by Sara Rosett
Summer rushed to a mirror hanging on one of the lobby’s walls and pulled at the edge of the neckline of her T-shirt, exposing blotchy, raised skin. “I felt itchy, but I thought it was just a bug bite or something.” She twisted her arm and pulled up her sleeve, revealing more inflamed skin.
“It’s on your arms, too,” Regina said in a voice usually reserved for delivering news of famine and death. “Oh, this is horrible. The wedding is only two days from now. And your wedding gown is strapless.”
I pulled her away from Summer, who already looked devastated, and caught Meg’s eye. She moved toward us as I said, “It’s not too bad. Some anti-itch lotion will fix you up.”
Meg ran a critical eye over the red patches. “Probably best not to rub it,” she said.
Regina squinted. “I think it’s getting redder by the moment.”
“Regina, you go ahead to the bar and order Summer a drink,” I said, “We’ll get some cream on this and join you later.”
Meg gave Regina a shove in the direction of the bar as she said, “Order me a glass of white wine, would you? I’ll be right there.”
After Regina was out of earshot, Meg looked critically at Summer’s skin. “That looks like poison ivy. I got into some last summer. Benadryl and calamine lotion is what you want.”
“Come on, Summer,” I said, “let’s see if the resort has some sort of medical person on call.”
* * *
Camden House had a nurse practitioner on duty. She arrived at Summer’s door within a few minutes of my call. “Hello. I’m Rebekah. You’ve got a skin irritation that you’d like me to look at?”
“Not me. I’m just here for moral support.” I stepped back so that Rebekah could come in. As she stepped by me, Ned strode down the hall, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He saw me, gave me a quick nod, then pulled out a key card and entered a room two doors down the hall from my room.
Rebekah took one look at Summer’s neck, diagnosed poison ivy, and sent Summer to shower, instructing her to wash in tepid water to remove any of the plant oil that was still on her skin.
Summer emerged from the shower wrapped in one of the resort’s generous bath towels. “Ellie, could you find my robe? It’s in my suitcase somewhere. Where could I have gotten into poison ivy? I haven’t been in the woods or the gardens even.”
I looked up from her suitcase. “We were on the grass today.” I hated to bring up the paintball incident, but it might be a possibility. I didn’t say anything else since Rebekah was in the room, but Summer picked up on my meaning immediately.
“But that was just my knees and they’re fine. And my hands and forearms aren’t itchy.”
They were indeed clear of any inflammation, unlike Summer’s upper arms, shoulders, and chest. With the towel still wrapped around her, she turned around to look at her shoulders in the mirror. “How could I get it here, but not on my lower arms?”
“Perhaps a vine,” Rebekah murmured, looking closer at the rash. She had a squat figure and coarse dark hair cut short. She pushed her purple-framed glasses up, then slipped on a pair of gloves and disappeared into the bathroom. I found Summer’s robe, and she slipped it on. Rebekah came out of the bathroom holding Summer’s T-shirt, which was turned inside out. “There does seem to be some residue on the fabric. . . .”
“On the inside of the T-shirt?” I asked, already not liking where this conversation was going.
“Yes. It’s slight, but it is there.”
Summer dropped down onto a flowered chair. “How could . . . ? That shirt—it was in a package.”
“Where? Where did you put the package?” I asked.
“In the trash. There, under the desk. The T-shirt was in the gift basket that the hotel delivered.” She gestured toward a basket on the bed. Decorated with a white bow, it contained several candles, a magazine on honeymoon destinations, and a bottle of lily of the valley–scented lotion. “The shirt was so cute, I decided to wear it right away,” Summer said.
Rebekah handed me a pair of gloves, which I donned, then she gave me the T-shirt. “Hold this.” Rebekah turned to Summer and opened a small zippered bag she’d brought with her. She began to dispense medicine and instructions for dealing with the rash.
