The papers lay between us on the polished oak table, their edges catching the late spring sunlight that slanted through the wide windows. I found myself watching the light more than the words, how it struck at an angle, sharp and unyielding, the way it sometimes did in hospitals when the blinds were never quite drawn enough. For an instant I thought of my wife, her hand slipping out of mine in a room that was too bright, and I had to clear my throat before picking up the pen.

William Grant sat across from me, shoulders still broad for a man of seventy-five, his face carved by deep lines that looked less like age than like disappointments that had settled into the skin. He had the posture of someone trying not to be tethered to the past but unable to shake free of it.

“This house is the same as it was sixty years ago,” he said, his voice low, steady, though his eyes did not hold to mine. “Same beams, same old shingles, same salt in the air. I never had the heart to change it other than paint. Too many memories I would rather not relive. But maybe you can make some happier ones.”

I didn’t press him for details, but I could tell by the distant look in his eyes he had likely lost someone important to him.

The representative from the title office slid another form toward me, indifferent, efficient. The pen felt heavy in my hand.

“I can promise you this,” William went on. “The charm that used to belong to this place is gone. The neighbors rebuilt their homes into monstrosities. Palaces where cottages once stood. It was never supposed to be like that. This place, this house… it is all that remains of the old Cape.”

His eyes shifted to the light falling across the floorboards, catching in the dust that spun lazily in the air. For a heartbeat, the shimmer reminded me of my boyhood summers, of running barefoot on a beach in Illinois, before the world grew crueler, before my own secrets hardened into silence. That same shimmer had also followed me into darker places, funerals and endings, and here it was again, as if the house itself had stored it for my arrival.

I signed where I was told to, my hand trembling once, though I pretended it was age.

All I wanted was a place where the world would stop asking anything of me. Isolation, quiet, and maybe the sound of the tide instead of traffic. A place where I could live out my few remaining years without ghosts, though, watching William rise stiffly to his feet, I wondered if ghosts were exactly what I was buying.

The title woman gathered her files into a neat stack, her eyes already elsewhere, no different than any banker or clerk who had watched a dozen such sales in a week. William stood, his movements slow but not frail, and reached across the table. His hand was firm, dry, lingering just long enough for me to sense he did not want this moment to stretch any further than it already had. He pressed a set of keys into my palm, their brass edges biting faintly into my skin.

Together they moved toward the front door. William paused as the woman stepped outside, her heels clicking against the porch boards. He lingered there, halfway between the house and the world, as though deciding if he would speak again. The light on the water caught his eye, a sharp gleam that bounced through the room.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he said finally. His voice was not bitter, but the words hung in the air like something unfinished. He closed the door behind him.

Silence fell, thick and immediate, as if the house itself had been holding its breath. I stood in the empty room, the keys heavy in my hand, and drew in a long breath of salt and dust and varnished wood. Grateful that the place came furnished. I would not have to carry much of my old life here. That was part of the point.

I crossed to the sliding glass doors and pulled them open. The cool air rushed in, carrying with it the low murmur of waves and the faint tang of seaweed on the sand. I stepped onto the deck, its planks weathered smooth under my shoes, perched high above the shoreline. The ocean spread before me, silvered by the late sun.

The air tugged at me, sharp and clean, and I felt the years tilt backward. Another spring day came unbidden. I was standing outside a hospital after the machines had gone quiet, the same chill brushing against me while I could not yet face going inside to gather her things. I pulled my jacket closer around me, bracing against a memory I could never quite lock away.

Lowering myself into a wooden chair, I let the sound of the waves fill the hollow places inside me. The rhythm was steady, patient, as if the sea had been waiting for me, though I had never been here before.

 

***

 

I carried the last of the groceries in from the truck, my arms aching more than I cared to admit. The prices at the local store still gnawed at me, a reminder that I was an outsider among people who had money to burn. I had poured nearly everything I had into this place, my wife’s life insurance, my years of careful saving. Between my pension and social security, I would manage, provided nothing catastrophic happened.

The day passed with small chores. Boxes unpacked, closets opened, dust chased out of corners. I set up camp in the master bedroom, but it was the corner room at the south end that drew me. Bright, airy, with windows opening toward the ocean and down the beach, it felt alive. I could almost see a desk sitting there, a computer humming, the words I had locked away for decades finally spilling onto the page. I had carried stories in my head all my life, but the Bureau of Labor Statistics had drained the marrow out of me. Numbers and reports left little room for imagination.

I set a sack of paper towels on the chest of drawers and noticed one drawer slightly crooked, sitting just off its track. I was not the sort to obsess, but time was something I suddenly had in abundance. I tugged it out, tried to slide it back in, but it refused to sit square.

I pulled it free. Then another. Dust clung to the runners; cobwebs stretched like brittle lace across the empty spaces. Years of neglect clung to the wood. I stacked the drawers on the floor and leaned close to examine the crooked one.

The back panel was thicker than the others. Too thick. I ran my hand along it, knocked it lightly with my knuckles. The sound was wrong. Hollow.

I pressed my fingers along the edge until the wood shifted, and the false back came loose with a groan. Something slid free and dropped onto the floorboards at my feet with a dull thud.

A journal.

The leather was cracked and darkened with age, the binding warped, but it held together. I crouched down, heart ticking faster than it had in years, and picked it up.

I brushed the dust from the cover, my fingers tracing the faintly indented letters. My Diary.

The leather groaned as I opened it, and at once, the care in the handwriting struck me. The cursive curved with elegance, each letter carrying the depth of someone who had more imagination than most. On the inside cover, a note had been scrawled, less carefully than the rest.

Happy Birthday Amelia!

On the opposite page, a date was written in a neat hand.

March 22, 1963.

I froze. That was my birthdate just seventeen years removed.

I read the writing slowly, my pulse quickening.

Today is my seventeenth birthday. 

Amelia was born on the exact same day as me for on that day in 1963 I had just turned seventeen as well. I continued to read.

Mom bought me this journal. She said one day I would look back at what I wrote and remember all the joys in my life. Funny that the first thing I write is not a joy at all…

The voice of Amelia unfolded in my mind, intimate, vulnerable. A slightly splattered spot of ink suggested a tear had fallen on the page. Amelia’s words carried me to a moment long past, when a girl named Samantha had walked into her room that morning with a gift wrapped in paper, had hugged her so closely that Amelia thought the embrace itself was worth more than anything. The snow globe of a beach scene with sparkles floating in it, how Amelia had kissed Samantha on the spur of her emotions, how her dad had seen it all and how Samantha slapped her and ran from the house, the dad’s cold silence the rest of the day, all of it spilled out in those inked lines.

When I reached the last sentence, I’m sorry, Samantha, I sat back, staring at the looping script. I could feel the ache that lingered in those words, even across the decades.

I closed the diary with care, setting it against my chest for a long moment before carrying it downstairs. On the kitchen counter, I placed it gently, almost ceremonially.

All day I passed it. On the way to unpack, on the way to make coffee, on the way to stare out at the sea. It sat there, quiet and unassuming, yet drawing my eyes like a beacon. Still, I resisted. I never picked it up again that day.

 

***

 

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the counter, catching the leather cover of the diary. It glowed faintly in the slant of light, as though waiting for me. I set my coffee down, sighed, and reached for it. Carrying it to the chair by the window, I sat with the mug warming my hand, then opened it to the next page.

