“Apparently,” I said, “I had a good year.”
“A good year?” she repeated. “Benjamin said you booked the whole place for the family. He said everyone was there. Carol, David, Nancy, the Martinez family—everyone. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you invite us?”
I looked down at Mia, who had crouched to tie the shoelace of her cousin Rachel’s little boy. She did it with the seriousness she brought to everything, her dark braid sliding over one shoulder. Alex had his father’s quiet steadiness and my tendency to observe before speaking. He was carrying two beach chairs under one arm as though he’d been born helpful. My children looked so at ease here. So unquestionably welcome.
The answer rose through me as clean and hard as the tide.
“You told me for eight years that there wasn’t enough room at your beach house,” I said. “I’m telling you there isn’t enough room at my resort.”
