“Morning,” she said.This was the morning I decided it was time to clear the air—to tell Bee about the book. To ask her what she knew of Esther.“Bee,” I said weakly, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”She set the sage down by the sink and turned on the water. “Yes, dear?”“There’s someone I need to ask you about,” I said, “a woman.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “A woman who lived on this island in 1943. Her name was Esther.”I watched Bee at the sink. She didn’t look up as she rhythmically lathered her hands with the bar of lavender soap she kept near the faucet. Minutes passed as she turned the soap over and over again as if in a trance.“Bee?” I said again. “Did you know her?”She set the soap down, and slowly ran her fingers under the warm water, rinsing them for what seemed like an eternity, until she turned off the faucet and held them up to the light.“I can never seem to find a pair of gloves that don’t let dirt into my nails,”