March 29, 1963

This week has been unbearable. Samantha does not look at me anymore. When she passes in the hallway, she turns her face as if I am a stranger. Worse than that, she whispers to the others, and I feel their stares like daggers. I do not know what lies she spreads, only that I am no longer welcome in the circles where I once stood. Every day grows lonelier.

Last night, my parents brought home a psychiatrist. They said he was here to help, but it did not help at all. He questioned me for hours, prying into things I have never spoken aloud. He asked me what I felt for Samantha, what I desired, what I dreamed. His words made everything sound ugly, like I was broken, diseased. He twisted every answer I gave until I did not know what was true anymore. By the end I felt hollow, as though my thoughts had been stolen from me.

I told them it was all a misunderstanding. I said I was carried away with excitement over the gift. That the kiss had meant nothing, nothing at all. They believed me, or at least they wanted to. I saw the relief on their faces. But I knew the truth. I knew it when I held Samantha’s face in my hands. It was not a mistake, not a misunderstanding. It was exactly what I wanted. And now I am left with the knowledge that what I want is the very thing that makes me wrong in their eyes.

I wish I could disappear into the sea and be swallowed by the waves, where no one could tell me I am broken.

I closed the diary partway, the words echoing in me. The light through the window caught on the edge of the page, almost shimmering, and for a moment I felt as though Amelia’s sorrow had seeped into the room itself.

I sat there staring at the diary, the leather warm beneath my fingers. Her sorrow had not just seeped into the room, it had dug into me, carved out a space I had long tried to ignore. I could feel it in my chest, a hollow weight, a mirror to my own hidden ache.

Yes, I had loved Katherine dearly. I had loved her with all the care and loyalty I could muster. But every day, even in the midst of love, I had felt wrong about myself. Pressed into a life that never fit, pushed by circumstance, by expectations, by the invisible rules that said: get a wife, get a house, get a stable job, don’t chase what you really want, don’t let yourself be known. And that is exactly what I had done.

I had chosen a boring, brain-numbing job at the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Security, predictability, nothing more. I married Katherine, yes, bought a house in the suburbs, settled into routines that were safe and respectable. For a while, we had a dog that barked at shadows and taught me small joy. But it was all surface. Nothing beneath it was truly mine. Nothing beneath it felt like me.

And now, here was Amelia. Seventeen. Poised at the beginning of her life, and already destined to follow the same suffocating path. Forced to lie about who she was. Forced to hide her truths. Lies that would thicken over time, harden like resin, coating her identity until the pure shape of her self was trapped inside, invisible even to herself.

I felt a chill and wrapped my hands around the mug of coffee, as though it could warm me from the inside. I imagined her, alone in her room, diary open, fingers trembling over the page. I knew that exact feeling. That quiet despair that came from pretending, from suppressing desire, from watching your soul shrink a little each day to fit the mold someone else had built for you.

I wondered if she could even see the choice before her, the same choice I had made. And my chest ached knowing that it was inevitable. Society would demand it, her parents would demand it, the world itself would demand it. And she would obey, as I had, because the alternative, being truly herself, was forbidden, frightening, and lonely.

I rested my forehead against the diary. The light through the window glanced off its cover again, soft and fleeting, and for a second it felt almost alive. A reminder that there was a spark, somewhere, in both of us. Something stubborn and untamed that might not yet be buried.

I read on, picking through the diary in small bursts. The dates were irregular, sometimes whole weeks passed in silence, then suddenly, pages came alive with her words for several days in a row.

April 5, 1963: Samantha avoided me in the hallway again. I wonder if I was foolish to think anything could have happened. Everyone whispers. I feel like a shadow at school.

April 12: I tried to focus on the work in class, but my mind keeps drifting. The snow globe on my dresser sparkles in the sunlight. I almost wish it would shatter like my heart has.

April 20: I think I understand. This feeling with Samantha… it’s just a flight of fancy. Nothing more. I have to put it behind me. Be normal. Speak less. Smile when I am told. Nod at the right times. Breathe.

April 25: No one comes around anymore. I can feel my friends drifting further away. Is it me? Or is it the world changing around me? Either way, I am alone in ways I did not expect.

May 3: I caught myself staring at the sky during lunch, imagining it was someone else watching me. Someone who understood. There is no one here. No one.

Her words were vivid, painfully articulate. Even in these fragmented snapshots, I could feel her intelligence, her creativity, her eyes seeing the world in colors most people never noticed. And yet, every sentence carried the subtle weight of loss. Loss of friends. Loss of freedom. Loss of herself.

Then, May 12, 1963:

School is almost done. They say it is nearly summer, and I should be excited. Instead, I feel my stomach twist as Mom and Dad break the news. We are going to the beach house for the entire summer. Dad will go to work during the days, but Mom will stay. At first, I thought it would be an adventure. A place by the water, the wind in my hair, sun on my face. Away from the stares and the whispers. But then came the subtle hint from them both. I would have time with Mom to ensure I was on the right path. To mold me, steer me, correct me. They call it quality time, but I call it inspection. A gilded cage, waiting for me in the sand.

I closed the diary for a moment, to let her words sink in. I could almost hear the waves outside, feel the salty wind brushing against her skin, and I shivered at the thought of the isolation that awaited her. Even from decades away, I recognized the quiet desperation, the forced conformity, the first stirrings of a life curtailed before it could bloom.

 

***

 

I had mostly avoided the diary for the next days. Its pages stirred too many feelings, old and familiar, and I had come here seeking quiet, not a reminder of what I had spent a lifetime ignoring.

My calendar said May 28, and the day had that peculiar mix of warmth and wind that Cape Cod seemed to own. I stepped onto the deck, the late spring sun casting long shadows across the sand and I decided a walk on the beach might clear my head.

The crowds were beginning to trickle in. Music floated from battery-powered Bluetooth speakers, a haphazard mix of styles that made no sense to me but seemed to be the soundtrack of everyone else’s day. Kids ran with skim boards, kites soared above surfers, and the honk of cars and trucks created a kind of endless percussion. Lines of vehicles crept along the narrow streets, searching for parking that would never quite suffice.

I made my way to the wharf. Tourist shops clustered there, selling overpriced, flimsy merchandise. Forty-dollar Chinese-made beach towels, masks, snorkels no one could truly use in the wind-whipped, cloudy surf. It was chaos dressed up as summer charm.

The lobster shack caught my attention, and I pulled my phone from my pocket, scanning a QR code to see the menu. $19.73 for a lobster po’ boy, $8.75 extra for fries, $6.35 for a soda. I rolled my eyes at the prices, the absurdity of it all, yet ordered everything anyway.

When the food arrived, I found a small table among dozens of people glued to their phones. No one spoke. Music blared from somewhere nearby, competing with the seagulls circling overhead. The fries were greasy, the lobster a tasteless imitation, and I reached for the soda almost immediately. After a few bites, I could take no more. I tossed the entire tray into the trash, and the seagulls descended with perfect timing, devouring the remnants before I had taken more than a few steps away.

I lingered on the edge of the deck, the wind tugging at my jacket. The air carried salt and sand and the faint smell of marine fuel from the boats, and despite the noise, I felt a strange emptiness, a hollow contrast to the chaos around me. It was a world so far removed from the quiet, unsullied summers I had imagined from Amelia’s life.

