Page 100 of The Starfish Sisters

Huh.

What might that be?

I pause and tap my pen against my lips.

Maybe she would be an adventurer. Maybe a biography about Georgia O’Keeffe, striding through her life, living it her way until she died at 98. I’ve always thought she must have had an affair with the young guy who came into her life so late, and maybe that could be a good topic. Why not?

Because people might judge her as being ridiculous, allowing herself to have big feelings for somebody who clearly took advantage of her.

Or did he? Maybe they used each other.

But maybe a different angle. Maybe her decision to start traveling at age 60, going to India when she was in her 70s. What would that have been like back then?

Or maybe I could just make somebody up. An adventurer in the 1930s who went to North Africa, who had an adventure and a love affair at age 65. (Omar Sharif! Too bad he’s gone, but there must be a similar actor out there.)

That would be a fun part to play. And I’d want the sex on screen, no fading away. Normalize it.

When Joel returns, I’m still pouring my heart out on the page. Music plays on the speakers, and I don’t even realize hours have gone by until he knocks. I look up in surprise, and clouds have moved in heavily over the Starfish Sisters. My arm is very tired. I’ve filled many pages.

When I open the door, he has a fierce expression. “What is it?” I ask.

“Deer entrails in your driveway.” He points.

I shake my head. “Whoever is doing this is not LNB. They don’t give warnings.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean whoever this is isn’t dangerous.”

“Agreed. Let’s call the sheriff and get the alarm updated and go from there.”

“I think you should stay with Phoebe.”

I shake my head. “It’s going to get pretty awkward once she realizes we’ve been sleeping together.”

“First of all, why would she know?”

I raise my chin. “Because she knows us. Both of us.”

“And secondly, why would it matter?”

I sigh. “I’ve never told her the truth.”

For a long moment, he simply gapes at me. “You’re kidding me.”

I shake my head. “I know. But she had a terrible crush on you and I didn’t want to tell her that we were together, and then you were gone forever, and I was pretty sure I’d never see you again, so it didn’t seem like it was worth the drama to tell her the truth.”

He frowns. “Except that it was a really big part of your life. At least then.”

“It was.” And suddenly an entire bubble of repressed memory and emotion boils up and explodes in my chest. I make a sound, overcome by a kaleidoscope of memories—my father knocking me down, the feel of the razor against my head, the loneliness of the unwed mothers’ home. In a pained whisper, I ask, “Why didn’t you ever call me?”

His body goes still. Poised. “I didn’t know where you were. No one told me. I sent you a letter so that you could write to me, and when I never heard from you, I assumed you didn’t want to talk to me again.”

“A letter? I never got a letter.”

“I gave it to Phoebe. To give you.”

I meet his eyes, my heart thudding much too hard. “She never gave it to me.”

His hands fall on my shoulders. “Oh, Suze.” He presses his head against mine. “Oh my God.”