Christopher—not right now. The guilt of her actions with Phillip and the way in which she’d willingly thrown caution to the wind
was eating at her. She kicked herself, waffling between feelings of shame and confusion. She simply wanted to put the entire
matter out of her head. What she really needed was retail therapy and a healthy serving of booze. She had absolutely no desire to
see or speak to anyone that reminded her of Phillip, which in-
cluded all of Fury and Cheyenne by association.
After two hours at the second beach, she’d exhausted her
supply of sunscreen and insect repellant. She was convinced this beach was the more beautiful of the two. The dramatic rock formations were far more stunning, and its rough, natural rugged-
ness appealed more to her then the traditional white sands of the previous, more heralded beach. Unfortunately, all that time alone rapidly backfired, and soon she was sliding down the rabbit hole and day-dreaming about Jonquil.
Jonquil. It’s what she’d named her daughter. She’d been in
Paris for two days when Dr. Lucky Charms called her with the
results of the genetic testing. It was great news by all accounts, he claimed. You have no STD’s, and by the way, your baby was
perfect. It wasn’t deformed, no genetic anomalies. She was just
in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She.
Somehow this news propelled Stephanie into grief all over
again. Hearing that her baby had been healthy and normal, in
many ways, made it worse. Knowing it was a girl put a face on
her and made her real.
She’d left the studio that day and wandered the streets in a
daze, snapping pictures and battling tears. Though she struggled to lock it away in a vault, an image started to form in her mind: a little girl with Philip’s fair hair, Steph’s pale skin, and blue green 99
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eyes. His good looks and her sense of humor. And both their tempers. Their daughter would have either been the leader of the free world or more likely, the cause of its destruction.
As she drifted in the direction of her apartment, Steph
passed by a well-manicured park. Though it wasn’t far from
where she lived, she’d never even noticed it before that day. A
mother pushed her little one in a swing, and a father played ball with two young boys. Two little girls rode bicycles down the
tree-lined path. Unable to resist, she entered the park, diving
head first into her pain under the guise of taking a shortcut to the Jardin des Plantes Greenhouses.
By the time she reached the first greenhouse, tears had
started to fall in a steady stream. She no longer even bothered to wipe them away. Steph felt a well of repressed grief overflowing from the bottom of her soul. She never even got to see her baby.
Never held her. Never got to bury her or even give her a name. It seemed ridiculous to name a child that had never taken her first breath, but Steph suddenly wanted to nonetheless.
As she sat on a bench outside the Jardin, an ancient little
man in a beret wandered by with an arm full of lively looking
yellow flowers. He paused in front of her with the most heart-
wrenching expression of empathy she’d ever seen. He stepped
forward and plucked one from the bunch.
“Pour vous, Mademoiselle.” He offered it to her. Steph
smiled through her tears and took it, pointlessly swiping at her cheeks.
“Merci à toi.” She sniffed, glad she knew enough French to
politely thank him. His random act of kindness made her hate
herself for every time she’d ever brushed by people as if they
didn’t exist. He nodded in response to her. As he walked away,
she knitted her brows and called after him. “Monsieur! What’s it called? The flower.”
He smiled at her with a wise, knowing nod. “Jonquil.”
Steph went home and dug out a vase, placing the jonquil
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flower in some water. Later, as she sipped a glass of wine, she
searched the internet for the flower’s meaning. She discovered
the flower was descended from another whose name in Latin
meant “stupor” or “numbness.” Jonquil, as the name, seemed
only more poetic.
From that day forward, every time she was in Paris she
stopped by the Greenhouses. She wasn’t sure if this was healthy
or dysfunctional. She didn’t care.
Thinking about Jonquil was a slippery slope. She’d gone on
antidepressants a couple of weeks after that and had been trying to wean off of them when the “Fire Woman” video hit the top
ten. Thinking about the video made her physically ill, especially now that she knew Phillip had slept with his co-star. The entire thing now had a certain Kevin Wiley-style taint to it, and it
crushed her to put Phillip in the same category as Kevin.
She couldn’t think about either of them—it was not a day
for wallowing. She needed a diversion. and she needed it now.
She hitched a ride to the village center, where she breezed into the swankiest looking boutique and bought a sea foam green
sundress, silver jewelry, and designer sandals. She then headed
for the restaurant her new friends from the beach had recom-
mended. The atmosphere was casual, al fresco, and the food was
high-end perfection. She gorged herself on shrimp, listened with total fascination to a forró band. She downed drinks with the locals, including Enrique “the flirty chauffer” who evidently had
the night off. He made an adorable stab at speaking English. She still couldn’t understand a word he said, but he sure was fun to look at.
Enrique brought her back to the pousada and proceeded to
make a lame attempt at a pass which she dodged. He called after
her in Portuguese, as she rushed away, feeling a bit like a tipsy Cinderella at midnight. She decided making out with one man
who wasn’t her boyfriend a day was her limit.
