The sun is already starting to lighten to a color of gray that is all white and only a drop of blue, so we hurry to the ocean in companionable silence. We carry blankets underneath our arms. The grass is dewy beneath our sandals, and when we get to the beach, the sand is still cold. We lay out the blankets by the lifeguard stand, hold the warm coffees between our hands, and stare out at the sea, waiting.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Rose observes after a few moments.
“Mmm,” I say, noncommittal. “You are as well. How did you sleep?”
“Fine,” Rose says. There are dark circles under my mom’s warm brown eyes.
“Pretty big revelation yesterday,” I remark, still staring at the ocean.
“Pretty big surprise guest, too,” says Rose.
I turn to look at her. “How are you feeling about the Lottie stuff?”
Mom pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Betrayed, honestly. But also a little silly. Does it matter who tried to convince me not to marry Tommy? I’m the one who listened. I’m the one who is ultimately to blame.”
“It’s not too late,” I say, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice and failing. “I mean, he’s still here. I don’t know what kind of conversation you had at the wedding, but if it was bad enough, he would have left.”
“It is too late,” she sighs. “Trust me. Too much has happened. Anyway, how do you feel about your father being back in town?”
Sick, infuriated. “Fine.”
“Really?”
“I’ll survive,” I say, and feel my stomach turn.
The sun is beginning to peek its head out, like a little kid testing whether time-out is over yet. A sliver of light appears at the horizon, turning the water gold where it touches.
“I think we should abandon the bucket list,” says Rose, staring straight and squinting.
I turn away from the view in surprise. “Why? Because you’re mad at Lottie?”
“Because I’ve been trying my entire life to be her, to make her proud. I’ve put her on this ginormous pedestal, and it was wrong. I need a break from Lottie and her ‘Lottie-isms.’ I need to make my own decisions now.”
“Are you sure? This seemed important to her, and I know you’re mad now, but if we abandon the list, we might regret it later.”
“I’m sure,” says Rose, her voice impassive. “I can’t go through the charade right now when everything feels so tainted. Listening to Lottie got me into this mess. I always assumed she knew best, but maybe she didn’t.” She pats my hair and smiles. “Maybe some other time.”
“I understand.” I nod, but inside, my heart is heavy.
We fall into silence. When the sun rises, it is big and brilliant. It emerges from the waves triumphant, bathing the sand, the water, and our blankets in orange light. I watch the color dance across Rose’s face, turning her aglow.
When we walk back to the cottage, my father is awake and waiting for us in the small kitchen.
“Coffee?” he suggests, holding up Lottie’s old turquoise pot.
I ignore him and go straight into my room, getting dressed for the day. I picked up an extra shift at the yacht club and have to leave soon. Afterward, I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon working on my new portrait project. I started to add paint to them, including some of Lottie’s sayings into the backgrounds. I used only the most exuberant colors for my great-aunt. “Good writing should feel like singing and reading like dancing,” she once said, and I felt that way about the painting process of this project, too. I want the colors to sing. I want to resurrect Lottie’s ruthless laugh, her vibrant clothing.
On one, I included my favorite Lottie quote: “We’re all under the same rain. Some of us just have better umbrellas.”
The problem is that after yesterday’s revelation, it doesn’t feel right to celebrate Lottie’s advice. Rose is right. Maybe the problem is that Lottie was my umbrella, and I can no longer trust that it will hold up against the storm.
As I’m walking out the door, my father stops me, blocking my path. He’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a Lakers sweatshirt, another reminder of his life without us.
“Lily, before you leave, can we talk? You barely looked at me yesterday.”
There’s something pathetic about a grown man in his pajamas begging like this, but I refuse to fall victim to his trap. “I’m busy,” I tell him.
“Come on, just hear me out, okay? I came to the island to talk to you. I miss you.”
