Firefly Beach

Sometimes it's more generous to take than give, he said. "How?" Caroline asked. "To let the other person give you what he has to offer. If you're always the one giving, you never have to feel disappointed, because you don't expect anything in return. But it's miserly in its own way. Because you never leave yourself open or give the other person a chance.

Clear nights are sometimes the coldest.

Hugh had been her obsession. When he was away, she had assumed he was with other women. It drove her crazy, dominated her thoughts. She had tried to concentrate on her daughters, but her own insecurity was much too huge. When Skye would beg for a story or Clea would need help with her music lessons, Augusta would tell them to ask Caroline. So Augusta could be with Hugh.

If you start with love, can forgiveness ever be far behind? But she couldn’t put those things into words.

With all our gifts, all the love we have for one another, what went wrong? That’s what I want to know. That one missing piece.” “Life, Mom,

She’s so anxious about being loved, she ends up driving people away.

Parents die far from home, and they take their things with them. The things that might give their kids comfort or solace or even an answer or two. Not that things were enough, but they were something to hold on to. Objects to hold and examine, reminders of someone who had once loved you. And sometimes they were all you had.

A poet once wrote that cathedrals were never built beside the sea because it was so beautiful it would distract the people from praying.

She loves you, Mom,” Caroline said, telling the truth. “I know, dear. But I wish I’d done more earlier. That I hadn’t missed my chance.” The words hung in the air, reminding Caroline of the failures of love. People tried so hard, but they often missed the most important connections.

He didn’t want to think about the people in his life, the people who could make him feel the way he did inside right now. Sad and angry, and as though he had lost something he couldn’t quite name.

She upset the kids. She told them a really awful story about a pet she had when she was little.” “How bad could a pet story be?” “Well,” Clea said, knowing this fell in the “only in our family” category, “it eviscerated her cats and could have killed my mother in her sleep. I’d say that’s good for a few nightmares, wouldn’t you?

Cat limbs all over the floor, chewed to the bone.” “Mew-Mew, Licorice!” Maripat cried. Tearfully, Augusta told them about Tiny grinning at the end of Augusta’s bed, covered with blood. His little tongue hanging out, a demoniacal mask on his face, his fangs dripping with blood as he sprang for her throat just before she slammed the door shut.

What about Tiny?” Maripat asked shyly. “Well, I left him in my room so my mother wouldn’t see him.” “ ’Cause you hadn’t convinced her to let you keep him yet,” Mark said reasonably. “Did you leave the cats to keep him company?” “Yes,” Augusta said. “And did they become best friends?” Maripat asked, happily sensing the end of the story. “No,” Augusta said, knowing she was in too deep. “He ate them.

Well, I left him in my room so my mother wouldn’t see him.” “ ’Cause you hadn’t convinced her to let you keep him yet,” Mark said reasonably. “Did you leave the cats to keep him company?” “Yes,” Augusta said. “And did they become best friends?” Maripat asked, happily sensing the end of the story. “No,” Augusta said, knowing she was in too deep. “He ate them.

Drunk or just drinking, Skye had passed many hours trying not to think about the hunt, about the gun and Andrew Lockwood, about any of it. She had drunk to get loaded, to get wasted, to get happy, to get sad, because she loved the taste, because she was against killing animals, because her husband liked rough sex, because she had nightmares about snakes under her tent, because her father had stopped loving her, because she hated Swan Lake, because she had gone to Redhawk, because she was mad at her mother for offering to trade her life for Caroline’s, because Skye herself had killed a man dead.

She found the combination intriguing. Because there were three, at all times two sisters holding hands would be facing the same direction. And one would be facing a different way. No matter how you looked at it, two would always be united. And one would be separate. But which two? And which one?

north. The stars had blazed low over the curving hills. Her father had dropped them off hungry, to make them hunt for their food. Sharpening a stick, she had waited in the rushes.

The log stretched across the stream. It had been there for some time. Sticks, feathers, and debris had caught on stray branches protruding from one end. The stream flowed beneath the log, lazy and blackish-green, just before it widened and joined the Connecticut River. Pine trees grew thick along one bank, while reeds whispered along the other.