Scene 40

Seren casually leaned against the kitchen bar, going out of her way to chop the peeled potatoes into not-quite-even cubes. It was driving Dillon crazy. The nonconformity. The haphazard use of the chef's blade.

Reaching across the counter, she swiped the knife from her sister's hand. "You peel, I'll cut."

"They taste the same either way."

"Do not." Dillon halved the tuber, and then sliced it in thirds, before tossing the equal parts into a waiting pot of cold water.

Disinterested in peeling, Seren moved on to combining ingredients for fresh bread, taking care to leave a trail of flour across the spotless granite. Given her otherwise extraordinary proclivity for fastidiousness, Dillon knew the act was deliberate, done to inflate her sister's joy of needling her.

"You're such a muppet." Dillon dropped another potato in the pot.

"Take's one to know one." Smiling through her meticulous application of modest lip gloss, Seren leaned down and blew the fine white powder in Dillon's direction, quickly retreating to the sink to avoid retaliation.

Dillon didn't pursue her.

"What's wrong, Dill Pickle?"

At that, Dillon's head jerked up, casting her sister a withering glare. Dilly was one thing. Dill Pickle was a no-go.

Seren didn't flinch. "What's on your mind?"

In Wales less than twenty-four hours, and already Seren was analyzing her.

Welcome home .

Still, Dillon couldn't help but rise to the bait. "Why doesn't she like her?"

"Hmm?" Seren turned to scrubbing vegetables.

"Come on," Dillon dropped the last potato into the water and paused a moment, listening for any signs of movement in the house. Their mam had run to the market and Kam, still exhausted, had gone to take a nap upstairs. Satisfied they were alone, she continued. "Why doesn't Mam like her?"

"What are you talking about? She was perfectly polite."

"Right. That's the problem."

"Dillon—"

"Spare me the bullshit—I know you know what I mean."

Tossing a carrot into the colander, Seren turned to face her. "Fine. It has nothing to do with liking her. I think she's just… worried, is all."

"About?"

"She watched the red carpet thing." Seren busied herself drying her hands on a dish towel. "I don't think she realized…"

"What? That she's a big deal?" Annoyed, Dillon dragged a sponge through the spilled flour.

"She doesn't want to see you get hurt—"

"—so it would have been better if she was just some bit player, is that it? Something a little more my level?"

"Don't be obtuse!" Seren snapped, flinging the towel back onto the oven handle. "No one's above you, Dillon—Mam's just concerned she's turned your head."

"Of course she's bloody turned my head—I love her! Is there a problem with that?"

"You know that's not what I'm saying." Resigned, Seren's shoulders sagged with her deep exhale, her ramrod posture deflating. "She's just worried you're not quite yourself. That you seem a little distracted."

"And she's reached that conclusion in the whole twelve hours I've been here, has she?"

"I don't think she's ever seen you skip a workout—"

Dillon hurled the sponge into the sink, rounding on her sister. "So that's what this is about? I sleep in one morning of the year, instead of going on a run, and Mam's decided I'm no longer focused? And somehow that's Kam's fault?" She laughed, angry.

"You're being deliberately petulant! You know Mam would love nothing more than for you to retire! But she knows you won't—so of course it worries her to see you put your training on a back burner. We all know what happens when you aren't at the top of your game—"

"I can't win with you two! I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. If I train every day, I'm obsessed. If I skip a day, I'm no longer committed—"

"Don't you dare drag me into this! You asked about Mam, so I told you!"

"Are you really expecting me to believe you don't share her opinion?"

"I don't know what to think yet, Dillon! But I do think you can cut Mam some slack—she only wants the best for you."

"Then she should be glad that I'm happy!" Dillon slammed her palm onto the counter, nearly upsetting the bowl of rising dough. "For once I feel like I have something more than just—just—" she threw her hands in the air, frustrated. How could she ever expect Seren to understand? Everything her perfect sister did was balanced. Seren had never battled the highs and the lows. Her entire life was even keel, steady and categorically stable. It would be impossible for her to know what it felt like to have nothing beyond her training. She was far too practical to allow her sport to consume the entirety of her existence.

So how could Dillon explain that for the first time, she felt like she'd begun to find a glimpse of that normalcy? That her life wasn't just her career as an athlete.

The medals. The podiums. The prize money.

That she finally felt like more than just rankings and results. More than what the sum of her life had tallied.

That a future with Kam made her feel like maybe one day there'd be more to life than just winning.

"Forget it. It's not something you could ever understand."

"Try me." Seren reached to touch her arm, but Dillon pulled away, wiping her floured palm off on her joggers.

"I'm just happy, all right? Maybe you can relay that to Mam."

"Maybe she can relay what to me?"

The two sisters spun toward the voice to find their mother standing in the entry arch of the kitchen. She had a sack of groceries in one hand and the South Wales Evening Post in the other.

It never failed to startle Dillon, how much of Seren she could see in their mother. Or, rather, the other way around. They were two congruous beings cut from the same cloth. From the way they stood, perfectly poised, ever in command of their emotions, to their style of dress—sharp, modest, practical. Even their long dark hair seemed inclined to part in harmonious echo of one another, falling to the same place beneath their slender shoulders.

