At least I had her name. And something to do tonight that didn’t involve going through old magazines and packing up clothes for Good Will.
3
Sierra
I sifted through my suitcase in search of two articles of clothing that would complement each other, and make the best impression on the island locals. I tossed a turquoise T-shirt on the floor.
I hadn’t thought about red, white, and blue. I had no idea what to wear to a clam dinner. Probably just some shorts and a top. But nothing looked right. Why was the closest mall two hours away?
I was surprised I cared so much. Surprised that it mattered to me what these people thought. People I had ignored and pretended didn’t exist for years.
But here I was faced with looking them in the eye tonight. They knew I had missed my aunt’s funeral. They knew I was locked up in this big house cleaning out closets and tearing through drawers.
They knew I was from here. That I used to be a little girl with long pigtails that ran barefoot across the shores of the sound. But I wasn’t that little girl any longer.
I had driven over that bridge when I was eighteen, never wanting to look back. I didn’t want the island to define me.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror one last time and turned off the light, realizing that no matter how hard I’d tried, the island had left an imprint on me I could never escape.
A few minutes later I turned my car onto Shirley Lane.
I wasn’t completely sure it was the right place. The front porch light wasn’t on.
I scanned the front yard that Shirley described earlier at the store. I huffed. No one around here liked to give addresses or phone numbers. I was going to have to ring the bell and find out where Shirley lived.
Before I had even stepped one toe in the driveway, I heard a raucous sing-along drowning out the lyrics of the music. I followed the sounds, walking around the side of the house to discover a yard lit by tiki torches. It was crowded with barefoot people. There was a huge open flame pit dominated by a three-foot tall steaming pot.
Oh God. Half the island was here. I debated whether to join the crowd or retreat to the car. This isn’t what I thought Shirley meant by dinner. I wasn’t ready for this.
Shirley emerged from behind the singing masses.
“Oh, Sierra. Finally. We’ve been waiting for you.” The hostess trapped me in a bear hug. “I want to re-introduce you properly to the island. Come on. Come on.”
“I-uh.” She tugged on me and I had no choice but to follow.
“Henry! Come over here. Leave that fire to the boys. I want you to meet the Sierra Emory I was telling you about. Lindy’s niece.”
A tal
l, white-haired man with weathered skin and kind eyes handed off a long stick he was using to stoke the fire and walked toward us.
“Shirls, who do we have here?”
“Hi.” I extended my hand. “Thanks for having me tonight.”
I handed Shirley a gallon of ice cream. It was the only thing I could think of to bring at the last minute.
Shirley’s armful of bracelets shook as she took the treat. “Aww, you shouldn’t have. That is so sweet. Henry, isn’t this sweet?” She handed the ice cream to her husband. “I couldn’t believe it when I ran into you today. You want something to drink?”
“Sounds good.” I nodded. Alcohol might be the only way to survived this.
“The tide’s coming in and we don’t have much beach here, so we had to move the coolers to the boats to make room for the fire pit. We’ll just walk down there and get you something.” Shirley extended an arm and waved in the direction of the steaming pot.
After leading me across a grassy lawn and making introductions to the corn hole players, Shirley guided me down a path to the narrow sandy beach.
Shirley squealed and stopped the tour in front of a solid-built woman, who looked to be about forty. Her sunglasses were perched on top of her head, and she had a beer in one hand.
“Jojo, you remember Sierra Emory don’t you?”