She managed to get to her room unnoticed by the wedding
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guests, who were having yet another one of Yara’s meticulously
orchestrated soirées. Finally back in her room, she realized that she’d had a bit too much sun and her ankles had been a feast for mosquitos. She showered and brushed her teeth repeatedly, trying to rid herself of the lingering taste of Phillip. When that
didn’t work, she took a sleeping pill and crashed.
A horrendous pounding racket blasted her awake.
“Stephanie Brier, open this door immediately, or I swear I’ll
bust it down!” Cedric called from the hallway. Steph rolled over and looked at the clock. It was noon. She’d slept for almost 12
hours. Damn Ambien. She probably shouldn’t have washed it
down with rum.
She climbed out of bed and yanked down her robe from the
closet, sending the hanger springing across the room with a loud clatter. She tossed it on and padded over to the door. As the obnoxious pounding continued, she unlocked it and wrenched it
open. Cheyenne and Cedric both glared at her from the other side of the threshold.
“What the hell!” Steph snapped, looking from Cedric to
Cheyenne.
“Don’t you dare act like we’re overreacting!” Cheyenne
strutted into the room looking very much like a supermodel on
the catwalk. Steph often wanted to strangle Cheyenne for rolling out of bed looking like she was ready for the cover of Cosmo.
Cedric limped in after her, his blue green eyes shooting around
the room as if he were Sherlock Holmes and would discover a
clue about why his sister was such a pain in his cloistered ass.
“First of all, let me say that I think that it’s total bullshit that you ditched out on the boat ride back. Pardon my language,
Cedric.” Cheyenne’s long hair swirled around her as she spun on
Steph.
“Completely understandable, given the circumstances.”
Cedric assured her. Cheyenne nodded at him, and her dark eyes
flashed disapprovingly when Steph folded her arms and fell back
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on the bed, settling in for what was sure to be a filibuster of a lecture.
“Do you know how far that beach is from this hotel? I
googled it! It’s on the other end of the island!”
“Yeah. I know. I was there.” Steph took a swig from a bot-
tle of water.
“Answer your phone next time, Steph. The guys were ready
to go out looking for you when you weren’t back by dark.”
Cheyenne blurted.
“Ha! I can just see it. Fury: The British Hardy Boys. Solv-
ing mysteries and saving cats from trees everywhere they go!”
Steph clucked.
“What happened at the beach, Steph? Phillip was acting
shifty and pissy all the way back to the marina.” Cheyenne de-
manded.
Steph opened her mouth, then looked at Cedric and paused.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Quit shutting me out, Steph! Ugh! You talk to her. I can’t
anymore, or I’ll strangle her,” Cheyenne instructed Cedric, and
then she walked out onto the balcony. As the door shut behind
her, Steph heard her complain, “Hey! This view is better than
mine. What the hell?”
Cedric poked Steph with his cane, and she slapped it away.
“Luckily Kara came down after changing Liam and said you
were upstairs in bed before they lit out on a hunt for you. I was convinced someone had kidnapped you.”
“Stop being so dramatic, Father What-a-waste. I’m sure The
Victoria’s Secret Angels would have consoled you Thornbirds-
style if anything had happened to me.” Steph smiled wryly when Cedric rolled his eyes at her.
“Phillip and Cheyenne got into it last night. To be truthful, I
had to say a prayer, because I wanted to crack him over the head with my cane.” Cedric sat down and ran a hand through his auburn hair. Steph’s cheeks burned. She shouldn’t have dragged
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Cedric into this fiasco. He didn’t need to be defending her or to be put in all these uncomfortable situations. She was a selfish ass to invite him along, and she knew it. But she was still glad he
was here. Steph braced for what she knew was going to be an
upsetting conversation.
She cleared her throat and took another drink of H2O.
“What’d he do now?”
Cedric paused. “He was very dismissive of you. He said
you were probably ‘just looking for attention’ and Chey-
enne…well…she used many words I’d rather not repeat. I think
she was going to swing on him, but Scot took her away to cool
off. I thought you might want to know.”
Steph blinked slowly and toyed with a loose thread on her
pillow case. “I could have gone my whole life without knowing
that, thanks.”
He looked at her for a long minute then added, “Christopher
called the pousada when he couldn’t reach you on your satellite
phone.”
“Dammit!” Steph flopped back and threw her arms over her
face as if shielding herself from the barrage of unwanted news.
“The concierge gave the call to the first person he saw from
the wedding party. So it was Nathan that talked to Christopher.”
He added, lifting his eyebrows and glancing at the floor. Stephanie winced. Only one person in the wedding party would have
been a worse choice.
“Just stop talking, Cedric.” She moaned, throwing a pillow
at him which he aptly deflected with his cane.