I turned back toward the beach house, the sand warm under my feet and the roar of the boardwalk fading behind me. Thoughts of Amelia drifted in my mind. Had she found a way out of it all? Did she escape the confinement of expectation, even for a little while? It would do me good to see how her summer had turned out, to remind myself of what life was like back in 1963, when the world moved slower, when a few days could feel infinite.

As I approached the house, the noise from the neighbors hit me full force. A polished Porsche gleamed in the driveway, suitcases piled high in the trunk. The beer had already started flowing, and they barked instructions at the pool boy, noting spots he had “missed.” The trophy wife lounged by the pool, designer sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat shielding her face, a cocktail with a pink umbrella in hand. Her gaze lingered a moment too long on the young man cleaning their pool. Everything about them reeked of entitlement.

I lifted a hand in a brief, polite wave, and then turned and closed the door behind me. The walls muffled the world outside, the clinking of glasses and laughter retreating into silence. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, unbidden and bittersweet.

I walked upstairs to the south corner room, carrying the diary like a talisman. The room welcomed me in its quiet, the ocean visible through the wide windows, sunlight shifting on the floor. I laid the diary on the small bedside table, then collapsed onto the single bed, letting the sheets wrap around me.

The world outside could wait. Here, in the corner room, with Amelia’s words and the faint scent of musty old leather, I could remember, for a moment, what it had felt like to be young, to be full of hope, to feel the weight of possibility pressing in from every direction.

I opened the diary and thumbed through the pages until I stopped at May 28, 1963. My eyes lingered on the neat, looping cursive, and suddenly I was there with her, listening to the soft rhythm of her voice across the decades.

We are finally here after a two-hour drive. Dad says he will work four days a week, and luckily the beach house is only an hour and fifteen minutes from his office. The first beach day is always a mix of excitement and stress. Everything must be unloaded, the food stocked, linens put on the beds, clothes put away. It is endless work, and yet the air smells like the ocean and somehow that makes it all bearable.

William came in a moment ago. He is thirteen now, the perfect age of knowing exactly how to get out of work, manipulative enough to be annoying without ever drawing real wrath. He poked his head into my room and made a fake kissing sound. Somehow, he had heard about the incident with Samantha and thought it was hilarious. I wanted to disappear into the bedspread, hide under the sheets and hope the world would swallow me whole.

And then came the rules, as if the house itself were a cage. I had to listen to them for the entire trip here. Curfew at nine. No being alone with anyone. No parties that were not sanctioned by Mom and Dad, and each had to have at least three chaperones. No rock and roll. No alcohol. And the list went on. I tried to sit still, to nod politely, but inside I felt myself shrinking, the summer already starting to feel like a leash around my throat.

I closed the diary, exhaling slowly. The ocean light glanced across the page, and I could almost feel the warmth and salt, the faint tingle of excitement and dread mingling in Amelia’s chest. I could see her in this very room, struggling to hold herself upright while the world of rules and expectations pressed in from every side. And in that moment, I understood, she was already beginning the same dance I had spent a lifetime learning. The dance of compliance, of pretending, of shrinking herself to fit the shape that others demanded. All at a time in her life where she should have been free.

Amelia’s words about curfews and summer rules still echoed in my mind. I could almost see her, young, eager, brimming with a life she was not permitted to live, wilting under the weight of rules disguised as love. Rules that were meant to protect her, but in truth, were chains.

I could understand it. My chains had been different, forged from the expectations of what a man should be, what a son should uphold, what a husband must represent. I had followed that narrow road, the nuclear standard, as if it had been carved into stone. A wife, children, Sunday dinners, a job I was supposed to keep until I retired. And I had loved women, truly I had, but the cruelest truth was that I had never felt I should have been a man in the first place. That contradiction had burned through my youth, a truth buried so deep I could not speak it aloud to a single soul.

Growing up in the sixties, there was no room for such confessions. Not at the dinner table, not in school corridors, not in church pews where I was told God made no mistakes. Yet I knew every day that something had been miswritten in me. A mind and body that did not match. A self I could never fully inhabit. I smiled and nodded, took the hand of the women I courted, and buried the truth further each year.

I stared at Amelia’s handwriting, the flourish of her letters, the hints of rebellion pressed into the ink, and wondered what I would say to her if I could step into that summer. What words might have helped her see beyond the bars of her cage? My lips moved before I even realized, whispering into the quiet room.

“Follow your passions, Amelia. Live your life on your own terms, so long as it harms no one. Do not let fear or rules written by others dictate your path. Living a lie will never allow you to be who you were intended to be.”

The words felt heavy, spoken as if they had been meant for me all along.

 

***

 

I rose with the sun, the sea air drifting through the half-open window. The house was quiet except for the distant thrum of waves against the shore. I made breakfast, just toast, coffee, and a sliver of fruit and carried it to the table by the window. My mind was still tethered to Amelia, her voice etched into the pages I had read the night before.

There was something about her diary that would not let me go. I had closed it reluctantly, even guiltily, when I turned off the light. Yet the moment I set it aside, I felt as though I had betrayed a bond. Now, in some odd way, our days were aligned, separated by sixty-two years. Her summer of 1963 unfolded in rhythm with my own days here, as if time had folded neatly in on itself.

Reading her words freed something inside me, though I could not yet name it. Amelia had struggled in this house with expectations and forbidden desires, and I had lived much of my life under the same strain. Her diary was no longer just a relic. It had become a kind of devotional, a daily reminder that the cage I had lived in was not mine alone.

I thumbed back through the entries, scanning a line I had already read. She had written about her younger brother, William, thirteen, mischievous, irreverent. My eyes lingered on that name. William. That was the name of the man I had bought the beach house from.

Coincidence? Or not? My chest tightened with the realization. Could she be Amelia Grant, William’s sister? It fit. The details aligned too cleanly to be chance.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the diary in my hands. If that were true, then these pages belonged to William just as much as to Amelia. Perhaps even more so, since he had carried the weight of family history with this beach house. I felt a stir of guilt, an uneasy prickling along the edges of my discovery. William might want these words back. He might even see them as a treasure of his sister’s youth. Perhaps Amelia still lived and would want them herself.

And yet, I wanted to keep them. For now. They were more than pages and ink. They were communion. They were company. They were a mirror I had never dared to look into until now.

I opened the diary to the next page. The handwriting struck me first. It was sharper, more jagged than before, the letters pressed hard into the paper as though Amelia had been carving her feelings instead of writing them. Several splotches of ink had bloomed across the lines, not neat or careful like her earlier entries, but messy, frantic, like teardrops mingled with the flow.

I did not need to read the words to know she had been hurt. I felt it in the strokes themselves, the way pain bled through the page.

Amelia’s words followed:

May 29, 1963
This morning I helped Mom put things in order in the kitchen. Neither of us spoke. I had heard enough of her thoughts yesterday, and I had none of my own I wanted to share. But even in silence, there was tension. Every time she passed me a dish, or shut a cupboard, it was as though she was reminding me who I was supposed to be and what she wanted me to become.

William was already outside, bouncing a ball against the wall, laughing at nothing, and Dad watched him from the deck as though he was proud to have a son who was easy. I could not bear it.

“I am going for a walk on the beach,” I told her.

