Kelly. Blue eyes and pale blond hair, willowy and well put together.
Although Shelley did look the most like their late mother, next to Madison, Shelley felt like a mud hen. Her hair was neither cool platinum like Madison’s, who’d taken after the Chapmans, nor rich gold like Gia’s, who resembled the Clarks, but rather a muddled shade somewhere between blond and light brown. Hairdressers called it dishwater blond or sandy brown or brond. It meant she didn’t fit in any camp. It was the same with her eyes. They were a sort of brown and a sort of green combining in an odd mosaic of hazel.
Declaring that Shelley kissed Raoul because she felt insecure about her looks and she was trying to prove she was sexier than Madison was one of the meaner accusations that she’d ever flung at Shelley.
Maybe she was insecure, but that wasn’t why she’d kissed Raoul. She’d wanted to wake Madison up and get her to see the huge mistake she was making. Shelley had zero interest in a slick social climber like Raoul, no matter how handsome he might have been.
Oh God, why had she kissed him? She should’ve just let Maddie marry the guy. They would have divorced by now and she and Madison wouldn’t be eyeing each other like cage fighters.
“But Grammy . . .” Gia whimpered.
“What about Grammy?” Madison hardened her jaw, not budging an inch.
“The quilt means everything to her,” Gia said. “We have to finish it and we have to do it together.”
“You’re acting like finishing the quilt will save Grammy from cancer. It won’t,” Madison said, contradicting what she’d said earlier. Face flushing bright red, Madison stalked up the yard to the barbecue grill, grabbed it by the handle, and dragged it clanging down the lawn toward the beach.
“What are you doing?” Gia ran after her.
Feeling gobsmacked, Shelley just stared.
Madison parked the grill at the edge of the water and returned to snatch the quilt from the lawn.
“Maddie!” Gia ran in circles like a panicked puppy. Pyewacket sprinted across the yard and climbed a pear tree.
Their older sister’s expression was determined and angry. Passersby strolling the beach stopped to watch the drama.
Madison flipped open the barbecue lid and stuffed the quilt onto the grill. “It’s my damn wedding quilt. I get to destroy it. The way Shelley destroyed my wedding.”
“Help me, Shelley!” Gia cried.
“Madison, stop.” Shelley ran over to the grill.
“Get away from me.” Madison shouldered her aside.
“Don’t do this. Please, it’s upsetting Gia,” Shelley begged. “Stop and I’ll leave.”
Fury-driven, Madison reached into the cabinet at the bottom of the grill and pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid. Flipping the cap up, she soaked the quilt with it.
“Stop, Maddie, stop!” Gia grabbed hold of Madison’s arm.
“Let go.” Madison howled and yanked away from her. She fumbled for the lighter. Flicked it. A small blue flame shot from the end.
“No!” Gia yanked for the quilt, dragging it off the grill.
But Madison’s rage had momentum and bulk. She body-checked Gia with her hip and sent her tumbling to the sand.
Gia lay on her back gasping for air, the lighter-fluid-soaked quilt locked in her arms.
“Madison!” Shelley said, horrified. “Stop, stop, stop. I’m the one you’re angry at, not Gia. Take it out on me. Not her.”
Madison sank to her knees in front of Gia, tears tracking down her face. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Are you okay?” Shelley knelt beside her sisters on the sand.
Gia nodded, the smell of lighter fluid pungent around them. She looked like the kid she used to be when she carried her baby quilt around with her everywhere. She would suck her thumb and hang on to that quilt for dear life. On wash days, she and Grammy got into a tug-of-war. Grammy always won, but Gia would sit on the laundry room floor and not move a muscle until she got her quilt back.
Beachgoers gave them curious looks. Joggers. Couples holding hands. People reeling in kites. Mothers folding beach blankets and gathering up children. The tide was rising. Along the shoreline lights flickered on against the gathering dusk. Toe-tapping music filled the air. Water lapped at the legs of the barbecue grill.
If someone captured this moment in a Pinterest snapshot people would ask, What’s the deal with the barbecue grill? It was out of context. Like Shelley herself.
“Can you sit up?” Shelley asked.
“I’m so sorry.” Madison stroked Gia’s hair. “I didn’t mean to knock you down.”