“You just admitted you were dating me,” Scooter says.

“Ssshh,” I say again, glancing back at the women, who are still taking pictures.

Scooter reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh, and my skin tingles with goose bumps.

“Okay,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath.

“Look!” Marge yells suddenly, making me jump.

I follow her fire-engine red nail, which is pointing toward the beach.

“There!” she continues. “Our sandcastle!”

I smile. The sandcastle we all built earlier in the day is not only still standing—strong, solid, perfectly intact—but beachgoers have added to it. Now, there is a stone wall protecting its entrance. Three sandy horses are on standby near a tower. In addition, a variety of decor—feathers, flowers, shells—have been placed on tops of turrets and onto the castle’s walls and doors. The petals of my pink peony flutter in the wind.

But the pièce de résistance is a Barbie doll that someone has stuck into one of the towers, headfirst, feet sticking out into the air as if she is trying to escape.

“She’s on the run!” Marge says, letting forth a big cackle.

Somewhere deep inside, I can feel my soul reverberate, as if my entire body is a sound bath and my heart a quartz bowl that is humming and vibrating.

I hope a young girl heard us today and watched us build that, I think. I hope she believes in herself forever and never gives in to fear or forgoes her own dreams. I hope she is the queen of her own castle and never a prisoner.

“Look!” Marge says again.

I swivel to look at Marge, whose body is now pointed the other way.

I turn and catch my breath.

The sky is lavender, the clouds dark purple. Within seconds, the horizon has turned red, then orange, before the sun—an orb of magenta—slowly melts into the lake.

I tilt my head and can hear a calm come over the lake, Michigan sighing as the sun sets, her coast taking a moment of satisfaction in all the wonder she has created in a single summer’s day.

“Can every day be so beautiful?” Marge asks, eyes wide and still fixed on the horizon as others continue to snap photos. “Can every day be so perfect?”

I pull a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket on the floorboard and turn to the women seated behind me.

I do not say a word as I fill their glasses. I lift my own glass toward the sunset and then to each of the women, remaining silent while gazing intently into each of their eyes.

It can, I think as I stare at each of the women, who came here seeking something—empowerment, confidence, hope—to make their own lives more fulfilled. It can.

They nod, and when I clink glasses with Marge, tears well up in her eyes.