Sissy Room

I've tried that way. I use that for potlucks, but sometimes it's a bit too much for just myself.  I saw that the steak nuggets are back at Arby's. That's what I'm thinking after church.

A very wet and messy Kiddo Fluffy Fly diaper this Sunday morning.

I prefer the natural act of messing my diaper like I did just ten minutes ago after I got out of bed with a wet Kiddo Fluffy Fly diaper and simply relaxed while I went poopies in my wet diaper. Going potty in my diaper in such a natural manner is the best way to start the day and today can be called "Stinky Sunday" although the stinkies is very feint. I am sitting here sipping hot coffee with a warm load squishing in my diaper. I won't change right away and will even have my morning exercise while still in my wet and messy diaper. Thank goodness for Vaseline and Baby Magic Lotion that I put on my diaper area last night before bed. Fortunately I don't mind cleaning up, just a perfunctory responsibility after I go poopies in my diapies. Cleaning and changing into a fresh diaper only takes me five minutes with adult wipes and a wet wash cloth with a little Dawn Dish Soap and I am sweet smelling again without a trace of having gone potty in my diaper. The warmth of both my wet and poopie diaper is exhilarating and relaxing at the same time; a paradoxical cacophony of very intense emotional and physical sensations that never fail to give me simple and innocent pleasure. Life is short and my messy diapers do not harm anyone. For those who might wonder if I am married, the answer is yes. Does my wife know? Of course she does, however, we have a boundary of no stinky diapers around her. I can be wet for as long as 8 hours without a pee pee stinkies because I use 3-4 drops of baby powder scented oil in my diaper, and that is just fine to be around my wife and others for that matter with the utmost discretion, except for the slight bulge under my pants from my wet diaper, but no one notices...I think... Well, for now, here I am with the Emoji's that depict how I am feeling:   Far too many posts by me, but never far too many messy diapers.

Book 2 – Chapter 21: Sally… Leggera   Behind the scenes… The rumor spread like a storm. It began, as these things often did, with almost nothing: a friend of a friend commenting online that somebody close to Vivienne Hart was yachting somewhere along the Croatian coast. A few connections were made. Old photographs were compared. Travel patterns were checked. Before long, the conclusion circulating through several entertainment desks was that there was a very good chance Hollywood actress and current sensation Vivienne Hart was somewhere aboard a yacht in the Adriatic. Then somebody found the aircraft. A private jet connected with Vivienne's circle had been tracked on FlightRadar from Van Nuys all the way to Split, whose small international airport had become one of the natural gateways into Croatia's summer yachting world. That was enough. Photographers began appearing around marinas and harbors. Some rented little motorboats or small yachts of their own and started cruising among the larger vessels offshore, scanning decks through long lenses for familiar faces. Vivienne was the prize, naturally, although anybody known to be close to her would do. Pietro had been receiving increasingly frantic calls from one of his major clients, a Paris news agency desperate for something worthwhile during an irritatingly quiet July in which celebrities had somehow managed to behave themselves and disappear on holiday. “You still haven't found her?” His agent sounded more stressed than angry, which Pietro considered an improvement. “Listen, I'm sending material to your editor anyway. Maybe she recognizes somebody. But this is like looking for a needle in a haystack. We don't have anything concrete. We have a rumor, remember? Nobody has Vivienne.” “Okay.” The man sounded thoroughly dissatisfied with reality. “If you find anything, call me. Better yet, call Serena directly. She'll get it moving.” “Will do.” Pietro and his partner Nando spent the better part of two days cruising between islands and sheltered bays, studying yachts and beaches and exchanging information with contacts around the principal harbors and shipyards. If Vivienne Hart was there, somebody would eventually find her. There were simply an awful lot of yachts to eliminate first. Pietro circled Lady Lara for the second time without much enthusiasm. Families. Teenagers. Parents. Nothing immediately useful. Earlier he had watched them swimming off the stern and taking turns with the SEABOBs. Later there had been Jet Skis, and he had managed a few surprisingly good photographs of an older man taking a dark-haired girl out for what appeared to be the ride of her life. The girl had been laughing so hard in one frame that Pietro had actually stopped to admire the photograph. Great picture. Terrific face. Front-page smile. Pity she wasn't famous. He filed the images anyway. Most people aboard yachts of this size were very wealthy, certainly, but fame was another matter entirely. More often than not they turned out to be investors, industrialists, property developers or people who owned companies nobody outside their particular industry had ever heard of. Rich, but editorially useless. So Pietro moved on. He and Nando returned toward the harbor, wandering without much purpose and hoping that somebody, somewhere, would do something suspicious enough to reveal the location of somebody determined not to be found. The useful photograph came later that evening. Pietro was nowhere near Lady Lara by then. He had the long lens pointed toward the yacht partly because she was beautiful and partly because he