“I wish you’d take your phone.” Violet wrapped her arms around herself. Early May in Alabama wasn’t cold by any stretch, but she felt a chill nonetheless. “Those teenagers on the Jet Skis make me nervous. And the drunk fishermen. You know how they race each other to get out into the Gulf.”

A corner of Trudy’s mouth lifted in a grin as she wrote. Not too many teenagers out before seven in the morning. And fishermen won’t start drinking until lunchtime.

Violet opened her mouth to rattle off another reason why it wasn’t safe for Trudy to be out on the water alone, but Trudy began writing again.

I’m a big girl, Violet. You don’t always have to watch out for me. I’ll be just fine.

And with that Trudy winked, then ducked back into the house.

“‘Just fine,’” Violet murmured, her gaze still on the spot where Trudy had been standing. I do have to watch out for you, she thought. It’s my job.

With Trudy gone the porch seemed more still than usual. Trudy had been quiet for forty years, but even in her silence, she could be loud. At least with Violet. Sometimes she seemed to nearly vibrate with life, but she refused to open her mouth and let any of it out.

Violet would have been happy with anything—a shout of anger, a burst of laughter, a single word. There were times, just after everything had happened, when Violet fought the urge to grab Trudy by the shoulders and demand she speak. Or at least explain, on that blasted notepad, why she couldn’t even say a word to Violet. The rest of the world, okay, but to her own sister? Her only family? But Violet had learned to let that go.

She heaved a lungful of air and slowly let it leak out. Violet loved her sister with every fiber, every shred of her being, and though the past crept back in sometimes, pressing on her shoulders and jabbing her in the stomach with its long, scabby fingers, Violet no longer allowed herself to think about all she’d given up, for love and for obligation. For penance.

Violet settled down in her rocking chair, the floral cushion shaped from years of her back-porch bird-watching, and pushed off gently, setting the rocker into a slow back-and-forth. Before her, the sky over the river brightened by small increments. A splash of mauve here, a streak of pink there. A little while later, Trudy crossed the yard below. Dressed in a pair of black swim shorts and a yellow T-shirt, Trudy—Violet’s sole companion for all these years—lugged her kayak under one arm and a bucket for her treasures in the other. The last time she’d gone to Roberts Island, she’d brought home a three-foot piece of gnarly driftwood, now well on its way to becoming a quirky lamp, which their customers would no doubt love and fight each other for. The bucket was too small for wood that large, but it’d be perfect for the shells and dried pods and fronds Trudy was always picking up and toting home.