She did not answer at first. She just looked at me, her mouth a thin line, her eyes measuring me. Then she set down the spoon she had been holding and said, “Stay where I can see you. Do not pass beyond the sight of the house. The wharf is off limits. We have guests tonight, and you will be helping me with dinner. You need to learn how to prepare a proper meal.”

Her voice was calm, but the words cut me. It was not instruction. It was judgment. The implication that I did not know how to be a proper woman, that I had to be molded and trained into one.

I could not stand it. I stormed out of the house, down the deck, and into the sand. I ran until the roof of the house was only a speck behind me, until I was certain she could not see me anymore. I dropped down on the beach, buried my face in my arms, and I wept.

I closed the diary for a moment, pressing my palm against the cover. I could feel her anger, her humiliation, her despair as if it were alive in the paper. I looked toward the window, the light pouring through, and imagined Amelia sitting alone in the sand sixty-two years before, the waves erasing her tears as fast as they fell.

I opened the diary again and turned the page. The ink still looked wet somehow, though of course it was decades old. The next lines were raw, immediate, and I read them slowly, as if I were learning the shape of her breath.

I stayed on the beach longer than I should have. It felt small and ridiculous to call it rebellion, but it was mine: just a few more minutes of air and sea and not being told what to be. I knew it would only tighten the knots, but I needed space to breathe.

When I came back, Mom was waiting. She did not speak kindly. She said I had missed lunch, that I had been disobedient, and that I must get cleaned up and come downstairs wearing the outfit she had left on my bed. I changed upstairs, feeling like I was dressing for church in someone else’s life. The fabric itched, and every button pinched like a reminder.

By the time the guests arrived, it all became clear. There was a boy, Daniel Sutton, visiting with his family, an eighteen-year-old from a wealthy household staying for the summer. Mom sat him beside me at the table like a gift. He smiled too slowly, as if expecting a promise. He joked loud enough for the others to hear. He said things that were meant to be compliments but landed like ropes tightening around my chest. He laughed at jokes I did not tell. He even touched my thigh in a way that made the room feel smaller and made me jump, as if he assumed I would not cause a commotion knowing I was trapped.

Mom said, “Daniel is nice, from a good family. I hope you get to know him well this summer.” She patted my hand in front of everyone. I went to bed with that sentence in my ears like a verdict. I lay awake and thought about the noose tightening. I am afraid of what this summer will ask of me, of how little choice I will be allowed. I do not know how to be what they expect from me without betraying what I am inside.

I closed the book then. The walls felt closer all of a sudden. Her words had a bluntness that left no room for niceties, it was fear simply named. I could feel it in my own ribs, remembering that was almost a physical thing: the way a room can shrink when someone decides you must fit inside their plan for you.

The light slanted across the floor and caught the edge of the diary, sending a narrow strip of brightness down the cover. The same shimmer I kept noticing, a small, bright thing at the corner of a room, a line of sun on water, as if the house itself kept signaling me to look closer. I pressed my thumb to the leather cover and for a moment let myself think of how different her options were from mine, yet how the pressure felt the same: to conform, to perform, to silence the parts of yourself that do not please the world.

 

***

 

It was now June 3. Amelia’s words on the previous pages were darker now, heavier than the ink itself. I had read through the last three days in silence, stepping through my days along with hers. Each entry more clipped and edged with despair. Arguments with her parents, every line steeped in control. They pressed her toward Daniel as if his wealth and name could erase who she was. She had written, “I may as well have been born in the 1700s with arranged marriages. What is the difference?” Another entry: “William runs free. He is thirteen and has more choice than I do. If I had been born a boy, things would be different.”

Then today’s entry. Her writing filled the page with a finality that made my skin crawl. “I’m done. I’m running away. I will leave in the early hours of the morning, well before anyone gets up.”

I froze, thumb pressed against the edge of the page, afraid to turn it. But I did. The next leaf was blank. Then the next, and the next. The emptiness stretched forward, each clean sheet a graveyard of words she never had the chance to write.

A wave of guilt pressed down on me. I should not have read so much, should not have kept turning, but I could not stop. And now it was too late for I had reached the end of her voice.

I closed the diary and sat with it for a long while. The light outside had shifted, turning gold and bruised as evening settled in. Finally, with my chest tight, I picked up the phone and called the number from the papers William Grant had left me.

The line clicked alive. “Hello?”

“William? It’s Edward… from the beach house.”

There was a pause, then a warm but cautious, “Edward, yes. Everything alright with the place?”

“It’s fine,” I said, my mouth dry. “The house is fine. But… I found something here. A diary. It belonged to Amelia.”

The other end of the line went silent. Long enough that I thought the call had dropped. Then William exhaled sharply. “You… you read it?”

I swallowed. “I did. Some of it. Enough to know she was struggling.”

The silence thickened again, but this time it carried weight. “What… what became of her?” I asked carefully.

William hesitated, his voice softer now, strained. “Amelia’s body was found on the road. It was… it was a storm that night. They said she must have been struck by a car. That she...”

A crackle on the line, his breath faltering. Then nothing. The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in my hand. I shivered, though the evening air was warm. The diary still lay open on the arm of the chair, its pages silent now. Blank. Waiting.

The sun slipped behind a bruised cloud, shadows crawling across the sand until the house itself seemed wrapped in gray gauze. I stood at the window, staring out toward the horizon, where darker clouds gathered like an army forming. By late evening, the storm was clear, low thunder rolling from the sea, the air tinged with salt and ozone.

I went to bed restless, my body tired but my mind crackling with Amelia’s words, with William’s voice cut off so abruptly. Sleep came shallow, broken.

At 3 a.m., I woke with my heart pounding as though it had been shaken awake by something unseen. Lightning split the sky, and a crash of thunder rattled the glass. I threw off the sheets, an urgency prickling through me, urging me out, away from the house.

The storm met me the moment I stepped outside. Rain lashed against my face, needling into my skin, plastering my hair down. The wind whipped in sudden gusts that staggered me as I made my way up the road, each step carrying me deeper into something I could not name.

I felt close, so close to something important, as if Amelia’s hand itself pulled me forward. My vision blurred with the rain, but as I neared a rise, I saw her.

A young woman, standing there in the storm. Her dress clung to her in the downpour, the fabric heavy, its style belonging to another decade. She held a small cloth bag above her head, useless against the torrent, her hair darkened and streaming across her face.

I froze. My chest seized. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating everything for a heartbeat. The monstrous mansions that had scarred the coastline were gone. In their place stood smaller, humbler beach houses, their wood siding slick and shining under the rain.

I felt dizzy. Dreaming. Somehow drawn into Amelia’s night, her last moments.

I moved closer, step by step, until I was near enough to touch her. My lips trembled as I whispered her name. “Amelia…”

She turned, startled, her eyes wide. She did not see the glow cresting the knoll behind her.

A car’s headlights burst through the sheets of rain, blinding, sweeping too wide. Chrome gleamed in the lightning flash. Tires hissed against the slick pavement.

I lunged, my body instinct before thought, and shoved Amelia toward the ditch.

The car hit me full on, steel and chrome crushing into my side, my chest. The world exploded into white.

Then… nothing.

 

***

 

I jolted upright in the ditch, mud sucking at my palms as I tried to steady myself. My lungs heaved, drawing in sharp, wet air heavy with moisture. A pair of taillights, angry red, fading fast and disappeared into the storm, the hulking outline of a 1959 Buick swallowed by the sheets of water.

