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“Perfect,” she said, clasping her hands. She looked beyond me at my yellow leather weekender bag. It came from one of her signature lines.

“That’s all you brought?” she asked. An odd question as she’d walked with me out of the airport and saw me put it in my car.

“I’m just here for two nights,” I said.

She sat on one of the stools in front of the island. Here it came. She usually gave me a few hours to settle in before starting in on me. Clearly, something had been brewing in her mind for a while this time.

“You’re working,” she said. “For him.”

Here we go.

“Yes,” I said.

“What kind of case? Can you talk about it?”

Her question took me aback. I expected either a lecture or at least some scorn in her tone. This time, she actually sounded curious. She rested her chin in her palms, giving me her undivided attention.

“My client survived a horrific crime when she was a teenager. It’s been twelve years and she’s looking for closure on some aspects of it. She wants to know more about what happened. You know, to fill in the blanks where her memory is fuzzy. The detective who handled her case lives in Clearwater. He’s retired now, but agreed to talk to me.”

“What kind of crime? Was it attempted murder?”

I held my breath, expecting her to launch into me. My mother hadn’t really forgiven me for choosing to work with Dad. One of the biggest problems in their marriage had been his devotion to his career above all else sometimes. My mother felt like she’d been a work widow for most of the time they shared together.

“Yes,” I said.

She gave me a pensive look, then rose from her stool. “I made strawberry lemonade. Get your suit on and let’s head down to the water. It’s Tuesday. We’ll have the beach practically to ourselves.”

I smiled. It really did sound like a great way to spend the afternoon. Though I lived on an island in a body of water vast enough to look like the ocean, Lake Michigan was often too cold to swim in.

Twenty minutes later, we were down by the water. Mom had her own cabana and a new bed lounger. She’d been right. On this stretch of the shoreline, I couldn’t see another soul. The sun beat down on my legs while I kept my face shaded under the canvas.

Mom talked about the shop. Two weeks ago, a high-profile social media influencer posted a review of one of Mom’s new crossbody boho bags. The prototype she’d sewn together herself using different-colored and -textured patches of fabric. No two bags were alike. She’d sold out with online orders within an hour after the post went viral.

“That’s great,” I said.

“I had to hire a third salesperson. I’m trying to keep up with social media marketing, but it’s just not my strong suit. I’m good with the customers.”

“You are,” I said. Shopping at the SBG Boutique was an experience for most people. Mom served coffee and baked goods. She had bistro tables set up in one corner of the shop. From there, customers had a great view of the boardwalk and thoroughfare. With the air conditioning blasting, it made it one of the best places to people-watch in the area.

Mom had a way of making people feel cool and “in.” Dad said she could have made a killing as a publicist. Most of the people who didn’t know her backstory thought she was famous. Some former supermodel or a movie star.

She wasn’t, but her sister had been. My Aunt Viveca Baldwin had been a rising star at the box office. Forty-five years ago, she’d been the ingénue in a film that was later in contention for Best Picture at the Oscars. The director considered her his muse for a while.

But at the age of twenty-three, when my mother was only sixteen, Aunt Viveca killed her husband after he’d abused her for years. My father defended her in one of the first successful test cases using the battered woman syndrome as a defense. Ten years later, he reconnected with the Baldwin family after Aunt Viveca’s suicide. Though she was acquitted, she never forgave herself. My mom and dad formed a bond. Before she knew it, Mom was pregnant with me.

“I’m so proud of you,” I told her.

“I’m getting some pressure to open a second store in Miami. I’m really thinking about it. I just know I can’t do it alone.”

I didn’t respond. I knew where this was going.

“Mercedes,” she sighed. “Please. You know you belong here. You’re a beach girl. I know you’re happier here. It’s not fair of your father to guilt you into dealing with his problems. It’s what he does. He’s not your responsibility.”

We’d had this same argument almost every time I spoke to her.

“I know that. I’m not staying in Michigan because I have to. I’m doing it because I want to. I like the work I’m doing. It’s exciting. It challenges me. It’s mine.”

“Seems to me it’s your father’s name that’s still on the door,” she said, giving me her legendary side-eye.