The Best of Enemies (12 page)

Yeah, that doesn’t sound pompous
at all
.
Seriously, why does Bets have such a soft spot for this hideous she-male?

“No chance of getting spoiled at the Super 8,” I mutter.

“Kitty, please,” Betsy implores.
“Do this for me.
Be cordial.
She’s as important to me as you are.”

Doubt it
, I think, but I keep that thought to myself.

After all, it’s Betsy’s day.

I settle back into my lounger and return to my magazine (and Britney’s desperate cry for help!) while Betsy pores over
The Economist
, occasionally tapping away on her BlackBerry.
I should simply be in the moment and revel in my time away from the Littles.

I want to revel, yet I’m ashamed about how much I miss their precious faces.
I had a panic attack yesterday when I picked up my purse and realized how light it was, unencumbered by spare Pull-Ups (not that Konnor needs them because he’s a BIG BOY, but just in case), clean socks, fresh y-fronts, sippy cups, granola bars, washed AND cut grapes in individual Ziploc baggies, antibacterial wipes, Matchbox cars, Kleenex, and my DSLR camera because you never know when the perfect photo op will present itself.

I’ve called home a few times since I’ve been here (read = nineteen) and it actually hurts when I hear that they’re having a blast with their grandmother.
Don’t they miss their mama?
I’m grateful Nana Baba’s such an important part of their lives, and yet I’m bothered that she can swoop in and take over without them ever skipping a beat.

Am I truly so easily replaced?

Especially by a woman who wears socks with Crocs?

I glance over at Betsy, my other soul mate outside of Ken, and decide I need to try harder for her sake.
After all, we’ve been besties for more than ten years and I can’t be the sad sack bringing down the party because I’m unable to ignore the tug of my apron strings for three flipping days.
Oprah says I need to Be In the Moment, so I decide to reframe all my negative energy by just appreciating my surroundings.

Here we go.

One attitude of gratitude, comin’ up!

I begin to take inventory.
First, I’m thankful that this is a really beautiful day.
Sure, it’s hot and a dry heat is still heat, but the water misters are blasting away in the palm tree above us and I’m ten feet away from a cool blue pool.
How do they do that?
Despite the broiling temps, the water’s still brisk enough to totally refresh.

Wait, I just realized that boys are always asking me “why,” and now I find myself doing the same thing.
Awww!
But if I’m concentrating on not missing them, I can’t dwell on their delightful inquisitiveness.
Instead, I’ll ponder this icy body of water.

So . . .
is there such a thing as a reverse heater, like a pool cooler?
Or do they just toss in giant blocks of ice every day?
No, that doesn’t sound right because what’s coming out of the jets is chilled.

What if—actually, no, it’s not important.

Maybe Oprah doesn’t want me to dissect
why
the pool is nice to be thankful, just that it exists in the first place.

Plus, the outdoor area is kind of amazing, which is one of the reasons Betsy insisted we stay here rather than the Four Seasons or the Bellagio.
With the dense, lush foliage and the tropical birds and the cabanas masquerading as thatched huts, it really feels like we’ve been plunked down in the middle of an actual coconut grove somewhere, especially with the sound of steel drums playing in the background.
And the air smells like mai tais!

Betsy says the Wintercourt Hotel is the most exclusive on the strip since there’s no casino attached.
And how nice is it to walk in and not be greeted with the chings and chirps of a million one-armed bandits?
Fancy pants!
That, plus the unbelievably authentic artificial beach (complete with ocean breezes and rum-drink aromatherapy) and I really do feel like I’m somewhere more exotic than Nevada.

Okay,
that
minor sticking point is messing with my gratitude attitude, too.

Ken keeps promising me that he’s going to whisk me away to the Caribbean, but he’s been so busy it’s yet to happen.

I’ve been obsessively Googling this little beach I heard about from this really smug mother at Kord’s kindergarten.
Brooke Birchbaum says there’s a place at the tip of Little Cayman that has luminescent pink sand!
And it’s so secluded that she and her husband even had it all to themselves last year.
The hotel staff packed them a picnic lunch and they spent the day snorkeling in the azure sea, eating the freshest fruit they ever tasted, and just reconnecting as a couple.

By reconnecting, I’m fairly sure she meant doing it.

Can you
have sex
in the sand?
Or does that leave grit, like, everywhere?
Is it good friction or bad friction?
I don’t like Brooke enough to have this conversation.
I should ask Kelly—she always knows this stuff.
Regardless, I’d sure like to find out for myself because the Caymans sound like heaven.
After she told me about her trip, I applied for a passport that I keep in my purse because the minute Ken decides we’re going, I will be
ready
.

I decide to nap and dream of pink sand beaches because it’s going to be another late night, but I’ve barely closed my eyes when Alicia flops into the lounger next to me.
“Jesus!
Why’s the water so cold?”
she exclaims, wrapping herself in one of the plush teal-and-white-striped towels strategically placed on every chair.

Alicia’s another one of the bridesmaids.
She and Betsy met in grad school and, up until she took a job in San Francisco and Betsy started working with Trip, they were employed by the same firm.
As she’s pro–
The Bachelor
and anti–throwing food or drink at me, she’s good people.
“I’m, like, all nipped out,” she says, pointing to her bikini top.
“What’s up with that?”

“Right?”
I say.
“It’s bizarre.
How do they keep the water so cold?”