Lightning split the sky again, and in its flare, I saw myself, or rather, not myself. I stared down, disbelieving, at the figure I had become. A sodden dress clung to my smaller frame, fabric heavy and cold against my skin. Long strands of hair whipped across my cheeks, plastered to my forehead by the rain. My hands trembled, slimmer, softer. My body was undeniably female.

A strange stillness pressed through the confusion, as though some locked door deep within me had cracked open, and in the rush of storm and fear there was also… peace.

I spun, searching the road, the ditch, expecting to see the broken, ruined body of the old man I was. But there was nothing. Only the hiss of the rain and the hollow boom of thunder over the water.

The cloth bag lay at my feet, soaked through. I snatched it up, clutching it to me, and stumbled forward. This was no place to linger. Not in the storm. Not in this strange new skin.

The beach house loomed ahead, its lines wrong, its presence different, smaller, humbler, glowing faintly with the lamps my memory did not recall. I pushed the door open, dripping onto the polished wood floor.

Inside, the air was warmer but no less foreign. The furniture was mid-century, clean lines and muted tones. A clock on the wall ticked in steady rhythm. 4:40 a.m.

Shivering, I climbed the stairs, each step creaking beneath my weight. The bedroom waited as if it had been left for me, neat, impersonal, yet somehow mine. I stripped off the heavy, rain-soaked clothes and let them fall in a heap.

My skin prickled, gooseflesh rising, and my mind whirled with questions I could not hold still long enough to ask. But exhaustion dragged me, heavier than the storm.

The moment my head touched the pillow, everything fell away. Sleep swallowed me whole.

 

***

 

I woke to the morning sun filtering through a veil of clouds, its light soft against the yellow walls. For a moment, I did not know where I was. The bed, the dresser, the curtains were all wrong. I sat up slowly, strands of long, damp-feeling hair tugging at my shoulders. My hand rose instinctively, catching on the length, and memory struck like a cold rush of water.

I was Amelia. It wasn’t a dream.

The storm, the road, the car. The blinding light that tore through everything I knew. Somehow, impossibly, I had become Amelia.

I looked down at myself, at the slender hands resting on the quilt, the rise and fall of a chest that was not mine. A flood of sensation filled me, a strange freedom in the curve of my body, the looseness of my breath. There was joy in it, even peace, though wrapped tight around it all was a knot of worry and guilt. Had I stolen her?

The room itself deepened the disorientation. The dresser was not the one I remembered. This one was newer, polished smooth and set neatly with a lace doily. The walls of the room were painted a cheery yellow with white trim, brighter than the muted gray of my time. I rose and touched the paint with my fingers, as if to be certain it was real.

It did not take long to realize what had happened. I truly was Amelia, in the year 1963. William’s words returned, sharp and relentless. Amelia never survived that night.

So, what was I now? Her second chance? Her ghost in flesh?

The house was stirring awake beyond the door. Floorboards creaked, and a cupboard closed. Any moment someone might call for her, for me.

A bubbling fear rose in me, thick and unrelenting. How could I possibly pass as Amelia? Would her family not see through me at once, catch some slip of tone, some wrong step, and know she was gone?

I told myself I did not want to erase her. God, no. I only wanted to hold this place for her, keep her safe in the span she had lost. If there was a way back, if she and I could switch again, I could at least tend her life, maybe even mend what was broken. That hope, thin as it was, steadied me.

I slipped from the bed and caught a robe from the hook on the door. The fabric was soft, worn on the cuffs. Pulling it tight around me, I eased the door open. The hallway stretched before me, familiar yet new, washed in morning light. Every sound in the house pressed close. Footsteps on the floor below. A drawer sliding shut. A cough from a distant room.

I needed time. A few minutes to think, to wash, to look myself in the mirror and believe this was possible. Hugging the robe closer, I tiptoed down the hallway like a thief. My head darted left, then right, as if shadows might betray me.

The bathroom door loomed only a few steps away when the third bedroom burst open. A boy spilled out, tall and all elbows, his hair unkempt from sleep. He sprinted past me and into the bathroom before I could even breathe.

“Ha! Beat you!” he crowed, laughter bubbling as he shut the door behind him.

I froze, pulse hammering. That voice, younger but distinct… was that William?

My throat tightened. I spun on my heel and hurried back to Amelia’s room, my heart drumming so loudly I feared the whole house would hear.

I sat on the bed, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. The hallway creaked; a shadow slipped across the thin line of light beneath the door. Then came a knock, too quick, too sharp, and before I could gather myself the door opened.

“Amelia…”

My mom stood there, brisk, her presence filling the room. Her eyes flicked to the floor, to the heap of soaked clothing where I had left them, and her expression soured.

“You were out, Amelia? Last night? After curfew?”

My stomach lurched. I swallowed, forcing words through lips that did not feel like mine. “There was… something that came loose in the storm. I… I went out and moved it.”

The sound of my own voice startled me. Softer, higher, gentler than I remembered. Not mine, yet it was.

I braced for the scolding I thought must come, but instead Mom’s expression shifted. The lines around her mouth eased, her brow softened.

“That was good of you to do that, Amelia. Next time though, put the wet clothes in the hamper. I want you to get ready. Dad is taking us all out to an early lunch in a while.”

I nodded quickly, grateful for the chance to end the conversation. She closed the door behind her, and I let out a long breath, relief washing through me. I had not been caught. Not yet.

My eyes wandered across the room, still strange to me despite its brightness. The dresser stood near the wall, one drawer slightly ajar. It was uneven in a way that tugged at my attention. Rising, I pulled it out. My fingers traced along the back panel until I felt it, false, loose. With a gentle tug, it came free.

A slim book slid forward, its cover smooth by touch. A diary. Amelia’s. Just much newer than the sixty-two-year-old one I last had in my hands.

I sat again on the bed and flipped through the pages, each line filled in her hand. Days, moments, private thoughts. The entries stopped abruptly on June 3. My chest tightened.

On a whim, I reached for a pen on the nightstand. My hand trembled as I opened to the next blank page. The pen pressed to paper, and before I realized it, I had written:

June 4, 1963.

The letters curved in Amelia’s handwriting, graceful, certain. My hand, yet not mine at all.

A sharp thump rattled the door.

“I left it smelling nice in there!” William’s voice rang, teasing and half-shouted through the wood.

Oddly, the sibling intrusion made me smile. For a fleeting moment, the tension of deception slipped away, and I felt the warmth of belonging.

I quickly stashed the diary back into its hiding place, pressing the drawer flush again. Then I slipped into the hall, robe cinched tightly around me, and darted into the bathroom, locking the door with a firm click.

At last, a moment alone. A moment of freedom.

The mirror greeted me with a stranger’s face that was, impossibly, my own. Hair clung in damp strands around my cheeks, golden blonde that caught the light even in its bedraggled state. Blue eyes, wide and searching, stared back at me with a mix of fear and wonder. My lips were full, trembling slightly as I studied them.

Amelia was very beautiful. I was beautiful.

I let the robe slide from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. Beneath, the storm’s damp lingered in the plain bra and panties, functional, unadorned, nothing like the lace and satin of my own era. When I shed them too, I froze.

