STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

SIX | The Meaning of Sisterhood

Tucked in an airport bathroom I stripped off my travel clothes--jeans, t-shirt and canvas sneakers--and slipped on my pale blue chiffon dress and lipstick red heels. Cut short to my thighs, it flared nicely around generous hips, the colour made vibrant thanks to my gorgeous, deep tan.

But a yawn ripped through me. Hard and unforgiving. Jet lagged on the back of a nineteen hour flight, exhaustion was a bitch that wouldn't quit, but damned if I was going to face Milan looking anything less than fabulous.

Especially when I had a party to get to.

Splashing a bit of water on my face, I dried my cheeks, tousled my hair that had grown thick and a bit wild over the last few months in Thailand. Long, dark and full of natural waves that tumbled from crown to waist after twelve long years of growing it out. I'd fit right in with the locals there, all warm skin and sloe-eyed.

One of the few places where I'd actually felt at home. Where I could hold my head up without pointed fingers or lingering stares. And already I was missing my little home by the beach, the sound of the swaying palms and rolling waves. But this is where I had to be. For Isobel. For the Sisterhood.

A bit of eyeliner, mascara and, of course, lipstick to match my shoes, and I was set. Tucked in the back of an Uber, my bags hauled into the trunk by the driver, I checked my phone. Fifteen minutes late.

A couple messages of Shayne flashed on the screen and I smiled.

The driver slid in behind the wheel and yanked his door shut, assessing me in the rear-view mirror. A hint of suspicion in his young gaze. A look I was used to.

The 'is she...or isn't she?' debate was one I was intimately familiar with, and god it was seriously getting old.

"The Baglioni, Si?"

"Si," I answered, tucking the phone away in my clutch and spent the next twelve minutes drooling from behind my window. Milan, an international epicenter of fashion and design--Cait was bound to be in her glory.

We rolled up towards the Baglioni and I exited the back seat and smiled brightly at the doorman. An older gentleman, olive skinned and white haired, who, graciously, smiled right back without a flicker of hesitation.

"Good evening," he said, his voice butter smooth and carrying all the charm of his Italian heritage. "May I help you with your luggage?"

The driver had dispensed of my bags and, with a tip of his ball cap, shot back into his car and took off for his next fare.

"That would be wonderful," I said, tucking my gold metallic clutch under my arm. "I'm here for the Sisterhood party."

His eyes brightened and with white gloved hands, he took hold of my suitcases and plunked them on a polished brass trolley.

"Si, signorina. We've been expecting you. They are all on the rooftop. I will see your bags are brought straight to your rooms."

"Grazie." He pulled the door open, glass and more polished brass and I sashayed into the lobby with Carrie Bradshaw swagger. This was the kind of service I could get used to. A quick elevator ride to the top and I swung out onto the rooftop terrace and held my breath.

The view--an endless stretch of glimmering lights and sweeping architecture was enough to bring a tear to the eye, but the ringing laughter pulled me around to the lounge of plush settees, sparkling lights, draped over head like a net of stars.

A fire pit flared, warming away the breezy chill of late September.

And there they were. My sisters. My loves. My life. Each of them similarly dressed in chiffon and heels. Even Shayne, who almost always preferred the comfort of pants, somehow managed to still look bad ass in cotton-candy pink. Her hair swept up in a sassy do that was rocker chic.

Priya, the soft yellow accenting the gold of her skin, saw me first, her gasp of surprise alerting the others.

Shayne thrust up her arms, a bottle of Dom Perignon in each hand. "Bitch!"

"Bitch," I tossed back, dashing a few of my own tears away.

Isobel was in the center of it all--wearing vintage pale ivory wedding dress. Her laughter died as she saw me standing there, watching them all as I so often did. Her lip wobbled and tears welled in her wide, brown eyes and my name slipped from her with a sob.

"I didn't know you were coming." Cait climbed over the long sectional and flung herself into my arms. At barely five-two to my solid six-three, she was tiny and easy to catch. Her short hair dyed a vibrant lavender with silver blue roots that complimented the soft purple dress. A bold choice, but that was Caitriona.

Always making a statement from head to toe.

She'd always dazzled me with her sharp eye and understanding for colour, fabric and textures.

"Are you kidding? No way I'd miss this Sistermoon."

After Isobel calling off the wedding, the only thing she couldn't pull out of her was the honeymoon -- here, to the heart of the Italy. The home of art and romance. So rather then let it all go to waste, we'd promised to come together.

An act of sisterhood and solidarity.

Marco's horrific accident almost forced us to change those plans. The doctor's had kept him in a medically induced coma for almost three weeks to lessen damage to his body, and for a while there everyone thought he might die. Everyone except Shayne. She'd never gave up hope. Never wavered once in her belief, and maybe it was that belief that got him through the worst of it.

There will be substantial scarring on the left side of his body from the plane wreckage, but he was alive. Recovering. And with Eshe and Cait's fashion triumph to top it all off, we had a lot to be grateful for. So tonight, we were going to laugh and drink and celebrate until the sun came up, decked in the wedding and bridesmaid dresses we all wore.

Isobel hastily mopped her face as I skipped over to her, hand in hand with Cait and scooped me into a hard, fast hug. "I'm so happy you're here."

"Me too." Kissing her cheeks, I accepted the flute of champagne Shayne poured out, handing one to each of us.

"Now we can finally get this party started."

"Daaaahling," Eshe crooned, a vision in sea-foam green. She tucked an arm around my waist, she kissed me firm on the lips. "You look fabulous, as always."

"Agreed." Priya nudged her aside and kissed me next. "Love the new shoes. Gianmarco Lorenzi."

"But of course." I flashed a wicked grin. "They scream fierce, but tonight, of all nights, demanded no less."

Laughter spun around the circle of us. Banded together, glasses raised, in a toast of celebration.

"Well, ladies, here's to success, to sisterhood. And to whatever else the future may hold."

"Here, here," Shayne thrust up a near empty bottle, and chugged down the rest. "And I don't know about you guys, but if well-behaved women seldom make history, I think it's time we start misbehaving."

Priya tipped her glass towards Shayne with a snort. "I'll drink to that."

"Yes," Isobel agreed, resting her head on my shoulder, "I think we all should."

I hooked my arms around Isobel's waist, and the rest followed suit until we stood, facing the glowing expanse of Milan, a single unit. The six of us, atop the gorgeous roof top in a fabulous city, drawing upon each other for love and strength.

Because this summer, we'd all been struck hard, and yet here we still stood, and would continue to stand together. No matter what happened, whatever hurdles and obstacles life might throw our way, we we're not afraid because we were not alone. We had each other.

Always.

That was the meaning of friendship.

Of the Sisterhood.