Page 32 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

A Rolling Stones song came on: “Ruby Tuesday.” Betsy’s eyes traveled around the kitchen’s scuffed white metal cabinets. “What is the first thing you would do if you could buy this house?”

Louisa finished her last bite, then cleared her plate in the sink. “Rent it for summer income. It would pay for itself.”

Flying a fork through the air like an airplane, Aggie tried to coax Tabby into eating the omelet. “I would paint the rooms in brightcolors. I love those pretty marigold-color bedrooms I keep seeing in magazines.” Aggie pouted at her daughter’s tightly closed lips.

“Yes, same,” Betsy said. She had so many ideas: put a powder room on the first floor, repaint the chipping exterior a fresh coat of white. “I would start simple, like rearrange the living room. Imagine if you could sit on the couch and see the water.”

Aggie gave up, sprinkling potato chips in front of the toddler. “Then why don’t you do it? It would be so easy to change things up, and Mom won’t care. We need to pack anyway.”

Her father was the one who disliked when furniture was rearranged; after a tumultuous childhood, he appreciated consistency. The sisters left the dishes in the sink and traveled into the front room to the navy-blue couch with white piping. After concocting a plan, they moved the two overstuffed chairs to the opposite side of the room. Then the sisters lifted the heavy couch, inching forward little by little, and repositioned its back under the windows facing the street.

Betsy flounced down on the sofa’s familiar pillows. From here, she could look through the kitchen’s large picture window and see the harbor, and Chappaquiddick beyond. “Wow. An entirely fresh perspective,” she said.

“It makes the room feel cozier,” Louisa said, casting her gaze about. She dragged the coffee table to its new spot in front of the couch. “Actually, the room feels brighter too. It would be fun if this place was ours, not Mom’s, and we took turns staying here.”

Aggie put the baby on the floor. “I have a friend who does that. They agree on a calendar at the beginning of summer. She gets two weeks in the house each season, and there are two weeks when anyone can visit.”

“Yes, but is Mom getting only two weeks?” Betsy said, and the sisters acknowledged it wouldn’t work; this was their mother’s house. She squinted, staring out to the back lawn. “Can’t you imagine Daddy right now walking barefoot in the grass in those striped bathing trunks he loved, how he was always holding a yellow legal pad and making notes?”

Louisa smirked. “You talk about him like he was some kind of god.”

“Wasn’t he? He was certainly an important figure in American history. How many people can say that about their dads?”

Louisa sank into the couch, putting her bare feet up on the table. “I guess.”

“Is anyone else nervous for our meeting with the bank? Getting a loan would change everything.” Aggie tickled the baby’s tummy; the child laughed.

“I’m hopeful, but…” Louisa got up to straighten a painting that was leaning to one side. “I read an article recently that unmarried women are rarely taken seriously by bankers.”

Aggie grinned. “Well, then I’ll do all the talking.”

Their mother padded in, her glasses pushed onto her head, remarking with shock. She played with the position of one of the overstuffed chairs opposite the couch and sat. “Do you know this is how my aunt and uncle had this room set up? But when we took over the house, Daddy and I wanted to put our own spin. Now the only problem is where to fit the television.”

Betsy snuggled into the couch pillows. “The only problem is that we’re going to leave behind this view forever.”

Her mother pulled her robe tighter. “Oh Betts, the house isn’t everything. In the end, it’s just four walls and a roof.” Betsy went to open her mouth to mention the secret writing project she’d found of her mother’s, then thought better of it. It would result in a fight, and she’d given up on fighting with her mother and sisters. If she was upset, she went silent and pulled away, and that was what she would do today.

They spent the rest of the afternoon working in the house with a series of James Taylor records blasting through the speakers, Betsy burrowing herself in the packing of tchotchkes in the dining room. That night, they all suffered through a terrible movie about a disco owner whose son burns down his club, Betsy’s mind wandering the whole time. Restless, she went outside to clip flowers, putting a smallvase of blush roses on her nightstand, then making one for Louisa since they shared a room. There was no point in returning downstairs, so she flipped through the latest issue ofVanity Fair, wishing that the metal springs of her twin bed didn’t rattle every time she adjusted her position. Soon Louisa came to bed, too, and she sat across from Betsy, looking like a princess propped up with six pillows on the cushiony mattress, writing a letter on a piece of cream stationery.

“Who are you writing to?” Betsy asked, as if she didn’t really care. The sound of the pen hit hard against the page as her sister wrote furiously, and when she didn’t answer, Betsy said, “Michael Evans?”

Louisa lowered her pen. “What do you know of Michael Evans?”

“I saw his address on the envelope on your nightstand.”

She went back to writing, not saying another word. Betsy switched off her light, and ten minutes later, Louisa did the same. Betsy reached for the box of saltine crackers she’d left on her nightstand to snack on. Every few minutes, Betsy turned from one side, then the other, hearing her sister struggling with a similar inability to get comfortable. Louisa thrust one leg out of the quilt and pushed up on her elbows.

“Are you eating in bed?”

“Just a cracker,” Betsy said. She sucked at the saltine to soften it, so she could swallow the last bits. Her sister slumped back into her pillows, the moonlight streaking across the ceiling. “I don’t really understand how someone as important as you was given time off from work. You’re always saying what a critical legal member of the team you are.”

“As critical as they’ll let any woman be.” Her sister rolled onto her side, sighing. “I just told Mom the same thing. Clarkson and Hobart’s vacation policy is quite generous, and other than a day for Daddy’s funeral and a day when I had the flu, I haven’t taken time off in three years. I’m the first one to arrive in the morning and the last one to leave. They know I’m a hard worker. Why are you so concerned?”

Betsy leaned onto the small ledge of the windowsill, watching the darkened lighthouse in the distance, the flash of its tip. The salt airsmelled of low tide, its pungent scent reminding her of digging through the mudflats for clams with James and her sisters. “I noticed the diamonds in your ears. Were they a gift?”

“You can be so nosy.”

“Were they?” Details of her sister’s love life was a fascination that began early and carried on still. “You wouldn’t buy yourself something like that. I know you.”

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