Page 44

THEN:

As they trod the narrow path to the secluded cove, Isla’s sandals left shallow impressions in the soft sand. The woven picnic basket swung gently in her grip, its contents carefully selected with Clementine as peace offerings—a symbol of her hope that today might pave the way for healing. Each step brought with it the promise of new beginnings.

"Remember when I taught you to swim?" Victoria's voice, smooth like the sea glass that Isla used to collect, broke the rhythm of their footsteps. "You were such a brave little thing, eager to chase the waves."

Isla glanced at her mother, walking beside her, noting how the sunlight played on Victoria’s coiffed blonde hair, giving her an almost ethereal halo. Despite the years and tension that lay between them, there was something in Victoria’s tone today—a warmth Isla hadn't felt since those carefree days of her youth.

"Brave? I remember being terrified," Isla said, allowing herself a small laugh, "but you wouldn’t let go until I was paddling on my own." She shifted the basket to her other arm, the corners of her lips lifting into a hopeful smile.

"Of course not," Victoria replied with a soft chuckle that seemed to dance on the breeze. "I knew you could do it. You've always had this… incredible determination, Isla. Even as a child."

The words, so full of apparent pride and affection, wrapped around Isla like a warm towel after a brisk swim. She yearned to sink into the comfort of those memories, to believe in the picture of maternal love that Victoria painted with her carefully chosen words.

"Those days were special," Isla murmured, her eyes lingering on the horizon—a vast canvas of blue that mirrored her deep longing for connection.

Isla's response came in the form of a smile, vulnerable and tender, as she listened to Victoria's recollections. Her eyes, bright with a hint of unshed emotion, reflected the turmoil of hope and hurt that danced within her—a craving for the maternal bond she had once cherished. With each step toward the cove, Isla allowed herself to drift on the currents of possibility, adrift in the notion that perhaps the rift between them was not so vast after all.

"Really, it wasn't all bad, was it?" Isla ventured softly, her voice threading through the air. "Those days… they meant everything to me."

They emerged into the cove, where the scene unfolded like a carefully crafted painting. The narrow path gave way to an expanse of sand, nestled between craggy cliffs that stood sentinel over the secluded spot. Gentle waves lapped at the shore in rhythmic whispers, their frothy edges kissed by the sun's golden glow. The water shimmered, a tapestry of light and motion, inviting and serene.

The tranquility of the setting belied the tension that hummed between Isla and Victoria like a taut string. It was there, in the subtlest stiffening of Victoria's posture, the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes. Yet Isla, caught up in her own reverie, failed to perceive the undercurrents that flowed just beneath the surface of their conversation. She took in the cove with an artist’s appreciation, allowing the beauty to fill her senses, her heart momentarily lifted in hope.

Victoria unfurled a blanket with a fluid motion, the fabric billowing briefly before settling upon the fine sand. With a grace that seemed at odds with her internal disquiet, she gestured for Isla to join her.

"Let's sit, darling," she said, her voice soft.

Isla sank onto the blanket. The sand beneath conformed to her shape, offering an embrace she hadn't felt in years—not since those careless, sun-soaked days of her childhood. She watched her mother's every move, the elegance with which Victoria crossed her legs and smoothed the skirt of her dress, an action as practiced and precise as a dance.

"Remember when you used to build castles right over there?" Victoria began, pointing toward a craggy part of the beach where the sand was damp and malleable. "You were quite the architect, even then."

Isla's lips curved into a hesitant smile as she recalled hours spent shaping towers and moats, determined to create a fortress.

"I thought I could stop the ocean," she confessed, her eyes reflecting the mirth of the memory.

"Perhaps in your heart, you believed you could," Victoria replied, her tone soothing. "You've always had a strong will. Mark, your younger brother, is nothing like you. He takes after your father. Those two are like peas in a pod. I guess that’s why they prefer each other’s company, and he stayed with him back in New York for the summer. But you, you’re like me. Always have been."