was practicing his aim while the light was still good. He wasn't interested in spying through windows. That wasn't his thing. What Pietro wanted was the golden photograph: somebody famous caught in an ordinary moment without looking ridiculous or compromised. A hand resting on a railing. A drink being lifted. Somebody laughing at a joke. The sort of photograph that made an inaccessible person suddenly seem human. A girl stepped out from the yacht's lounge. Phone in hand. Pietro followed her almost automatically. She moved toward the rail, put the phone to her ear and began talking. Relaxed. Happy. Very happy, actually. Pietro frowned. There was something familiar about her. He took one photograph. Then another. He lowered the camera and checked the display. Zoomed in. “Huh.” Who was she? He enlarged the image again. Different hair. That wasn't helping. But the face— Pietro raised the camera immediately. Take the pictures now. Identify the person later. Click. Click. Click. Then she smiled at something the person on the phone said. Pietro stopped. That smile. He had seen it before. He flipped backward through the day's photographs. Jet Ski. There she was. Same girl, hair blowing everywhere, clinging to the older man and laughing as they cut across the water. Pietro returned to the new photographs. He knew that face. Not from movies. Not music. Something else. He pulled out his phone. “Serena? Hey. I've got something.” Her voice sharpened instantly. “Vivienne?” “Nope.” Pietro was too practical to tease editors when money was involved. “But she's familiar. I can't place her. Check your messages. I'm sending two.” He transferred the images and waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then Serena came back almost breathless. “Oh my God, Pietro. That's Sally Weiss.” Pietro looked back toward the yacht. Of course. Now that Serena had said it, he couldn't believe he hadn't recognized her. “She cut her hair,” Serena continued rapidly. “That's why you missed her. What on earth is Sally Weiss doing in Croatia?” Pietro shrugged even though she couldn't see him. “Having a holiday?” “She was in Miami less than a week ago, for goodness' sake. We have her in Miami Beach on Thursday, so her hair is new.” “That does not prevent Croatia from existing this week.” Serena ignored him. “And look at her.” Pietro looked. The short dark shag suited her. So did the casual clothes she had been wearing earlier, the boyish swim trunks, the easy way she seemed to move around the yacht without performing for anybody. Serena laughed softly. “God, she's going to break some hearts with that haircut.” Pietro smiled. He already understood the appeal. Some famous young people spotted a long lens and immediately became somebody else. Sally Weiss, apparently unaware that one was anywhere near her, simply looked like a sixteen-year-old having an excellent holiday. He liked that. “Who's she talking to?” Serena asked. “No idea.” Pietro watched Sally smile into the phone again. “Boyfriend?” It was deliberately provocative, and Serena caught it immediately. “Oh, we could work with that.” “Careful.” His voice changed. “She’s sixteen.” Serena paused. “I know.” “Then don't invent anything.” “I won't.” Pietro continued watching through the lens without taking another photograph for the moment. “She looks happy talking to whoever it is. That's all you know.” “Understood.” Serena was quiet for another second. “Still... Sally Weiss in Croatia is a story by itself.” “That I agree with.” “And the haircut.” “Yes, Serena. We have established the haircut.” She laughed. “It matters.” Then: “Everybody likes Sally Weiss.” Pietro smiled. That was probably the problem. Sally had somehow become one of those rare subjects whom entertainment journalists actually preferred not to hurt. She generated clicks, certainly. Her name sold photographs. Her family was fascinating. Her recovery after the crash had created enormous public interest. But people rooted for her. Even cynical editors did. “She seems pretty normal,” Pietro said. “For somebody whose father could probably purchase half the boats you're looking at.” “Exactly.” Serena was typing now; he could hear it faintly. “Let me see what I can establish about Lady Lara. Charter records, ownership connections, guest associations. Maybe Vivienne is still somewhere in the picture.” “Fine.” “And Pietro?” “Yeah?” “Keep it tasteful.” He laughed. “I was about to tell you the same thing.” “Etienne would murder us.” “He's not the one I'd worry about.” A pause. “Oh.” Pietro let her get there herself. “Amélie.” “Exactly.” Serena sighed. Amélie had known Sally personally for some time. Not professionally. Actually known her. “Well, Amélie doesn't interfere with editorial.” “No.” “But she'd certainly read it.” “She reads everything.” “Fine. Nothing stupid. Nothing cruel. Nothing pretending we know who she's talking to.” “Good.” Serena considered the photographs again. “We can do something real. Sally Weiss discovered in Croatia, new haircut, summer holiday, mystery yacht. Keep it elegant and offer it to the serious channels first.” “That sounds better.” “You'll get your usual cut.” Pietro looked back through the viewfinder. Sally was still standing by the rail. Still talking. Still smiling. He found himself smiling too. He already liked Sally Weiss. “See what else you can get,” Serena continued. “Keep your distance. Find out who chartered the yacht and who's aboard. No stupid tricks.” “Deal.” “And Pietro?” “Hmm?” “Good find.” He watched Sally laugh at something said thousands of miles away. “Yeah,” Pietro murmured. “It is.” -- There was a fair amount of expectation as the tender carried the women into Hvar harbor. It was considerably