My mother would come down at some point with her coffee and Baileys—a veritable force, upsetting the gentle morning balance of May and me. Wearing one of her bright, flowing bathing suit cover-ups, a bikini on underneath. She’d drop her tote bag beside a lounge chair and spread her towel out before shedding the cover-up.

Pulling out a tube of Bain De Soleil, she’d spread the orange tanning cream all over her already dark skin. The tropical-smelling substance enhanced one’s tan; it didn’t protect against it. Skin cancer was not a thing back then.

May often slipped off the dock at that point into the cover of the water, staying under as long as she could in the suspended, green quiet of submersion. I usually picked up my towel and moved it onto the lounge chair beside my mother’s and asked to use some of her tanning cream so that I could smell her on me all day.

So many mornings bloomed from this dock into days full of swimming, tanning, friends, sailing, cliff jumping, water skiing, and lazy afternoons in the hammock. So many mornings identical to this one but now so far out of my reach.

The day is already hot, and just sitting there in the sun, I’ve broken a sweat. I wish I had my bathing suit on so I could dive in and cool off. Then it dawns on me that this is my island and I can do whatever I want. Who cares if some stupid kid is trespassing and catches sight of me? Maybe it will scare them off. I stand up and peel off my stale clothes from last night.

The breeze brushes against my liberated skin, and I wonder if anything feels better than this. Moving to the edge of the dock, I plant my feet and make a graceful dive into the cool, clear water. All the bits of myself that are usually covered by a bathing suit celebrate the sensation. It feels like swimming through silk as I pump my arms and legs through the deep water.

How have I not done this yet? I think to myself as I rise to the surface. And why not with Ezra? The thought brings on a fluttering of butterflies. I hang out in the water for a little while, then pull myself up onto the dock. I didn’t bring a towel, so I hurry up the path and into the cottage.

Running across the living room to get to the linen closet, I reflexively cringe, expecting the scolding that always came if we walked through the cottage without drying off first. The silence reminds me once again that I’m alone and I’m in charge. When my girls come, I won’t say a word if they decide to traipse though the place soaking wet. It doesn’t hurt anything; the footprints dry right into the age-old wooden floor. Not having the same rules that my parents did is a liberating feeling.