Sunday, June 21st
The morning dawned bright and impossibly blue. June stood at the kitchen window with her coffee, watching the sunlight pour across the backyard like honey, and made a decision.
“Lila,” she called toward the stairs, “how do you feel about going to the lake today?”
The response was immediate—the thunder of small feet on hardwood, and then Lila appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in her pajamas, eyes wide. “The lake? Really? Can we?”
“I don’t see why not. It’s beautiful out, and I think we both deserve some fun.”
“Isn’t Sundays your day off?”
June shrugged. “It is, and I want to go to the lake. I’m just bringing you with me.” She winked. It wasn’t the complete truth, as Melissa had asked her to take care of Lila while she had to work for a few hours, but June felt no need to tell Lila that.
Lila grinned, then her expression turned thoughtful. “Is Mom coming with?”
“She said she’d be working a few hours,” June said, preparing for the sadness that usually rolled over Lila’s face at that.
This time, however, Lila kept bouncing up and down with excitement. “Can I swim? I know how to swim.”
“If you want to swim, we’ll swim.” June set down her coffee. “But first, breakfast. And sunscreen. Lots of sunscreen.”
Lila was already running back up the stairs. “I’m getting my swimsuit!”
June smiled and started pulling things from the refrigerator. She’d make sandwiches—turkey and cheese for Lila, something with avocado for herself. Fruit. Chips. The lemonade she’d made yesterday, tart and sweet and perfect for a hot day.
She thought of Senator Brandt, who had left early that morning. “I’ll try to be home in a few hours. Thank you for taking her.”
Efficient, distant. As usual.
But last Thursday night, sitting on the couch in the darkness, June had seen something different. A crack in the armor. A glimpse of the woman underneath all that polished composure.
She doesn’t need you to be perfect. She just needs you to be there.
June had said it without thinking, and the senator had looked at her with an expression June couldn’t quite read. Surprised, maybe. Or lost. Like no one had ever told her that before.
Or maybe June was reading too much into it, and Senator Brandt was really just wondering why the hired twenty-three-year-old help thought she had insight to share.
Stop thinking about it,June told herself, spreading mayonnaise on bread.She’s your boss. She’s a senator. She’s—
“Miss Hollis! I can’t find my goggles!”
“Check the bathroom cabinet!”
She’s just the woman who signs your paychecks, June finished silently.
(The paychecks were nice, for sure, already building up June’s non-existent savings.)
But that wasn’t quite true anymore, was it? Something had shifted over the past two weeks. Small moments accumulating like snowflakes—the way Senator Brandt’s face softened when she looked at Lila, the way she’d laughed at that dinner, surprised by her own amusement. The way she’d sat in the darkness and admitted she didn’t know how to make her daughter happy.
Everyone wants to be seen, June thought.Even senators.
She shook off the thought and finished packing the cooler.
Ridgeline Lake was twenty minutes outside Redwood Hollow, a popular spot for families and teenagers and anyone else looking to escape the summer heat. The road out there wound through dry hills and stands of pine, the air growing hotter and dustier with every mile. June had been out here many times as a kid, swimming in the cold water while her parents set up their ancient lawn chairs and her father complained about forgetting the bug spray. Back then, the lake had felt enormous.
Today, the parking lot was already filling up when they arrived, cars lined up along the dirt road that led to the beach. June found a spot in the shade and grabbed the cooler and the bag of towels and the umbrella she’d dug out of the garage.
“It’s so pretty!” Lila was bouncing on her toes, swimsuit visible under her sundress, goggles already around her neck. “Can we go in the water right now?”