My breath came shallow as I stared at myself. Smooth curves, soft lines where I had only known angles. Tentatively, I lifted a hand and touched what had never belonged to me before, shivering at the unfamiliar warmth of skin beneath my fingertips. For an instant I felt myself drowning in awe, in strangeness, in a forbidden joy.

I tore my gaze away, forcing my mind to quiet. The toilet caught my attention, seat up, splashes on the rim. A small, almost absurd detail, yet grounding. I felt the urge pressing in, and when I settled there, the simple act was as foreign as it was intimate.

After, I twisted the knobs of the tub and water thundered down. Steam rose, carrying away the last of the storm’s chill as I stepped beneath the spray. Every drop was discovery. My hands mapped the new landscape of myself, each motion deliberate, reverent.

When I finally dried and returned to my room, I found a brush and coaxed the tangles from my hair. Each pull smoothed not only the strands but the rising giddiness in me, though now and then it broke free in a quiet laugh. I was a young woman, impossibly alive, and despite everything, I felt wonderful.

I opened the dresser and slipped on fresh underthings, then turned to the closet. My fingers traced hangers until I settled on a light dress, its fabric whispering across my skin as I pulled it over my head. Sandals completed the look.

In the mirror, I spun slowly, the hem flaring just slightly. A smile spread across my face, unbidden and irrepressible. For all the fear and confusion, I had never felt more radiant or alive.

The stairs creaked beneath my feet as I made my way down, the faint hum of conversation rising from the kitchen. The smell of coffee lingered. I had just reached the doorway when it rang.

The phone. Loud, insistent, its bell hammering the quiet like an alarm.

Dad moved first, stepping briskly across the linoleum to the wall-mounted phone. He lifted the receiver with a practiced hand, his voice steady. “Hello?”

A pause, then his brow furrowed. He turned, holding a palm over the mouthpiece, muting the line the old-fashioned way. His eyes found me.

“Amelia! It’s a boy.”

My heart lurched. A boy?

I stepped forward, confusion tightening in my chest. Dad’s mouth twisted into something like approval. “I think it is Daniel,” he said, lowering his voice.

The name turned my stomach. Still, I reached for the receiver, curling the long-coiled cord around my fingers as I pulled myself a step farther into the hall, away from Dad’s ears.

“This is Amelia,” I said softly.

The voice that answered was not what I expected. Not Daniel. Not anyone I knew. But it was familiar, achingly so.

“Are you really Amelia?”

I gasped, pressing the receiver closer, pulling the cord taut to shield myself in the corner of the room. “What do you mean?” I whispered.

A long pause, then the voice returned, careful, uncertain. “My name is Edward, I think. That’s what my student ID says. Last night... I was running away... in Cape Cod. There was a car. A man that pushed me. I fell and woke up as…”

My throat tightened. I finished for him.

“As Edward Wright. And I woke up as Amelia Grant.”

The silence on the line felt alive, buzzing like the storm itself.

“What... what are we going to do?” I asked, the words trembling out of me before I could stop them.

For a moment, I feared the answer. That he would demand we undo this, demand his life back, demand mine in exchange.

But his voice softened instead, tentative, almost relieved. “Do? Nothing. I’m halfway across the country. I was running from my life. I am taking this as a sign this is who I was supposed to be. I... I just wanted to be sure. Are you all right?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dad still hovered in the kitchen, eyes narrowed, ears angled toward me. I turned back to the wall, voice low. “I’m fine. Really. Would you be surprised if I said I feel right for the first time in my life?”

The boy on the other end, Edward, who was Amelia, hesitated, then replied, steady now. “Then I guess it was meant to be. Enjoy your life, Amelia Grant.”

The click of the receiver on his end echoed like the closing of a door.

I lowered the handset, staring at the cradle as though it might ring again, might return the connection. But it stayed still. Not surprising, really. Long distance in the 1960s cost astronomical amounts.

Amelia was all right. She was out there, alive, breathing in my world. I recalled I was living in Illinois at the time when I was seventeen. And now I was here. This was my life now unless something happened, unless fate decided otherwise.

I returned to the kitchen, placed the receiver back on its hook, and forced myself to meet Dad’s searching gaze.

I drifted in the hallway, my mind still tangled in the voice on the phone. Edward, me, but not me, somehow alive and walking around in my home in 1963. The storm had taken more than rain and thunder. It had torn something open, bent time itself. And here I was, standing in 1963, with a chance to live the life I had always wished for but never thought possible.

“Was that Daniel?” Mom’s voice cut through my thoughts like a blade.

I turned, blinking at her from the kitchen doorway. My tongue hesitated, but the words came swift, quicker than I thought possible. “No. It wasn’t Daniel. It was a friend from school. Edward.”

Dad, still by the table with his half-finished coffee, looked up, his brow raised. “Edward? Never knew about him. Why was he calling?”

The answer slipped out with a clarity that startled me, no stammer, no falter. My mind seemed sharper now, unburdened by the old struggle of pretending to be someone I was not. “He wanted to let me know his family isn’t coming here for vacation this year. He just said he hoped I would have fun.”

Dad leaned back and exchanged a glance with Mom. His mustache twitched like he was holding back a smile. “Things are looking up. First Daniel, and now Edward.”

Their voices receded behind me as I stepped out onto the deck, needing air, needing space.

The storm was breaking apart, clouds scattering like bruises fading on the sky. Shafts of sunlight pierced through, painting the wet sand and restless sea with light. I rested my hands on the railing, the wood damp beneath my palms, and tilted my face upward.

The warmth touched my skin, soft and golden, and something inside me lifted. For the first time, I smiled without forcing it.

I was Amelia Grant. And for the first time in my life, my true life, I felt whole.

 

***

 

I sat in the back seat, the vinyl sticky against the backs of my calves, William as far from me as possible. He had his arm half out the open window, hand slicing through the air like a toy plane catching invisible currents. He made a low hum under his breath, some imitation of an engine, and for a moment I envied him, so careless, so certain the world bent easily to his games.

I was not careless. I felt everything. The hem of the dress brushing over my knees, light and teasing, reminding me with every sway that this body was not borrowed, not a dream. The faint bounce of my breasts each time the car jolted over a rut made me catch my breath. Even the wind pouring in, tugging at strands of my hair, lifting them so they floated in little golden arcs, felt like an entirely new sensation.

I turned toward William, his striped shirt pulled tight across his chest, chino shorts wrinkled at the knees, sneakers scuffed with dirt. He looked every inch the boy he was supposed to be. I wondered, did he already suspect how I had changed? Or would the strange rhythms of this family swallow me whole until no one noticed?

The car slowed as we reached the wharf. I leaned toward the glass, the world outside more alive than any photograph or memory I had ever known. Young women strolled in pairs, skirts fluttering around their calves, blouses neatly tucked, their hair drawn back in ponytails tied with bright ribbons. A few, bolder for having survived the storm, wore one-piece swimsuits with scarves tied around their hair and sunglasses perched on their noses, like they had stepped straight out of a magazine.

It was all so ordinary. So completely foreign.

And yet I felt the pulse of belonging somewhere beneath my ribs.

Dad pulled the car into a space between two boxy sedans, and we all piled out. The air smelled of fried food, sharp and mouthwatering. At the counter, he ordered without hesitation. Four lobster rolls, four Cokes, and a large basket of fries to share. The man behind the counter scribbled the order down and said, “That’ll be $5.17.”

Five dollars. For all of us.

