Willa

She keeps the red lace thong stuffed deep in her purse. It’s the same brand of underwear that Carson wears and, more damning, it has that hole in the back where the tag is supposed to be. Carson’s skin is sensitive (she can’t handle even a thin bit of tag remaining along the seam) and Carson is careless, so to avoid irritation to her precious backside, she cuts a hole in a twenty-two-dollar lace thong. It’s the kind of intimate detail you know only about your sister.

It’s Carson’s thong; Willa is sure of it.

But what was it doing in Zach’s pants pocket? Are Zach and Carson having an affair? The thought is…outrageous, nearly laughable.

Or is it?

When Willa told Carson that Pamela thought Zach was having an affair, how had Carson reacted? What had she said?

He doesn’t seem like the cheating type, does he?

Willa thinks about this. Was Carson trying to cast doubt on Pamela’s suspicions? To downplay them, dismiss them?

Next Carson said, Does she think she knows who it is? Not, notably, Does she know who it is? Is this distinction telling?

Then Willa remembers that Rip told Willa a few weeks earlier that Pamela saw Carson’s Jeep parked at the abandoned horse barn across the street from the Bridgemans’ house. Pamela told Rip she thought Carson was there to meet her drug dealer.

Willa had been annoyed by Pamela’s low opinion of Carson, even though she, too, thought it was likely Carson was there to meet her drug dealer.

Carson had not been there to meet her drug dealer, Willa thinks now. The red lace thong with the hole where the tag should be is Carson’s, and the thong was in Zach’s pants pocket, and Carson was lurking across the street from the Bridgemans’ house because she and Zach are having an affair.

Willa shoots Carson a text: Are you working tonight?

Carson responds: No.

Willa says: Rip is golfing after work with Mr. B. Want to come to Smith’s Point for dinner? I’ll get Millie’s takeout.

Carson says: Sure. Please order me the Caesar with grilled shrimp and chips with queso.

Willa says: Great. See you at 7.

Carson shows up on time, which is very unlike her, and she seems serene, but in a natural way and not a stoned-out-of-her-mind way. She has brought Willa a bouquet of flowers from Bartlett’s Farm—purple and white cosmos, Willa’s favorite—and a thermos of iced tea.

“Mom still has all this mint growing in her herb garden,” Carson says. “So I tried making her tea.”

“I’ll have some with dinner,” Willa says. She has already been to Millie’s to pick up the food. She doesn’t want any distractions. “Would you like wine?”

“No, thanks,” Carson says. “I’ll have tea.”

Who are you and what have you done with my sister? Willa thinks. A drunk or high or angry or condescending Carson is the only kind of Carson Willa knows how to deal with. Carson acting human, even gracious, isn’t anything Willa was expecting.

“Come out to the back deck,” Willa says. It’s only four steps from the front door of Wee Bit to the back door.

“It cracks me up how small this place is,” Carson says. “But, really, what else do you need?”

“I miss my dishwasher,” Willa says. “And my Peloton. And reliable internet.”

“Yeah, but look at this view.” They step out to the deck. The eelgrass on top of the dunes is swaying in the breeze and they can both hear the pound and the rush of the surf. Willa has become used to the sights and sounds out here, is nearly immune to it, though there are still times when she walks down the deck steps wrapped in a towel on her way to the outdoor shower that she stops to marvel at the ocean or the gulls soaring overhead. Tonight, the sky is awash in golden light, and Willa nearly says something about heaven and her mother like Do you think she can see us? Do you think she’s watching us? But she doesn’t want to sound ridiculous. “I’m happy you have the night off—the sunset is going to be epic.” Willa pauses. “Although I suppose you see the sunset every night at work.”

Carson takes a seat on one of the benches of the picnic table. “Will,” she says. “I got fired.”

Willa inhales. “You did? What happened? When was this?”

“End of July,” Carson says. “I was inappropriate at work.”

“Inappropriate, meaning…”

“I did shots with a customer. I French-kissed a customer. I did cocaine in the bathroom.”

“Carson!” Willa says. “Tell me you’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding!”

Carson bows her head. When she looks up, her eyes are like two flashing emeralds. Willa remembers when they were little girls, their father would come into their room in the mornings and say to Carson, “Wake up and show us the jewels.” He never said this to Willa; her eyes are brown.

“Not lying,” Carson says. Her voice is taut and Willa relaxes. There’s going to be a fight, which Willa is prepared for. “I suppose you’re going to judge me now,” Carson says. “Because you’re perfect—by which I mean you’re sheltered and unadventurous, and although you’re three years older than me, I’ve lived a far more exciting life.”

Willa wants to ask more questions about Carson getting fired—getting fired, how mortifying; what is she doing to the family name?—but instead, she cuts to the chase. She pulls the thong out of the pocket of her floor-length prairie skirt (she’s surprised Carson hasn’t yet made a crack about Laura Ingalls Wilder) and places it between them on the picnic table.

“That yours?” Willa asks. She eyes the thong with distaste. It’s a scarlet scrap of lace with a hole in it. Tawdry.

Carson picks it up, pokes a finger through the hole. “What the hell, Will? Did you come home and raid the laundry? What’s going on?”

“What’s going on,” Willa says, “is that Pamela found that in Zach’s pants pocket.”

Understanding sweeps across Carson’s face like passing headlights through a dark house. “It’s not mine.”

“It is so. You just admitted it.”

“I have underwear like that,” Carson says. “But if they were in Zach’s pants pocket, they obviously aren’t mine.” She brings her eyes up to challenge Willa. “Are they?”

“They are,” Willa says. She turns to face the dunes, the ocean. The breeze lifts her hair, stirs the loose material of her skirt. “It’s you. You’re the one who’s sleeping with Zach. The one person I chose to confide in, ironically. He’s forty-two years old, Carson. He’s my sister-in-law’s husband!”

Carson stands and Willa is afraid she’s going to walk out. That would be a very Carson thing to do—drive off without another word. “Don’t run away, you coward!”

“I’m a coward?” Carson says. “You’re the one who married your childhood sweetheart.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Willa says. “I want to hear you admit it. You’re having an affair with Zach.”

Carson says nothing.

“You realize that’s disgusting? And immoral?” Willa steps right up to her sister and lowers her voice. “Mom would be so disappointed in you. You’re dishonoring her, you’re disrespecting me, you’re destroying the family that I’m trying to hold together.”