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unwanted lovers.”
    “Please don’t be angry at me.” Phoebe’s voice shook.
    “People are not flowers. You can’t just pick them because they seem beautiful, then discard them when the bloom fades.”
    “I don’t!” Phoebe burst out. “They pick me! What am I supposed to do? I hate disappointing them.”
    “Oh, please. You hate that they disappoint you. They are never perfect. They are never what you dreamed of. How many times do we have to have this conversation?”
    “All right. I won’t see her!” Phoebe choked on a sob.
    “Smart move. Don’t see her. Don’t talk to her. And for Chrissakes don’t fuck her.”
    A loud metallic click made Cara wince. Phoebe had hung up on her. In about three minutes, she would call back, imploring forgiveness. Meanwhile, Cara had time to make herself a whiskey sour.

    *

    Phoebe pulled on her coat, tied her headscarf, and marched out into the November sleet. A snowstorm bleached the early evening sky, the first of the season. Driven by the north wind, icy white flakes whipped her face as she plodded across the long meadow that led to Dark Harbor Cottage.
    At the sight of the warmly lit windows, she stopped in her tracks and almost retreated. She knew she should go back home and phone Cara again. Her sister had enough to deal with. It was time Phoebe starting making some difficult decisions and taking responsibility for herself. She could begin by letting Rowe Devlin know they would only ever be friends. No flirting. No games. It was one thing to have short-lived relationships with women in Portland, most of which ended badly, quite another to mess things up with the next-door neighbor. Cara was right to be cross with her.
    Phoebe pawed the snow from her face with her mittens. She had to stop expecting her twin to get her out of trouble every time she backed herself into a corner, romantically speaking. If only she could stay attracted to a woman for more than a few months. At first she always expected to, but that quickly changed and she would start dreading each date and finding excuses not to go. Some women caught on right away and stopped calling. Others pursued her, and eventually she would agree to see them. But it was Cara who showed up for those uncomfortable discussions. Women simply assumed she was Phoebe with a haircut.
    Lately, trying to stay out of trouble, Phoebe had stopped going to social events in southern Maine. She was getting a reputation. It was really unfair. Other women had countless flings and no one thought badly of them. Why was it different for her? Why did she get sent a dog turd in the mail? She’d only dated a handful of women around Islesboro, and she’d tried not to hurt anyone. She hated the stricken looks and the crying and, as a consequence, she could never bring herself to say it was over like she really meant it. That’s why Cara took care of the breakup process for her.
    She wished she had never allowed that. It was deceitful and cowardly, and Cara was still hung up over the last woman she’d had to dump. Hence the constant lectures on boundaries. Phoebe caught a brief mental glimpse of Bev Hagen and felt queasy. Bev was a captain in the Marines. She’d wanted them to get married in Vermont before her deployment to Iraq, and Phoebe didn’t have the heart to say no. So she’d gone along with the plans, told Bev what she wanted to hear, and tried to be in love with her. She’d figured if she procrastinated long enough, Bev would be shipped out and they would eventually lose contact.
    But Bev was a very determined woman. She’d set a date, bought Phoebe a beautiful ring, and arranged a wedding breakfast for close friends and family. The week before, Phoebe knew she couldn’t go through with it and begged Cara to deal with Bev. It had gone badly. When Cara gave the ring back, Bev had slapped her face. Cara had been so mad, she told Phoebe she would never do her “dirty work” again and that she considered it a low blow to break