just finds out when I’m gone.”
“Evelyn, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand. “But how can you think that Bee wouldn’t want to know? She loves you.”
Evelyn sighed. “I know she’d want to know. But I don’t want our friendship to be about death and dying, when we have so little time left. I’d rather drink bourbon and play bridge and razz her like I always do.”
I nodded. I didn’t agree with Evelyn’s decision, but I understood it.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s your first day on the island; I shouldn’t be worrying you with my problems. Shame on me.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “And honestly, it’s nice, for once, not to be the one talking about my problems.”
She took a long sip of her drink and then exhaled deeply. “What would you do if you were in my shoes? Would you tell your best friend and ruin your final days together, or go on happily as you always have until it all just ends?”
“Well, I’d have to come clean, but mostly for selfish reasons,” I said. “I’d need my friend’s support. But you, you’re so strong.” I felt myself choking up a little. “I admire your strength.”
Evelyn leaned in closer. “Strength? Nonsense. I have the pain tolerance of a four-year-old.” She let out a laugh, then whispered, “Now, let’s gossip. What can I tell you about your aunt that you don’t know?”
My mind flicked through a million unanswered questions, then settled on a weightier topic: the mysterious book I’d found in the bedside table today. “Well,” I said, pausing until I could determine whether Bee was still in the kitchen. A clanging pan at the stove let us know that she was. “There is one thing.”
“What is it, sweetie?” she said.
“Well,” I whispered, “today I found a red velvet journal, a diary, in the bedside table in the room where I’m staying. It’s really old—dated 1943, I think. I couldn’t resist reading the first page, and I was fascinated.”
For a second I thought I could see a flicker of recognition in Evelyn’s eyes, or maybe remembrance, but the light was quickly extinguished.
“I can’t stop wondering if Bee wrote this,” I whispered. “But I had no idea that she was ever a writer, and you’d think she would have shared that with me, given my career and everything.”
Evelyn set her drink down. “Is there anything more you can tell me about this, this diary? What have you read so far?”
“Well, I’ve really only read the first page, but I know that it begins with a character named Esther,” I said, pausing for a minute, “and Elliot, and—”
Evelyn quickly put her hand to my lips. “You mustn’t speak of this story to Bee,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”
It occurred to me that maybe this was just an early start at a novel that had never taken shape. God knows I’d had enough of those before my book was published. But why the anonymity? It didn’t make any sense. “Evelyn, who wrote it?” The dark shadows under her eyes looked more pronounced now than they had earlier at the market. She took a deep breath and stood up, retrieving a delicately preserved starfish from Bee’s mantel. “Sea stars are enigmatic creatures, aren’t they? Not a single bone in their body, all cartilage, and fragile, yet they’re spirited and tenacious. Brightly colored. Adaptable. Long livers. Did you know that when a sea star’s arm is wounded, it can grow another?”
Evelyn returned the starfish to its home on the mantel. “Your grandmother adored sea stars,” she said. “Just as she adored the sea.” She paused, smiling to herself. “She spent so much time on the shore, collecting bits of beach glass and dreaming up stories about the lives of the crab colonies under the rocks.”
“That’s so surprising,” I said. “I had the impression that my grandmother never liked the sound. Isn’t it why she and my grandfather moved to Richland? Something about the sea air and her sinuses?”
“Yes,
“Evelyn, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand. “But how can you think that Bee wouldn’t want to know? She loves you.”
Evelyn sighed. “I know she’d want to know. But I don’t want our friendship to be about death and dying, when we have so little time left. I’d rather drink bourbon and play bridge and razz her like I always do.”
I nodded. I didn’t agree with Evelyn’s decision, but I understood it.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s your first day on the island; I shouldn’t be worrying you with my problems. Shame on me.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “And honestly, it’s nice, for once, not to be the one talking about my problems.”
She took a long sip of her drink and then exhaled deeply. “What would you do if you were in my shoes? Would you tell your best friend and ruin your final days together, or go on happily as you always have until it all just ends?”
“Well, I’d have to come clean, but mostly for selfish reasons,” I said. “I’d need my friend’s support. But you, you’re so strong.” I felt myself choking up a little. “I admire your strength.”
Evelyn leaned in closer. “Strength? Nonsense. I have the pain tolerance of a four-year-old.” She let out a laugh, then whispered, “Now, let’s gossip. What can I tell you about your aunt that you don’t know?”
My mind flicked through a million unanswered questions, then settled on a weightier topic: the mysterious book I’d found in the bedside table today. “Well,” I said, pausing until I could determine whether Bee was still in the kitchen. A clanging pan at the stove let us know that she was. “There is one thing.”
“What is it, sweetie?” she said.
“Well,” I whispered, “today I found a red velvet journal, a diary, in the bedside table in the room where I’m staying. It’s really old—dated 1943, I think. I couldn’t resist reading the first page, and I was fascinated.”
For a second I thought I could see a flicker of recognition in Evelyn’s eyes, or maybe remembrance, but the light was quickly extinguished.
“I can’t stop wondering if Bee wrote this,” I whispered. “But I had no idea that she was ever a writer, and you’d think she would have shared that with me, given my career and everything.”
Evelyn set her drink down. “Is there anything more you can tell me about this, this diary? What have you read so far?”
“Well, I’ve really only read the first page, but I know that it begins with a character named Esther,” I said, pausing for a minute, “and Elliot, and—”
Evelyn quickly put her hand to my lips. “You mustn’t speak of this story to Bee,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”
It occurred to me that maybe this was just an early start at a novel that had never taken shape. God knows I’d had enough of those before my book was published. But why the anonymity? It didn’t make any sense. “Evelyn, who wrote it?” The dark shadows under her eyes looked more pronounced now than they had earlier at the market. She took a deep breath and stood up, retrieving a delicately preserved starfish from Bee’s mantel. “Sea stars are enigmatic creatures, aren’t they? Not a single bone in their body, all cartilage, and fragile, yet they’re spirited and tenacious. Brightly colored. Adaptable. Long livers. Did you know that when a sea star’s arm is wounded, it can grow another?”
Evelyn returned the starfish to its home on the mantel. “Your grandmother adored sea stars,” she said. “Just as she adored the sea.” She paused, smiling to herself. “She spent so much time on the shore, collecting bits of beach glass and dreaming up stories about the lives of the crab colonies under the rocks.”
“That’s so surprising,” I said. “I had the impression that my grandmother never liked the sound. Isn’t it why she and my grandfather moved to Richland? Something about the sea air and her sinuses?”
“Yes,
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