Page 106 of The Beach Trap

Blake’s leg starts tapping, stilling for a moment when Junior rests his hand on her knee. The quiet only lasts a moment, and Blake is moving again, adjusting the decorative bowl on the coffee table for the third time since we walked in.

Junior glances at me and we share a quick look of understanding and love for Blake, then I stand and take my sister’s hand.

“Come with me,” I say, leading her toward the kitchen. If her hands are going to be busy, then she might as well put them to work on something productive.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, the concern on her face deepening.

“Nothing,” I tell her, grabbing the loaf of white bread from its storage spot inside the microwave. “I just need some help. I promised Sunny a PB and J.”

Blake winces as if I was talking about making a peanut butter and dirt sandwich. “What?” I ask. “You go through like a jar of peanut butter every two weeks.”

“Peanut butter, yes,” she says. “But never with jelly. Here, let me.”

She takes the bag of bread from my hands and I watch her work. She already seems calmer than she’d been just a few minutes before, and I realize she’s got that in common with our dad. He never seemed comfortable in his skin unless he was actively doing something. I apparently didn’t inherit that trait, because doing nothing is my specialty.

I lean against the counter and watch as Blake spreads the creamy peanut butter on one side of the bread, then sprinkles it with brown sugar.

Blake cuts the sandwich diagonally, and because self-control has never been my strong suit, I grab a piece and take a bite. The brown sugar gives the peanut butter a crystallized crunch and I realize I’ve been eating peanut butter wrong my whole life.

“This is amazing,” I say, with my mouth still full.

“I thought this was for Sunny?” Blake asks, a smile stretched across her face.

“She wouldn’t like it; there’s crust on the bread,” I tell her, my mouth already full of another bite.

“Ahh,” Blake says. But she humors me and happily takes twomore slices of bread from the bag. This time, she cuts the crust off.

As she plates the second sandwich with a few apple slices for Sunny, there’s a knock at the door. We both freeze and Blake inhales a sharp breath.

“I’ll get it,” I say, loudly enough for Henry and Junior to hear in the other room.

Blake follows me to the door, still holding Sunny’s plate. I’m loosely aware of Junior taking it from her; then he and Henry head outside to bring Sunny her sandwich. I exhale and open the door.

Harriet Beaver, her hair still bleach-blond, her oversize teeth still gleaming white, flinches when she sees me. After the way I behaved the last time we met, I don’t blame her.

I offer her a smile so she knows I’ve matured in the last few months, and step aside. “Come on in,” I say.

She gives me a polite smile, but her face transforms as she takes in the new and improved space: the floors that were refinished not once, but twice; the fresh paint on the walls; the baseboards and the crown molding; the new furniture and accent pieces.

I knew it was impressive, but her expression confirms it.

“Wow,” Harriet says. “You ladies have been busy.”

Blake and I share a smile.

“Let me show you around,” Blake says to Harriet, who looks relieved that Blake will be leading the tour. I hang back, listening to Blake point out the work she’s done throughout the house—the new light fixtures, the remodeled bathrooms. Blake looks and sounds like a pro, and I’m bursting with pride for my sister.

Twenty minutes later, we circle back to the living room, where we started.

“You’ve really outdone yourselves,” Harriet tells us both.

“Blake obviously did most of the work,” I admit.

“But the aesthetic is all my sister,” Blake says, and I smile.

“I’ll need to crunch some numbers and look at comps,” Harriet says, “but with the work you’ve done, this house can be priced on par with the others on this block. You’ll be able to get a pretty penny for it.”

Harriet’s eyes shine like she’s already counting all the pennies she’ll collect from the commission.

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