the bed. The springs creaked softly underneath her weight. She thought of the pink bedroom in her apartment. Not a gauche color like bubble gum or Barbie DreamHouse, but a demure dusty rose that could grow with the child.
She’d given away the bassinet, the crib, the changing table. Donated the toys. Sold the clothes on Letgo. All the things she’d bought prematurely, optimistically. But she’d lost the momentum of her salty grief by the time the room was emptied, and she hadn’t dredged up the energy to paint over those pink walls.
Besides, what color would she paint them? Certainly not blue. She’d been staying in this blue bedroom for only a few days and already a slow, steady indigo mood dragged at her, pulling her back toward the dark depression that had engulfed her after . . . well . . . everything.
A fan of old-fashioned names, she’d already had one picked out for the baby. Claire Estelle. Bright Star. After it happened, she’d named a star for her daughter through the Star Registry, paying extra for a bright, easily locatable star. Received a certificate with the coordinates to the Claire Estelle Clark star and a Swarovski crystal star to commemorate it. The crystal she’d turned into the necklace that she never took off.
Madison fingered the crystal at her throat. She’d thought naming a star would help her feel closer to the baby when she looked up into the night sky. But she lived in Manhattan, where you couldn’t see the stars for the lights.
You’re at the beach now, Madison. Go outside and look for your baby.
Not yet. Not while her sisters were still out there. She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, not the least bit sleepy. She thought of her mother. Wondered if she had loved her daughters as much as Madison had loved Claire Estelle.
Restlessly, she got out of bed, slipped into the hallway. Heard Darynda’s gentle snoring from the room she was sleeping in.
Padding into the bedroom where the Moonglow sisters had once slept in the three black wrought-iron twin beds lined up in a row, Madison paused. Shelley had taken her old bed in the middle. Her sister’s backpack sat at the foot of the mattress, as if waiting for her to pack up and take off at a moment’s notice.
That morning, while Shelley had been at the hospital painting Grammy’s toes, and learning secrets from Madison’s number one fan, Gia had driven Madison all over town to run errands.
They’d gone to the bank and paid enough to prevent the foreclosure from going forward. They’d contacted the police and learned they couldn’t even file a police report against the contractor who’d absconded with Grammy’s money because they weren’t the victims. They’d consulted Grammy’s attorney and learned she had a will leaving the Moonglow Inn to all three of them. They visited some of the Quilting Divas and collected quilts the ladies were donating to the Fourth of July pop-up store. Then they went by the AT&T store where Madison bought Shelley a cell phone.
All in all, a productive day, even though she’d forgotten to give Shelley the phone. Fixing things, ticking off items on a checklist, boosted Madison’s spirits, but the organizational high didn’t last for long. Soon, she turned bored and edgy, looking for more things that needed her intervention.
At the end of the twin beds sat three identical hope chests. Madison hadn’t looked inside hers in years. She sank down on her knees in front of it, ears tuned for sounds of her sisters coming inside the house.
She didn’t want Shelley to catch her in here. Not because she was snooping—it was her hope chest after all—she just didn’t want to deal with her sister. They might have made some inroads toward civility, but Madison didn’t trust the tentative cease-fire.
Shelley could test the patience of Job. And patience was not Madison’s long suit.
The hope chest hinge creaked loudly. “Shh, shh.” Madison lifted a finger to her lips.
Look at you, trying to control an inanimate object.
Yeah, okay, she had control issues. Said everyone who took it upon themselves to point out Madison’s flaws.
She paused, ears cocked, wondering if the noise had alerted her sisters. She didn’t know why she was being furtive. She only knew she didn’t feel like talking to them about the baby. It was her pain and she didn’t want to share.
Her mind drifted from her sisters, to her lost child, and finally to her mother. In her head,