not, I’m as invisible as air.” With those words, he exited the house and the screen door slammed back on its hinges with a pop.
“He’s staying here?” Rose asked. “I can’t tell Chip. He’d lose his mind if he thought I was on a desert island with a man.”
Victoria rolled her long-eyelashed eyes and made a snorting sound. “It is good to know not much has changed. You can’t go more than ten minutes without saying his name. Chip. Chip. Chip. God help us.”
Beatrice popped Victoria’s shoulder. “Let’s play nice and stay focused. This weekend is about my drama.”
Great smiles rose on their faces, and the sound of the wind breezing through the palmetto leaves whispered through the screen door.
Daisy, so quiet until now, broke into the conversation. “I like that Red is here. Makes me feel . . . safer.”
“Our little starling, the more people, the better for you.” Victoria hugged Daisy with one arm and drew her close.
Daisy smiled with the truth and looked to Beatrice. “Okay, Pegasus, tell us what we can do to help?”
Almost as one they moved the few steps toward the living room and plopped down on the couches and chairs to sit in a circle. A fresh breeze that smelled of burned firewood and dark mud wafted through. The far-off hum of a boat joined in the chorus.
“This is really nice,” Victoria said and snuggled further into the plaid couch. “It feels like we are a million miles away instead of a ten-minute boat ride across the water. Now tell us what happened.”
Beatrice took a breath and started from the beginning, taking sips of white wine in between breaths, staying her tears, keeping her mind occupied with telling the story in a linear way so they would understand, so they would help her know what to do.
“So now. I don’t know what to do . . . or nothing I do will matter.”
Rose chimed in first. “Do you love him? Like Swan-mate-for-life love him?”
Victoria coughed out a laugh, her vodka and lemonade drink almost snorting from her nose. “I don’t know what that even means. What are you talking about swan-love? For God’s sake, Rose. Not everyone is Chip Chip Chip.”
“I didn’t even say his name,” Rose protested. “You did. I just meant to ask if Beatrice loves Lachlan in a way that makes her want to stay with him for the rest of her life?”
Daisy, whose husband had unexpectantly died of an aneurysm six years ago, was trying to navigate the dating scene now that her two girls were off at college, piped up. “Rose just means,” she turned to Beatrice. “Do you love him enough?”
“That’s the thing,” Beatrice said leaning forward into her knees and into the question. “What’s enough? When we were in college, all we imagined was finding the right one. The fairy tales, the movies, the plays, the books: everyone found their soul mate. For God’s sake, we even went to a psychic to see who would find their star-twin first.” Beatrice looked about the room at her friends. “Who was it?”
“Me,” Victoria said with a laugh. “The one who never married; the one whose star-twin must have been confused and ended up in another galaxy.”
Beatrice lifted her glass before taking another sip. “Exactly. Who is to know? So, there’s no real way to know.” She stood, began to pace the room. “Not a real way at all. I mean, I knew with Tom. I loved him so. Or thought I did. But now I know that I just wanted Tom to choose me. I wanted him. I wanted that life. I wanted to be safe and live in a nice house and have beautiful children, and damn, he was beautiful.” She paused and her forehead wrinkled with the thought. “I think I loved him.”
Victoria shook her head. “You can’t think you love someone. That’s not how it works.”
“And you know because?” asked Rose, still smarting from the Chip-teasing.
Victoria stood, her blue caftan billowing out. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve never . . . settled down. How do you know?”
“And that means I haven’t loved?” She leaned closer to Rose. “You know what else a swan represents?”
“Just everlasting love.”
“The swan maiden. Have you heard of that story? That myth? You’re the writer. Don’t you know?”
Rose shook her head, tears threatening in her eyes but her voice steady. “I’m the writer who doesn’t write. And you’re being mean. I forgot about that, how you can be