busier than Vis, with yachts lined along the waterfront, smaller boats moving constantly through the bay, and crowds wandering between the quay, cafés and old stone streets. “There’s word that Vivienne Hart is supposed to be vacationing somewhere around here,” the tender pilot called back. “Everybody’s checking the tenders twice.” Sally immediately pulled the brim of her cap a little lower and made sure her sunglasses were firmly in place. Her small frame and short dark hair could hardly have made her look less like the Hollywood actress, but that wasn’t really the point. The last thing Sally wanted was to be accidentally recognized by somebody who had begun by looking for somebody else. “They’re not after you,” Ally chuckled. Sally shrugged. “We’ll protect you,” Emma assured her. “Yeah,” Sophie agreed. “We’ll make everybody think you’re our sister or something.” Sally glanced from one tall blond twin to the other. “Very convincing.” Astrid, Hannah and Caroline barely noticed the exchange. They were already bent over a phone, planning a shopping route with the concentration of people preparing a minor military campaign. As the tender reached the dock, Yvonne, one of the deck crew, stepped ashore first and helped the girls out before offering a hand to the women. “If you’d appreciate a guide, I’ve been here before,” she said. “I can take you up to the fortress and point out some good shops along the way.” “That would be wonderful, thank you,” Astrid said, with immediate agreement from the others. Yvonne motioned toward the waterfront and set off with the group. For the first few minutes, Sally noticed people looking toward them. Heads turned as the tender arrived, phones appeared, and a few hopeful faces studied the passengers. Then interest seemed to fade. Not Vivienne. As far as Sally could tell, that settled it. They disappeared into town. Hvar was much busier than Vis, with a steady stream of visitors arriving and departing throughout the day. It had the polished energy of a place that had long since discovered exactly how attractive it was and had become thoroughly accustomed to people coming to admire it. Sally liked it. Old pale-stone buildings crowded around narrow streets and squares, cafés filled every promising patch of shade, and above the town the fortress stood prominently against the hillside. They decided to go there first. “The views are worth it,” Yvonne assured them confidently. “And it isn’t too far.” Not too far, Sally soon discovered, was a flexible concept. The climb was steady enough that by halfway up Ally was openly reconsidering the entire expedition. “This is a trap,” she huffed. “Now I know why they call them tourist traps.” Sally laughed. The twins were somewhat more stoic, although not particularly happy. “We exercise,” Emma said through gritted teeth. “We do ballet,” Sophie clarified. Emma nodded. “Exactly.” “And ballet uses different muscles.” “Apparently,” Ally muttered, “none of the uphill ones.” Sally had fewer problems. Between jogging, tennis and the morning’s treadmill session, her legs were accustomed to being asked inconvenient questions. She climbed comfortably beside Yvonne near the front of the group. Once they reached the fortress, even Ally admitted the effort had been worthwhile. The view opened spectacularly over the town, harbor and surrounding islands, white boats scattered across brilliant blue water far below them. Somewhere out there was Lady Lara, and Yvonne eventually helped Sally identify her among the other yachts. Photographs became inevitable. Yvonne volunteered to take them, although Ally supervised the process with such intensity that Sally began to feel sorry for her. “A little lower,” Ally instructed. Yvonne lowered the camera. “No, not quite that low.” Sally groaned. “Just take the picture before she starts directing a feature film.” That earned a laugh from everyone, including Yvonne. Coffee came next. They found a café tucked into one of the narrow stone alleys, where shade, cold drinks and chairs felt like the greatest luxuries available in Croatia. Sally happily settled with an iced coffee while the twins recovered from their climb and Ally began reviewing the photographs as though they had just returned from an expedition to Everest. Then came the shopping. The men, Sally reluctantly concluded, had been correct in staying aboard the yacht. A quick look online earlier had made the situation obvious: Hvar offered history, views and an impressive concentration of small shops selling clothing, jewelry, ceramics, local products and all manner of things one could live perfectly well without until seeing them displayed attractively in a window. None of which interested the men. The women and girls, however, were delighted. Sally enjoyed wandering through the little shops almost as much as she had enjoyed the fortress. She bought two T-shirts she absolutely did not need but knew she would wear. She found fridge magnets for her various homes, which Ally considered hilariously domestic, and a small ceramic boat painted in bright colors, reminiscent of some of the older boats floating in the harbor. Then, in one particularly small shop, she stopped. Something had caught her eye. She picked it up. Looked at it again. And smiled. Charlie. She had never imagined that the perfect gift for Charlie’s fifteenth birthday would appear in a little shop on a Croatian island, but there it was. She bought it immediately. And refused to show anyone what it was. By the time they returned to the waterfront, the shopping expedition had produced enough bags that the tender pilot had to make a visible effort not to laugh. Yvonne helped secure everything aboard while the women found their