Could he hear them?
Victoria lifted her face. “I know that smell.”
Beatrice smiled. “If you lived anywhere near our house in 1986, you would know that aroma.”
Daisy laughed and lay flat on the blanket, stared up at the dark sky. “Victoria, go get us some of that. I think we could all use a little—”
“Daisy!” Beatrice elbowed her friend. “I don’t think getting pot from the landlord was in the contract, and honestly, I am horrified he’s even here.”
But Victoria was gone before they could blink another eye, before another wave could crash onshore. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.
They looked at each other in the moonlight and laughed, fell back on the blanket. “Our Bird of Paradise,” Beatrice said. “God, I love her.”
Daisy settled on her side, propping her cheek on her hand to face Beatrice. “And I love all of you. How lucky we are.”
Silence spread across the night until, minutes later, Victoria came bounding back with a thin rolled joint in her hand. Each sat without a word and Daisy lit it, took a puff, and passed it down the row. Beatrice inhaled and held in the acrid smoke, feeling that old 1980s feeling of falling past her own anxiety and into a place that, for a moment, felt padded and soft. She handed the thin joint back down the line. “Even the taste of it brings back memories.”
“Sure does.” Rose took a long breath of fresh air. “Now, Victoria, tell me the swan maiden story. No more excuses.”
Victoria shook her head. “No. Not now.”
“When’s better than now?”
“Well, you asked.” Victoria stood and with the breeze her kimono flew open like wings. She stood beneath the full moon, hair wild about her, looking very much like the bewitched storyteller she was hoping to be. “In a time long ago, but not far away.” She stopped and smiled at her friends. “There was a mythical creature called the swan maiden who could shapeshift from human to swan form when and how she pleased. But to be seen as human, she had to shed her swan feather skin and lay it aside. One night while swimming in the lake a man saw her: a beautiful swan maiden swimming naked in the water. He fell instantly and hopelessly in love. How could he possibly convince such a perfect creature to be his own? He came every night for many nights to watch her until finally he devised a plan. While she swam, he grabbed her feather skin, took it for his very own. When the maiden realized her feathers were gone, she begged him for them back, and he promised to give them back to her if she would marry him for a while, for just a little while, he told her. Bear him children and let him love her, and then she could have her feather skin back.”
Rose let out a sound so close to a whimper that Beatrice moved closer to her. “You okay?”
“I am. Go on, Victoria. Go on. What happened next?”
Victoria turned to the moon. “The woman gave the man everything he wanted: a house, a home, love, and children. When the time came that the children were safe and on their own, she asked for her feather skin back. She was desperate to return to the lake, to the waterfalls and rivers of her true self. She wanted her swan skin and her feathers. But he refused. He broke his promise and she was forced to stay on land. She mourned her feathers for the rest of her remaining days—”
“Oh my God, Victoria,” Daisy cried out. “Give it a better ending than that.”
“You give it a better ending.” Victoria turned around and shrugged. “That’s the legend I know.”
Rose stood up next to Victoria. “Here’s how it should go: One day the swan maiden discovered her feather skin, hidden in a trunk in the attic. She slipped it on and ran to the river, dove into the waters, and was never seen again. Restored to her true self, she swam as far and as deep as she wanted. The End.”
Victoria threw her arm over Rose’s shoulder. “Yes. Infinitely better.”
Beatrice sighed. “Yes, much better. You know, Lachlan has never, not once, asked me to be anyone other than who I am. He loves me. He sees me. I have never loved so much or felt so loved. It’s like . . . being with all of you. He’s never tried to take my feathers.”
Victoria dropped her arm from Rose, took a few steps onto shore before she sloughed off her kimono. Her bra and panties fell like dark shadows to the sand, and she walked into the water, slipping into the waves and floating on her back to stare at the starry sky. “Come in!” she called.
And they did, one after the other, slipping from their clothes into the warm water at ebb tide to float on their back and watch the stars get brighter and brighter, their fire burning holes through the dark sky.
5
The Next Day
When they awoke the next morning, gathered in the kitchen in their pjs over the coffeepot and sizzling eggs on Red’s black cast-iron pan, the friends came out one by one holding their pastel-colored drawings. With hugs and exclamations about how beautiful each of their birds had turned out, they filled their coffee mugs and woke slowly.
“When did you start using pastels?” Daisy held her starling to the light. “It’s extraordinary.”
“Lachlan talked me into it about two years ago when I wanted to try a few new mediums . . . I’ve also been painting oil on wood. It’s been fun to play with new ways to do things.” Beatrice glanced about. “Where’s Victoria?”
Daisy motioned down the hallway. “I’ll go wake her. Sleepyhead is used to living on her own time and schedule.” Daisy walked off and returned in seconds. “She’s not there. Her bed hasn’t even been slept in.”
An alarm raced through Beatrice’s heart; a reminder of the days when her daughters were in high school and she would check their beds in the morning, when she couldn’t remember hearing the chime of the bell that signaled an opening door in the middle of the night, letting her know they’d come home.
Rose set her coffee mug on the counter. “Oh my God. Is she okay? Should we call someone? Go search? What if she tried to swim or . . . ?” Rose got up and went out the door.
“She’s fine,” Beatrice said. “I’d bet a million dollars she’s with Red.”
“No way.” Daisy shook her head. “Why do think that?”
“Because every time I was worried about my teenagers’ empty beds, believing they were dead, they had crashed at a friend’s house and . . . she’s Victoria.”
As if on signal, the screen door opened and Victoria in her caftan swooped into the cabin. “Good morning, Sunshines,” she said, flouncing past them to the back of the house. “I’ll be out soon. Beach day, right?”
“Right,” Beatrice called after her. “Beach day.”
The hours passed with swims and naps and paperbacks held up against the beating sun, and with laughter when someone shot out an old memory or joke. Victoria disappeared for a few hours, and no one worried. The day felt beautiful, hazy and slow. Beatrice thought of Lachlan, but the pain had lessened since she’d arrived here. That sword of loss would return, she knew. But for now, she was so cotton padded with love that it would wait. They caught up on their kids and their lives, on their jobs and the small talk of facts. They laughed about taking pot from their landlord. Then chat would fade, books would open, and soft sounds of sleep would arise.