The Space Between Sisters by Mary McNear

then glanced in the mirror with the thought of doing something about her hair. In the end, though, she left it in a messy bun and instead groped around in the closet for her flip-flops.
    â€œAll right, I’ll be back soon,” she called as she headed for the front door. She grabbed her handbag and was on her way out when Win came after her. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Pops?” she asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMy car keys?”
    â€œOh, right,” Poppy said, a little sheepishly, as Win went to get them for her. And here was another source of tension between them: Poppy was completely dependent on Win for transportation.
    But once Poppy was out on the road, the windows rolled down and the radio cranked up, she forgot about all of this. It was impossible not to; this stretch of Butternut Lake Drive, the stretch that led away from town, was even prettier than the stretch that came before it. It hewed more closely to the lake, so that on a sun-drenched day like today, you never lost sight of the shimmer of water through the trees. And the trees! Their leaves were still the pale green of early summer, but they were so profuse thatthe light filtering through them was itself a faint green, and the effect was as if Poppy was driving not on a back road, but on an underwater byway.
    She was so entranced by the scenery that she shot right past Birch Tree Bait, and had to slam on the brakes and back up to it. “Wow,” she said, softly, turning into the graveled parking lot. She would never have guessed this was the same place her grandfather used to take her and Win to when they were children, he to put fresh bait in a Styrofoam cooler, and she and Win to choose ice cream bars from a rusted-out freezer in back. This place was nice, she thought, parking the car. Its fishing dock had been shored up and repainted and the beach, which had once been filled with tall weeds and discarded cans, was now a small crescent of golden sand. As she headed up the front steps of the building, she noticed that the old dilapidated porch had been completely renovated, too. Several Adirondack chairs were scattered in the shade and a charming porch swing swayed in the breeze. Over the front door hung a green painted sign with a trout emerging from the water and the words BIRCH TREE BAIT painted under it. She paused for a moment, on her way in, to watch a little girl playing with a baton. Were girls still doing that? she wondered. But of course they were. It was only Poppy who’d relegated it to ancient history.
    Once inside, Poppy found the beer and wine aisle. She was disappointed by the wine selection, though. It’s not that it wasn’t good. It was too good. Jeez, she thought, as she scanned the shelves for an inexpensive bottle, since when did fishermen spend sixteen ninety-nine on a bottle of wine? Still, by searching carefully, she found a few cheaper bottles, including a red wine, tucked way in the back, and covered with dust, whose price tag said $2.89. She picked it up and examined its label carefully. Itlooked fine, just a little . . . dusty. But she could wipe that off before she got home. Besides, wine was wine. She’d never understood all of those adjectives people threw around about it. Dry, oaky, fruity. What difference did it make, as long as it was drinkable?
    She glanced around now, found the front counter, and headed over to it, feeling pleased with her choice. Not only could she afford this bottle of wine, she’d have a little money left over after she paid for it. But as soon as she got to the counter an old anxiety crept up on her. There were three men standing there—one younger, probably in his mid-twenties, and wearing a baseball cap, another about ten years older, probably in his mid to late thirties, standing behind the counter, and another one, an older white haired man wearing a seersucker hat—and when they saw her waiting there, they immediately stopped