seats. “Successful?” the pilot asked. Astrid looked at the collection of bags. “Reasonably.” That set them all laughing. Sally settled back into her seat, tired, warm and thoroughly pleased with the afternoon. She had loved the fortress, the café hidden between old stone walls, the ridiculous T-shirts, the little boat and, especially, finding Charlie’s gift. She had never noticed the discreet cameras. She had not seen the man across the square lower a long lens the moment she turned in his direction. She had missed the two heads that bent together over a phone after she emerged from one of the shops, or the second glances that followed her once somebody finally connected the short dark hair with a familiar face. She did not notice the attention continuing all the way back toward the harbor. As far as Sally Weiss knew, everybody had been looking for Vivienne Hart. Nobody had been interested in her. For Sally, it had been a perfect afternoon. And that evening, there was a formal dinner aboard Lady Lara. -- From there, Sally's vacation slipped into a pleasantly automatic rhythm. The formal dinner was a success, and the discovery that Lady Lara had a proper hair salon proved both shocking and irresistible to the women. Sally finally had an excuse to wear the formal dress she'd bought in Bal Harbour and discovered, to her considerable satisfaction, that her new shag worked just as well with something elegant as it did with swim trunks, T-shirts and bare feet. Little by little, she also regained confidence in her privacy. The twins never barged into her cabin again. In fact, they became almost comically respectful about knocking, waiting and asking permission before entering. Sally eventually relaxed enough to invite them in before lights-out, turning her cabin into an improvised pajama party with Ally joining them. At some point Sally even appeared ready for bed, diaper comfortably in place beneath her pajama shorts. The reaction was immediate. Emma started giggling. Sophie followed. Ally tried very hard to maintain dignity for perhaps three seconds before losing the battle completely. Sally stood there with her hands on her hips. “You people are impossible.” That only made things worse. At least Ally had enough professional integrity not to reach for her camera. “Do I sense tired girls in there?” Astrid's warning voice eventually came from outside. That ended the party. Sally evicted everyone to their respective beds, shut the door behind them and chuckled to herself as she retrieved her phone. Katrina and Clara were still awake across the Atlantic. Patricia, apparently, had become too busy with a church rehearsal to participate in whatever nonsense the group chat had currently become. Leon, meanwhile, eventually made good on his challenge. Chess. Sally had warned him. “I'll play you on one condition.” Leon looked suspicious. “What?” “I get to use Clara's brain.” He shrugged. “I can beat anybody.” Sally smiled. “Okay.” The chessboard was arranged, Clara was summoned through FaceTime, and the match began. It did not last long. Sally followed Clara's instructions with increasing amusement as Leon's confidence gradually disappeared. Clara barely seemed to think before calling out the next move. Then: “Checkmate.” Leon stared at the board. Clara's face remained perfectly innocent on Sally's phone. “Sorry for killing you so quickly, Leon. I'm going to Costco with my mother.” The call ended. Sally slowly raised her eyebrows. “I told you she was something else.” Leon continued staring at the board. “Wow,” he muttered. Sally leaned back, enormously satisfied. The vacation continued. -- It was the last night. Sally was almost asleep when she heard the piano again. The music came softly through the yacht, quiet enough that she might ordinarily have ignored it. Something slow and gentle—a nocturne, she thought, although she knew almost nothing about piano and had never been curious enough during the week to leave her cabin and investigate whoever kept playing music in the lounge after everyone else had gone to bed. Tonight, though, she was restless. Maybe it was the excessive amount of SEABOB time that afternoon. Maybe being thrown off the Jet Ski one too many times. Or maybe it was simply the knowledge that this was the last night and tomorrow Lady Lara would stop being their strange little floating world. Sally lay listening for another minute. Perhaps Ally was sitting out there in one of her melancholy moods. Finally, curiosity won. She slipped out of bed, pulled a terry robe over her T-shirt and diaper, tied it comfortably around herself and stepped into the corridor. The music became clearer as she approached the lounge. Calm. Inviting. Most of the room was dark, with only a small pool of warm light around the grand white piano. Sally stopped. Leon. He was sitting at the piano. And suddenly she understood. This wasn't recorded music at all. Leon was playing. She moved quietly to an armchair and lowered herself into it with care, wincing slightly at the faint crinkle beneath her robe. For a second she became acutely aware of what she was wearing, then forced herself to relax and simply listen. Leon played with an ease she had never associated with him. His shoulders were relaxed, his head moving slightly with the rhythm, his hands gliding from one passage into another without any visible effort. Some of the melodies were familiar to Sally—pieces she had heard in films, restaurants, perhaps at home—but she couldn't have named them if her life depended on it. She found herself completely absorbed. Eventually Leon stopped. He glanced over his shoulder. Then noticed her. “Hi.” Sally smiled. “It's beautiful. Somebody told me you played, but I