I blinked. Sixty-two years later that would not even buy me a single soda, and here we were about to feast.

When the tray came, I sank my teeth into the lobster roll and nearly closed my eyes. Real lobster, fresh and tender. The bun golden, crisp from butter and heat. The balance of flavors was so perfect it was almost decadent. A simple seaside shack serving food better than anything I had ever ordered with a QR code.

I chewed slowly, letting the taste linger, and looked around. Families crowded at picnic tables, children swinging their legs, parents scolding or laughing depending on the moment. Affluent couples in pressed slacks and skirts, their hair set just so, carried themselves as if they owned the shoreline. Tourists were easier to spot, gawking and sunburned, clutching cameras and guidebooks.

Joy bubbled inside me, unbidden and bright. It was not the food, though that helped. It was the rightness of it all, the way my mind felt unburdened, clear, free of that constant pressure to pretend. For the first time I could remember, I was not fighting myself.

My eyes lingered on a group of young women, their ponytails swinging, blouses tucked neat into skirts. Something in me stirred, soft but insistent, the kind of attraction that made me want to lean closer, laugh at their jokes, feel the warmth of their hands brushing mine. It did not shock me, though I noticed it. What was stranger was my reaction to men. There was no repulsion, but no spark either. As though the idea of being with them was simply impossible, a puzzle piece that would never fit.

The sound of Beach Boys music pulled my attention. A flash of red and white glinted in the sun. A 1960 Corvette convertible, a classic but not yet one in 1963, slid into a spot, its polished chrome catching the light. I knew the type before the doors even opened. Wealth, confidence, entitlement.

Three boys climbed out, all laughter and swagger. But it was the one at the center who headed straight for our table. My stomach knotted before he even spoke.

Mom’s face lit up with a smile that belonged in a magazine. “Daniel,” she cooed. “It’s nice to see you again.”

I cringed inside. Not Daniel. The Daniel. The one who had slid his hand onto Amelia’s thigh beneath the dinner table like she was cornered game.

“Hello Mrs. and Mr. Grant,” he said smoothly, his smile rehearsed. “I wanted to invite Amelia to a party at our house tomorrow. We’ll start around one, have a barbecue, and wrap up by eight. And yes, my parents will be there.”

My mouth opened, but I never stood a chance.

“That’s very kind of you to invite her,” Mom said quickly, her voice warm with approval. “I’ll drop Amelia off.”

My throat closed. I bit into my lobster roll just to keep from saying something I would regret.

Daniel’s eyes lingered on me with a gleam that made my skin crawl. He lifted his hand in a casual wave. “See you tomorrow, Amelia.”

I chewed in silence, forcing the buttery lobster past the lump in my throat.

Mom leaned closer to me, her voice lilting with amusement as she said, “Daniel is so handsome, and such a well-connected young man. His family owns that mansion just a few miles down the road. Imagine what it could mean for you.”

Her words fell into me like stones into a still pond. The first ripples of rules and expectations, pressing against the joy I had felt only moments ago. Already the tug of their world was there, what I should want, who I should be.

“May I walk back along the beach?” I asked, hoping the sea might rinse it all away.

Mom shook her head firmly. “Not today. I am going to teach you to cook. You and I will be making dinner.”

Cooking. The thought startled me. As Edward, I had cooked plenty of meals, but Amelia never had, not for anyone. The words came out too fast. “I know how to cook.”

Mom’s brow lifted. I scrambled, adding, “I have watched you.”

She laughed, a warm, doubting sound. “You think you could cook a lasagna, make a salad, have garlic bread and all perfectly ready for a six o’clock dinner time?”

I nodded, my face steady though my heart knocked about inside.

Mom studied me with narrow eyes, then said, “All right then. I will make you a deal. We will go to the store, and I will let you do the entire meal. If it turns out well, then perhaps I will reduce the cooking instruction time I had planned for this summer. However…”

William cut her off with a dramatic gagging sound. “You? Cook? Dad, can we go out to dinner tonight? I do not want lesbian cooties in my lasagna.”

The slap of Mom’s hand against the back of his head cracked the air. “William Joseph Grant, where did you learn such a vulgar word!”

The rest of the meal unraveled into silence, brittle and sour. I chewed the last bite of my lobster roll, tasting none of it, aware only of the tension that clung to us like the humid air after the storm.

 

***

 

The grocery store was smaller than I was used to, almost quaint, though for 1963 it had a surprisingly good set of options. I wandered the aisles beside Mom and found myself startled by the lack of choice. One kind of canned tomato sauce. One kind of noodles. No shelves lined with thirty-two brands of the same thing, all clamoring for attention. No organic section either, though when I picked up a tomato and turned it in my hand, I knew it had been grown nearby, in real dirt, the way everything once was.

Back at the beach house, I laid everything out across the counter, planning the order of attack in my head. Timing would be everything. Mom emphasized that dinner must be ready exactly when she said. I tied an apron around my waist, pulled my hair back, and in that reflection from the darkened window above the sink I caught a glimpse of something larger. This was what was expected of women in 1963. Homemakers. Caretakers. The ones who made sure the plates were set on time and the bread was warm.

Mom hovered annoyingly, peering over my shoulder every few minutes as though waiting for me to burn the place down. I had to keep shooing her away, insisting she go sit, relax, let me handle it. She gave in eventually, though I could feel her nerves humming in the next room.

At six o’clock sharp, I wiped my hands on the apron, pulled the bread from the oven, and called everyone to the table. Everything was perfect. The lasagna steaming and golden, the salad crisp, the bread glistening with butter and garlic.

Dad leaned back after the first bite, nodding with approval. “That is very good,” he said, his voice certain, as though he could hardly believe it.

William was less gracious. He dug through his slice, plucking out stray bits of onion with exaggerated disgust. “Cootie. Cootie. Cootie,” he muttered each time he set one aside.

Mom, to her credit, ignored him. When the plates were empty and the kitchen cleaned again, she looked at me with genuine surprise in her eyes. “Maybe I should have you cook more often.”

Finally, when the dishes were done and the house quiet, I escaped upstairs to my room. I pulled the diary out from the hiding location, smoothed the page, and let the pen scratch down the story of the day. At the end, I wrote:

Note to self… If possible, buy a 1963 split-window Corvette. Remember to buy Apple and Google stock early. Buy bitcoins!!!

I set the pen down and laughed softly at my own words. The future sat in me like a secret flame, one no one else could see.

Before I settled in for the night, I decided I needed to know exactly what I had to work with. I opened the closet doors and studied the neat row of dresses, skirts, and blouses that all seemed cut from the same cloth. Feminine, modest, and carefully pressed. I pulled open each drawer one by one, laying eyes on stockings folded with military precision, slips, and underthings that felt a world away from the athletic cotton I used to buy in bulk. Finally, I found a nightgown. It was pale blue, soft in my hands. It looked delicate, like something from an old movie.

In the bathroom, I stared at the two toothbrushes by the sink. One was still wet; its bristles clumped with toothpaste. The other looked cleaner, and I guessed it must be mine. I used it quickly, splashed water on my face, and padded back to my room.

When I finally slid beneath the sheets, I let myself pause. The strangeness of it all settled into me, heavy and luminous at once. I had been given something rare, something impossible. A second chance. A new life, with the knowledge of all the mistakes I had already made. If I was careful, if I was deliberate, maybe I could step around the pitfalls that had scarred me before.

