Page 43 of These Summer Storms

“Are there any questions?”

“Yeah, I have a question,” Sam said. The sisters rolled their eyes. Of course he did. Sam always had to have the last word. “Why is Alice wearing a University of Delaware shirt?”

A beat while everyone considered the question. And the answer.

“Because my suitcase is in the pantry,” Alice said, looking first at Sam, and then at Elisabeth. “And no one told Jack that my room isn’t a guest room this week.”

“Well. If you ever came home, we might have thought to do that,” Elisabeth said, without an ounce of remorse. “The rules haven’t changed. Your suitcase belongs upstairs, as you know.”

“I didn’t put it—” Alice bit back the retort that sprang to her lips, suddenly nine years old and infuriated by having to take responsibility for her older brother’s nonsense. “Fine.”

“Proper clothing would not go amiss,” Elisabeth added, her gaze tracking over Alice’s makeshift pajamas with cool judgment before she looked to Sam. “Sam, I expect you have work to do?”

He pulled out his phone, stared down at it for a moment. “I’ve cleared the schedule for the day, so we’re going to clean some boats, I guess.” He looked to Emily. “I feel like you should have to help.”

“Mmm…” She tilted her head. “I feel like—no.”

“Have the grandchildren help; it will keep them occupied,” Elisabeth said before turning her attention to Greta. “I have a list for you.”

Greta had been waiting for the summons. “Whatever you need.”

“Can I help, Mom?” Emily interrupted.

“Oh, Emily.” Elisabeth turned to look at her youngest. “I assumed you’d be doing whatever you do. Lighting candles for solstice or something?”

“It’s—not solstice?”

“It must be solstice somewhere, no? Or a full moon?” Elisabeth said, lifting her tablet from the kitchen counter, distracted already by the information within.

“Nope.” The light had dimmed in Emily’s eyes, but she pressed on ever hopeful, in adulthood as she’d been as a child, that she might get a fraction of the warmth Elisabeth gave Greta—not knowing the burden of that heat. “I’m free to help.”

“Hmm,” Elisabeth said. “Come with us, then.”

They followed her out of the room like ducklings, just as she liked—Elisabeth’s minions, not Franklin’s. How many times had he stood in this very room and told them all to go help their mother?

Not that Alice was any less a duckling. She immediately made for the suitcase at the far end of the pantry—a strip of silk underwear peeking through the closed zipper. Of course. Sam hadn’t even been careful with her stuff.

She leaned down to assess the damage and fiddled with the zipper, cursing her obnoxious brother and her overbearing mother and her dead father and his infuriating lieutenant whose shirt still smelled like him—a smell she had enjoyed all too much while lying in bed the night before—a truth she would never admit. To anyone. Ever.

And then, as though it weren’t all mortifying enough, tears came. Why did she cry every time she was in the stupid pantry? She redoubledher efforts with the zipper—vowing that this one thing would go right if she had to sit here all day.

The house had other plans, however, and behind her, the door slammed shut and the light switched off, plunging the whole room into darkness.

With a sigh, Alice made for the door, kicking a heavy bottle of—olive oil, maybe?—before fumbling for the doorknob. She twisted and pushed. No luck. Putting her shoulder to the door, she gave it a strong shove.

Nothing. It was stuck.

On the other side of the door, she heard a chair scrape across the floor. Someone was there. Sam, no doubt.

“Hilarious,” she muttered to the darkness, before banging on the door. “Let me out, you man-child.” Nothing happened. “Sam. I’m not kidding around.”

In the kitchen beyond, footsteps retreated into the distance.

She was locked in.

Greta

When it came togood daughters, no one on earth could compete with Greta Storm.