In fact I opened the Daily Mail three weeks ago and there was a huge color picture of Charlie and his wife frolicking in the waves at—you guessed it—Sandy Lane.
“Why don’t you get Jake up here and we’ll order some drinks?” I say, stretching out my legs and admiring my bright red toes, especially painted for the holiday. “I think a piña colada’s just the thing to wake us all up.”
“Shame on you,” Emma says as she picks up the phone to call Jake in his room. “Drinking while your child sleeps.” But she’s grinning.
“Oh, shut up!” I laugh. “I’m on holiday and what’s more, your dad’s paying for it!”
“Good point,” she says, just before Jake picks up the phone. “Better make it a double.”
By seven-thirty, when the van comes to pick us up to take us to the restaurant, we’re all very giggly. Not so much from the alcohol—although the piña coladas were delicious—but because we’ve all felt like espionage agents: sneaking through the hotel, hiding behind corners, and checking out areas before emerging just in case Linda should be there.
Jake said that on his way to our room he walked past the library and, glancing through the French doors, saw Linda sitting at a computer checking her e-mail, luckily with her back to the door. Michael was standing gazing out, and apparently he went white when he saw Jake, but Jake managed to skulk away without Linda seeing him.
“Evening, Mrs. Cooper,” says the doorman. “Have a nice time.”
“Wow,” I whisper to Dan. “How does he remember my name?”
“That’s what they’re paid for. It’s pretty impressive, though, isn’t it?”
“Bloody right.” Jake hunches over and squeezes in behind us. “He remembered my name too.”
“Well, you are famous,” Richard says, as he climbs in. “Not bloody surprising, really.”
“I’m not famous in Barbados,” Jake protests. “He doesn’t know who I am.”
“You do realize,” I say, turning to Emma, “that in next week’s Daily Mail there’ll be pictures of you and Jake frolicking in the waves.”
“Of course,” Emma grins. “Why do you think I’ve spent the last month working out at the gym, not to mention buying my new super-duper Missoni bikinis?”
“I have to admit they are rather sexy,” Jake says, smiling.
“Oh, yuck,” Dan and Richard say at exactly the same time. “That’s my sister!” and we all laugh as the van takes us off to the restaurant.
I’m not sure how Michael has managed to get the best table in the restaurant, but it is quite spectacular. We are on the deck overlooking a turquoise sea, and the weather, the scenery, the whole ambience could not be more perfect.
Whatever strings he had to pull, however much money this evening, this whole trip, may be costing him, it is surely worth every penny, for never have I been anywhere more like paradise in my whole life.
Champagne is waiting for us at the table, and we toast one another and sip the champagne as we all watch the clock. On the dot of 7:50, just as Michael had stated in his instructions, we see Michael and Linda walk into the restaurant.
Michael has his arm around her and is steering her gently past the tables, and Linda is looking out at the view and gasping at the beauty. She has no idea we are here.
We are all grinning, and I am so excited about this surprise, so excited to see her face, that I am practically wriggling in my chair, and then I look around the table and realize we are all feeling the same way, each of us has a huge grin, most of us with tears welling in our eyes.
Michael stops at our table and Linda looks at him, confused, thinking she was heading to the table for two behind us, and then she looks from him to us, and as she realizes that her entire family is here, she puts her hands to her face and bursts into tears.
Emma and I start crying too.
And we all stand up and there is much hugging, and crying, and laughing, and Linda looks at each of us and tells us she loves us, and this is the happiest day of her life.
Dan squeezes my hand as we sit down and puts his arm around me once we’re seated, pulling me close and kissing the top of my head as we all tell Linda the trouble we’ve been to keeping this secret, and make her laugh by telling her of this afternoon’s skulking, then watch her burst with joy when she realizes her grandchildren are also here, fast asleep in the hotel.
“This is what it’s all about,” Linda says simply, smiling through her tears as she raises her glass and toasts each and every one of us. “Family.” And we all raise our glasses before wishing her happy birthday and taking long, cool sips.
“To family,” we toast again, and as we raise our glasses again, I smile, knowing I’ve come home.
And this is, after all, what I’ve been waiting for for my entire life.
Read on for an excerpt from
THE SUNSHINE SISTERS
by Jane Green
Available from Berkley in June 2017!
All those years when Ronni thought she was sick, all those years convinced that every mole was melanoma, every cough was lung cancer, every case of heartburn was an oncoming heart attack, after all those years, when the gods finally stopped taking care of her she wasn’t scared.
What a pity, she thought after the doctor first diagnosed her. Then, when she refused to believe it, after the second, and the third, agreed, she thought again, what a pity I wasted all those years worrying about the worst. Somehow now that the worst was upon her, it was peaceful, calming, as if this was what she had always been waiting for. Now that it was here, it wasn’t scary at all.
She had gotten her life in order. There were many, many amends she wasn’t able to make, would never be able to make. If she hadn’t completely healed her relationship with her daughters, at least she had brought them back together; at least they would now have each other.
Ronni stirs in bed and blinks at the sunlight pouring in through the window, dust circling in the glow. There is a thick layer of dust on the top of the chest of drawers at the bottom of her bed. A few months ago she would have been furious, calling for Lily, the housekeeper, to come and clean. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Her legs don’t work anymore, and it’s getting increasingly hard to hold her head up. The choking when she ate made it simpler not to eat, and she no longer has the energy for the liquid smoothies Lizzy has been making. She turns her head slightly to see a full smoothie Lizzy brought up earlier today, packed with spinach for iron, almond butter for protein, coconut milk because Lizzy swears coconut is the ultimate cure-all for everything these days.
