Fiona answers without hesitation. “Oh, they’ve had a few group sessions. The praying gets quite loud during those. I bet Jesus can hear them all the way from Heaven.”
“I’m sure he can,” I bite out, forcing myself to refrain from adding, 'and I bet she spends the entire time on her knees,' or something even more cutting. I simply can’t think of a good comeback right now, because I’m so damn pissed at how irresponsible she can be sometimes… like all the time.
The coffee pot chooses this untimely moment to start with the annoying beep it does when it’s ready, causing all three of us to snap our heads in its direction. Farrah, literally saved by the bell, claps her hands together, and an instant smile pops on her face.
“Yay, coffee’s ready!” she exclaims, turning her back to me and Fiona as she grabs one of the large mugs from the cabinet behind her.
The left side of my upper lip snarls up as an actual growl escapes. I want more than anything to scream and shout at her until I’m blue in the face, but being the sibling who actually thinks before she acts, I realize in front of Fiona is not the time to have this discussion. But we’re having it. Soon. And then we’re getting a complete overhaul of the security team.
“I think we all need to take a holiday,” Fiona chirps, almost as if the entire exchange before didn’t happen at all.
“What? When? Where?” I pepper questions at her, while my brain recovers from the whiplash of the conversation. A holiday? What in the world is she talking about?
“To Reno. Today. Let’s just get into Mummy’s car and go. No security people, no interviews, no lawyers. Only us Farewell girls for a weekend getaway. We need this!”
Farrah twists around to face us again, this time with a piping cup of coffee in her hand — bitch — as relief pours the color back into her face. “I think it’s a great idea,” she agrees, desperate to get me to think about anything except the fact she’s been having threesomes with the men who are supposed to be keeping us safe and secure. I guess her idea of what that means is a little different than mine. Maybe I needed to watch a scary movie.
“Smashing!” Fiona’s face lights up like she just saw all the toys under the tree on Christmas morning. “What do you say, Aunt Finley? We can all spend an afternoon at the spa, and then get dressed up for a fancy dinner at a nice steakhouse. Tonight, you and Mummy can go down to the casino, maybe go dancing at the club to release some stress. Come on, you’re twenty-one, and you’ve never been gambling! You haven’t done one impulsive thing since you won over a hundred million dollars!”
“And what about you? What will you do while we go out?” I ask, leery about how she knows so much about Reno.
“I’m sure the hotel has a nanny you can hire to come stay with me in the suite,” she offers way too quickly. Then to make up for her over eagerness, she shrugs, and says, “At least that’s what I saw on one of those shows on the Travel Channel. All the big casino hotels have that.”
I keep my eyes trained on her, waiting to see if she shows a tell of what her ultimate play is here. She has way too much information on this trip for it to be something she just thought of. It’s not that I’m against the idea of going, surprisingly, but my this-is-all-a-little-too-convenient meter is blaring an alarming sound.
“What’s up, squirt? What’s in Reno? Why do you want to go there?” I call her out on whatever she’s scheming.
“I really just want to get away from all this, Aunt Finley. Even if it is from one hotel to another.” She drops her arms to her side, and her blue gaze, filled with honesty and sincerity, implores mine. “Ever since we won the money, you’ve been uptight and grouchy, always gone taking care of stuff with Matteo, while me and Mummy are here, bored, not sure what we’re supposed to be doing. I miss my friends from school, and Mum misses doing hair and her clients. Who else is she supposed to talk to if it’s not Dax and Travis?”
My cheeks sting with embarrassment, the truth of her words slapping me square in the face. All these days, when I’ve been grumbling about the burden of the additional responsibility I’m feeling, and the fact I’m not any closer to discovering the identity of Mr. Sexy Eyes, I haven’t even stopped to think about how my sister and niece are adapting. Sure, I know they, like me, have been ripped from the 'normal' life we had, but I’ve been so focused on poor, pitiful me — the girl with more money in the bank than some small countries, who’s infatuated with a man that only gives me orgasms in my dreams — that I’ve neglected the people I love the most.
