child thrives on confrontation and rejection. He is only tamed by a woman when she does not sting like a bee but acts as sweet as the honey it produces.
Quietly doing her job, the stinger so well hidden, everyone forgets the bee has one.
The times may change, but the plot—in real life and books—tends to follow the same pattern, doesn’t it? I’m smarter than Marcus because I was raised by smart women who hatched plans to better their lives.
And this hen just hatched the start of a great one.
“Ma’am,” the security guard asks again. “Are you okay?”
I look the security guard directly in the eye.
“You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.”
He just looks at me, not understanding.
“What I’m telling you,” I continue, “is that, yes, I’m more than okay. I am ready to sting.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “Just not here, got it?”
I catch Gretchen watching the scene.
I smile at her and wave to let her know I’m fine.
“Name?” she says to the next person waiting in line behind the rope.