Rose set her coffee mug on the counter. “Oh my God. Is she okay? Should we call someone? Go search? What if she tried to swim or . . . ?” Rose got up and went out the door.
“She’s fine,” Beatrice said. “I’d bet a million dollars she’s with Red.”
“No way.” Daisy shook her head. “Why do think that?”
“Because every time I was worried about my teenagers’ empty beds, believing they were dead, they had crashed at a friend’s house and . . . she’s Victoria.”
As if on signal, the screen door opened and Victoria in her caftan swooped into the cabin. “Good morning, Sunshines,” she said, flouncing past them to the back of the house. “I’ll be out soon. Beach day, right?”
“Right,” Beatrice called after her. “Beach day.”
The hours passed with swims and naps and paperbacks held up against the beating sun, and with laughter when someone shot out an old memory or joke. Victoria disappeared for a few hours, and no one worried. The day felt beautiful, hazy and slow. Beatrice thought of Lachlan, but the pain had lessened since she’d arrived here. That sword of loss would return, she knew. But for now, she was so cotton padded with love that it would wait. They caught up on their kids and their lives, on their jobs and the small talk of facts. They laughed about taking pot from their landlord. Then chat would fade, books would open, and soft sounds of sleep would arise.
After lunch, they sat around the pine picnic table, pine needles stuck between the slats of the table and bench. “Sometimes,” Rose said, “when I look at my skin, or my arms, or catch myself in the mirror I can’t believe it’s me. Inside I am not fifty-five. Inside I am the same as I ever was, but outside . . .”
“All of us,” said Daisy, who’d made her famous chicken salad and sangria for lunch. “I’m stunned over and over. When one of Sara’s kids calls me Grandma. When I get the AARP card in the mail, I am shocked again.”
Victoria had just returned, and she twisted her fork in the salad, pushing it around more than eating it. “Beatrice, ten minutes ago we were at your senior project show, admiring your fantastic birds. We were headed into our lives.”
“And now,” said Beatrice, “already passing the middle of our lives, are we making any better decisions than we did then?”
“I hope so.” Rose shrugged and settled back. “But how to know? Daisy, tell us all about the guy you’ve been . . . seeing? Is that the right word these days?”
“It’s weird to date now. Hard to . . . give a word to. I mean, we aren’t dating. But we are.”
“So it’s a booty call?” asked Victoria.
The rest of them ignored the question.
Beatrice propped her elbows on the picnic table. “Tell us about him.”
“Well, it started oddly. On a bet really. During that totally surreal social isolation during the coronavirus last year, both my college girls were home with me and without my permission they made me a Bumble account as a widow.”
“Bumble. What’s that?” Rose asked with raised eyebrows. “Sounds like a society for beekeepers.”
“No. It’s a dating app but the women are in charge. Women make the first move. So Sara set up a profile for me and the first match was this guy who loved Chopin, the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright, and the poetry of David Whyte. We started talking—well, texting—and two months later we met for coffee. He doesn’t live in Charleston; he lives in Atlanta, so I only see him when he comes to town. He’s a magazine writer—a nature writer, so he travels. Anyway, I’m enamored but definitely not in love. He’d like to be more serious but,” Daisy shrugged. “I am nowhere near ready. But it’s fun.”
During Daisy’s telling, Victoria drew closer to her along the picnic bench. “He sounds lovely. And . . .” She looked around the table. “Familiar.”
“What does that mean?” Daisy pulled her hat’s brim up to gaze at Victoria.
“What’s his name?” Victoria asked.
“Charlie.”
“Holy shit.” Victoria stood up and laughed, her neck hinged backward as she lifted her face to the sky. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, why?”
“What’s his last name? Please God, don’t say Rogers.”
Daisy removed her sunglasses and stared at Victoria. “Yes. Rogers. How the hell do you know that? Have you been in my phone?”
“No, I haven’t been in your phone, but I have been in his bed. I’ve been sleeping with him.”
“What the hell.” Daisy flipped her hair behind her shoulders.
Beatrice pressed her lips together and then said, “This can’t be true. You can’t both be dating the same guy, right? It has to be two different people.”
Victoria threw her hands in the air. “Nope. Same guy.”
Daisy stood and then sank again. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot.” She looked up to Victoria. “How the hell am I supposed to compete with the likes of you?” She covered her face.
“Compete?” Victoria sat down and put her arm around Daisy. “Are you kidding? This guy is an obvious scumbag. He’s been dating us both and telling us both he wants to get more serious. What is that about? If it’s the both of us I guaran-damn-tee there’s more.”
Daisy looked up. “How did you meet him?”
“Same. Bumble.”
“He’s a Bumble stalker,” Rose said. “And I don’t even know what Bumble is. It sounds like a thing you drop in your bath or use to clean the toilet.”
At that, the women dissolved into laughter, finally even Daisy. “I can’t believe this. I believed him. He said he—”
Victoria interrupted. “Loved you to the depths of the sea and back.”
“Exactly. Aghhhghg!” Daisy stood, picked up a rock, and threw it into a tree. “What an ass.” She looked to Victoria. “Did you tell him you loved him back?”
Victoria shook her head. “No! I barely know him anywhere but the bed.”
The friends laughed but then stifled