Not for Ronni. There is no cure for Ronni, no anti-inflammatory that will stop the burning and muscle jumping, not enough iron, minerals, or vitamins in the world that will bring sensation back to her body, allow her to lead a life comparable to the one she has led all these years.
It has been a good life, she thinks. Sixty-five years. She would have wanted longer, and before this disease took hold of her body, she passed for much younger, presumed she would go on forever. She reaches for the handheld mirror she keeps on the bedcovers, aware that she is slowly losing this hand as well. Slowly she holds it up, just for a few seconds, to examine her face. She hasn’t had Botox for over a year. Nor fillers, nor any of the treatments that kept her looking young and firm. She had her eyes done in her forties, but now they are sunken in what is left of her face, her cheeks gaunt, her skin graying. She stares, fascinated at how different she looks, at what she has become.
It is not the way she would have chosen to go, but nor would Ronni ever have wanted to grow old. The makeup, the treatments, the wigs, the working out, the gracious, charming persona she was known for, all kept her looking young, even if she didn’t get the acting parts she once got.
Three years ago she was offered the part of a grandmother in an edgy new series on HBO. She turned it down, horrified. They told her she would be a “glamorous granny”; they wanted to portray aging in a sexy, vibrant way. Ronni flounced o
ut of the office, not saying a word, her displeasure clear. The show went on to win numerous awards. The grandmother was played by Betty White. Ronni refused to watch until last year, when season two won every award it was possible to win, then she binge-watched it. Everyone else who had seen it raved, saw instantly why it was such a hit—the clever dialogue; the edgy, astute observations; the horrible, self-absorbed, selfish characters you wanted to hate but couldn’t help but love because they were so vulnerable, their hearts so needy, and bleeding, and real. Ronni did not see any of that. What Ronni saw was a woman much older than her playing a role they had offered to her. Which meant they saw her as the same age, the same type. And she was devastated.
She booked a Thermage treatment for the next day, and a chemical peel. She made an appointment with her plastic surgeon in New York to discuss a face-lift. How dare they see her as perfect for the part of the old lady. How dare they see her as an old lady. Wasn’t sixty the new forty? She would reverse time, would ensure she continued to play evil mothers-in-law rather than eccentric elderly ladies.
The day of the appointment, she had a bad dizzy spell and spent the day in bed. She never got around to another appointment. None of which matters, she thinks now. All those years of beauty, of a wonderful figure, and all I could think was that I was never pretty enough, never slim enough, never quite good enough. What I would give to have those years back, to appreciate them more, to appreciate the life I had while I was living it.
All those years when I could have been a better wife, a better mother, a better friend. She sighs. It’s too late now. She did the best she could. And now she is ready. It isn’t quite how she wanted to do it. She had a vision of looking beautiful again, of being dressed, made-up, of falling back against the pillow with a mane of hair from one of her famous wigs.
She had envisaged her daughters sitting around the bed, perhaps clasping her hands, smiling beatifically as Bach played on the iPhone speaker, as she quietly swallowed the pills she has been stockpiling before drifting seamlessly into a sleep that would last forever.
Gathering the pills was challenging. Her housekeeper removed the bottles of OxyContin and kept them downstairs. She learned to ask visitors to bring her the pills, pretending to take them, or announcing she would take them later, before hiding them away with her growing mound.
She had hoped there would be a camera in the corner, capturing this final scene in a documentary that would be made about her life, as she drifted from this one into the next.
She has left plans for her funeral, which will also be filmed. The biggest stars of stage and screen will be speaking, certainly. She has left instructions as to who she wants to eulogize her and what poems they might read. She has imagined the obituaries, the retrospectives, the huge picture of her on the screen at the Oscars, the sadness and tears from all who have known her, or loved her, or admired her movies for years.
The first part of the plan has not come together. None of her daughters will cooperate. Nell won’t speak about it, other than to say there is absolutely no way she will help her mother take her own life, then have to live with that on her conscience for the rest of hers. It is unconscionable that she would ask, says Nell. Meredith keeps bursting into tears. And Lizzy, Lizzy who is most like her, Lizzy, her darling baby girl, has refused to believe that there isn’t something that can be done. How typical of Lizzy, to believe that sheer force of will can make anything happen, including miracles.
Lizzy, who has been making her liquid smoothies packed with nutrition, who is researching cutting-edge stem cell treatments, certain that there will soon be a cure. Her daughters have demanded more time. Give them six months, they say, to try to find something that will help. They will not let her go now.
But Ronni has reached the end. With her one good hand she reaches under the pillow where she has been quietly storing the pills.
She has enough now, to ensure she won’t wake up, throw up, swim back to consciousness. There is a small wave of regret that she isn’t going the way she had planned, surrounded by family, drifting off in a wave of forgiveness and love, but they will not let her go.
And it is time to go.
A former journalist in the U.K. and a graduate of the International Culinary Center in New York, Jane Green has written many novels (including Jemima J, The Beach House, and, most recently, Falling), most of which have been New York Times bestsellers, and one cookbook, Good Taste. Her novels are published in more than twenty-five languages, and she has over ten million books in print worldwide. She lives in Westport, Connecticut, with her husband and a small army of children and animals.
Visit her online at janegreen.com, facebook.com/authorJaneGreen, instagram.com/janegreenauthor, and twitter.com/JaneGreen.
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