As Victoria continued to recount anecdotes laced with nostalgia, Isla found herself transported to a time before the distance, before the silence that had wedged itself between them. Each word from her mother was a hand extended in what appeared to be reconciliation, and Isla, hungering for this connection, clung to them like lifelines.

"Those summers… they were magical, weren't they?" Victoria murmured, a master of narrative painting images of a past untainted by the complexities of their present reality.

"Very much so," Isla agreed, her guard dissolving like sugar in warm water. She leaned back on her hands, allowing herself to bask in the glow of her mother's attention, the stories wrapping around her, soft and inviting. There, on that blanket, with the whispers of the ocean as their soundtrack, it was all too easy for Isla to listen—and to hope.

The rhythmic cadence of the waves provided a natural lull, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to pause. Isla turned her gaze toward the horizon, where the sky kissed the ocean in a seamless blend of colors. The cove's secluded embrace offered a rare solitude that encouraged contemplation. There was a palpable stillness as Isla allowed herself to imagine a future where her love for Javier wasn't cloaked in shadows but celebrated in the sun's full splendor.

Her heart dared to swell with hope, each beat a drum heralding change. Could this gentle conversation with Victoria signal a new beginning? Might the fractures in their relationship finally mend, allowing Isla the freedom to share the depths of her affection for Javier openly? The mere thought sent a flutter through her chest, a bird yearning to soar.

"Tell me about your life now, Isla." The soft inquiry sliced through the silence as naturally as a sailboat cutting through calm waters. Victoria's voice retained its soothing timbre, yet there was something else there—an undercurrent of curiosity that went unnoticed by Isla.

"Life is… good," Isla replied hesitantly, not quite ready to disrupt the fragile peace with the weight of her secrets. "School's fine. And my art, it's going well." She kept her words vague, clinging to the remnants of serenity the silence had offered.

"That's wonderful to hear." Victoria’s response was light and airy, yet her eyes were sharp and analytical—scanning Isla's face for something unspoken, an artist herself seeking truth within abstract strokes. "And your friends?" she pressed further, her fingers idly trailing patterns in the sand, each line a subtle probe.

Isla drew in a breath, considering how much to reveal, the warmth of the sun on her back urging her toward transparency.

"They're great, supportive…" Her voice trailed off.

“What are your dreams? For the future?” her mother asked.

Isla looked at her, wondering if this was an invitation to speak of Javier. Yet she didn’t dare to. She didn’t want to ruin the moment.

"Most of all," Isla said, a spark igniting in her words, "I dream of the ocean. It's like this constant presence in my life, a force that is both freeing and grounding." She scooped a handful of sand, letting it cascade between her fingers back to the earth. "The way the waves ebb and flow… it makes me feel like I can go anywhere, be anyone."

Victoria watched her daughter, her eyes following the dance of the granules as they fell. The sunlight played upon Isla's hair.

"Independence is important to you, isn't it?" Victoria asked, her voice softer than the breeze yet carrying an undertone that was hard and calculating.

"Absolutely," Isla replied, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. "It's everything. Being able to make my own choices and live life on my terms. I want to explore, to discover… not just follow a path laid out for me."

As Isla spoke of her desire for autonomy, a subtle shift occurred in Victoria. The ice-blue of her eyes darkened ever so slightly, their edges sharpening like the shards of a broken mirror. The maternal warmth that had once cradled her expressions receded, giving way to cold, meticulous scrutiny.

Isla continued, oblivious to the transformation before her. "I mean, don't you ever feel the pull of the unknown? The thrill of charting your own course?"

Victoria's lips curved into a half-smile that did not reach her eyes. "Of course, darling," she murmured, the word tasting of sweet poison. "But one must always be aware of the dangers that lurk beneath the surface."

Isla nodded, taking in her mother's words but too enthralled by her own vision of the future to truly hear the warning they carried. Her heart beat in time with the rhythm of the waves, each pulse a drumbeat heralding her dreams of freedom and adventure.

