Page 3 of The Love Hoax
The last woman standing is Caroline who refuses to allow me to be involved in the planning—or the paying—for the birthday trip. We could be staying in a yurt or glamping for all I know.
Who am I kidding?
Knowing Caroline, she booked a luxury suite in the middle of Yosemite. If such a thing exists. Which it does not.
If you look up ‘high maintenance’ online, you’ll findCaroline’s duck face, her plumped lips pouting into the camera. To be fair, I let her talk me into using the latest eyelash serum and I’m thrilled with the results.
Maybe she booked a tricked-out RV or a five-cabin yacht.
I laugh to myself. If anyone could reserve a yacht in a national park, it’s Caroline.
“What’s so funny?” Caroline asks, her eyes still frozen on the bartender.
“Nothing. Just amusing myself.”
Caroline’s attention turns to me. She studies me like I’m a specimen squirming around in a Petri dish. “Sothat’swhat old people do.”
“What?”
“Laugh at jokes only they can hear.”
Monique and Sam chuckle at that, Sam covering her mouth daintily, instantly apologizing. How the sweet woman ended up living in New York, surviving the dog-eat-dog environment, is a miracle. A soft-spoken Midwesterner who moved to the Big Apple to support her husband’s dreams, she’s the quintessential plain Jane.
Only Sam is not plain. She’s a very pretty woman who chooses to hide behind frumpy clothes and unstyled hair. The only time I saw her with makeup was at her ex-mother-in-law’s funeral. She wanted to dress up for the occasion. She had hated the woman who in Sam’s words, “Drove my husband away.”
“You’re five months younger than I am,” I protest to Caroline.
“That’s like one hundred and fifty days. Makes all the difference.”
I roll my eyes but am entertained as usual. Caroline is the absolute best. All these ladies are.
“I rented a Porsche convertible,” Caroline says, casually.
“Oh?” Monique says, wistfully.
Mo is the most elegant one in the club. Tall, sexy, discreet, and second generation French, she dresses to kill. Right now she waswearing a gorgeous Versace ensemble. If I heard she was a spy for the French Foreign Legion, I’d believe it.
“It’s her fiftieth. Evie needs to harken in the new decade in style.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mo says. I’m glad they’re on the same page. There’s a not-so-subtle competition between these two women I haven’t had the energy to analyze.
The server comes by with our food and five fruit-adorned cocktails.
I take a long pull from the striped straw. Delish. “We’re going hiking, not to Rodeo Drive. Maybe a Jeep would be a better choice.”
Mo looks like she sucked on a lemon and Caroline scrunches her nose at the notion. “I’ll see if I can switch it to a Range Rover or Porsche SUV.”
As great as Caroline is with food, she is awful with money. Her much older, now dead husband left her with a bundle. More money than she could ever spend in two lifetimes.
When the club suggested I pick the place I’d want most to go for my birthday, she did her best to cover up her disappointment when I chose Yosemite National Park for a hiking trip. Caroline is more the Bergdorf’s and Van Cleef’s high-heeled type. The polar opposite to my outdoorsy personality. A pair of broken-in Timberlands would make me far happier than a new pair of seven-thousand-dollar snake-skin Manolo pumps. Like Caroline’s.
Yes, seven thousand.
“What about skiing in the Andes or a beach trip to St. Barts?” Caroline had pressed when I waxed poetic about Half Dome and El Capitan, two of Yosemite’s most challenging hikes.
“Nah, I’d rather show the universe I’m still active.”
Hiking the national parks has always been my favorite activity. Even if I have the rare occasion to do so. At least not since having kids, or a demanding job.
