Page 8 of Summer on Lilac Island

Rebecca Wood, formerly Jenkins, talked to her mother three times a day.

Two of those calls she made herself. First on her morning walk, then again as she was preparing dinner. Eloise called the

third time before bed. A quick good night, a question about a crossword clue, a Gigi-related vent, or an update on Nonni.

That sort of thing.

Yes, Rebecca and her mother talked often. They weren’t best friends or anything (Eloise had hammered this into her girls since

birth: “I’m your parent, not your friend”), but they were very close. Never before, though, had they had to rely on phone

calls to keep in touch. Rebecca didn’t like it. Words were not what she enjoyed about conversations. She liked the expressions,

the security of being in someone’s presence. Eloise sounded older on the phone too. It exacerbated Rebecca’s guilt that she

had abandoned her mother.

Even though distance made it harder to connect, Rebecca could still tell when something was wrong. The way Eloise’s voice

pinched, the staccato between words. It was more than a small comfort to know she was still able to discern her mother’s mood.

Rebecca had always been an old soul, or so adults liked to tell her when she was growing up. It had never felt like a choice,

just an uneven allotment of genetics. Gigi had been granted the free-spirited traits, leaving Rebecca with the leftovers,

the neurotic residual.

She wasn’t sure if she would have been a different type of little sister if Gigi were more responsible, but she didn’t care to speculate. Rebecca liked being the protector in the family. It was the natural order of things, in personality if not birth order.

Rebecca had been the kind of kid who was happiest curled up in the shade with paperback books stacked on her beach towel,

sunscreen slathered as she read at an awkward angle to avoid breaking the book’s spine. She was the child who loved helping

her mother in the kitchen and who diligently scraped the measuring spoon with the flat side of a butter knife, internalizing

the importance of having the amount of baking soda be precise. She corrected her older sister’s grammar and quizzed Gigi for

tests, memorizing flash cards for lessons three grades above her own. She reminded her dad to fill up his canteen with water

every morning before he headed off to work and checked it when he got home to ensure he was staying hydrated.

These last memories were truncated. Embryonic, really. Rebecca was only five years old when Gus left for the motorcycle trip

from which he’d decided never to return, at least not in any meaningful way. In the cobbled-together years that followed,

Rebecca tried to compensate for her father’s absence and her sister’s insurgence but always felt like she was coming up short.

“You’re the child, not the parent,” Eloise told her often. “Try not to worry so much.”

For example, when eleven-year-old Rebecca insisted on accompanying her mother as Eloise had blood drawn for stomach pains,

Rebecca stayed up late catastrophizing while Gigi slept soundly in the twin bed beside her. She sobbed privately with relief

when the results came back clear.

The worrying had perks too, though. It was sticky, gummy, reliable. Binding together nebulous matter, keeping atoms from flinging

too far out of their electrical field. Eloise understood this too.

When Pop died seven years ago and Nonni’s grief yanked her under like a riptide, Rebecca and Eloise managed her appointments,

her finances, her cooking, cleaning, and gardening.

The only one worrying didn’t seem to help was Gigi, who mistook involvement for intrusion. Most notably when then-fourteen-year-old Rebecca had flown down to Florida to (attempt to) retrieve Gigi after The Scandal. They never talked about it anymore. It was all so long ago.

Now Rebecca’s life had a different rhythm to it, one she was still learning, each day like stepping into a pair of new boots

that were cushioned but still gave her blisters. The beep of Tom’s alarm clock at five thirty in the morning as he rose for

an early gym session before work. The silence of a house to herself as she pored over philosophy texts and poetry and researched

PhD programs. The lyrical swoosh of Lake Michigan as she ambled along the Traverse City beaches, exotic car traffic humming

in the background, horns occasionally splitting the air like gunshots. The clench of her own fists gripping the steering wheel

as she adjusted to driving.

Rebecca was only twenty-five. She had expected to live with her mother into middle age. The idea of becoming a spinster had

appealed: crocheting, reading, baking loaves and loaves of pumpkin bread. Leaving Mackinac wasn’t on her radar screen, nor

was being a bride. Romantic pursuits never held much allure. They weren’t safe, weren’t consistent. So as much as it caught

her family off guard when she met Tom at a friend’s bachelorette party in Traverse City and got engaged within the year, she

surprised herself more. But once love dunked her, there was no going back to her old ways, her old walls.