"Life's about taking chances, isn't it?" Isla's hands waved animatedly, sculpting her dreams into the salty air. "I just want to be true to myself, no matter what."

"Chances," Victoria echoed, her voice slicing through the fabric of the conversation with a sharper edge, "or recklessness?" The question, abrupt and barbed, hung heavily between them.

Isla's words stumbled to a halt, a frown creasing her sun-kissed forehead as she turned to face her mother. The shift in Victoria's tone was subtle but unmistakable, like an undercurrent that threatened to tug one's feet from beneath the surface of calm waters.

"Mother, I just mean that—" Isla started, her resolve wavering slightly under Victoria's dissecting gaze.

"Darling," Victoria interjected smoothly, though the silkiness of her voice did little to mask the steel beneath. “You must understand that every choice has its consequences. Do you truly believe your unconventional aspirations will lead to happiness?"

Isla swallowed, the taste of apprehension bitter on her tongue. She reached for safer topics, hoping to dilute the brewing storm with reminiscence. "Remember when you taught me to dance? How we laughed when I stepped on your toes?"

A practiced smile returned to Victoria's lips, yet it lacked the warmth of genuine amusement.

"Yes, those were simpler times." Her eyes, however, remained watchful, tracking Isla's every reaction like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"Is there nothing more you wish to say, Isla?" Victoria pressed, each word etched with a frost that contrasted sharply against the sun's caress on their skin.

“I… I… I know about you and that other man.”

“What man?”

“The one in your photos in the attic,” she said. “In the album.”

That made her mother laugh. “Oh, him? He was a good friend. Until I met your dad, that is.”

“Was that all he was? A friend?” Isla asked.

“Yes, a dear friend. But it could never be more.”

“Why not? Why are you not still friends?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I want more,” Isla said. “With… Javier.”

Victoria's patience was getting frayed like the hem of a well-worn dress. The tender veneer of motherly affection she had donned for the outing began to peel away, unveiling the cold determination beneath her ice-blue eyes. Those eyes ensnared Isla's gaze, pinning her in place with an intensity that sent a shiver skittering down her spine.

Isla's breath hitched in her chest, the air around them growing heavy with unspoken truths. Her dreams of reconciliation were quickly dissipating like mist over the ocean. Victoria's shifting demeanor threatened to engulf her, yet she could not look away. Suddenly, Victoria rose to her feet, the fluidity of her movement betraying nothing of the anger brewing within. She extended a hand toward Isla—a gesture that once would have signified comfort, now fraught with enigmatic purpose.

"Come," she said, her voice a whisper lost to the breeze. "Walk with me to the water's edge."

The command hung between them, an invitation wrapped in a riddle, laced with an urgency that Isla felt in her very marrow. Standing tentatively, Isla brushed the sand from her sundress, her mind a maelstrom of confusion and apprehension. With each step toward the lapping waves, the sense of foreboding deepened. Victoria's back remained turned to her daughter, her posture rigid and unreadable as they approached the threshold where land surrendered to the ocean.

As they reached the water's edge, Victoria placed a hand on Isla's neck, a touch that sent shivers down her spine. Uneasy, Isla asked, "What are you doing, Mom?"

Victoria turned slightly, her eyes shadowed with a mix of determination and sorrow. "You shouldn't bother coming home," she said, her voice firm yet tinged with sadness. "You’ve brought us enough shame and disappointment. Don’t ever come back."

Tears welled in Isla's eyes as she cried out, "I don’t want to turn my back on my family. I don’t want to lose you. Mom?"

Victoria's gaze softened for a moment, but her resolve was unyielding. "It’s too late."

With that, Victoria turned and walked away, leaving Isla standing alone, the waves whispering secrets at her feet. Isla's mind whirled with indecision, her heart torn between duty and desire. She stood there, lost in thought, when suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed her from behind, squeezing tightly around her throat, and she struggled, gasping for breath. The last thing she said before she died was one word, a name:

“Javier.”