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Leonora across the kitchen while at the same time giving Livvy, who had paused with a heaping spoonful of Rocky Road halfway to her mouth to watch, a dagger look that dared her to say or do anything to further complicate the situation.
    “The connection happens when it happens. I have to feel it. And I’m not—definitely not—feeling it tonight,” Leonora continued.
    This time Nicky couldn’t stop herself: Her eyes rolled practically of their own accord. Her mother, fortunately, didn’t see.
    “So fake it, Mother,” she said through her teeth.
    The hissing sound that filled the sudden silence, Nicky realized, was Livvy sucking in air.
    “Now you’ve done it,” her sister said.
    Even without looking at her mother, Nicky knew it was true: She could almost feel Leonora swelling. Her own shoulders tensed in anticipation.
    “I . . . never . . . fake it,” Leonora said awfully.
    “Was that ever the wrong thing to say.” Livvy sounded almost gleeful.
    “Oh, finish your ice cream,” Nicky snapped, shooting her sister a shut-up-or-die look. She was already regretting her words. Occasionally, on her mother’s defunct
    TV show, the producers had used certain special effects to, as they put it, “enhance” the experience for the audience. It was still a sore spot with Leonora.
    “I don’t need to fake it. I would scorn to fake it. Only charlatans ever fake it .”
    “I know, Mother. I’m sorry, Mother. You know I didn’t mean fake it as in fake it .”
    Nicky verbally backtracked as fast as she could while towing her sputtering mother out through the screen door, which banged shut behind them, and across the narrow covered porch that ran the length of the back of the house. Twybee Cottage was a beach house, and just like all the other oceanfront houses on Pawleys Island, it was situated so that its back faced the street, while its front looked out over the dunes and sea oats and sand toward the ever-changing sea. It was full dark now, and all she could see of the ocean was a glimmer of shiny black between the end of the crepe myrtle hedge that lined the driveway and the side of the house. The murmur of the waves was almost drowned out by tree frogs and crickets and other assorted nocturnal noise makers as they engaged in their nightly sing-along. The moon was a pale disk floating low in the inky black sky. It gave off just enough light to outline the pea gravel driveway in barely-there silver. The night was warm as it nearly always was on the island when it wasn’t downright hot, but a sudden gust of cooler wind blew in just then from the ocean, smelling of seawater and heavy with the promise of rain. It rustled the glossy leaves of the giant magnolia that shaded the porch and parking area, and lifted Nicky’s hair away from her face and neck. Her skin was damp with perspiration, and the quick rush of air felt wonderful. She lifted her face to it in automatic appreciation as the words I’m home flashed through her mind. In many ways, she loved this island better than any place on earth. Until she came back to it, she always forgot how deeply the sights and sounds and smells of her childhood were ingrained in her soul.
    “Just what did you mean then, Nicole?”
    When her mother called her Nicole in that tone, Nicky knew she was in deep doo-doo, which she had to admit that this time she deserved. Suggesting that anything about what Leonora did was faked was the verbal equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. She knew that. The only explanation was that stress was disordering her senses. Fortunately, her rented black Honda Accord was parked right at the base of the porch steps. She was able to reach it and yank open the passenger-side door before Leonora got worked up enough to balk again.
    “I meant just do what you usually do and don’t worry about the outcome. Whatever happens happens. If you make contact, good. If you don’t, well, that’s the way it goes.”
    Leonora stopped dead to glare at