joined Beatrice at the window. “If you want my opinion. Which might not be worth a damn. I think that it’s Sam, Jonah, and Annie’s fault that we’re all screwed up.” She paused. “You know, Sleepless in Seattle.”
“We know,” the women chimed in unison.
Rose held up her hand. “Whoa! I’m not one bit screwed up.”
The other three women laughed.
“What? You think I’m screwed up?” Rose pouted.
“We all are. Don’t worry,” Daisy said. “It’s not just movies like You’ve Got Mail. And My Fair Lady and the movie with the guy playing the radio outside her window. It’s Cinderella and it’s Snow White. It’s all the stories that show us that the man will save us and then life is grand, for good and all. Not one of those stories—not a one—showed what happens after Richard Gere marries Julia Roberts. Not one clued us in about what happens when the kids get the flu and the money is low and the husband asks the wife not to pursue her dreams or the best friend’s husband tries to kiss you or the husband dies and leaves unpaid bills. Did they show us that? Oh, hell, no.”
Her words seemed to have come in one long breath, in a single sentence, and the other women just stared at their quiet starling until she rubbed at her face. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Rose said. “It’s true. Let’s add Jerry McGuire where Tom Cruise says ‘You complete me.’ It goes on and on. Every Hallmark movie. Every romance novel. Life is so much different than that; it was always meant to be different than the stories and books, but we got confused. We thought our love stories were supposed to be just like the fairy tale.”
Rose nodded. “As a creative writing major, every story I told was a love story. Everything . . . is a love story. It just depends how we want to tell it. I still believe that.”
“Or we want to believe it,” Victoria said.
“Whoa.” Beatrice lifted her hands. “Can we back up about ten sentences? What do you mean the husband who didn’t pay the bills?”
“Forget it.” Daisy waved her hand and wine sloshed over the edges of the glass and onto Red’s pine floors; she didn’t notice.
“Oh, hell no,” said Victoria. “We will not forget it. What . . .” and she paused, looked at each of the best friends as if they were huddled at two in the morning in the living room of their decrepit house at college, the ragged furniture covered in shared clothes and CDs and schoolbooks. “What happened?”
Daisy exhaled and slumped in on herself, her head bowed before she looked up and told them the truth. “It’s been five years. I’ve paid them off. But yes, he left loads of debt. I went back to work teaching, and the girls went to in-state colleges and we’ve dug our way out. But I just meant . . . the happily ever after is rarely ever after. It’s happy for the moment. Then life. Then some more happiness and then . . . you know . . . life. But that doesn’t mean it was a bad marriage or I didn’t love him. It’s just never a storybook.”
“Yes.” Beatrice looked up to see that twilight had turned to dark; night had fallen on their conversation. Nature’s sounds had changed from birdsong to frogs; the hum of boats rushing by had turned to the slap of water against the dock and the tinkle of oyster shells disturbed by the tide.
Beatrice looked to each woman. “I am so glad you’re all here. I don’t mean for this to turn into a love inquest. I just want to understand why I resisted Lachlan for so long. I mean, that has had serious consequences, and I don’t get it. You three know me better than anyone in the world. Sometimes it takes someone else to show us who we are.”
4
The Moon
The moon spread a wide swath of light across the water, a pathway so vivid it looked as if they could walk across it, find themselves on the far side of the earth on moonlight. Dinner of tomato soup and Beatrice’s toasted homemade sourdough bread was over, and they’d made their way outside to the beach. A pale slip of sand was sandwiched between the wild grasses and the estuary’s waves. The gray-brown sand of the Lowcountry with its rough feel beneath their bare feet was as familiar and comforting as