didn't realize...” She gestured helplessly toward the piano. “You actually played.” Leon grinned and shrugged. “Since I was five.” Sally's eyes widened. “You've been playing since you were five?” He nodded. “At first I liked it. Then it became an obligation. Then eventually, after doing it long enough, I started liking it again.” His smile turned crooked. “My friends still bully me about it.” “There is absolutely nothing to tease you about. It's beautiful.” “You know piano?” Sally shook her head. “Not really. I like it. Some of what you were playing sounded familiar.” “Which one?” She made a face. “The nocturne.” Leon smiled. “I played several nocturnes.” “That helps enormously.” He chuckled, turned back toward the keys and played a few quiet measures. Sally recognized it immediately. “That one.” Leon looked over his shoulder as he continued. “Chopin. Nocturne in E-flat major. Opus nine, number two.” Sally nodded slowly. “That one almost makes me cry.” “That means Chopin did his job.” He changed pieces, letting another soft, dreamlike melody emerge. Sally leaned forward. “I know that.” “Clair de Lune. Debussy.” “Of course.” Sally frowned. “I knew I knew it.” Then he moved into something darker and more solemn. “And this?” She shook her head. “Beethoven. Piano Sonata Number Fourteen.” Leon glanced toward her. “Most people call it the Moonlight Sonata.” “Oh.” “That one I know.” “Everyone knows that one.” Sally smiled. Then, without warning, Leon changed everything. The delicate classical phrases disappeared into a bouncing rhythm, his left hand suddenly driving the music while his right moved freely over it. The grand piano began producing something completely different—fast, playful, bluesy, almost mischievous. Sally sat up. Leon grinned without looking back. The boogie shifted into blues, then something jazzy and improvised, his whole posture changing with it. This wasn't the careful conservatory student anymore. This was somebody enjoying himself. Eventually he stopped and rested his hands on the keys. “My father is going to throw me off the yacht if I keep going.” Sally stared at him. “Wow.” Leon turned. “That was... cool.” He laughed. “I play the classics for my parents. Conservatory and all that. But when I'm alone?” “Boogie.” “Boogie. Blues. Jazz.” Sally smiled. “I admit I'm completely lost when it comes to piano. Except once my mother showed me a video of Bon Jovi playing Bed of Roses on a piano.” Leon groaned dramatically. “Please kill me.” Sally laughed. “What?” “A pretty face sits at a piano, plays a few chords, and suddenly everybody loses their minds. How am I supposed to compete with that?” “So boogie it is.” Leon shrugged. “Boogie, blues, jazz. My father calls it liberal shit.” Sally burst out laughing. “He does not.” “He absolutely does. My conservatory teacher lets me play whatever I want as long as I keep up the classical curriculum.” Leon looked back toward the piano. “But when I'm eighteen...” “You boogie.” “Exactly.” He smiled. “Seedy bars. Dark little clubs. Old theaters. Nothing bad. Just those places where the room is small and the music feels close.” His hands rested thoughtfully on the keys. “A piano, bass, drums. Simple. Music with a soul.” Sally regarded him with new interest. “Wow. You sound like you've planned this.” “Not really. But I play here and there sometimes, between lessons. I know some places in Munich.” “I wouldn't mind watching.” Leon turned fully on the piano bench and looked at her. “You were sleeping.” “Not really. I heard the music and wanted to listen.” Sally smiled. “I didn't even realize somebody was actually playing.” “I told my parents I wasn't performing on vacation. I hate it when they make me display their talented son.” Sally laughed softly. “Tennis and piano. That's quite a combination.” “I always loved tennis. Piano was the condition.” Sally frowned. “What?” “My parents said I could have tennis lessons if I continued piano lessons.” Leon spread his hands. “So I obeyed. Piano in exchange for tennis.” “And now you hide your talents.” Leon looked at her. “Who doesn't?” Sally opened her mouth. Then stopped. The answer had landed more accurately than she expected. She sat back. There were things she hid too. Things she guarded until circumstances—or trust—made hiding them unnecessary. “You're right,” she said quietly. “Some things are... deeply personal.” “Something like that.” Sally nodded. After a moment she rose a little hesitantly, smoothing the robe instinctively as she stood. She was suddenly conscious of the diaper beneath it again and hoped it stayed exactly where it belonged—private, unnoticed, and very much out of sight. “Thanks for the concert.” Leon smiled. “Anytime.” “I'd better get back to bed.” “Sweet dreams, Sally Weiss.” She smiled at him from the doorway. “You too, Leon.” Then she disappeared quietly down the corridor, leaving him alone with the piano and the last night of their holiday. -- Sally blinked awake. It was the last morning, and the yacht lay quietly at anchor. She let her head sink back into the pillow and gazed through the window at the restless surface of the sea and the distant shoreline beyond it. Her diaper was wet. She noticed the familiar warmth and weight, but that was all. Somewhere during the week, Sally had stopped reasoning about it. No guilt. No calculations. No wondering what she had done wrong or whether she should have woken up. Her doctor had sanctioned a holiday from herself, and Sally had finally learned to take that advice seriously. Her body had let go while she slept. Fine. She felt relaxed, happy and wonderfully free. Her thoughts drifted toward Leon and the previous night: the darkened lounge, the white piano, Chopin, then