Read Online Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan - Free Book Online

taking me for a romantic weekend and I need something sexier than last year’s La Blanca. I’ll be out in a sec.”
    While I’m waiting, I saunter over to peruse the limited edition bathing suits, each hanging importantly on its own individual rack. Most of the gossamer mesh and gold-grommet confections look like they’d dissolve in a swimming pool faster than a Listerine breath strip. There’s not a swim-friendly Speedo or a black one-piece Anne Cole in sight. And nothing with Lycra panels to hold in extra flab. Sunshine Beach patrons must do all their tummy tucking at the plastic surgeon.
    Kate emerges from her dressing room wearing her trademark spike heels and a lace eyelet side-tied bikini.
    â€œLooks good,” I say, truly impressed with Kate’s forty-year-old body.
    â€œYou’re right. Not bad,” Kate agrees, pivoting in front of the mirror. But she pauses midspin and pinches the back of her perfect thigh. “Is the cellulite too disgusting? Like cottage cheese?”
    I look for some evidence of lumps, bumps or even a grain of sand that might be stuck to Kate’s thigh. Nothing. “Smoothest thing I’ve ever seen. More like pasteurized Velveeta than cottage cheese. Owen will eat it up,” I add.
    â€œMaybe Owen would like a halter top better,” she says. Then giving me a little wink, she adds, “I figure if I look good enough, I can get him to give me a full-service massage. Like yours.”
    It definitely won’t be as good as mine. But I’m glad to have given Kate some ideas. That’s what best friends are for. No secrets. We tell each other everything.
    Kate disappears into her dressing room, and I continue looking through the racks for a bathing suit that’s compatible with chlorine. Or even salt water. I stop at one hanger that has two identical strings, each sporting three very small black crocheted squares. I hold the pieces in front of my body and start turning them as if they’re a Rubik’s cube. But I can’t line up the squares to cover the requisite body parts. I wouldn’t even know how to wear this thing to a nude beach.
    Giving up, I wander to the seating area in the back of the store. Half a dozen men are comfortably lolling on deep-cushioned leather couches, having generously decided that just this once, they can skip the baseball game to come shopping with their girlfriends or wives. What a sacrifice. I figure a guy deserves points if he’s at your side buying the shower curtain at Ikea. Not when he’s waiting in front of the bikini-modeling mirror.
    I rifle through a
New York Times
on the table, and since the front page is too depressing and the Home section has already been stolen—now I’ll never know what happened at the Milan Furniture Expo—I reach for the Metro section. And there above the fold is a familiar face. I look again, suddenly excited. It’s Owen Hardy, beaming and looking handsome in a tux. He’s standing in a floral-filled tent at some glamorous affair, surrounded by equally glamorous admirers.
    I smile smugly. Pretty neat. My best friend’s boyfriend, right there in
The New York Times.
I’m just two degrees of separation from a celebrity. I grab the section and start to walk toward Kate’s dressing room. “Kate,” I call as I get closer. “Did you see this? Owen’s in the paper and . . .”
    My voice trails off as I read the caption and stop dead in my tracks.
    I go back to the couch and read the caption again. Maybe the paper got the ID wrong. Could be they’ll print a retraction tomorrow. But no, this is
The New York Times.
Ever since the Jayson Blair scandal they don’t declare that the world is round unless they can fact-check it with Christopher Columbus. Still, I read the article, hoping that the attractive woman with the diamond necklace and her arm snaked around Owen’s waist is really his sister. Or, given