Prologue
On the morning of mydeparture, I buy a coffee at Café Yiasemi. They know me here now, and I’m left alone when I sit on the patio to work. I’m sure the locals think I’m strange—an American woman with a big scrapbook and a small pair of scissors. Glue sticks and a faraway gaze. Sometimes I close my eyes. Maybe people think I’m sleeping, but I’m creating art in my mind—moving images around, cropping them, seeing how the colors line up.
With my eyes closed, anything is possible.
Money is becoming a problem. My family could help, but I don’t want to hear their opinions about my choices, so I don’t ask.
Beautiful books are expensive, as are supplies, classes, and medical emergencies. But I’ve kept us afloat, one day at a time. I don’t need anyone’s help or judgment.
He is the only one who sees me as I am: creative, beautiful, someone who matters. What could be more important? For my trip, I pack cotton dresses and sandals. I paint my toes. It feels frightening to leave my new home and head to an island in the middle of the ocean. I was not raised to take risks.
His belief in me has given me courage—to become an artist, to splurge on myself. We text as I lock up my apartment, as I haila taxi. I can hardly believe this day is finally here. All my dreams are coming true, at last, at last. I can already envision the collage I will create: photographs of the beach, remnants from evenings of wine and laughter. Images of me—for once—ablaze. A wooden table with a paper cloth, candles, plates of grilled vegetables, my own bare feet in blue water.
It’s not until I am over the ocean that my phone trills, the first warning:
My love, there is a problem.
1
Flora
Flora found the note whenshe got home from school:
Girls, I am headed off to my Santorini collage workshop!!! Love you both so, so much and I will be home on Sunday by lunchtime. You can order pizza and get what you need with my credit card but be cheap!
Love, love, love, love, Mom.
Their apartment in Athens, Greece, felt empty—emptier than usual. Flora wished she could bike over to her Grammy Charlotte’s house the way she’d done when they lived in the same gated community in Savannah, Georgia. Grammy kept a pantry of snacks for Flora and her sister: Nutter Butters, Mallomars, off-brand Chex mix, nuts. Flora would sit on a tall stool at Grammy’s kitchen counter and talk about whatever and Grammy would listen.
Something’s wrong with my mom,Flora could say.
Or Flora and her grandmother could take Grammy Charlotte’s golf cart to the Palmetto Club. Flora knew her grandmother’s member number—P1107—and Flora could order ice cream or a basket of curly fries. They could sit on lounge chairs by thepool and Flora could tell Grammy Charlotte she had a very bad feeling.
A mint chocolate chip cone. The smell of chlorine, sunscreen, and fries. Grammy Charlotte in some bright-colored visor, turning to Flora when Flora said,Grammy?
What is it, honey?
Grammy Charlotte,Flora could say,Mom’s in trouble. Please help us. We’re all alone, and I’m scared.
2
Lee
Lee Perkins adjusted her oversizedGucci sunglasses and raised her drink for another sip, but there was nothing in her cup. Oh, she remembered the days when the gentleman who served Perrier-Jouët to the Beverly Hills Hotel pool cabanas would fill her champagne flute without Lee even noticing it was drained!
“Do you want another chardonnay, dear?”
Reluctantly, Lee lowered her gaze to her mother, Charlotte, who sat next to her at the Palmetto Club, a community pool located just a quick golf cart ride from Charlotte’s house. Charlotte wore a zebra-striped bathing suit; a matching zebra-striped visor; and Candy Yum Yum–colored lipstick she’d “borrowed” from her daughter and never returned.
“Yes,” said Lee.
“Hurry up, then, and get me one too,” said Charlotte. “Drinks are half-price ’til six! Wine Down Wednesday, you know.”
Lee rose from a luxuriant slouch, wincing at the Savannah sunlight cutting through her faded umbrella. She was not surrounded by movie producers, A-list stars, and Hollywood influencers. No: Lee was forty-three years old, formerly famous, and living in her mother’s guest room, sleeping underneath a hideous painting of bulldogs on a sailboat.
Her napkin read:Truth versus Chardonnay.
Lee and her mother chose chardonnay. Every time.
