Free Sisterchicks Do the Hula by Robin Jones Gunn Page B

and I’m glad.”
    “I’m glad, too.”
    “I mean it, Hope. You are the bright, sheltering umbrella in the fruity slush of my life.”
    I gave her an appreciative grin over my shoulder and took the shortest route to the lobby rest room. When I returned, Laurie was eating a sandwich.
    “Do you want a bite of this? It’s really good.”
    “What did you order?”
    “It’s mahimahi with mango salsa in a veggie wrap.”
    “And what is mahimahi?”
    “Fish. White fish.”
    “Is it cooked?”
    “Of course it’s cooked.”
    “I’m not sure Emilee would appreciate my trying sushi for the first time while she’s still onboard.”
    “This is definitely cooked, and it’s really mild. Here, have a bite.”
    After the first tiny bite, I was hooked. “That is so good.”
    “I know. Here, have the other half.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yep. That way we’ll have room for dessert.”
    Laurie looked past me and made a sweeping gesture. “It’s really beautiful here, isn’t it? Incredibly beautiful.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I didn’t think it would be like the postcards, but it is. I love those trees. Plumeria, aren’t they? They have such a great shape with their long, slender branches. And this sky is so blue. We rarely see it this blue at home.”
    “Same with us.”
    “We’re really in Hawai’i, aren’t we, Hope? We finally made it over here.”
    “Yes, we are in Hawai’i. Finally. And it is beautiful here. It’s amazing what you start to notice as soon as you get a little pineapple in your system.”
    “Pineapple, nothing. It’s this mango salsa.”
    “Right, the mango salsa.”
    “I have to take some pictures.” Laurie finished her half of the fish sandwich and reached for her camera. Handing me my little umbrella she said, “Here, pop this behind one of your ears.” Laurie always was big on props.
    Since I was eager for her to use up that roll of film, I entered in willingly. “Which ear?”
    “Either one. Doesn’t matter.”
    I posed for her. “This will give us something to laugh about when we’re sixty, right? I mean, if I could go jogging in public wearing skimpy lime green shorts at twenty and laugh about it when I’m forty, then I can pose in a maternity bathing suit at forty, and we can laugh about it when we’re sixty.”
    “We won’t laugh,” Laurie said. “We’ll say, ‘Hey, we looked pretty good back then. Better than we do now!’ ”
    “Do you honestly think we’ll say that?”
    Laurie put down the camera. “Yes, I do. We’ll wonder why we were so self-conscious about our bodies when they were being so nice to us.”
    I was twisting the paper umbrella between my fingers, contemplating Laurie’s comment, when she snapped the first picture.
    “Hey, I wasn’t ready.”
    She snapped another one. “Just pretend I’m not here. Think of how you and I are entering the era of being comfortable. This is the time in our lives when we should focus on contentment rather than appearance.”
    “Is that supposed to make me smile for the camera?”
    Laurie kept talking with the camera in front of her face. “Gabe’s mom says the first twenty years are all about charm. From twenty to forty, it’s about beauty. Forty to sixty is the contentment season, and then sixty to eighty are the dignity years.”
    “That’s profound.”
    “Yes, it is. More of my over-forty sage insights. Now put the umbrella behind your ear and give me your best Honolulumama grin.”
    From the profound to the fruity. I went for the left ear. “You know, I think you had a pair of earrings about this size our freshman year.”
    “Careful,” Laurie said.
    “They were bright yellow, weren’t they?”
    “How can you remember that?” She lowered the camera. “They were bright yellow with black stripes. All bees in Santa Barbara thought I was their mother.”
    I laughed, and she snapped another shot. Then a sound I’d been hoping for came to my ears. Laurie had hit the end of the roll, and the camera