Page 14 of Summer After Summer

“Charlotte can clean out her own room. And Sophie.”

“Agreed.” She looks around as if they might materialize. “Where are they?”

“Charlotte said something last night about being tied up with organizing the garden party.”

“The soiree,” Charlotte had called it, confirming numbers over breakfast while William nodded in approval.

“And Sophie?”

“You know Sophie.”

“I do.” She sighs. “So that leaves—”

“Their room. Mom’s side of it anyway.” I swallow hard. It won’t be the same as going through the day room, but it’s where all her clothes and jewelry still are. My father never bothered to take the time to clear away her things. “Maybe I can face that with your help.”

“I always knew you were the brave one.”

“We’ll see.”

We step to the door at the end of the hall, and I grip the wrought-iron door handle and twist. It catches, not wanting to give, like it senses my reluctance. I put my shoulder to it and push. The door opens with a pop, and I almost tumble into the room.

“The clumsy one too,” I say as I right myself and take in my surroundings. The walls are butter yellow, with matching curtains with small flowers running over them. There’s a heavy oak bed that’s made up with a light cream coverlet, and two dressers, William’s—that’s still full of his knickknacks and daily use items, and my mother’s—covered in silver-framed family photographs. There’s a portrait of her as a young woman on the wall, and the far wall stares at the ocean.

I walk to the Juliet window. There’s a small balcony off it. “I forgot how good the view is from here.”

“The best view in the house.”

I open the door and walk out. The balcony is high enough that the dunes aren’t an obstruction to the view. The tide is out, and the beach is dotted with colorful umbrellas and children freed from the shackle of school. The salty tang of the ocean fills my senses, mixing with the faint hint of my mother’s gardenia-scented perfume, which lingers like a ghost.

I shove my rising sadness and turn. “Where should we start?”

Tracy’s kind eyes cloud with sadness. “Her closets? She’s got some vintage pieces that we can sell if you’re not interested in them.”

“I don’t think they’ll fit me. Maybe Charlotte.” My mother was petite like Charlotte and Sophie.

“You’re smaller than you used to be,” Tracy says. “You might be surprised.”

“Am I?” I look down at myself, trying to see a difference. It’s true that the linen slacks I’m wearing are loose. “I haven’t been trying to lose weight.”

“I hate you.” Tracy’s always been plump, but it suits her.

“Probably Wes’s fault.”

Things had been rocky for us all year, which I’d confessed to Tracy when we had lunch in the city in March. I thought we could work things out, then.

“Him too.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” I grimace, then walk to my mother’s closet. There’s enough sadness in this task that I don’t need to bring Wes into it.

When I checked my phone this morning, I realize that he texted me last night, asking if I’d arrived okay. I’d answered with a terse yes. We hadn’t discussed whether we were keeping the channels of communication open. Neither of us has ended a marriage before, if that’s what we were doing.

“I wouldn’t recommend the wine and Sprite diet, but I guess it’s effective for weight loss.” I open the double closet doors. A moth flies out, even though the smell of mothballs is overpowering. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“No one’s touched that closet in twenty years.”

“Things fall apart.”

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