Page 70 of These Summer Storms

“Right,” Emily said, as though she had never considered the daily schedule of a public school teacher. “Well, that’s good—morning sunlight is the best light for aligning chakras. Before all the messy stuff pollutes it. I can give you some crystals that would help—a tumbled citrine, maybe?”

“I’d been thinking I was missing a tumbled citrine,” Alice replied with a smile.

“Funny.” Emily threw her a look. “You could use one. Maybe a rose quartz, too.” Before Alice could ask what a rose quartz would do, Emily craned to look at her notebook. “You’re so good at that.”

Alice followed her attention. “My version of a tumbled citrine.”

Emily reached for the journal. “Can I—”

Alice nodded, moving aside so her sister could flip through it, reversing time—the morning bay (ultramarine, cerulean, dioxazine purple), the sunrise in the east (lemon, rose, cadmium orange), the island in the dark (indigo, Vandyke, the raw sienna of the lights in the upper half of the boathouse).

Jack had steered clear of her the night before, his regret for that kiss palpable even at a distance. Of course, she’d done the same, locking herself away in the tower when she got back from the beach, carefully resurrecting the ancient palette of watercolors she found at the back of her closet. Yes, she’d painted and made plans to avoid him for the rest of her time on the island, but that washerdecision to make. Not his.

Unaware of Alice’s thoughts, Emily turned another page, revealing a collection of studies. A sand dollar. A crab. A set of slate steps, green with algae at low tide.The Lizzie,once more anchored offshore, sails returned to their tight rolls, not even a hint that she’d sailed that morning.

“These are beautiful,” Emily said, her fingers stroking across the swoops of Alice’s brush, the deep Prussian blue of the hull, the teak woodwork. The sea, viridian and phthalo blue.

Alice had a more critical eye. “They’re not what they could have been,” she said, waving at the collection of quahog shells, full of the paints she’d mixed. “I couldn’t get the gray right.” Emily didn’t respond, lost in her perusal. Alice filled the silence.

“Do you remember when we used to paint here?”

Emily nodded. “On the docks. You were always better.”

“You only ever wanted to paint flowers. Flowers are deceptively difficult,” Alice said, remembering Emily’s waning patience. “You always got frustrated and ruined my brushes.”

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” Emily retorted. “You were boring. Always trying to match the ocean—like it wasn’t constantly changing.”

“And look, that’s still my problem,” Alice replied with a little smile. “That’s why I paint New York City now.” In her moderate success as a painter, she was best known for her watercolor cityscapes, galleries andcollectors fascinated by the way she merged a medium best known for nature with urban landscape. Still, when she was alone, painting for herself, Alice always came back to the water, full of secrets, impossible to capture without leaning in to chaos. “Too hard to get the ocean right.”

Emily’s gaze lingered on the dozen or so quahog shells strewn across the dresser. “I remember when you had the idea to use them as mixing trays. You made me collect them with you.”

Alice shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”

“All I wanted to do was get ice cream, and I wasn’t old enough for my sailing license and you spent three days up here mixing blue in clam shells.”

“No one else could take you?”

Emily shook her head. “Greta and Sam were grown up and Mom and Dad were who even remembers where, but honestly, I just wanted to go with you.” A pause. “That was back when it was us. A team.”

“Emily—” Alice said, the name tight in her throat as she searched for something to say. Something better than, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” her sister said immediately. “You made choices. Forged a new path. I just wish you understood that I am not…that I wasn’t ever…the enemy.”

She wasn’t. Not really. Of the whole family, it had been Emily who’d been caught in the cross fire. “I know that. I’m so sorry I missed your wedding.”

“Not just that. You didn’t come to the Fourth of July.” The words were threaded with accusation, enough to set Alice on edge. “I asked you to come.”

In June, Emily had reached out for the first time since Alice had declined the wedding invitation, asking Alice to come to July Fourth.Everyone would love to see you,she’d written.

It had been such a blatant lie, Alice hadn’t even considered it. “Emily. You know I couldn’t come.”

“Yeah. You were busy.”

Alice hated the words and their lack of understanding, as though she’d been the problem all along. Before she could defend herself, Emily changed the topic. “Anyway, we need you downstairs.”

Alice hesitated at thewe. “Why?”

“Mom called a meeting.”

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