“Do you already have reservations somewhere?” I ask Fiona, cocking my brow inquisitively, already knowing the answer.
The gap where her two front teeth should be materializes as her lips part in a grin stretching from ear to ear. She nods then scurries over to grab the notebook she was writing in earlier from her bag, flipping it open. “We’re staying in the Royal Opulence Suite at the Peppermill Resort and Casino. Check in is at one, our spa appointments start at three, and dinner at the Bimini Steakhouse is at eight. Gloria, the nanny I chose, will report to the room at eleven, and she’ll stay until whenever you get back to the room. A line of credit at the casino has already been set up for you and Mum to gamble, so all we need to do is pack our bags and hit the road.”
In awe of how in the world she was able to arrange everything she just rattled off, I open my mouth to ask her, but she holds her hand up in the air to stop me and shakes her head. “Just trust me. I’ve got it all sorted, and it’s going to be the dog’s bollocks!”
Finley
“ARE YOU SURE?” Farrah eyes me warily over the top of her sunglasses, acting like I just spoke to her in a different language. Probably Pig Latin. “I don’t think I’m supposed to leave the car on. I’ve never heard of that before.”
Slamming my palm on the convertible top of the Camaro from the passenger side, I help Fiona out of the cramped backseat, as I snap back, “Yes, dammit. It’s called valet parking, and you leave the keys in the ignition with the engine running. Now, pop the trunk so we can get our bags out and let the poor guy waiting go park our car.”
It’s been four hours and seven bathroom stops since we left San Francisco, and if I have to listen to my sister sing one more song with the wrong lyrics, my head may explode. I never would’ve suggested we listen to a 'Classic Roadtrip' playlist, had I known she would butcher some of my favorite songs to the point I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to listen to them again. I managed to keep my mouth shut when she belted out, “Staying alive with a steak and a knife,” with the Bee-Gee’s, and I didn’t comment when she crooned, “I’ll never leave your pizza burning,” instead of the Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden.” But when I heard, “Might as well face it, you’re a dick with a glove,” I finally had to say something. I mean, come on.
“But what if the car rolls—”
“Mummy, please just get out and pop open the bloody boot,” Fiona cuts her off, before something even more idiotic escapes, while tapping her mermaid watch to remind us for the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes that we have to hurry to not be late to our spa appointments.
Farrah shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath, but finally unfolds herself from behind the steering wheel, allowing the guy, who’s been patiently waiting, to take her place. I ignore her and meet the bellhop at the back of the car, helping him unload the three overnight bags and place them onto a luggage cart. It’s a good thing we’re only staying a couple of nights, because my brilliant sister chose to buy the car with the smallest trunk possible. It’s almost like she went in the dealership and said, “I want the car with the least storage available so I’ll never be expected to do the big grocery shopping trips or asked to help anyone move.”
“Welcome to Peppermill Reno,” the uniformed porter greets us, as he pushes the cart, leading us into the massive resort. “Where are you ladies visiting us from?”
“San Francisco,” Fiona answers confidently, as she darts out in front of Farrah and me, falling in stride with th
e middle-aged man who reminds me a little bit of the late Robin Williams. RIP, Mrs. Doubtfire.
“San Francisco, eh? Do you get to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge a lot?” he engages, smiling down at her.
Fiona giggles and shakes her blonde waves. “Are you daft? You couldn’t pay me to deal with that traffic or all those tourists.”
The guy seems a little surprised by the accent as he glances back at the two of us questioningly. I simply shrug, and chuckle, “I dunno. We just roll with it.”
With an understanding nod, he turns his attention back to my niece and continues their conversation, asking if she’s ever been to Reno before and then telling her all about the swimming pools and the arcade at the hotel. By the time we get to the check-in desk, Fiona’s got the man wrapped around her little finger, and we go straight to the front of the VIP line.
