Page 63 of Sandbar Storm
J.J. then chimed in. “You jumped off that stupid rope swing.”
Viv felt her face get red. She was embarrassed and relieved at the same time.
“Girl, you’re not relapsing. You’re just old!” Hope said and squeezed her gently. “I strained my sciatica moving a jug of olive oil. It was killing me. I went like this”—Hope did a tiny twist motion—“And BAZINGA, I couldn’t stand up straight or sit in a chair or anything for two months. Likethis, and that was it.”
“Oh, I have you beat,” J.J. said. “I woke up, and my neck was wrenched beyond all recognition. Do you know how? I slept wrong.Slept wrong! I can’t stand it.”
“Yeah? Well, try this. I can’t paint my toes anymore without getting vertigo. I lean over and get woozy. Also, can’t see them, so there’s that,” Goldie added.
“Stop, you’re making me laugh. It hurts to laugh,” Viv said. But it hurt in a good way. Hurt in a way that let her know she was alive; it wasn’t some harbinger of death.
“As much as I’ve enjoyed meeting you all,” Dr. Anderson said warmly, “I have some patients waiting. I’m recommending no lifting of anything more than five pounds—no, what was it?”
“Rope swings,” J.J. said.
“Yes, no rope swings. And ibuprofen, and I’m prescribing you some topical cream that will take care of the discomfort while you heal.”
“No wrap or anything?”
“No, it just has to mend on its own, and it will.”
Viv had tears in the corners of her eyes. She was feeling too many emotions. She couldn’t pinpoint if they were good or bad.
Dr. Anderson cut through the cacophony of Sandbar Sisters once again. “You’re healthy. It’s gone. I consulted with your doctor in New York. We did all the tests. It’s gone. It’s okay.”
“Thank you.” Viv could barely get the words out. She wanted to say more.I thought I was dying. I had accepted it. The dark cloud was getting bigger. And poof, it’s okay. I’m okay.But she just said thank you.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Siena
Siena was in early, as usual. The back seat of the car was packed with six new kaftans to add to her collection. Her mother had also put a label on each one.
Vivian Blackwood’s new design moniker, Viv and Breathe, wasn’t a design house nor a play for a big market-dominating clothing brand. It was just handmade kaftans.
Her mom said it was her mantra, not her brand.
Siena had learned, when she visited her mother’s rooms at the hotel, that Vivian Blackwood had been keeping secrets from her.
“I can’t carry them. It turns out I’ve screwed up my ribs.”
“What?”
“Yeah, all this activity and no conditioning has turned me into an old lady prematurely, but Tag says he’s got a trainer. We’re both going to get buff.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were injured? I could have taken you to the doctor! Mom?”
Siena was alarmed all of a sudden.
“Honey, you have taken me to plenty. You’ve got a business to grow now. You don’t need to keep nursing me. Actually, no one does. I’m happy to say.”
“Except you have a broken rib?”
“Psh, temporary inconvenience. I promise.”
Her mom smiled, and there was a lightness in it, a sparkle that Siena had missed. That she’d tried to bring back, and maybe, with the help of Tag, and the Sandbar Sisters, they’d succeeded in doing.
“So, the elephant in the room,” Siena said. “I’m staying in Irish Hills for a while at least. Are you staying?”