I poked through the trash with my free hand and found a cardboard sleeve printed with the words BRIDE TO BE T-SHIRT. The back had two grooves that fit together. No sticker or tape held it in place. Anyone could easily open the wrapping, then later refasten it around the shirt.
Rebekah sent Summer back to the bathroom to apply a lotion. As soon as the door shut, Rebekah took the shirt from me, went to the desk, clicked on the lamp, and spread the shirt on Summer’s discarded bath towel. As she bent over the shirt, I stripped off one glove and dialed the front desk, requesting information about the gift basket that had been delivered to the room. Rebekah examined the shirt without touching it as I waited on hold.
Rebekah stood and used the back of her hand to adjust her glasses as they slipped lower on her nose. “There is something on the interior of this shirt. I don’t know for certain that it is urushiol.”
I tilted the phone away from my chin. “Urushiol?”
“It’s the oil produced by the poison ivy plant. It is the oil that is the irritant.”
“So you think the rash is from whatever it was you called it, the oil, on the shirt?” I asked.
“No, I don’t know that for sure. This could be from some other oil or lotion that Summer applied herself. Or Summer could be reacting to something she came into contact with previously. Sometimes it takes weeks for the rash to show up after someone has come into contact with poison ivy, or urushiol, to be more specific, but considering the pattern of the rash now . . .”
Summer opened the door, again swathed in the robe, her skin shiny with the ointment. “I can hear you, you know. I didn’t put on any lotion today. I forgot to pack my lotion and meant to pick up some in the resort’s gift shop today, but haven’t done it yet.”
“What about the small bottle of lotion, the resort supplies? Did you use that?” Rebekah asked.
“No. I didn’t like the smell of it,” Summer said. “Too rosy. And I haven’t been hiking in the woods or even working in the yard—I don’t have a yard, actually, so I think it’s got to be from the shirt. If someone wanted to get poison ivy on the shirt, how would they do that? Rub it against the plant?”
“I suppose it could be done that way,” Rebekah said. “But every part of the plant contains the oil that causes the allergic reaction. Anything from the plant has it—the leaves, stems, even the roots. And it does stay active, even on dead plants, for years.”
“Ma’am, sorry to keep you waiting,” said a voice in my ear.
I repositioned the phone. I had almost forgotten I was on hold. “I’m still here.”
“We didn’t deliver anything to room two-twelve today.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I looked at Summer. “This basket came today?”
“Yes. Right before you came to my room this afternoon,” Summer said.
I spoke into the phone again. “Can I talk to the person who was on duty earlier today? There was a delivery today and we need to find out exactly who sent it.”
“That’s a different shift, but I can assure you that we record all deliveries. Nothing is allowed to go to a guest without us noting it, and there is nothing on the list for that room.”
I hung up and looked at Summer. “It wasn’t sent through the hotel.”
“Well, we all know who sent it.” Summer glowered at the basket as she reached up to scratch her ribcage. Rebekah made a warning sound, and Summer fisted her hand.
“Don’t scratch. I know it’s hard,” Rebekah said. “I’ll bring you back a prescription from the dispensary. Best-case scenario is that it will clear up quickly.”
“How quickly?”
Rebekah shrugged. “A day or two.”
“And worst case?”
; “Could be up to a week to ten days.”
Summer flexed her hands open and closed. “I want to throw that basket out the window.”
Rebekah looked from me to Summer questioningly. “Perhaps I should contact resort management?”
Summer blew out a breath and lowered her tense shoulders. “No. We’re going to keep this as quiet as possible.”
I raised my eyebrows at Summer.
“Damage control,” she said. “I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s gotten to me.” Summer shoved her hands into the pockets on her robe and circled the bed, her gaze fixed on the basket. “I had a minor skin irritation. That’s all.” She looked toward Rebekah, who had finished calling in the prescription.
“Hey, you don’t have to worry about me,” Rebekah said. “Patient records are confidential.”
“Good.” Summer gave a sharp nod. “And I know you can keep a secret, Ellie.”
“Of course.” I gestured to the basket with my hand that was still gloved. “How about I get rid of that?”
