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Chapter Twenty-seven
Julia Fisher sits in the passenger seatof her son’s Tesla, wondering where they’re going now. Lunch is finally over, and she’s exhausted, having endured almost ninety minutes of mind-numbing small talk with her son and his pea-brained wife. Ninety minutes she’ll never get back. Ninety minutes she can’t afford to spare. Not at her age. And really, if she has to listen to one more word about Poppy’s insane plans for designing a line of high-tech swimwear, despite never having taken a design course or knowing a thing about technology, she just might throw herself out of the moving car. Providing, of course, she can figure out how to open the damn doors.
“Where are we going?” she asks, glancing toward the ocean on her left. She’s never been very good with either directions or geography, but she knows they’re heading south when they should be heading north. “Shouldn’t we be going the other way?”
“I want you to see something,” Norman says.
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“I’d rather show you,” he says.
“I’m a little tired.”
“This won’t take long,” Poppy says, reaching around from the backseat to pat Julia’s arm.
Julia fights the urge to shrug it off.
“Did you enjoy your lunch?” Poppy asks.
“I did.”
“You didn’t eat very much. Didn’t you like it?”
Didn’t I just answer that question?Julia wonders. “It was delicious. Thank you again.”
“No thanks necessary.” Poppy falls back against the buttery leather interior of the backseat. “Would you just look at that ocean. It’s so…big.”
“So big and so…wet,” Julia says.
“Mother…” Norman warns softly.
“My swimsuits are going to be made specifically with the ocean in mind,” Poppy says.
Julia reaches for the door handle. If only she could find the damn thing, she’d be mercifully dead in seconds.
“Maybe I should create one line for salt water and another one for pools. Chlorine is just murder on bathing suits, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” Julia says. “But what about fresh water? Shouldn’t you have a line for that as well?”
“What do you mean, fresh water?” Poppy says.
Dear God.“Freshwater. Like a lake. Or a river. Or a pond.”
“Those aren’t salt water?” Poppy asks.
“They are not,” Julia tells her.
“So, you think I need a third line?”
“You’re the expert,” Julia says.
“Mother…”
“How did you come up with this idea anyway?” Julia asks, curious despite herself. “I mean, you were a personal trainer. I would have thought that, if you were going to design anything, athletic gear would be more up your alley.”