blues and boogie, and the quiet conversation that had followed. She had discovered something unexpectedly personal about him, something he kept tucked away beneath the quieter, slightly awkward boy everyone else saw. She smiled faintly into the pillow. Today there would be farewells. And they would matter. These weren't simply people she'd happened to share a yacht with anymore. There was Munich now. Boston. Copenhagen. Invitations that had started as polite gestures and somehow become genuine promises of future visits. Later that morning Lady Lara would get underway for Split, and after lunch Sally would begin retracing the journey that had brought her here: helicopter to the airport, then her jet back to Zurich. Home. The thought brought a little burst of happiness. As much as she could happily have spent another hour doing absolutely nothing in bed, Sally wanted the morning. One last breakfast. One last coffee overlooking the Adriatic. One last chance to enjoy the strange little floating world that had become so familiar in only a week. She knew its rhythm now. She knew the crew's faces. She knew which staircase led where, where the towels appeared, where Mario would materialize from if she said the word eggs. Whether she decided to run for an hour on the treadmill or wander out for breakfast before seven, somebody aboard would already be ready for her. Sally considered exercising. No. Not today. Some other day. She pushed herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She wasn't sleepy anymore. She was just lazy. Standing, she hitched up the sagging diaper with both hands and waddled toward the bathroom. Catching sight of herself in the mirror—messy short hair, oversized T-shirt, diaper unmistakably swollen from the night—she stopped. Sally stared at her reflection. “One big toddler.” She began laughing. Then another thought occurred to her. Oskar. Tonight she'd be home. And somewhere in the Weiss household that evening there would be two people going to bed in diapers. The sixteen-year-old heiress and her baby brother. That made her laugh even harder. God, she couldn't wait to hold him. Suddenly she was almost giddy with the thought of Zurich, of Mom and Dad, of Oskar's tiny warm body against her chest and whatever new expression he had learned during the week she'd been away. Sally tugged open the tapes of her diaper and let it drop away, then pulled her T-shirt over her head. She turned toward the shower. This one was going to be epic. -- When Sally stepped out of her cabin, she was still tingling pleasantly from the shower. She had given herself what she privately considered the epic treatment: hot water for as long as she wanted it, generous amounts of soap, shampoo and body lotion, taking her time instead of rushing through the familiar routine. Not because she was getting ready to travel—packing could wait—but simply because she wanted to feel good in her own skin. She had chosen her last unused bikini. This was the one she had hesitated over all week. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but because it felt different from the others. Delicate. More grown-up. It was also the most expensive bikini she owned, bought in Bal Harbour after she'd tried it on almost experimentally and then fallen completely in love with it. The pattern was an intricate blue and gold over a bright white base, elegant without being flashy, with fine ties at the hips and matching ties at the top. It made Sally feel polished in a way her sportier swimsuits didn't. Naturally, she ruined the effect by pulling worn denim cutoffs and an old Key West T-shirt over it. Much better. She inspected herself once more in the mirror and frowned at her toenails. A bright color would have completed things nicely. Too late now. Outside, Lady Lara was already beginning to wake around her. There was subtle movement from the crew, preparations for the day's passage, the familiar sense that somebody aboard was always three minutes ahead of whatever a guest might decide to want. Sally grinned when coffee appeared almost immediately. She slipped on her sunglasses and accepted the mug. “Chef Mario is awaiting your breakfast order, Miss Weiss,” Yvonne told her, with something dangerously close to a wink. Sally took a grateful sip. “Coffee first. I need inspiration for my last breakfast.” “The beach club is open below. You're welcome to swim before breakfast.” “Maybe I'll wet my feet.” Yvonne smiled as though she didn't believe that for a second. Sally made her way down to the beach club, where the stern was already open to the sea. “Morgen.” She recognized Leon's voice before she saw him. He was standing near the swim platform in his trunks, apparently preparing to dive in. “Oh. You're up already.” Sally still had her steaming coffee in one hand. She walked toward the open stern and took another sip while surveying the water. Leon shrugged. “It looked too good to miss.” He nodded toward the sea. “Perfect for a swim, don't you think?” “Perfect.” It really was. The Adriatic was remarkably calm, almost inviting them into it. The morning air was already warm, and the sun promised another full day of Croatian summer. Leon looked toward her. “Race me?” Sally chuckled. “Where to?” Leon studied the open water as though only now recognizing the problem. There was no convenient finish line unless they intended to swim all the way to the distant shore. “Just race. We'll figure out soon enough who's faster.” His expression remained serious, but there was unmistakable eagerness behind it. Sally smiled. “Okay.” She finished her coffee and set the mug safely aside. Then came the part she had somehow failed to consider when accepting the challenge. She had to