Reunion Beach, Elin Hilderbrand [novel books to read txt] 📗

even a different texture to the water. Bram looked skeptical when I observed that gulf water feels silkier on your skin, like someone’s added bath oil. And he calls my notion absurd that the water here feels and tastes saltier than the Gulf. But he does agree about the color difference. The Gulf of Mexico looks like emeralds left to melt in the sun, while the Atlantic’s the grayish-green of a swamp. At first I wasn’t keen on the daily swims my new husband insisted on, but I, too, have come to love them.

Nellie Bee and I won’t be swimming here, though. We seldom do, unless it’s in the pool. Our beach visits are always at water’s edge and fortified with strong drink. When I hear a stroller on the beach call out “Hi, Nell!” at my sister-in-law’s approach, I turn my head to watch her trudge across the sand, trailing the towel she brings for wiping her feet. Even though I know Nellie Bee’s here to “talk some sense into her idiot sister-in-law” (or so she said on the phone), I grin and wave to her. She sees me, but she’s paused to look out over the ocean and doesn’t return my wave. I think she’s more exasperated with me than angry—or at least I hope so. In the five years we’ve known each other, we’ve never had a cross word and I don’t want to start now.

Toting her shoes in one hand, Nellie Bee’s still dressed for golf in jaunty little skorts and a blue polo with the Fripp Island logo. That woman and her golf! It’s another of her obsessions, she says, but at least healthier than mojitos. She stands motionless for a long moment to breathe in the brisk salt breeze, and behind the sunglasses, I imagine she’s closed her eyes. It’s late afternoon, and the sun still hangs high above the horizon, its blinding glare obscured by wispy streaks of clouds. Low tide, and the waves lap against the shoreline with a soft swishing sound. I watch sandpipers retreating from them, spindly-legged, then I turn my gaze back to Nellie Bee, trying to gauge her mood before she joins me. We usually get together once a week after one of her golf games. But today she’d called to convene what she referred to as an emergency meeting, and had asked me to make our drinks extra strong. I took that as a bad sign.

My sister-in-law and dear friend, Nell O’Connor (called Nellie Bee by the family), bears such a strong resemblance to my husband Bram that they’re sometimes mistaken for twins. Twenty months apart, they’re Irish twins, but Nellie Bee’s quick to remind everyone that she’s younger. Plus, she was the one born in South Carolina; since her “twin” was born in Ireland, he’s more Irish than Southern, she says. It’s the distinctive coloring that makes them so much alike, what Bram calls the black Irish: the dark hair, bright green eyes, and milky skin. In the past few years his hair’s become heavily threaded with silver, but Nellie Bee’s only slightly streaked, like pricey highlights. Nellie Bee gripes, saying she looks older, but to me it makes her even more striking. The resemblance between her and Bram has more to do with their strong personalities than with physical appearance: Bram’s a force of nature, one of those dynamic people who lights up a room when he enters it and turns heads wherever he goes. His sister’s the same, though she pooh-poohs the idea that she has anything like his charisma. Squaring her shoulders, Nellie Bee turns abruptly from her reverie and heads my way, a scowl on her face.

“Sister-woman!” I call out when she plops down in the chair next to mine, trying to lighten her mood. She’s not having it.

“Don’t you be sister-womaning me,” she says, tossing her golf shoes on the sand. “Not till I have a cold one in my hand, anyway.”

I pour mojito into one of the engraved silver mugs Bram gave me for a wedding gift (at her suggestion) and pass it to her. She has a set of them, which I’d admired. Presenting his gift, my new husband announced his sister ordered him to marry me, or else. Even if his twinkling eyes hadn’t betrayed him, I would’ve known he was joking. No one tells Bram O’Connor what to do. Nellie Bee had hooted when I repeated what he’d said. “He’s so full of it” was her response. “I told him the opposite. I wouldn’t wish him on anybody, let alone a sweetheart like you.” Unlike her brother, she was only halfway joking. She adores her brother but claims I’m a saint for putting up with him.

I remind her of that after she clicks her mug against mine and we chant our favorite toast: “‘Balls,’ said the Queen. ‘If I had ’em, I’d be King.’” After taking a long, thirsty drink, I say, “You can save your speech, sistah. You were the one who warned me not to hook up with your brother.”

Nellie Bee gulps her drink then sighs in satisfaction. “God, that’s so good. And yes, I did. Though it shouldn’t have been necessary. I figured no woman in her right mind would marry a man named Bram Stoker.” She and Bram have told me how shamelessly their mother, a Stoker from Dublin, had played up her kinship with the infamous author of Dracula.

“Wife number one did,” I say with a sly smile.

“I said in her right mind.” To my surprise Nellie Bee drains her glass and holds it out for a refill. We always limit ourselves to two drinks that we sip slowly to make them last. “You’d better refill yours, too. You’re going to need it.”

“So you’re upset with me then?” I say it lightly but with a rush of anxiety. I treasure her friendship and hate to think of us at odds.

“Oh, honey.” She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and