While the friendly woman behind the registration counter pulls up our reservation, I gape at the extravagant and enormous lobby we’re standing in. Gold-and-black-tiled floors, marble counters, and several eye-catching chandeliers are just a few of the things that scream luxury and magnificence. There are people milling around everywhere, aging from young kids to near death, wearing everything from shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops to business suits and fancy dresses. I peer down at my frayed denim capris and the pink Old Navy tank-top I’ve had for at least three years, suddenly not feeling so bad about my lack of a designer wardrobe, despite Farrah’s mocking as I packed and got dressed this morning. I’d shut her up by asking what her favorite Bible verse was.
“Okay, ladies, I’ve got a little bit of bad news.” I snap my head back to the woman behind the computer at the sound of her voice, my posture stiffening at her words. “The suite you booked — the Roman Opulence Suite — has a water leak in one of the bathrooms, and the maintenance crew is still in there working. I’m not sure when they’ll be finished, so what I can do for you instead is move you to another one of our Super Suites at the same rate, and then comp up to a thousand dollars of your spa services today for the inconvenience. Will that be okay?”
“Is that cool with you, squirt?” I ask Fiona, since she’s the one who set all of this up, and I have no idea what a Super Suite is or that it was possible to spend a thousand dollars in a spa. What the hell are they going to do to us anyway, massage us with oil made from the tears of virgin princesses?
My niece thinks about the offer for a few seconds, then replies, “I’d like a five-hundred-dollar voucher to use at the arcade as well.”
The lady doesn’t bat an eye. “Of course, Miss Farewell. That won’t be a problem at all.”
If the hotel is willingly giving us back fifteen hundred dollars in services, I don’t want to even know how much this room that we’re staying in costs for a night. I agreed to a weekend away from the stress, to relax and unwind, so I’m not going to worry about it. As silly as it sounds to say I trust a six-year-old with making smart money decisions, I do with Fiona. I know she won’t be the one to squander away our winnings. Though, as I glance over at the diamond-encrusted Rolex on my sister’s wrist and the Chanel clutch she’s got tucked under her arm, I know exactly who will if I don’t find her something to do during the days, other than shop. And sleep with the entire security team. Poor Matteo must feel left out.
After the woman hands us our keycards, the Robin Williams lookalike escorts us up to the room, and when he swings open the door to the suite and I see what’s inside, I stumble backward in my flip-flops, nearly twisting my ankle in the process.
Oh. My. God! What in the hell is this place?
“Welcome to your Safari Adventure, ladies,” he boasts, ushering us inside as he continues talking. “One of Reno’s most spectacular suites, you will find no expense was spared in creating the luxurious accommodations throughout the two-story, five-thousand-square-foot space. Artwork and sculptures hand-picked from indigenous African artists are scattered throughout the master and guest bedrooms, the five bathrooms, and the living and dining areas. In addition, you’ll find state-of-the-art electronics in each of the rooms, as well as a fully-stocked fridge and wet bar.”
I know my mouth is hanging open. I know my eyes are as big as flying saucers. And I know that Farrah and Fiona look the exact same way that I do. It’s like we’ve walked into a scene straight from Coming to America, a room designed specifically for his excellency, Prince Akeem. Complete with a life-sized elephant head next to the giant jacuzzi… that’s in the middle of the living room… under a gold-trimmed domed roof that’s painted with three different scenes. And that’s not even the half of it.
“Ummm, Fiona,” I finally manage to find my voice, “i-is this what you were expecting?”
Opening her arms wide, Fiona begins spinning around the room with a grin bigger than the Grand Canyon on her face. “Isn’t this magical? It’s like we’re on the set of the ‘Wildest Dreams’ video with TSwift.”
I don’t want to disappoint her and tell her I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I offer a half-assed nod while Robbie the Bellhop takes the suitcases into the bedrooms, which I’m scared to peek into. Farrah, meanwhile, is petting — yes, petting — the stuffed cheetah in the corner, telling it how pretty it is. Dear Lord, save me now.