“Please. I think I’ll try a cold compress.” Summer headed back to the bathroom.
I shoved the basket into the trash can under the room’s desk, pulled up the plastic liner, and knotted it together at the top so the maid could just grab the plastic in the morning when she came to clean the room. It seemed the irritant had been on the T-shirt, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I didn’t want Summer or anyone else handling the basket . . . just in case.
Tips for an Organized Wedding
Mothers of the bride and groom can create emergency kits for all those unexpected incidents that pop up. A few items that might be helpful to include are: a mini sewing kit, bandages, breath mints, fabric tape, pen or pencils, crackers or energy bars, a lighter, safety pins, bobby pins, pain medication, a magnifying glass, batteries, a compact mirror, a lint roller, and plenty of tissues.
Chapter Five
“Close your eyes,” I said to Nathan before slathering sunscreen across his upturned face. He stood motionless, arms extended as I layered on a thick coat of sunscreen across his neck and arms. “There. You’re done.” We were on the terrace outside the front doors of the resort. The morning was still a bit cool and the scent of jasmine floated up from the flower border that enclosed the terrace.
I turned to Livvy to repeat the process, but she handed the bottle of sunscreen back to me. “I did mine myself.”
“Let me see.” I examined her face, which did indeed have the glossy sheen of freshly applied sunscreen. “You even got the back of your neck. Good job.” I covered her arms with sunscreen, then shook the bottle of bug spray. “Arms out.”
Livvy wrinkled her nose as I coated her in the fine mist. “That smells terrible.”
“Yes, but it’s better than coming back covered in bug bites.” I repeated the process on Nathan. “Okay. I think you’re ready.” Sometimes getting ready to spend time outdoors was almost as exhausting as the outdoor activity.
I kissed both kids on the top of their heads and waved them off on their expedition. The resort had a kids’ program of activities. Today’s agenda included exploration of the island’s tide pools as well as a talk about sea turtles at the nature preserve’s outdoor classroom. Livvy hadn’t been too excited about the outing. It cut into her reading time, but I’d convinced her to go and let her pack three books in her string backpack in case she got bored.
“Have a good time!” I called as they scampered down the steps to join the group of kids being herded into place by several adults wearing the resort’s outdoor uniform of a navy polo shirt and khaki cargo shorts.
Livvy turned and ran back to the bottom step. “If I had a cell phone you’d be able to call me during the day and check on us.”
“Yes, but the leaders have walkie-talkies and our cell phone numbers. Good try, but you’re nine. You really don’t need a cell phone yet.”
Livvy blew out a long sigh, then spun on her heel and ran back to the group.
Mitch appeared at my shoulder. “Lobbying for a cell phone again?”
“Yes.”
“Why does she want a cell phone, anyway?”
“Lots of her friends at school have them. And by that, I mean exactly two girls in her class at school have them.” I shook my head and watched the group of kids depart in a heaving, shifting throng that reminded me of a rugby scrum.
Mitch broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and offered it to me. The breakfast buffet had been so sumptuous that Mitch grabbed another muffin on our way out the door.
“No thanks. I’m stuffed. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to eat again at the picnic in a few hours.” While the kids were seeing the edges of the island, the adults of the wedding party were scheduled for a golf cart tour of the interior of the island that included a picnic lunch at the ruins of the original plantation house. I transferred the sunscreen and bug spray to the crook of my arm and consulted my watch. “We’ve got a while before we have to meet everyone here. What should we do?”
Mitch dusted the crumbs from the muffin off his fingers. “You don’t have a mother-in-law to keep an eye on or a wedding emergency to handle?”
“No. Yvonne said she planned to sleep in this morning, Patricia is dealing with her e-mail until the tour, and everything is running smoothly, wedding-wise.”
“In that case, we should probably retire to our room . . . and rest.”
“I don’t know,” I said in mock seriousness. “We don’t get a chance to explore a world-famous resort very often. We could go to the pool or the beach.”
