She hashed it over on Wednesday evening as she drove to Sullivan’s Island to pick up her kids from her in-laws’ house after camp. The victim of bad drawbridge timing, she spent fifteen minutes parked at the foot of the Ben Sawyer Bridge. Normally Tipsy didn’t mind watching whatever grand vessel had necessitated the opening of the drawbridge. The skinny stick of manufactured land that supported Ben Sawyer Boulevard wasn’t much wider than the asphalt, so she had a view of the marsh from every window: acres of brownish grass and fingerling creeks at varying depths depending on the tide. She usually opened the windows, put the truck in park, and inhaled the smell of salt air until the attendant lowered the bridge. As the minutes ticked past her promised kid pick-up time, however, she forgot about Jane and Henry. Trepidation about what awaited her won out over trepidation about events long past.
May Penny and Tripp’s house wasn’t the biggest on the island, but that didn’t mean anything. Sullivan’s prided itself on being somewhat tattered and messy yet still highbrow, sort of like Henry. Tiny ramshackle cottages and not-so-tiny perfectly kept Cape Cods hobnobbed with 1970s ranchers on stilts and palatial new houses that could have been transplanted from the Hamptons. They all sat on large lots surrounded by brambles and scrubby beach trees. No one seemed to mind the conflicting styles. A multi-cultural architectural utopia, occupied by wealthy white people.
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