Alicia notices our drinks and raises the flag on the back of her chair.
“You’re drinking bloodies?
Perfect!
I could use a little hair of the dog right now.
Ugh, why do I feel so shitty?
I never got hangovers in college.
I’d wake up in some frat rat’s bed and be naturally adorable, hair tousled just right, all smoky-eyed from mascara.
Walk of Shame?
More like Walk of
You Wish
.
But now?
I drink three glasses of wine at a client dinner and I spend the next day trying to keep my office from spinning.
Shit, wait, I totally forgot about the body shots!
Tequila!
That’s
why I feel like ass.
Did you tequila-up, Kitty?
You seem awfully bushy-tailed.”

“No, the liquor pools in my C-section scar and not my belly button so it’s too weird now,” I truthfully reply.

Alicia peers at me over her sunglasses, saying, “Kit, I will give you a thousand dollars if you never mention your C-section scar again.
No joke.
I have cash.”

This is the downside of being with women who’ve never had kids.
They don’t understand that we moms aren’t
complaining
when we mention our sacrifices.
I reply, “What?
It’s part of the miracle of life.
My scar’s a badge of honor.”

“As is telling me stories about how you ripped
down there
?”
She winces and shakes like a Golden Retriever after a dip in the lake.

“The tearing’s not really a badge of honor.
That just sucked and now every time I sneeze, I’m rolling the dice.”

Alicia holds up a hand.
“Nope.
No.
Don’t say another goddamned word.
I was so skeeved out that I didn’t fuck anyone for a month after you told me that story the first time.
You think you’ve got scars?
Well, I got news for ya, sister.
I’m scarred, too.
Mentally.”

“We’re all too old for body shots,” Betsy adds, yawning and stretching, each lean muscle rippling as she moves.
“Still, last night was epic.”

Last night was, indeed, epic.
We chartered a limo to take us to the theater where the Thunder from Down Under was performing (didn’t hate the show) (at all) and at one point, we were all hanging out of the sunroof, hooting and waving champagne bottles like a bunch of kids in an eighties movie montage and not the adults we actually are.

“Pfft, speak for yourself.
I plan to never be too old for body shots,” Alicia says, rubbing Banana Boat oil on her flat brown stomach.

“Welcome to Cougartown, population you,” Betsy says.

“Gimme a few years, but then, yes.
Absolutely.
I plan on going full Jackie Collins,” Alicia replies, likely contemplating all the leopard print she’s going to buy once she hits forty.
“Hey, where’s everyone else?”

I tell her, “Gracie and Cilla went to float in the lazy river over by the children’s pool, I believe Devon’s sleeping—”

“With a bartender,” Alicia helpfully suggests.

“Seems likely,” I admit.

“So, who’s left?”
she asks.

“Um . . .
Melissa!”
I say, snapping my fingers.
I’d say I have mommy-brain today, but it’s really more like Veuve Clicquot–brain.
“Melissa said she was going to hit the buffet.
Wait, how did she not eat this morning?
The spread was legendary!”

When we woke up, our personal butler (!) had arranged a ridiculous in-room breakfast for us to help soak up some of last night’s booze.
We came downstairs to a mighty spread and were greeted by servers foisting goblets of fresh-squeezed juices and champagne on us.
Personally, I avoided the cocktails, instead diving into the raw bar, laden with briny oysters and shrimp the size of clenched fists, bracketed by piles of cracked crab claws and lobster tails, surrounded by dozens of pots of different varieties of cocktail sauces and citrus mayonnaise.

At first, I felt a little guilty indulging in a seafood feast in front of the massive aquarium spanning the suite from the first floor to the second.
I could have sworn the tiger shark was glaring at me with his unblinking black eyes, as he circled around in the tank, but then I realized he was probably just lusting after my caviar-topped blini.
Who wouldn’t?
(Also, I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as shark sashimi, so it was fine.)

If the seafood bonanza wasn’t enough of a treat, what of all the perfect little petit fours from Vanille Patisserie, Betsy’s favorite bakery in Chicago?
Or how about having our own personal chef in a giant white toque, crafting truffle-laden omelets on demand, and the mile of steam trays on the glass counter, brimming with favorites such as eggs Benedict and mini-quiches and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus?

For Betsy, none of the gourmet offerings could hold a candle to the simplicity of the authentic biscuits and sausage gravy flown in directly from The Ol’ Breakfast Joynt, our favorite late-night haunt at Whitney.
She was teary when she realized what Trip had done.

Note to self: In my next lifetime, I need to marry a millionaire.

Betsy breaks out the biggest smile I’ve seen from her all weekend.
Her teeth are ultra white and beautifully capped.
(Well done, Ken!) “You know that means Melissa’s playing blackjack, right?”

“Really?
Kinda early for gambling,” I note.

“Not at all.
In fact, I’m shocked it took her so long to hit the tables.
Must have been biding her time.”
Betsy looks over both shoulders and then leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “Missy can count cards.
She majored in math at MIT.
Over the years, she’s paid for her house, her car, her tits, and her Stanford MBA with winnings.”

“Huh.
Isn’t card-counting a form of cheating?
Seems like . . .
not the most ethical behavior for someone in the financial service industry,” I whisper back.

Betsy and Alicia exchange a look I can’t quite read—it’s not pity, right?
Do they feel like I won’t understand?
Oh,
whatever.
I think sometimes they hold back on business-y talk because they doubt I can keep up with them, being just a stay-at-home mom and all.