“Tell me what you said to Christopher when he called, Na-
than.” Steph demanded. She and Cheyenne were waiting for
their shuttle to the club for Yara’s evening activity. The devious 104
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look on Nathan’s face made Cheyenne want to slug him. Saffron
looked bored and lit a cigarette which she then handed to Nathan for a drag. Cheyenne thought about asking for one. She’d quit
smoking when she was pregnant and hadn’t touched one since.
Lately, she’d been biting her nails down to the quick from the
cravings. She’d actually been convincing herself that smoking
had an upside. Maybe she’d drop the last ten pounds of her baby
weight. It was a pathetic rationalization, but every time Chey-
enne saw Kara frolicking in a swimsuit with Liam, the idea
seemed to have more merit.
She knew she should be thankful that she’d come through
pregnancy fairly unscathed. She’d been in Steph’s room getting
ready earlier that night and whined to her about her three stretch marks.
Steph whipped up her dress and pointed to her scar. “This
sucker is bigger than all three of those combined, Cheyenne. So
why don’t you shut the hell up?”
Cheyenne felt like the world’s shittiest friend. She had been
so distracted with her own troubles the day before that she hadn’t noticed anything was up with Steph until she got the phone call
that she wasn’t taking the boat back.
When Cheyenne had come out of the shower the morning of
the boat excursion, Kara was in her bungalow. Scot was on the
bed and Kara was leaning in and whispering fervently in Scot’s
ear. In that moment, her world screeched to a grinding halt. Eve-ry insecurity, from small to major, that she’d ever had about herself reached its zenith.
She’d rushed back into the restroom, and if they noticed
her, they hadn’t let on. Later on the boat, Scot had behaved like nothing was out of the ordinary. He held her close, and knocked
her defenses down with that phenomenal smile of his. If he was
playacting at happiness, he deserved an Oscar.
While Cheyenne was finishing up her make-up in silence,
she saw Steph dialing her sat phone. “Calling Christopher?”
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“No. Sarah. I want to know what the hell is going on and if
I should slap a chastity belt on Bret.” Scot had come back from
the scuba trip and regaled the two of them with how the slutty
bridesmaids were all over Bret. Steph and Cheyenne had both
become friendly with Bret’s wife Sarah during Fury’s American
tour, and they exchanged a concerned look. Bret and Sarah had
two kids and had always seemed like they were the couple that
were doing everything right. It was rather heartbreaking to see
them splitting.
“I don’t know, Steph. Maybe you should stay out of it.”
Cheyenne replied.
Steph cocked an eyebrow at her as she waited for an an-
swer. “Are you fucking for real?”
In seconds it was obvious that she’d gone to voicemail.
“Sarah, its Steph. What the fuck? Call me.”
Steph’s tense behavior gave Cheyenne a feeling of forebod-
&n
bsp; ing, so when they approached Nathan, she didn’t blink as Steph
went after him like a rabid Rottweiler.
“Relax, Steph. I told your lover boy you were out gallivant-
ing around the jungle like Tarzan. I made sure to tell him Phillip wasn’t with you, so he had nothing to worry his pretty new nose
about.” Nathan exhaled smoke through his nostrils and handed
the cigarette back to Saffron, who chuckled.
“Sometimes I want to backhand you.” Steph folded her
arms and peered intently down the road.
“Sometimes he likes that.” Saffron retorted, without missing
a beat.
“You’re not helping,” Cheyenne snapped at Saffron, who
said nothing. The ride to the club was fairly silent until Steph’s phone rang as they were clambering out of the Land Rover trying to not to flash anyone in their mini-dresses.
“Sarah?” Steph answered, and Cheyenne and Nathan shot
each other surprised glances. With an apprehensive glance at her companions, Steph wandered away from them toward the stun-106
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ning beach. Nathan and Saffron made for the bar, but Cheyenne
anxiously awaited Steph’s return, hanging out by the entrance.
When Steph returned, her eyes looked misty.
“What did she say?” Cheyenne caught herself biting her
nails again and forced her hands to her sides. Steph just shook
her head.
“Let’s get a pitcher.”
By the time they’d downed the first pitcher and were work-
ing on the second, Steph had filled Cheyenne in on the details of the call. Sarah had broken down sobbing on the phone and said
she just couldn’t take the lifestyle anymore. The band constantly acting like children, the late night phone calls that he wouldn’t be coming home, the constant innuendo from friends and family
that Bret screwed around on the road. The continuous insults in
the tabloids about her for being “poorly dressed” or “dumpy
looking.” Stalkers trying to take her kids at the park or attempting to pick them up from school and cameras continuously snap-
ping in their faces. Sarah had seemed devastated when Steph had
argued how much Bret loved her and how much his missed her.
Steph sniffed when she told Cheyenne Sarah had sobbed so bad-
ly she could hardly understand her.
“She said ‘I’ll never love a man like I love Bret. But I can’t
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