“We don’t get to be alone in our hotel room at a world-famous resort very often either.”
“Good point. And I haven’t had time to check out the minibar.”
“Well, we have to do that.”
* * *
“Summer seems to be recovered,” Mitch said, his gaze on his sister, who was perched on a white wicker chair at the center of what had once been a wide sweep of lawn in front of the ruins of the old plantation house.
“She does look good, doesn’t she?” I said. Summer wore a loose white linen camp shirt over a pair of navy shorts along with boat shoes. Her hair was caught back in a ponytail, and she was laughing at something Brian had whispered in her ear.
“I checked in with her this morning after breakfast, and she said the rash had faded quite a bit already, so the medicine is helping.”
I’d kept a close eye on her today. She did seem relaxed and happy, but I’d noticed her sending occasional assessing glances at Julia. I couldn’t blame Summer for keeping an eye on Brian’s ex-girlfriend, but Julia didn’t seem to be interested in Summer. If Summer happened to catch Julia’s eye, Julia smiled, almost sheepishly it seemed to me, then looked quickly away—usually focusing her attention back on Graham, where it had been firmly fixed all day. Graham and Julia had shared a golf cart during the tour of the island, and she’d been snuggled close to him the entire time.
Now, Julia and Graham were relaxing in chairs planted close together on the opposite side of the table from Summer and Brian. Graham had his arm slung along Julia’s shoulders, and she was leaning toward Graham, who was telling a story in a very animated way. I caught a few of his words and realized he was in the middle of a story about his and Brian’s law school days. Whatever the story was, it had all of them grinning, even Summer.
Beyond our little group stood the ruins of the old plantation house. I remembered from my reading about the island that it had caught fire sometime around the turn of the century and had never been rebuilt. The roof was completely gone, leaving only the shell of the outer walls jutting up to the sky. Vines and greenery crisscrossed the stone and brick walls, the slow creep of the vegetation as it claimed the ruin. The highest point was a massive central brick chimney, which still soared straight up three stories into the cloudless sky.
The staff from the resort had arrived before us, and when our caravan line of golf carts had chugged up the asphalt path that hugged the l
awn of the ruin, we’d found a fancy picnic lunch of cold ham, potato salad, and warm rolls along with strawberries and champagne, all served with fine china, silver, and crystal. They had also brought in wicker chairs and tables. For people who felt like roughing it, they spread quilts on the ground over tarps to keep anyone from getting a damp behind.
I scanned the group quickly, noting that the mothers-in-law were still separated. Yvonne was easy to spot in her red-and-white-checked halter sundress as she sprawled on one of the low stone walls that had once formed a terrace along the house. The slimy photographer, Ned, had one leg propped up on the wall and his arm rested on his knee as he leaned over her, his unused camera dangling from his neck. Although, to be fair, it did seem he’d put in a fair amount of time photographing the wedding party. He’d been with us the whole time as we toured the island and had snapped candid shots of everyone during the morning. We’d begun with a circuit of the golf course, then looped around to the far side of the island with its abrupt change from land to sea. After lunch, our route back to the resort would take us along the strip of beaches on the opposite side of the island.
Ned had obviously been telling a story, waving his hands around, and when he finished both he and Yvonne laughed. I put my plate down, glad I didn’t have to worry about him snapping a shot of me with my mouth full again. “Another luscious meal. Too many great meals are on the agenda.” I handed my half-empty plate to Mitch and he raised his eyebrows.
“You don’t want the rest?”
“Of course I want the rest, but I want to fit into my pink dress more.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Mitch scooped up the last of the fluffy roll.
“Don’t worry, I plan to eat well at the reception.”
“Or, you could eat all this and we could walk back to the resort,” Mitch said between bites.
“Maybe. It depends on how hot it gets.” We were deep in the shade of a grove of huge live oaks, but it was warm, even considering it was only March and not yet midafternoon. “Besides, I call driver for the golf cart on the way back. I like zipping around in the cart.”