“What time are our spa appointments again?” I ask aloud, praying the answer is right now. I’ve never had a professional massage before, and when Fiona first mentioned it, I was a little nervous, especially about the stranger touching my naked body thing, but as I take in the scene around me, I decide it’s the lesser of two evils. Because by the time I return to this room, I need to be really relaxed and/or drunk. Preferably both.
Fiona stops twirling, leaning onto a bronze sculpture of a naked woman holding a snake to steady her off-kilter equilibrium, then checks her watch. “In ten minutes. We need to go!”
“Yes! Let’s go!” I shout a little too enthusiastically, afraid I may be trampled by a hidden herd of gazelles if we don’t get out of here soon.
“GOOD AFTERNOON, LADIES and little miss,” an older, silver-haired woman greets us when we enter Spa Toscana. “You must be the Farewell family.”
Fiona nods excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “We are! We are! Are you the nice missus I rung on the telly?”
The lady’s face brightens with a Colgate smile at the sound of my niece’s voice. Like she wasn’t so stinking cute already, the British accent only seems to captivate people even more, wrapping them tighter around her finger. “No, I’m not, sweetheart, but Miss Sophie told me all about you calling, and I’ve got everything set up for you guys. We’re going to start with the chocolate mint manicures and pedicures for the three of you, and then, when your mom and aunt are getting their massages, Miss Tia is going to give you a fabulous makeover for your dinner tonight.”
“Brilliant!” my niece exclaims, releasing Farrah’s and my hands as she bounds toward the woman. “I can’t wait! I’m Fiona. What’s your name?”
“I’m Miss Genevieve, but most people just call me GiGi,” she answers, as she leads us through the doors and into a hallway decorated in hues of gold from floor to ceiling. Paint, wallpaper, carpet, light fixtures, you name it — all gold, reminding me of the inside of a Roman emperor’s palace. I’m way out of my element here.
After GiGi shows us to the changing area, where we’re each assigned a locker to keep all our clothes and belongings in, she gives us the softest, most comfortable robes I’ve ever felt against my skin to slip into, and then leads us into a tranquil salon room, where she turns us over to three other women. Over the next hour and a half, my hands and feet are pampered like I didn’t know was possible, making me realize what I’d been missing all these years by painting my own toenails.
My head lolls to the side of the heated, vibrating chair and I close my eyes, a lazy smile turning up the corners of my mouth while listening to Fiona charm the nail techs and Farrah compare beauty school stories with them. It’s still hard for me to believe this is our life.
A month ago, I was worried about how I was going to pay for fall tuition and books, and now, I’m not even enrolled in school, because I’m too busy estate planning and researching investment strategies and opportunities. Figuring out what to do with a hundred and fourteen million dollars is a lot harder than it sounds. I know, I know… it’s a problem everyone would like to have, but with that kind of money comes a tremendous amount of responsibility. And I don’t want to screw this up.
“All right, Finley, honey, we’re all done here,” a soft, feminine voice breaks me from my trance, and my eyes flutter open. “It’s time for your massage now. I’ll take you down to Dennis’s room and get you set up.”
For a brief moment, it sounded like she said, “Dennis’s room,” but I must’ve misheard her. Surely, she meant Denise. I say goodbye to Farrah and Fiona, who are each going their separate way for the next part of our spa day, and then follow her back down the gilded hall to another room. Nervous butterflies flap around wildly in my stomach as she explains what to do.
“Leave your robe and underclothes on the chair,” she points to a burgundy stool in the corner, “and then lay face-down on the bed, the sheet pulled up to cover your bum.”
“So I get completely naked?” I confirm, unsure.
Nodding, she reaches out with a soothing touch to my shoulder. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you can leave your panties on, but I recommend going without so there’s nothing to restrict or hinder the full effects of the massage.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard. “That’s fine. I, uh, just wanted to make sure.”
“Relax, hun. Just close your eyes and allow yourself to enjoy. It’ll be magical, I promise.”
With a supportive smile, she turns on her heel and leaves me alone to undress and then wait for a stranger to come rub her hands all over my naked body. Because that’s not weird at all.