Driftwood Summer by Patti Callahan Henry

Maisy asked.
    Riley’s voice came muffled from the hallway. “Adalee Louise, get down here, please.”
    Pounding footsteps echoed across the upstairs hardwood floors, then down the stairs. Adalee’s lithe figure appeared at the doorway, her mouth in a sullen pout. Her hair was blonder now than in the pictures she’d traded with Maisy via e-mail. She wore torn cutoff jean shorts and a red tank top with AU—for Auburn University—stamped across her tiny chest. Adalee was the youngest, and also the smallest, and always had been. Even her features were miniature.
    While Maisy stared at her grown sister, Adalee met Maisy’s gaze and her sullen expression turned to a wide smile. “Maisy!” She ran to her, and engulfed her in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll defend me. . . . This is stupid, right? That we have to work all summer when I had other plans. This is ridiculous—tell Mama and Riley we are not doing this.”
    Maisy laughed, pushed the ragged-cut hair from Adalee’s face. “I tried. Did you have plans?”
    “Of course I did. This is my last summer before I have to get a real job. I was gonna hang out at the pool . . . spend time with my adorable boyfriend, Chad. You know, have fun.”
    Kitsy made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “So you believe you can fail out of three classes and then come home and celebrate your illustrious semester by partying all summer?”
    Adalee’s face contorted as though she were trying to decide whether to cry or vent her rage. “That is so mean, Mama. Maisy and Riley don’t need to know everything. You didn’t have to . . . say that.”
    Riley made a motion for Adalee to sit. “Not now, Adalee. Please.” Riley went to Mama’s bedside, fluffing her pillow, straightening her blankets.
    “Mama started it.” Adalee slumped into a chair, folded her arms. “And by the way, don’t tell me what to do; you are not my mother.” Adalee’s voice took on the childish tones Maisy remembered as vividly as her sister’s violet eyes.
    The last time Maisy had seen Adalee she’d been fourteen years old—at Daddy’s funeral. They’d talked through the years, texted and sent pictures, but the living, moving Adalee was vibrant and full of the nervous energy Maisy herself had. Her small body was kept thin by her manic movements and constant need for excitement—parties, friends and activity.
    Maisy sat down on the chair next to Riley’s. She’d do what she’d done as a child—pretend to be part of this family thing and then go do whatever the hell she pleased. “Go ahead, Mama. What do you need from us?” she asked.
    “Traitor,” Adalee said.
    Kitsy attempted to straighten herself in the bed, applied pink-tinted lip gloss and cleared her throat. “Now, we all must chip in to salvage this party. I have been planning it for two years. We have every town dignitary, every previous owner of the cottage coming. Right now I have two hundred fifty RSVPs for yes—which of course means an outside tent—and that does not include the people who will just drop in. And we have a function or event every day next week leading up to the party: visiting authors, contests, book club giveaways, speakers, food. . . .” Kitsy handed out sheets of paper to her daughters. “Read this. . . . It’s the schedule for the week. I have done all the work, made all the arrangements. You just have to make sure it happens. Follow up on each event. I wish I could do it . . . but . . .”
    Adalee spoke, bitterness behind each word. “Yeah, but you fell down the stairs . . . drunk.”
    Kitsy glared at her daughter. “I was not drunk. I slipped.” She lifted her chin in disregard. “Now, as for your individual duties . . .” Kitsy pulled more sheets from her leather-bound folder. “I have assigned each one of you a major duty to keep things going. Harriet typed this up for me. I should be out of this nightmare cast in six weeks. . . . Then we can move on with our