Laire rolled her eyes. Kyrstin talked big, but she wouldn’t tell if Laire asked her not to. “I want to go to college like Mama. I want to learn something.”
“Yeah. But I’ve seen the brochures, Laire,” said Kyrstin, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes disapproving. “You’re not lookin’ at Carteret or Beaufort or even some fancy four-year college like UNC. You want to go up North.”
Laire sighed deeply, nodding at her sister. “Is that so wrong?”
Kyrstin shrugged, her voice hopeful. “Brodie’s real nice. You’ve both graduated now. He’d help set you up with a nice little boutique—maybe even over on Ocracoke, by the ferry, where they’ve got more and more tourists comin’ in every summer. You could sell your fashions. He and his daddy make a damn good livin’. You could have a few kids. Live nearby . . .”
Her words were crushing Laire’s soul, and Kyrstin must have known it because her voice tapered off.
“No,” she said, sipping her coffee thoughtfully. “I guess not. You were always more like Mama than the rest of us.”
“Kyrstin,” she said, reaching out to lay her palm across her sister’s arm. “I love Corey Island. I love you and Issy and Daddy. But I . . . I can’t stay here forever. I want to see more. I want to know more. There’s a huge world out there, and I want to be a part of it.” She looked down at her freckled hand on Kyrstin’s freckled arm. So alike, it was hard to tell where her sister’s skin ended and hers began. “I’ll always be your sister. But . . . I feel like this is my chance. The first stepping-stone toward my dream. And since you work at a café on Ocracoke, I thought maybe . . .”
“I might put in a good word?”
Laire nodded, trying for a hopeful smile. “If we talked to him together. Maybe we could explain that my working in Buxton isn’t so very different than you working in Ocracoke. Just a summer job for extra money.”
“Buxton ain’t Ocracoke, Laire, and you know it,” Kyrstin reminded her dryly.
“Please,” said Laire softly.
As she watched her sister’s face soften, she thought of Erik Rexford, and her heart pinched with guilt. When Kyrstin helped her sway their father this afternoon, she’d also be unknowingly complicit in helping Laire make her date with the governor’s son—a fact that would have affected Kyrstin’s willingness to help. A job was one thing. Dating a dingbatter was another, and there’s no way on God’s green earth that Kyrstin, who was happy on Corey, would approve.
“I’ll do it,” said Kyrstin, surprising Laire with her quick and sudden alliance, “on one condition.”
Laire held her breath. Here it comes . . .
“You make me somethin’ supersexy for my weddin’ night.”
Throwing her arms around her older sister, Laire promised to make something so dirty, it would bring Remiel Poisson to his knees.
***
Too bright.
The sun was way too bright.
Erik groaned and flipped onto his stomach, staring down at the concrete pool deck though the plastic slats of the lounger and wishing his head would stop pounding.
“Anyone have an Advil?” he muttered.
Hillary laughed from two chairs down. “Poor Erik.”
“Don’t joke,” said Vanessa from beside him. A soft, warm hand landed on his back, rubbing soothingly, and he knew it was hers. It was the type of thing she was always doing—rubbing his back or holding on to his arm. Van was super touchy-feely and always had been. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, it felt nice. “Birthday boy here drank his weight in Champagne! I’m not surprised if his poor head is achin’ a little.”
Pete, who lounged on Erik’s other side, asked, “Where’s my sympathy, Van? My head’s achin’ too!”
“Are you the birthday boy, Peter Donaldson? No, I didn’t think so. You’ll just have to fend.”
“Damn!” exclaimed Pete, chuckling ruefully. “Cold woman!”
“You need someone to rub your back?” Hillary asked Pete, her tone trying for kidding but sounding too hopeful to stick the landing.
“Why? You offerin’? Ha-ha. No, thanks, Hills,” said Pete, still laughing. “I think I’ll go sit in the hot tub a spell and warm up from the chill over here.”
“By all means,” said Vanessa, her fingers still sliding up and down Erik’s back. “Go sit in your own warm filth.”
“Ha! Like Fancy Rexford would allow any filth at Utopia Manor.”
“She allows you,” said Vanessa under her breath.
“I heard that, Van,” said Pete. “But, honey, we both know the Donaldsons have been in North Carolina longer than the Osborns, so you can stuff it.”
“Stuff it,” muttered Vanessa in a cultured Southern accent. “Such a gentleman. You are crude, Peter Donaldson.”
“Aw, Van, you can kiss my crude . . .”
The word ass was swallowed by the splash of a body entering the hot tub.