Nola flew by helicopter to see Jenna. After a two-year rehabilitation, her sister was living in the converted mansion, at the group home run by a devoted couple hand-picked by Nola. No more city temptations for Jenna. Having dropped out of school in her freshman year, at twenty she was being tutored for her high-school equivalency tests.

As Nola's helicopter landed, bittersweet taste climbed in Nola's mouth. The void left by her family’s demise was filled with nostalgia for the loveliness of the place.

The fall air was unusually warm, an Indian summer day, like a guest who had said his good-byes, then changed his mind and returned. The wooden stairs going down to the beach had been rebuilt so the young residents of the house could make the sand, sea and sun a part of their growing-up experience. Nola asked Jenna to join her, and Jenna, her face sour, relented.

The cave was no more. The overhang had been eroded by winds and collapsed into rubble. Only an indentation remained in the cliff. Nola sat down on the sand, hugging her knees. There was no other girl on the Connecticut side. There was no one like her in the entire world. Then as now, at twenty-eight, she was anchorless, with nothing to hold on to but herself and her music. Friends came and went and so did loves. The only constant figure in Nola's life, still the adult in their relationship, was Wade. Their careers and music occupied the same place in their respective universes. Their shared victories bound them with an invisible rubber band that stretched enough to allow each to move about their personal affairs, only to snap back and bring them together.

Jenna removed her sneakers and socks and dug her toes in the sand. She had pretty, tapered feet and long legs, like their mother’s. Her high forehead, voluminous hair, and smooth jawline reminded Nola so much of their mother and her wasted beauty that it hurt. Jenna collected driftwood, and then, one by one, hurled the pieces against the rock, splintering them. Nola watched from the corner of her eye. She would have tossed the sticks toward the water, imagining where they would float.

Her sister had yet to congratulate her for her last Grammy’s award. “How do you like your tutor?” Nola asked.

Jenna smashed another piece of wood. “I’ve written a play.”

“That’s great! May I see it?” Nola inched closer, but restrained herself from touching Jenna. Her sister hated physical contact.

“We’re going to produce it at the high school.”

“I’m so proud of you. I remember how inventive you were as a toddler. We wrote plays and performed them for Mom and Dad. Do you remember? Later, when you were only ten, you improved on plots and characters in novels.” Nola laughed. “I’m sure you’ll do great as a playwright.”