Seren would be the exact replica of Jacqueline Sinclair in another twenty years. Ever elegant. Ever refined. Ever with all the answers—their lives mapped out in impeccable, straight lines.

"Nothing." Taking the long way around the kitchen bar, Dillon skirted past her mother into the hall. "It doesn't matter."

" Dillon ," her mother commanded, ever the executive, the word almost convincing Dillon to slow on her way to the door.

Almost . But not quite.

"Where are you going?"

She paused with her hand on the brass knob. "A run."

"Dillon—"

"Sorry Mam, couldn't possibly miss a day of training." And she was out the door, into the brisk coastal air.

Dillon ran until her calves cramped and her fingers lost all their feeling. Down the two-lane road, past the familiar pubs and restaurants, through the sleepy town of Mumbles unfolding along the waterfront. She slowed to a walk when she reached the ice cream parlor where Seren used to drag her every Sunday, and turned onto the pier. The boardwalk had been decorated for the holiday, festive in green and red and gold.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, she leaned against the railing.

The tide was high. Across the narrow strait of water, two small islands directly off the headland rose out of the fog. The previous evening, she'd pointed them out to Kam during their drive to her mother's, explaining how the suggestively-shaped islets had given the village its name.

"Mumbles is a derivative of the French word, mamelles —which means breasts. A nickname courtesy of imaginative medieval sailors arriving from France."

Kam had laughed, surveying the two sunset-silhouetted mounds. "Proof that men stuck at sea too long can sexualize just about anything."

Now, Dillon watched the waves crash against the sprawling bed of rocks that made up the base of the furthest island. At its highest point, several hundred feet above sea level, the stark outline of the Mumbles lighthouse flickered its caution through the mist.

As a child, Dillon often skirted across the beach at low tide, navigating the exposed causeway, and climbed the steep stone staircase leading to the eighteenth-century landmark. It had been a favorite escape of hers, a place she had often gone with her dad—fishing, tide pool-wading, ship-watching. She was glad today the tide was high, making the trek to the lighthouse impossible. It wasn't a place she cared to visit any longer.

Her lungs still burning from the exertion of the run, she sank onto a wooden bench to stretch her hamstrings.

She'd been unfair to Seren. She knew that. Her sister had nothing to do with the rift between her and their mam. If anything, she was the thread that kept their small family tethered together.

But Dillon was tired of her mam's endless scrutinization. Her ceaseless worry. She just wanted to be able to live her life without being analyzed for every move she made.

Snugging up her laces, she dragged herself to her feet. She knew she needed to go home, to try to set things straight. Her mam simply didn't know Kam. She couldn't judge her off what she saw on TV.

Dillon just didn't look forward the conversation. No matter her intentions, when it came to heart-to-hearts with her mother, she always failed to say the right things.

It was almost dark by the time she jogged up the three stone steps to the front door. She'd cut her arrival dangerously close to dinner, and knew she would have to wait to talk to her mam later in the evening.

But instead of stepping into a quiet house, disturbed only by the routine sounds of meal preparation in the kitchen, she was greeted by laughter coming from the lounge. She peeked around the threshold to find Kam on top of one of her mother's portable file boxes, clinging to Seren's shoulder for balance with one hand, while stretching with the other to straighten the star on top of a towering Fraser fir. The tree had been bare when Dillon left earlier in the afternoon, but now glowed with lights and tinsel, its branches covered with hand-carved ornaments that had been passed down through four generations.

"A little to the left—no, no, your other left." Her mam was issuing directions from the comfort of the sofa, a cheerful headiness in her voice, no doubt in direct correlation to the half-empty wassailing bowl steaming on the coffee table. The flushed cheeks on all three women promised none were on their first round.

With more laughter, Kam and Seren managed to get the star set to Jacqueline's standards, before returning to the punch bowl to fill their glasses. From the door, Dillon could smell the strong aroma of the rum, combined with the fruity fragrance of the cider. She waited a moment, still concealed within the shadows of the hall, as the conversation resumed.

"So Kameryn, you were saying—your parents weren't approving of your decision to pursue the art of acting?"

Dillon leaned against the wall. Of course, her mother would interrogate Kam, digging into every corner of her life as if she were one of her clients heading to the courtroom.

"No." Kam laughed."They definitely weren't."

"I hope you'll forgive me for saying so," said Jacqueline, in her no-nonsense, truth-can-hurt manner, and from her hiding place in the hallway, Dillon braced herself for what she knew would follow. "But I can sympathize with your parents. I imagine it's hard not to be concerned when your child chooses a profession many consider just a step above prostitution."

Before Dillon could intervene—to tell her mam how out of line she was—she saw Kam smile, entirely unperturbed by the insult. She waited.

"I can't argue that. I believe there's only one profession in Hollywood most consider to be less reputable than either acting or streetwalking."

"And that is?"

Kam took a calculated sip of her cider, her smile never wavering. "Being a lawyer, Mrs. Sinclair."

The room went silent. After a beat, her mother laughed, her amusement genuine. "Touché, Kameryn. And please, call me Jacqueline."

Dillon exhaled. Kam didn't need her defense. She was doing just fine on her own.