take her clothes off. In front of Leon. Sally held her breath for a moment. She was always slightly self-conscious the first time somebody saw a new swimsuit, and this particular bikini had already made her unusually aware of herself when she'd looked in the mirror. She wasn't backing out now. Trying to make the movement as casual as possible, she pulled the Key West shirt over her head, stepped out of her cutoffs and left both beside the coffee mug. Leon glanced at her. Just briefly. Enough for Sally to notice. His expression changed for half a second as he registered the unfamiliar swimsuit, then he gave her a slightly awkward grin. “Nice one.” Sally felt warmth creep into her face. “Thanks.” Leon turned toward the water a little faster than necessary. “Together?” Sally smiled to herself. “Together.” They moved to the edge of the swim platform. Leon glanced sideways. “Ready?” Sally bent slightly forward. “Ready.” “Set... go!” They dove almost simultaneously. The instant Sally hit the water, everything else disappeared. She pushed hard. She had expected Leon to beat her—he was larger, athletic and clearly confident enough to issue the challenge—but if he was going to win, she intended to make him earn it. Her body tightened into the movement as she accelerated. She resisted the temptation to simply thrash harder and concentrated instead on what Laia had taught her: lengthen the stroke, control the breathing, keep the movement efficient, let the body slice through the water rather than fight it. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Kick. Keep moving. For a while she didn't even know where Leon was. Eventually Sally decided they had gone far enough. There wasn't technically a finish line anyway, and whoever was ahead could reasonably claim victory. She slowed, stopped and lifted her head. For a second she saw nobody. Then she turned. Leon was still swimming toward her. Sally's eyebrows rose. He reached her several seconds later and stopped, treading water while catching his breath. “Wow.” He breathed hard. “You...” Another breath. “You are fast.” Sally grinned, suddenly shy about winning. “Maybe.” Leon shook his head, still breathing heavily. “Maybe?” Sally laughed. “Now we need a tennis match. You're probably better at that.” “And chess,” Leon managed. “Without Clara.” “No chess.” Sally shook her head firmly. “I already concede victory. Clara says you're good. You actually know what you're doing.” Leon only smiled. For a moment they floated there in the quiet Adriatic, far enough from Lady Lara that the yacht seemed almost to belong to the scenery rather than to them. Sally looked back toward it. “Head back?” Leon nodded. “No race.” Sally smiled. “No race.” And this time they swam back together. -- This is a pivotal tonal shift: five minutes earlier Sally is simply a girl in a bikini teasing Leon after a swim; suddenly she sees herself through the world’s eyes. I’d emphasize the physical change in her—covering herself almost instinctively—while keeping the coverage flattering enough that the shock gradually becomes something she can process rather than a crisis. “Good morning, lovebirds.” Ally waved cheerfully from a lounger beside the pool. She was already in her bikini and looked as though she was contemplating whether entering the pool justified the effort of standing up. Sally and Leon, still dressed only in bikini and swim trunks after their race, looked at each other. Then at Ally. Both frowned. “I saw you racing out there,” Ally continued, entirely unmoved by their expressions. “The pool looks much more appealing to me.” Leon chuckled. “The sea is for brave people.” “You fly in the water, Sally. I actually felt sorry for Leon.” She paused. “Almost.” Ally laughed and slipped into the pool. Sally shook her head. Leon merely shrugged and dropped onto a lounger. “She’s right.” Sally glanced at him. “You fly.” She shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious about the compliment. “We have a pool at home. That gives me an unfair advantage. And Dad hired a trainer to make sure I don’t waste any available resources.” Leon laughed. “Yeah. That makes sense.” By the time Mario had produced an appropriate last-morning breakfast—an expanded version of his Spanish tortilla accompanied by warm ciabatta with sobrasada—Sally had decided that sitting still was impossible in weather like this. She slipped back into the pool. The morning had become gloriously lazy. Bright sun warmed the deck, the yacht rested easily on the water, and Sally floated on her back with her eyes closed, letting conversation drift around her without really listening. Then Emma and Sophie appeared. Something about them immediately caught Sally’s attention. They greeted their parents, but instead of joining the general breakfast activity, they shuffled directly toward Ally. Phones appeared. Heads bent together. Whispers. Sally opened one eye. Then the other. She turned over and swam toward the edge. “What secrets are you hiding?” The twins looked up. Both had the unmistakable expression of people who knew something and were trying to decide whether they should be excited about it. Ally pressed her lips together. Then she raised her eyebrows at Sally. That was worse. She opened her laptop, typed something and stared at the screen for several seconds. “You might want to see this.” Sally’s frown deepened. She pulled herself out of the pool, and a deckhand immediately offered her a towel. Sally accepted it, rubbing briskly at her short hair as she approached. Emma could no longer contain herself. “We wanted to see whether Vivienne was actually around here, so we checked the news.” “And we found this instead,” Sophie finished. They moved aside. Sally leaned over Ally’s shoulder. The first thing she saw was herself. Standing on the aft deck of Lady Lara. Phone pressed to her ear. Looking out across the Adriatic. Smiling. Sally stopped rubbing her hair. Across the top of the page, in enormous lettering, was the headline:   Sally Weiss Turns Heads in Croatia: New Hair, Yacht Life and a Very Stylish Summer Escape   “Oh.” The article was heavily illustrated. Sally on the Jet Ski. Sally walking through Hvar. Sally laughing with the others. Sally carrying shopping bags. And Sally standing alone on the yacht, talking on the phone. She began reading.   