Chapter 7: Little Sister Bay
The tender carved a silent path through water so clear it seemed to not exist, the white sand bottom rising to meet them like a dream. Chermaine cut the engine a hundred yards from shore, the silence sudden and immense. Betty stood at the rail, her fingers tight on the teak. She hadn’t spoken to Lorna since breakfast. The space between them on the deck had felt like a chasm.
“Go on,” Chermaine said, nodding toward the swimming platform at the stern. She was already lowering the inflatable dinghy, her movements efficient, unbothered. “Grab the cooler.”
Lorna obeyed, her kaftan flapping around her ankles. The canvas bag with the snorkels felt heavy in her other hand. She avoided looking at the master cabin windows as she passed them.
The ride to shore was short, the only sound the putter of the outboard and the hiss of water slicing beneath the rubber hull. Betty sat at the bow, her face turned into the wind, her blonde hair a wild banner. Lorna sat stiffly in the middle, the cooler wedged against her legs. Chermaine stood at the motor, a dark silhouette against the blazing sky, her expression unreadable behind mirrored aviators.
The beach was a postcard made real. Powdered sugar sand, water shading from pale mint to a deep, burning blue. Limestone cliffs draped in green foliage curved around the bay, sealing them in.
Chermaine dragged the dinghy above the tide line. “Home for the afternoon.”
Betty was out first, shedding her sarong to reveal a modest navy bikini. She walked straight into the water, not looking back, wading out until she was waist-deep, then plunging forward with a clean stroke.
Lorna laid out her towel with precise, clinical motions, smoothing every wrinkle. She kept her kaftan on, her wide-brimmed hat firmly in place. She was a fortress.
Chermaine spread her own towel nearby, but didn’t lie down. She sat, knees up, and watched. She watched Betty’s strong, rhythmic strokes carrying her further out. She watched Lorna’s rigid back, the way her shoulders were locked up near her ears.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Chermaine said, her voice cutting through the rhythmic wash of waves.
“Lovely,” Lorna replied, the word clipped.
“You should get in. Water’s perfect.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Suit yourself.” Chermaine grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Pun intended.”
From the water, Betty’s voice floated back, thin and bright. “There’s so many fish! Like, tons of them! They’re bright blue!”
Chermaine stood, brushing sand from her thighs. She was wearing only a simple black athletic bikini bottom, her torso bare. Her muscles caught the light as she walked to the water’s edge. “Parrotfish,” she called back. “Wait till you see the reef.”
She entered the sea with none of Betty’s tentative grace. She pushed through the water, a powerful, easy crawl, and was beside the girl in moments.
Lorna watched from behind her sunglasses. She saw them treading water, their heads close together. Heard the murmur of Chermaine’s explanation, Betty’s soft, answering laugh. The sound of that laugh, so absent all morning, sent a sharp pang through Lorna’s chest.
Under the water, out of sight, Chermaine’s hand found Betty’s thigh. It wasn’t a grab, just a slow, deliberate pass of her palm over the smooth skin of Betty’s outer leg, from hip to knee. A claiming touch.
Betty’s laughter cut off. She sucked in a breath, her head tilting back. Her eyes, when they found Chermaine’s, were wide, unsure.
Chermaine just smiled, a secret, underwater smile. “The reef’s this way,” she said aloud, and turned, diving beneath the surface.
Betty hovered for a second, touching the spot on her leg as if checking for a mark. Then she followed, kicking hard.
Lorna saw it all. The aborted laugh, the reaction, the follow. She dug her fingers into the sand, the grains grinding under her nails. The jealousy was a live wire in her gut, sizzling and dangerous. But underneath it, a darker, more shameful current pulled at her: a vivid, unwelcome imagining of what that hand might feel like on her own skin.
Chermaine swam back alone a few minutes later. She emerged from the water like something primordial, droplets sluicing down the hard planes of her stomach, beading on the tight coils of her hair. She didn’t go to her towel. She came to Lorna’s.
She sat, close enough that the cool water from her body sprinkled Lorna’s arm. Lorna tensed but didn’t move away.
“She’s a natural in the water,” Chermaine said, nodding toward Betty, who was now floating on her back, staring at the sky.
“She’s a cheerleader. Athletics come easily.” Lorna’s voice was tight.
Chermaine opened the cooler, pulled out a container of fresh-cut fruit. She speared a juicy slice of pineapple with a plastic fork and held it out. “Here. Taste this.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not about hunger.” Chermaine’s voice dropped, a low, intimate rumble that fought with the sound of the waves. “It’s about the sun, the salt, the sugar on your tongue. It’s about feeling something good. Simple. For once.”
Their eyes met. Lorna’s were hidden behind the dark lenses, but Chermaine’s were exposed, watching, waiting. The pineapple glistened between them.
Lorna’s hand rose, seemingly of its own will. Her fingers, perfectly manicured, closed around the fork. In doing so, they brushed against Chermaine’s—a brief contact, skin on skin, damp and real.
A jolt went through her. It was electric, shameful, devastating. It raced up her arm and settled low in her belly, a warm, aching throb.
She took the fork. Brought the pineapple to her mouth. The flavor exploded, sweet and tart. She chewed, swallowed, the action feeling obscenely sensual.
“See?” Chermaine murmured. She didn’t move away. Her thigh was now pressed against Lorna’s, a line of persistent, damp heat. “No one’s watching but the fish.”
But that was the lie, Lorna thought. Betty was watching. The entire, empty, beautiful world was watching. And the part of her that had trembled at the touch, the part that was still trembling, didn’t seem to care.
She handed the fork back, her movement stiff. Chermaine took it, her fingers lingering just a moment too long.
“I brought the snorkels,” Chermaine said, her tone shifting back to casual lightness as if the last minute hadn’t happened. She gestured to the bag. “The reef’s right there. You should see it. It’s why we came.”
Lorna looked at the bag. She looked at the water, at Betty now paddling listlessly. She looked at Chermaine’s expectant face. The command was clear, even if it was phrased as a suggestion.
Her fortress walls, built over decades, felt like sand. One push, and they’d wash away.
“Alright,” Lorna heard herself say, the word foreign in her mouth. “Show me.”