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She lifted her chin with the pride I was used to seeing ... the pride that had been missing since we’d stepped off that ship.“I was a trophy wife, born to decorate whatever room I walked into and relish in the looks and stares that followed me everywhere I went. But now?” Her shoulders fell along with the pride she’d tapped into for a moment. “Now, for the first time since I was that lanky-legged farm kid who smelled like cow shit and got teased on the bus, I don’t feel like the most beautiful woman in the room anymore. My looks, even with all the surgery, expensive creams, celebrity hairstylists, couture wardrobes ... they are failing me. My dancer’s body is failing me. And I ... I don’t know who I am without them.”
A shimmer of a tear started in her eyes, and my heart squeezed in my chest. She was right. Though I’d never felt unattractive, I still knew I had much more to offer the world than just my looks. I wasn’t thrilled with the toll aging took on me, but it was part of life. But for Alice, it was the end of the world. It had never occurred to me how much harder the aging process was on someone who’d spent their life revered for their beauty. And all that envy seemed to have made her feel that was all she was ... a beautiful dancer and a trophy wife.
And she couldn’t be more wrong.
“You are not just a trophy wife, Alice,” I stated firmly.
“No. I’m not.” She shook her head. “Not anymore. And a beautiful trophy wife is what Alejandro deserves. He deserves a Jessica Rabbit to shine on his arm. One who isn’t plucking chin hairs, limping from bunions, and leaking pee. No. I’m not a trophy wife anymore. I’m a consolation prize.”
“Hey!” Marge grunted. “That’s my friend you’re talking about. You’d better stop talking shit about her.”
“I’m just speaking the truth, Marge. It’s over. It’s over.” She let those words drift off on a sigh.
“It’s not over.” I slammed my fist into the dirt beside me and then winced from the pain. “Ow. Anyway, it’s not over. Yes, you have always found your identity in being beautiful, and you still are ridiculously stunning, but you have to know how much more you are. You’re kind and caring.”
She snorted.
“You are. Even though you don’t let the world see it often, we all see it.”
“It’s true.” Doris smiled. “You are a wonderful friend.”
“And you’re funny as hell.” Marge pointed at her. “Not many people can keep up with my wisecracks, but you can always send them sailing back at me.”
“You’re smart and driven,” I said. “You found a way to create an empire as a showgirl inyour seventies.I mean, that’s incredible. The amount of hard work and determination it took to get you there? There are only a handful of other women on this entire planet who could have accomplished what you did.”
A slight smile tipped her lips, but she shook her head. “But even that is over now too. I didn’t want to tell you, ladies, but now that I’m stoned and apparently spilling the beans, I didn’t fall off the stage on the ship because of a wave. It was a shooting pain in my foot. The one the doctors can’t fix anymore. It’s happening more and more, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My days of daily dancing are over. I’m going to have to retire, and no world tour for me.”
“Are you sure? There’s nothing they can do?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing else. But if I’m being honest? I’m kinda glad. It was one thing to be a showgirl in my twenties, but it’s another thing entirely to be a showgirl in my seventies. It. Is. Exhausting. The late nights. The long hours. The constant pain from all the dancing and the uncomfortable shoes. I mean, why in the hell can’t they make comfortable dancing shoes?” She blew out a breath. “It’s just too much. I’m thrilled I did it. I’m thrilled I proved to myself and everyone else that I’m more than just a trophy wife, and I’m a woman who can shine all on her own and make her own damn money, but now that I’ve proven that to myself and everyone who ever doubted me? I just want to be done. Go back to dancing periodically for fun.”
Doris poked a stick at the fire. “Then you should do that. Quit your show, get yourself some comfortable shoes for once, and go find Alejandro because you love him.” She looked up from the fire at Alice. “You do love him. Don’t you?”
Alice sat for a long time while we waited in silence. Finally, she answered quietly. “Yes. I do love him.”
“Then it’s settled. We’re getting you the hell out of this jungle and going back to the ship to tell him!” Marge said decidedly.
“I love him, but ...” Alice went on. “I love him enough not to saddle him with my problems. He thinks I’m a healthy, much younger, sexy Vegas showgirl, and in reality, that’s not who I am at all. Not anymore. I love him enough to let him go. Saving him from having to endure a life with an old, decrepit ball and chain.”
“You’re trying to save yourself from rejection. And you know what, it’s bullshit,” I said, shocking myself with the force of my words. I pointed my finger at her, then got distracted by how it looked in the firelight and started spinning it around in circles.
Alice recoiled. “Excuse me?”
Her sharp response pulled me back from my distraction, and I pointed at her again. “I’m sorry, but I’m calling bullshit on the whole ‘I’m doing this for him.’ You’re not. You’re doing this because you’re too scared to let your guard down with someone to see this imperfect side of you. Well, let me tell you, no one is perfect. We all have flaws and things we’re self-conscious about. Everyone. But we let people in to see them anyway. That’s what love is. Trusting someone enough to love you at your worst. Even with chin hairs, and incontinence, and creaky joints, and wrinkles.”
She shook her head. “He deserves better.”
“He deserves to make his own decision. He deserves a chance to love you, warts and all.”
“I don’t have warts. Thank God.”
“I just mean, you stole his choice. You stole his input. You just up and decided for him what’s best, and you know what? That sucks, Alice. Maybe he would love you even more knowing what you’ve accomplished at seventy-six. Maybe he’ll think your chin hair is cute.”
“Hairy Potter is awesome,” Marge added with a grin. “We love Hairy Potter.”
“He won’t think it’scute.”
“Maybe he will?” I shrugged. “Tom knows I have chin hair. He doesn’t care.”