The 16-year-old Weiss heiress was spotted enjoying a relaxed Adriatic getaway with family friends — and her striking new look has everyone talking. Sally Weiss appears to have found the perfect formula for a European summer: crystal-clear water, close friends, a spectacular superyacht and absolutely no interest in being the center of attention. The 16-year-old daughter of businessman Adrian Weiss and philanthropist Bridget Pembroke-Weiss was spotted this week on Croatia’s glamorous Dalmatian coast, where she has been enjoying a private yachting holiday aboard the magnificent Lady Lara. With her famously long dark hair now replaced by a short, tousled shag, Sally was initially almost unrecognizable...   Sally skimmed ahead. Nothing particularly interesting. Wealth. Heiress. Accident. Recovery. Fashion. Yacht. The usual collection of facts rearranged to sound new. Then one heading caught her eye.   The mystery phone call   Sally stopped. She leaned closer.   One photograph likely to spark particular interest shows Sally alone on the deck of Lady Lara during the evening, speaking on her phone. Whatever the conversation concerned, it was clearly a pleasant one. The normally composed teenager was photographed smiling broadly during the call and, at one point, looking almost shy as she gazed out across the water. Sally’s stomach tightened. She knew exactly which conversation that had been. Charlie.   Who was on the other end? For now, Sally isn’t saying — and neither are we. At sixteen, she is entitled to a little mystery.   Sally blinked. Then she straightened slowly. “Okay.” She looked toward the water. Nothing. No boats suspiciously close. No long lenses. Nobody standing onshore with a camera trained toward them. Still, something had changed. Five minutes earlier she had been perfectly comfortable walking around the deck in the most delicate bikini she owned. Now she suddenly felt exposed. Sally reached for her old Key West T-shirt and pulled it over her head. “That is rude.” Leon, who had drifted closer during the reading, said nothing. Ally looked up at her. “There are others. But honestly... they’re not too bad.” Sally returned and squeezed onto the already crowded lounger beside her. By now the adults had noticed the commotion. Conversations had quietened. Otto stood nearby, watching without interfering. Emma held up her phone. “This one too.”   Forget Miami—Sally Weiss Is Having the Ultimate European Summer in Hvar   Sophie had another.   Sally Weiss Spotted in Croatia! Heiress Debuts a Bold New Look on Glamorous Adriatic Getaway   “All over the world,” Emma announced with barely restrained excitement. She flashed another screen.   Sally Weiss fait sensation à Hvar : cheveux courts, yacht de luxe et été très chic   Sally recognized the publication immediately. Style Global. Amélie. Her eyebrows drew together. That made things different. Amélie actually knew her. Sally wondered how much her friend had known before the article appeared—and whether she had recognized the photographs before approving anything. Her own phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Sally picked it up. Erika. Of course. There was a link to an Italian article. The headline filled the screen.   Sally... leggera   Below it:   Weiss conquista la Croazia con il suo nuovo look   Sally stared. Then she understood. The Vasco Rossi shirt. Erika had given it to her. A message appeared beneath the link.   Erika: Sei splendida! Non preoccuparti, pattuglieremo le campagne toscane con la lupara.   Sally snorted. Another message followed immediately. Erika: We have to talk. THAT IS MY VASCO ROSSI T-SHIRT! 😂 Do you get Sally... leggera? Italy has gone completely insane. People are asking about your musical tastes and whether the shirt is some kind of deliberate reference to the song. 😂😂😂 Despite herself, Sally smiled. She looked again at the Italian headline. Then at the photographs. Her. Laughing. Shopping. Swimming. Living. None of them were cruel. None were humiliating. In fact, annoyingly, some of them were very good photographs. Sally shook her head. “I guess the magic’s over.” She locked her phone and stood. “I’d better pack my bags. Somebody will probably photograph me getting into the helicopter, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint the press.” The dryness in her voice made Ally smile, but only slightly. Astrid reached out and caught Sally gently by the arm. “It doesn’t look bad.” Sally looked at her. Astrid glanced toward the laptop. “They made you look... happy.” That stopped her. Sally looked back at the photograph of herself on the yacht, phone against her ear, smiling at something Charlie had said thousands of miles away. She had been happy. She still was. The strange thing was realizing that somebody else had seen it. Sally nodded slowly. “I was.” She hesitated. “I am, I guess.” Her eyes moved once more toward the open sea. “I just have to get used to people noticing.”  

She is so good. I love that she used your vulnerability in a way that sounded like she was trying to help but emphasised and publicised your status