I felt it all, all those emotions I had buried so deep. And when I was done, I cried. Not a cry of fragility, but of cleansing. I knew my husband wasn’t perfect. Admitting that to myself made me feel a little better. He was a good man, a good husband. But he wasn’t a saint, and neither was I. My only prayer was that the perfectly imperfect world we had created together would continue to spin.
AS THE SUN ROSE, bright and bold and beautiful, I heard Caroline’s panic-laced voice calling, “Sloane!”
“I’m up here,” I called, yawning.
She appeared in the doorway, clad in a short silk and lace nightgown.
“You’re wearing that to sleep alone on a boat?” I asked.
She grinned at me. “You scared me to death.”
“What did you think? That I’d jumped or something?”
She shook her head. “Not jumped. You wouldn’t kill yourself and leave your children. But maybe swept out to sea in your grief like in a Victorian novel?”
She finally looked down around my feet. “Oh my gosh. Wow.”
She sat down on the deck of the boat, crossing her legs in a very unladylike manner for someone wearing a tiny nightgown. “Caroline, honestly,” I said.
She gasped, ignoring me. “These are amazing. The best paintings you’ve ever done. For real.”
They were all shades of gray, silver, and a little white. Not as much black as I had expected. That was how my life felt now. Less dark, a little brighter, but still completely devoid of color.
“Pain will do that to you, I guess.”
“Girls,” I heard Emerson groan. “It’s like six a.m.” She stopped in her tracks and picked up the first painting I had done. “Whoa.” She held it to her chest. “This one’s mine. Sign it now. I’m taking it to my room.”
I laughed. “You can have it. You don’t have to hoard it away.”
“Get your bikinis on,” Caroline said, clapping. “We have big plans today.”
“I’ll get breakfast ready,” Emerson said. She pointed to me. “You keep painting.”
“Then I guess I’ll drive,” Caroline said, as if that weren’t a foregone conclusion.
“Should we check in with Mom and the kids?” I called to Caroline.
“Later!”
I stretched my shoulders and wrists. I had one more painting in me. The brushstrokes became less precise as Caroline cut through the waves. But that was the beauty of it. This was the painting that would always remind me of this trip, my sisters, and how they saved me, pulling me out of the sea when I was certain I was drowning.
Thirty minutes later Caroline was expertly docking in front of some tennis courts and a gazebo while a very taut, tan twenty-something boy grabbed our lines and tied us up.
A large sign read, Private Club. Docking for Members Only. “Caroline,” I whispered, “what are we doing here? You aren’t a member of this club.”
She looked toward heaven like I was dense. She and Emerson were already out of the boat and held their hands out to me.
“She’s a beauty,” the boy on the dock said.
Caroline put her arm around me and said, “She is, isn’t she? She’s my sister.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think he meant the boat.”
“Ah, yes. Well, she’s a beauty too.”
“Do you have your membership card?” dock boy asked.
My heart raced.
“Tanner has it,” Caroline said.
He grinned. He was very, very cute. I turned toward Emerson, but she didn’t seem to notice. “By all means, go right ahead.”
Caroline linked her arms through mine and Emerson’s.
“It’s good to have friends in high places,” she said.
“Who’s Tanner?” Emerson asked.
“Top of the food chain,” Caroline said. “The person who runs it all.”
I assumed she meant the owner or manager, but when Emerson cocked her head to the side, Caroline said, “The bartender, of course.”
Before we had even reached the clubhouse across the street, yellow-and-white-striped beach loungers with matching umbrellas had been swept out for us.
“Ms. Murphy,” our beach attendant said to Emerson, “someone is bringing down morning refreshments for you right away.”
“Oh, OK,” she stammered. “Thank you.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You used Emerson’s name to get us in the club for the day, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did,” Caroline said, as if offended I would ask something so obvious. “I do it all the time.” She grinned at Em.
I settled into my cushioned chair.
“Maybe you aren’t so insignificant, after all,” Caroline said to Emerson. Suddenly I was more certain than ever that Caroline was always up to something. She was making sure her sister knew that while, no, she might not have made it as big as she had dreamed, she had made it pretty far.
Emerson was already sunning her long, tanned limbs, and I admired—and envied—the line of muscle that ran from her ankle all the way up to her hip bone. She was spectacular. The beach club probably granted us entrance so people could stare at her all day. “We’ll talk about this later,” Emerson said, “when I’m not so relaxed.”
“Excuse me.” I looked up to see a woman about our mother’s age in a huge hat and sunglasses, standing over Emerson with a napkin and a pen. “Emerson Murphy? May I have your autograph, please?”
Emerson smiled. “Of course.”
“I just loved you in Secret Lovers. You made that movie. I can’t wait to see what you do next.”
Caroline and I smiled at each other.
“Miss Murphy,” another beach attendant said quietly, “your publicist told us when she called that Bellinis were your favorite. These were made from organic, local Georgia peaches and Moët and Chandon, as requested.”
Emerson lowered her sunglasses at Caroline, who was trying to avoid her glance. “Really, Caroline? Moët and Chandon in a Bellini?”
“Take a sip and see what a
