The motorboat was still far enough from shore that its passengers were little more than specks. By now Desdemona had followed her sister down to the stout dock where the motorboat stayed moored. Celeste was already at the end of the dock, down on her hands and knees. She was spreading crisp the length of white linen. A large wooden bowl was lying topside down near her blackened feet.

“Where’s the water?” Celeste cried once she saw that Desdemona was arriving empty-handed. She huffed and, rising, said, “I’ll do it. I have to do everything.”

“No, I’ll do it,” said Desdemona, collecting the wooden bowl from the dock. “You stay here and watch for the boat.”

Celeste was practically bouncing. “They’re almost here!”

Desdemona turned and made her way up the hill and to the right, where the water well sat rotting among the weeds. Its shingled steeple covering hung crooked, held in place only by a lone tenacious nail. The rope that held the bucket was frazzled and dirty and thin. The less said of the state of the water bucket the better.

These blemishes notwithstanding, Desdemona maintained the actions as they’d been taught to her by Mother and Father. She took up the rope and dragged the bucket from its bed of greenery. She flung it down into the pit and waited for the plash. When it came Desdemona felt her shoulders slouch, for now she had to operate the horrible crank. Carefully she gripped the splintery handle and began to draw up the bucket. This evening’s yield was meagre, which in one sense was a blessing, for it meant less strain on the ancient crank, but also ominous; a sign that the ancient well may finally be running dry.

She pulled the swinging bucket from the spool and poured out the water into the waiting bowl before returning the bucket to its nest among the plants Father had cultivated with great care.

Experience allowed her to carry the brimming bowl back to the dock without spilling a drop. The well water now in place upon the white linen, Desdemona joined her sister in watching the approaching boat.

It was now close enough for the sisters to see them; Mother and Father, she seated regally at the motorboat’s bow, he usefully stationed before the boat’s motor, manning the steering rod, guiding them toward shore. Desdemona saw the evening sun sparkle off Father’s horn-rimmed glasses. He appeared to be wearing one of his oversized sweaters, or something equally out of season for June. Mother wore a dress of the same cut as hers, but Mother’s was of a more luxuriant colour.

When the boat’s motor was switched off, Desdemona knelt down upon the white linen, alongside Celeste, who was already in position.