Stephie’s voice was soft. “We’ll take her pictures. Video.”
The lighthouse was smaller than they’d expected. A whitewashed tooth on a gray cliff, its light not even spinning—just a steady, stubborn blink into the fog. The caretaker, a man named Earl who smelled like wet wool and salted peanuts, handed them a key without asking for ID. “Nobody comes here anymore,” he said. “You girls be careful on the stairs.” charlotte stephie sylvie
Charlotte, Stephie, and Sylvie had been friends since the summer they all scraped their knees on the same broken sidewalk crack outside the old public pool. Now, twenty-three years later, they were crammed into the front seat of Charlotte’s station wagon, the back piled with sleeping bags, a half-empty bag of sour gummy worms, and three mismatched umbrellas. Stephie’s voice was soft
“I’m just saying,” Stephie said, peeling a gummy worm from her thigh, “if we’re going to drive four hours to see a lighthouse that might be haunted, we should at least stop for decent coffee. Not gas station tar.” A whitewashed tooth on a gray cliff, its
Later, they would drive back through the rain, stop at a diner for coffee that was only slightly better than gas station tar, and fall asleep in Charlotte’s living room under the same quilt they’d shared as teenagers. Later, Sylvie would play the video for her mother, who would watch it three times before saying, “That’s not the ocean. That’s a puddle.” But she would be smiling.
Sylvie laughed—a wet, surprised sound. “She is stubborn. Last week she told the nurse her jello was ‘communist propaganda.’ The nurse was from Nebraska.”