The air, the water, the lobster buoys, the osprey whistling its piercing rising song—for the moment, all was lost on Rose. She’d thought that in this house, the house that she had written the check for, the house she (and Lottie) had found—she’d thought that in this house, at least, things would get easier. It was stupid. She knew it was. So what if Beverly Fisher was a selfish old goat? So what that privileged Caroline Dester exerted her privileges? The cottage was enormous. Rose didn’t ever need to see either one of them if she didn’t want to. The turret rooms weren’t even so great. The windows were narrow, so both rooms would be airless on a hot day. And the furniture didn’t fit properly. And if Rose really wanted a different bedroom, there were a dozen more she hadn’t even discovered yet. And all she really needed was a place in the sun to think. Which she had right now. The waves lapped at the rock she sat on. She wished she could enjoy the taste and scent and chill of the salt spray but she was too filled with regrets.
