SUMMER, 1524/SUMMER, 2018 - GEORGE BOLEYN AND JANE PARKER GET ENGAGED.
"Who's she?"
George can answer the question himself, but his father will do it better. A hefty, round faced girl with a broad nose and pockmarked skin, long dark braids whipping water about her shoulders as she emerges from the water. A strapless silver-blue swimsuit clings to her wet skin, her belly spilling over the waistband, a silver ring catching the sun on her sternum. Thomas' head quirks up from his book.
"That's..." He regards her from behind his sunglasses. "...Henry Parker's daughter. The poet from Bristol, you've met him once or twice."
George hums. Mary doesn't do redeye flights, so she got in after them, late last night - they shared a quick hug in the hallway before she and her entourage went to sleep, not much time for him to take stock of the girls she brought along. Glancing over his shoulder, he spots her taking shots of Blue Chair Bay at the bar, just far enough that he's too lazy to go fetch her and request she introduce him to her friend. Anne would probably be happy to, but they left her back at the hotel, rounding off the spat she and Henry got into last night: something about the face she made when Magic Mike's Last Dance came on TV, how it soured her poor bedraggled husband's mood.
Part of him wishes he'd stayed behind with her, but it quiets when he lays eyes on Parker's daughter. She's trying to get back to shore, but the current keeps tossing her this way and that, sending her stumbling back into the waves, cackling all the while. He's got half a mind to muss his hair, walk in and lead her out by the hand, but he kills the idea. It's a fine line between gentlemanly and condescending. She finds her way to land eventually, shaking her hair dry like a dog. Her thighs are strong, ridged with cellulite, brown skin coated with sand from ankles to knees