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letting herself get vulnerable. Abbie didn’t want to put herself out there emotionally, because she wasn’t sure she could take a fall. And as for her youngest sister, Lily seemed to be naturally lighthearted, fun-loving, superficial. Plus dramatic Lily probably shed any unpleasant pressures by turning even the slightest problem into a soap opera.
    How odd it was that of the three sisters, optimistic Emma was the one who had struggled with a tendency for depression. All her life, Abbie had been aware of this. Weeks and months had passedwhen they were children when Emma would get quiet and melancholy. But she’d always bounced out of it. And when she got to college, she seemed to have burned away any despondency with the strong bright light of hope.
    Now this. Now Emma’s world had crashed down around her. But Abbie was sure Emma would recover. And it was the beginning of summer on the island, a languorous time of year when each day was blessed with natural riches—sunshine, blue sky, sparkling water, soft breezes. It was a good time for starting over.
    As she sat musing, Abbie idly observed the woman at the far end of the garden. She had walked around the Playhouse, tilted her head up to scan the sky, and studied the fence that ran along the back. She went into the Playhouse by the blue front door and returned carrying an old red wooden chair. An apple tree arched possessively over the Playhouse—also, Abbie noticed, covered with ivy. The woman set the chair in the shade of the tree, stood with her hands on her hips for a moment, nodded to herself, and went back into the house. She returned carrying a small table.
    You’ve got our tea table!
Abbie thought indignantly. Then she laughed at herself. It had been over a decade since any of them had even thought of the old table.
    The woman set the table next to the chair. She sat down on the edge of the chair. Abbie was hidden in the shade, or at least the woman didn’t seem to see Abbie. She rose several times to adjust the position of the chair and table.
    I’d face the fence. It’s covered with honeysuckle and clematis
, Abbie thought.
    As if the woman had heard Abbie’s thoughts, she stood and angled the chair and table so she was facing the fence. She walked back into her house and returned carrying a glass—it looked like a wineglass—and a book. When she finally settled, her back was to Abbie, which for some obscure reason offended Abbie.
    Now she began to understand why Lily had been so bent out of shape. Their lives had not been without sorrow, but certain periods of it had been heavenly. Abbie couldn’t remember a time when the Playhouse didn’t exist. Her father had begun building it when his first child was born. He’d built small chairs and a little table, and their mother had made curtains for the windows. Over the years their parents had furnished the place with miniature tea sets andbunk beds for their dolls and stuffed animals. They even had a little bookshelf and a hutch for the dishes. An old mattress was dragged up the stairs to the Playhouse loft and flopped on the floor, to be covered by a variety of tattered blankets.
    As the years passed, Abbie and Emma had dragged in cast-off furniture that fit adult bodies to mingle with the smaller furniture Lily still used. When Abbie became a teenager, she used the Playhouse as a refuge and inner sanctum. She would lie on the old love seat covered with cabbage rose chintz and read to her heart’s content while the rain thundered down all around her.
    When Abbie was fifteen, she took Andy Mitchell up to that mattress in the loft. They were in the middle of some pretty serious cuddling when they heard the door slam and Abbie’s father came thundering up the stairs. He chased Andy out and gave Abbie holy hell and the next day he dragged the mattress into his truck and took it out to the dump.
    Perhaps that was why their father had started on a long, complicated, DIY project, adding the bathroom and a