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After half an hour of larking about, kissing and teasing each other in the salty water, hand in hand, we slowly make our way back up the golden sand to our towels.
“Violet? Is that you?”
Violet tenses beside me, then lets out an irritating groan.
Just ahead of us a tall wisp of a woman, dressed from head to toe in white, stands looking in Violet’s direction.
“I’ve been looking for you.” The woman before us crosses her arms. Even her oversized sunglasses are white too. She looks like a movie star.
“What do you want, Francesca?” As quick as a bolt of lightning, Violet’s entire demeanor changes.
Oh, so this is the sister.
“Daddy offered to sell us the beach house. Having only ever been in it twice, I thought I would drop by, have a look around first, then decide if we want to buy it.”
“It’s dad, Francesca, not daddy. You’re thirty-five years old for goodness’ sake. And this house? He’s selling the house I’m currently living in,” Violet shrills, pointing at her house across the road.
“Yes. Why? Did he not say anything to you?” Her voice is laced with innocence, but the way a smirk pulls her mouth, she gives herself away.
Their polite conversation goes from zero to one hundred in a millisecond.
Violet stomps past her on the way to her beach towel. “No. I mean, why would he? I'm only his tenant after all.” She sounds so defeated.
It would appear her family runs circles around her.
“It’s not like I don’t talk to him every day—” Violet stops stuffing her beach towel and suntan lotion into her transparent beach bag mid-sentence. “Ah. I see.” Violet shakes her head back and forth. “You decided you want the beach house and talked him into selling it to you.”
Francesca doesn’t confirm or deny, which screams volumes.
Violet continues. “Or you hoped he would say, here you go, Franny, you can have it.”
“Well, he gave it to you.”
“He didn’t give it to me,” Violet spits back. “I rent it. He takes it off my wages every month. I pay my own way.”
Violet rambles incoherent words under her breath I can’t make out.
“You can come back another day. When Pom-pom isn’t here. I would hate for him to trigger your allergies.” Violet’s insincere words are apparent.
Angrily, Violet pulls on her black cover-up and stuffs her feet into her flip-flops. “I’ve had such a great day today, dancing last night, surfing this morning—”
‘You went surfing?” her sister splutters.
“Yes, and it turns out I’m pretty great actually. Isn’t that right, Lincoln?” She pulls me into their verbal combat.
“Incredible. You’re a natural.” She looked sexy as hell in a wetsuit, too. She was amazing today. Every time she fell off, she got back up and within an hour, she was surfing. She’s good at everything. She clunked her head, sending her under the water but she got back on the board, and was determined to master her technique.
“I’m assuming you wore a wetsuit too; how uncouth, Violet.” Her sister flares her nostrils in disgust. “Do they make them in your size?” Francesca snickers at her poor attempt at what she thinks is a joke.
I narrow my eyes. Who does she think she is?
I jump in to defend Violet. “They make them in all sizes, actually. But they don’t make them in rude ugly soul size. It would appear you’re out of luck.”
Violet bursts out laughing while Francesca’s mouth hangs open in shock.
“I beg your pardon.” She raises her voice.
“You heard,” Violet says deadpan.