Moving to Traverse City to be with Tom was the first time Rebecca had really chosen herself. It wasn’t as liberating as she’d

hoped. Letting herself down, as it turned out, was much easier than letting her mother down.

There were perks too, though. Tom was so loving, so loyal, and their lifestyle was one Rebecca had never known.

He made a good salary as a financial advisor, and they had a four-bedroom suburban house with modern appliances and air-conditioning and automatic sprinklers.

It was strange to adapt to a life with money, though not as strange as it might have been if Rebecca didn’t still live frugally, clipping coupons, turning off every light, and cleaning her house as her mother and grandmother had taught her.

She wanted to share some of their wealth with her family—something Tom was supportive of—but neither Eloise nor Nonni would accept a handout.

Gigi would and did through the cash Rebecca had stashed in Gigi’s last birthday card.

Rebecca was sometimes envious of Gigi and often embarrassed by her (she hated when people brought up her sister’s past scandals

in conversation), but she loved her big sister ferociously and always tried her best to be there when Gigi needed her. But

all of those good deeds seemed forgotten. Rebecca had only talked to Gigi a handful of times since the wedding six months

ago, and she always sensed an artificial brightness from her sister.

Her mother, on the other hand, was someone she could rely on.

But Eloise didn’t answer when Rebecca called home this evening, nor when she tried again fifteen minutes later. This was out

of character. Eloise usually picked up on the first ring.

It was probably just because Gigi had come home. Eloise would be busy. Still, Rebecca couldn’t quell the nagging sensation

that it might be something more. Just to be sure, she texted her sister.

***

“What do you mean Mom is going on a date?” Rebecca shrieked through the phone. She was equal parts excited and suspicious.

“You’re pranking me.”

Gigi never called, only texted, so Rebecca had braced for bad news when she saw her sister’s name flash on her screen. Hands

powdered with turmeric, she’d picked up in the middle of cooking. Chicken tikka masala tonight, something new so she and Tom

wouldn’t fall into a rut. They’d only been married half a year, but Rebecca had a looming fear that he would realize how boring

she was and leave her for someone more exciting. Someone more like her sister.

Gigi had a way of entrancing men with her tall, limber figure, her free-spirited aura, her sarcastic quips.

Rebecca used to feel like a plain Jane next to Gigi, the safety hose putting out the bonfire that no one wanted to see extinguished.

Tom had helped her overcome this insecurity—he truly seemed to love Rebecca—but she still had flashes of doubt that his devotion could really last.

“I’m dead serious,” Gigi said. “It’s all set up. Friday dinner at the Grand Hotel. I just have to hold up my end of the bargain

first.”

Rebecca was enthralled, yet envious too. It had been Rebecca, not Gigi, who had been with their mother year after year, sowing

the seeds to help her open up again. And now Gigi was swooping in to steal the glory.

It shouldn’t matter who got the credit as long as their mother was healing and happy, or so Rebecca told herself.

“Tell me more about this Clyde character,” Rebecca said, already deciding he couldn’t possibly be worthy of their mother.

“Does he seem like a good guy?”

Sadie, Rebecca and Tom’s ten-week-old English bull terrier named after Mackinac’s ice cream parlor, yapped at Rebecca’s feet,

begging for scraps. Rebecca fed her a treat, then fretted over it. These indulgent habits were sure to carry over into raising

children.

“I think so, but that probably means he isn’t,” Gigi said, and Rebecca noted the rare moment of self-awareness. The overlap

between men Gigi approved of and genuinely upstanding humans was about zero. A Venn diagram with only the slimmest of intersections.

Still, when Gigi told Rebecca more about Clyde, she couldn’t help but think it sounded rather promising. An esteemed Scottish

novelist summering at the Grand Hotel! Well, their mother could do worse...

“Clyde does have an ulterior motive, though,” Gigi went on. “He’s looking for material for his next novel.”

“Oh no.” Rebecca’s hopes nose-dived.