Page 30

THEN:

Isla sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft hum of the ceiling fan mingling with the distant call of seagulls outside her window. Around her, half-unpacked suitcases lay open like clamshells, their contents a disheveled mix of summer clothes and uncertainty. Her fingers, bronzed from days spent under the coastal sun, moved absentmindedly over the smooth surface of a seashell. Its spirals felt cool against her skin.

This was always her favorite part of summer: when Aunt Beatrice arrived.

Aunt Beatrice had no children of her own and had always been there for Isla when she needed it. This summer, in particular, she needed her more than ever after all that was happening with her mother. No one knew how to handle Isla’s mother like Aunt Beatrice. As she helped her unpack, Isla already felt better. Aunt Beatrice’s presence immediately washed over her like a gentle wave.

Aunt Bea’s smile was a quiet harbor. It was soft, knowing—reaching her eyes that peered out from behind stylish glasses, lenses that seemed to magnify not just the words of a book but the unspoken language of the heart. Those eyes had seen Isla grow, had witnessed every high and low of her life, and now they rested upon her with an empathy that required no translation.

The faintest of lines around Bea's eyes deepened as her smile broadened, a silent testament to years of joy and sorrow shared within the fabric of their family. It was a look that spoke volumes, a wordless acknowledgment that said, "I see you, dear child, and all will be well." With Aunt Bea here, the weight of the unknown felt less daunting, the future less murky.

She was no longer alone.

Isla's gaze lifted from the delicate contours of the seashell to Aunt Bea's familiar face, a surge of gratitude washing over her.

"Aunt Bea," she breathed out, her voice carrying the weight of countless unspoken words. The shell was gently placed on the nightstand as Isla patted the space beside her on the bed, an invitation as much for the company as it was for solace.

"Come sit with me?" she asked, her plea soft yet underscored by a need for the comfort only Bea could provide.

Bea obliged, settling onto the edge of the mattress with a grace that made even this simple act seem like part of a greater dance of reassurance. Her presence was a balm to Isla's frayed nerves, and in the sanctuary of her room, they were just Isla and Bea—family, with no pretenses necessary.

"Can I tell you something?" Isla ventured, her eyes locking onto Bea's with an intensity borne of conflicting emotions.

"Of course, my sweet child," Bea encouraged, her hand finding Isla's, their fingers intertwining. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

Isla took a deep breath, the salt-tinged air of her memories mingling with the faint scent of lavender that always clung to Bea.

"This summer, things have been very difficult," she confessed, her voice a tapestry of hope and fear. "With Mom—Victoria. We’ve been fighting a lot."

The words hung between them, fraught with the gravity of past grievances and the fragile tendrils of hope. Isla's yearning for reconciliation with her mother was palpable, yet so too was the apprehension that crept into the edges of her tone, painting her desire with shades of uncertainty.

"It’s more than usual. Because there's something else," Isla continued, her gaze dropping to where their hands joined. "I've fallen in love with my best friend, Javier, but Mom won't let us be together. She wants me to be with Marcus."

Her eyes sought Bea's once more, searching for reassurance within their depths. Bea squeezed Isla's hand gently, offering a comforting presence.

"Maybe," Bea suggested softly, "you're not giving your mom enough credit. She might understand if you give her the chance. Give it some time. Maybe explain how much you two love one another and then ask her for her blessing."

Isla let out a heavy sigh, torn between the longing for her mother's understanding and the ache of unspoken truths. She knew Bea meant well, but the weight of her past clashes with Victoria clouded her hope for a resolution.

"I don't know if it's that simple," Isla murmured, uncertainty lacing her words as she stared out at the tranquil ocean beyond the resort's boundaries.

Bea's eyes reflected understanding, a glimmer of sadness flashing briefly before she composed herself. "I know it's not easy, my dear," Bea began gently, her voice a soothing balm against Isla's doubts. "But sometimes, the hardest conversations lead to the most healing."

Isla tilted her head, contemplating Bea's words. Her heart was heavy with the fear of confronting her mother's disapproval and disappointment. Yet, beneath the layers of doubt, a flicker of resolve sparked within her.

"You really think she might come around?" Isla said with newfounddetermination, a hint of steel entering her tone as she met Bea's gaze, a glimmer of defiance in her eyes.

Bea's expression softened, a tender smile touching her lips. "I believe anything is possible when love is at the heart of it, and your mom understands more than you think," she affirmed, her voice imbued with unwavering faith in Isla's ability to navigate the uncertain waters ahead.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the resort and painting the sky, Isla felt a surge of courage welling up within her. She knew the path ahead would be challenging, fraught with insecurity and potential conflict, but she also understood that staying true to herself was the only way forward.

"I'll do it," Isla declared, conviction ringing clear in her voice as she turned to face the main house where Victoria—and family dinner—soon awaited.

"I'll have that conversation with Mom. I will try to get some time alone with her and tell her I love Javier and want to be with him. I’ll plead and beg her if I have to."

“That’s my girl.”

Bea squeezed Isla's hand once more, her eyes shining with pride and unwavering support. "I'll be right here by your side every step of the way," she promised.

Her voice was soothing, securing Isla in her turbulent emotions. She was so happy to have her there with her. She made her feel safe.

Beatrice rose gracefully from the edge of the bed, her presence a column of serenity in the middle of half-unpacked chaos. She placed a reassuring hand on Isla's shoulder, its weight light but grounding. Her eyes, magnified slightly by the stylish glasses perched on her nose, met Isla's with an intensity that was both gentle and penetrating.

"Trust in yourself, Isla," Beatrice said, her voice a soft caress against the uncertainty that hung in the air. "And in the love you hold dear. It will guide you more truly than any compass."

Isla drew in a deep breath, allowing the truth of Bea’s advice to seep into her bones. There was strength in her aunt's conviction, a strength that Isla felt stirring within her own chest. She nodded, a silent vow to carry those words with her as she walked the tightrope of family and love.

"Thank you, Aunt Bea." Isla's voice barely rose above a whisper, but it carried the weight of her burgeoning resolve.

With a final squeeze of Isla’s shoulder, Beatrice moved toward the walk-in closet, holding a dress on a hanger. Her silhouette, framed against the light from within, seemed to embody the wisdom of the years she had lived and the kindness she had always given so freely.

“Come, let’s finish unpacking and then get something to eat. I’m famished.”