Summer Island

“What do you do all day?”

“Only a single woman would ask that question of a mother. So, whats going on up there? How are you and Mom doing?”

“Shes not who I thought she was,” Ruby admitted softly.

“How could she be? You havent spoken to her since Moonlighting was on television. ”

“I know, I know . . . but its more than that. Like, did you know she was seeing a shrink when she was married to Dad . . . or that she took Valium in nineteen eighty-five?”

“Wow,” Caroline said. “I wonder if her doctor told her to leave Dad?”

“Why would he do that?”

Caroline laughed softly. “Thats what they do, Ruby. They tell unhappy women to find happiness. If I had a buck for every time my therapist told me to leave Jere, Id live on Hunts Point. ”

“You see a shrink, too?”

“Come on, Ruby. Its like getting a manicure. Good grooming for the mind. ”

“But I thought you and Mr. Quarterback had a perfect life. ”

"We have our problems, just like anyone else, but Id rather talk about-aah! Darn it, Jenny!

Thats not okay. I gotta run, Ruby. Your niece just poured a cup of grape juice on her brothers head. " Before Ruby could answer, Caroline hung up.

Everything was ready.

Dean knocked on Erics door; heard the muffled“Come in,” and went inside.

Eric was sitting up in bed, reading a dog-eared paperback copy of Richard Bachs book Illusions. When he saw Dean, he smiled. “Hey, bro. Its almost dinnertime. Where have you been?” He reached for the cup on his bedside tray. His thin fingers trembled; he groaned tiredly and gave up.

Dean hurried to the bed and grabbed the cup, carefully placing it in Erics quavering hand. He guided the straw to his brothers mouth.

Eric sipped slowly, swallowed. Dean helped him replace the cup on the tray, then Eric turned his head, let it settle into the pile of pillows. “Thanks, I was dying of thirst. ” He grinned. “No mention of death was intentional. ”

Dean wanted to smile; honestly, he did. But all he could think about was his big brother; up here all alone, thirsty and too weak to reach for his glass of water. He crossed his arms and stared out the window. He didnt dare make eye contact with Eric. He needed just a minute to collect himself. “Ive been working on something,” he said.

“A surprise?”

Dean looked down at his brother then and saw a glimpse of the old Eric-the young Eric-and his throat tightened even more. It was all he could do to nod. Slowly, he lowered the metal bed rail. When it clanged into place, he said, “Are you up for a little trip?”

“Are you kidding? Im so sick of this bed I could cry. Hell, I do cry . . . all the time. ” Dean leaned forward, scooped his brother into his arms and lifted him up from the bed.

God, he weighed nothing at all.

It was like holding a fragile child; only it was his brot

her. His strong, outspoken big brother; whod once led the island football team in touchdown passes. . .

Dean shut the memories off. If he remembered who Eric used to be-now, while this frail, hollowed man was in his arms-he would stumble and fall.

He carried his brother downstairs and through the house, past Lottie in the kitchen, who waved, her eyes overbright . . . across the manicured green lawn and down the bank to the beach. On the slanted, wooden dock, hed already set up an oversize Adirondack chair and piled pillows onto it.

“The Wind Lass,” Eric said softly.

Dean carefully placed his brother into the chair; then tucked the cashmere blanket tightly around his thin body.

It was nearing sunset. The sky was low enough to touch. The last rays of the setting sun turned everything pink--the waves, the clouds, the pebbled beach that curled protectively along the fish-hook shape of the shoreline. The sailboat was still in bad shape, but at least she was clean.