Sisterchicks in Sombreros by Robin Jones Gunn Read Free Book Online Page B

uplifting than “you have a great personality.” Bad choice.
    I didn’t know what to say to elevate the down-turned mood.
    Joanne was the one who buoyed up the conversation. “We better scoot along, or they’ll lock the dining room doors on us, like Sandy said.”
    “I need to take another shower.” I glanced at my watch. “A quick shower. Then will you rub this lotion on my back?”
    I realized the beauty of being sisters meant that we could walk away from a potential pity party with all the telltale streamers suspended in midair and return any time we wanted. It also meant I could ask her to touch my afflicted skin without wondering if she was really grossed out by the thought but willing to do it to be nice.
    That’s the beauty of sisterhood. Our relationship didn’t require extra maintenance to ensure that we always would beconnected with each other, the way a friendship did. Joanne and I were bonded for life.
    So, if that’s true, why haven’t I ever asked her about Russell?
    I stepped into the steaming shower and decided tonight would be the ultimate slumber party after dinner. At long last Joanne would tell all.
    Or I’d pulverize her with all the extra bath towels.

T wenty-five minutes later , we trotted down the hall to the elevator with Joanne wearing a semiformal, sequined-bodice gown she had borrowed from Sandy, her friend who had cruised the Bahamas and had invested in a proper wardrobe for such a journey.
    I tagged behind Joanne looking much less elegant. My white button-up shirt was freshly ironed but untucked, hanging casually over my nicest pair of black pants. The rash had been arrested, but the itch factor was still at large, and I was trying to keep my clothes loose and breezy. I gave up on wearing any jewelry because even the silver necklace I brought felt itchy on the back of my neck.
    Entering the large dining room, we were shown to a table in the center area that was set for six people. Four others already were seated. Most of the people in the dining roomwere dressed casually, I noticed. No one was as dressed up as Joanne.
    Joanne turned to me and muttered, “Apparently this short cruise has a different dress code than Sandy’s Bahamian cruise.”
    “You look lovely this evening,” the wine steward said diplomatically, as he filled Joanne’s glass with water. “Most of our guests save their formal wear for our dinner on the final evening.”
    “Oh, I see.” To her credit, Joanne seemed to shake off the discomfort of being ahead of the rest of the ship on the evening dress code. Instead, she entered into the introductions around the table as warmly as if she were wearing jeans and a T-shirt like the woman on her right. That was the strength of Joanne’s personality. She could flex much better than I could.
    The couple on our right was from Montana and celebrating their fifteenth anniversary. The couple across from us was from Newport Beach, California, and said this was their second trip to Mexico on this cruise line.
    “We had such a great time, we decided to come again. The food is exceptional.” The friendly man from California was in his late fifties or early sixties with what looked like a burn scar running up the side of his neck and ear. His eyes twinkled as he said, “I can personally recommend every one of their desserts. Especially the ones they serve at the mid-night buffet.”
    “One meal at a time, Robert!” his demure wife, Marti, said, as she received the menu being handed to her.
    “My sister and I have never been on a cruise before,” Joanne said, nodding to me. “Any advice you have will be greatly appreciated.”
    “The evening shows are entertaining,” Marti said, laying aside her menu. “However, the shopping tomorrow in Ensenada isn’t much to speak of, unless you’re in the market for clay pots. I personally enjoy the ice sculptures at the midnight buffets. They are beautifully done.”
    The ship seemed to let out a long groan, a sort of