But the 1960s were not built for someone like me. Societal norms and subtle rules were heavier here, expectations stricter. In a year I would be eighteen, old enough to make my own choices, yet still bound in the orbit of family and appearances. Still, lying there with the hum of the ocean beyond the walls, I realized how much I had missed this, being in a family. The clatter of meals together, Mom’s sharp glances, even William’s teasing. They were things I had once taken for granted.

I was torn. I wanted their approval, their forgiveness, their love. But I also wanted freedom, the chance to shape myself without fear of punishment. I lay still for a long time, wrestling with the balance.

Eventually, my thoughts grew quieter, slipping inward. My hands moved of their own accord, exploring gently, curiously. This body was mine now. It was soft, new, and charged with sensations that sent warmth flooding through me. I closed my eyes, letting my imagination carry me into forbidden places, into touches I had only ever dreamed of. A stifled gasp escaped my lips, muffled against the pillow, and a shiver coursed through me.

The pleasure lingered, pulsing like a secret I had just unlocked. When at last I drifted toward sleep, it was with a smile tugging at my lips and a dizzy, giddy certainty in my chest. This was my life now. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt alive inside it.

 

***

 

I was beginning to fall into a rhythm, a new one that fit like a garment finally tailored to me. I no longer feared someone might look at me and know instantly that I was not who I was supposed to be. The beach house, the slow pace of summer, the simple rituals of mornings and meals, this was the perfect place to grow into Amelia. School would have been impossible, full of teachers and classmates who expected patterns of behavior and knowledge that belonged to the old Amelia, not me. Here, I had space to breathe, to settle in, to learn myself again.

The day was bright and warm, the kind of New England summer morning that smelled faintly of crisp ocean breezes and dune grass. After breakfast, with Dad already off to work, I slipped on shorts and a striped top, tossed off my sandals, and made my way down the steps to the beach. The sand gave beneath my feet, cool where the tide had lingered. The wind tugged playfully at my long blonde hair, lifting strands across my face until I laughed and brushed them away. I let myself wander, collecting shells that caught the light, dipping my toes into the crisp edge of the sea, and watching families set up umbrellas and chairs.

More than anything, I wanted to reintroduce myself to this time, to these people. To Amelia’s world.

When the morning grew late, I returned to the house, showered away the salt and sand, then dressed carefully. A skirt and blouse, neat but not too formal. I tied my hair back with a ribbon, found a pair of sunglasses in Amelia’s drawer, and studied myself in the mirror. The reflection smiled back at me, as if she, too, approved of the effort. I was ready before mom even called upstairs.

On the drive, she kept her voice light but laced with reminders, rules threaded through every sentence. Have fun, but not too much fun. Stay with the right people. Daniel is a good boy, from a good family. There was no mistaking her meaning. I nodded along, my stomach fluttering.

When we pulled into Daniel’s driveway, I almost whistled. To the eyes of the future, it was just a large, handsome house. But in 1963, it was a mansion, its white columns standing proud above the lawns where over a dozen cars were haphazardly parked. Music floated from behind the house, the twang of guitars and the steady beat of drums carried on the breeze. Mom leaned across, kissed my cheek quickly, and whispered, “I will be back at 7:30, unless you call.”

I blinked at her. I did not even know our own phone number. She drove off before I could ask.

The front door stood half open, voices and laughter spilling through. I paused, realizing for the first time since becoming Amelia, that I had nearly an entire afternoon to myself. No mom peering over my shoulder, no William mocking me, no dad to impress. The temptation to disappear for a few hours, to let the waves swallow me up, was strong. But if I skipped Daniel’s party, word would slip back to my parents, and I knew exactly how that would play out.

So, I raised my hand and knocked.

No one answered. The door drifted further inward on its own, the hinges giving a soft groan. “Hello?” I called, my voice smaller than I intended.

Silence.

I stepped inside anyway and immediately felt swallowed by the grandeur of the place. The entry hall gleamed with polished wood and wide white walls that made the beach house back home feel like a shack. The staircase curved upward like something from a movie, its banister wide and smooth.

A burst of laughter spun me around. From the kitchen, a knot of girls leaned together, their whispers quick and sharp, every word accented with giggles. They glanced at me and then back to their gossip, dismissing me as if I were invisible.

The thunder of footsteps above snapped my attention upward just as a boy and girl tumbled down the stairs together. He had his shirt half-buttoned, she was breathless, fingers stuffing her blouse back into her skirt, hair wild and untamed. Their laughter was reckless, the kind of laughter that carried secrets. For a moment, I pictured red plastic cups scattered across the floor, like the parties I remembered from decades later. But here it was glass tumblers and bottles clinking, the sounds sharper, more dangerous.

I found the double French doors at the back and stepped outside.

The scene was chaos dressed in elegance. A large swimming pool glittered under the afternoon sun, packed with bodies. Music blared, guitars jangling and drums thundering, rattling through my chest. Silver platters of shrimp cocktail glistened on linen-covered tables, bowls of chips sat waiting with dips, and glass pitchers held something red and sweet, already being ladled into cups. Beer bottles and liquor lined another table, bold and unapologetic. There was not a single adult in sight.

I froze at the edge, drinking it all in.

That was when someone collided with me. Hard.

“Amelia!” Daniel’s voice.

I turned, already bracing myself.

He was shirtless, bronzed from the sun, water dripping from his chest onto his board shorts. His grin was wide, entitled, already certain he owned the moment. Before I could take a step back, his hands slid around my waist, pulling me close. His skin was slick and warm against mine.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, the words casual but heavy. His breath smelled faintly of beer. “There’s beer, wine, liquor. I think someone has some grass.” He winked, as though expecting me to be impressed.

My pulse skittered.

Then, like an answer to a prayer, another girl swooped in, grabbing his arm. “Daniel! Come on!”

His hands loosened, and I slipped free before he even noticed.

The food table looked like a shrine to indulgence. Bowls, not bags of potato chips glistened with oil under the sunlight, the onion dip already forming a thin crust from being left out too long. Platters of cold cuts and cheese cubes slouched on sweating trays. The bottles of Coke and 7-Up seemed innocent enough, though I knew they were meant as cover for the darker bottles lined up at the far end. I lifted a deviled egg as if I had done it a hundred times, then slipped a cold Coke into my hand.

The boys were everywhere, circling like they owned the air. Sport coats undone, ties loose, their laughter rang with the certainty that the world already belonged to them. Whiskey and gin dulled their edges, but their confidence was sharp enough to cut. The girls carried themselves with the same kind of practiced poise. Bouffant hair sprayed into immovable crowns, pastel dresses that swayed just enough to tease. Cigarettes hung from fingers tipped in polish, smoke curling lazily as they leaned into the boys’ arms. Touches were quick, subtle, but intentional. A hand resting too low, a smile held too long. Nothing loud, nothing scandalous, but I felt the current beneath it, something restless, half-hidden, as if the old world of rules had already begun to crack.

As the new girl, and I knew I was very pretty, I drew them in without even trying. Questions came in waves. Where had I lived before, did I know anyone at school, what music did I like? Their eyes measured me with a mix of curiosity and appraisal, their smiles edging into something hungrier. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the girls watching. Their expressions never slipped, but I knew I was disturbing something carefully balanced.

When the questions slowed, I slipped away with my Coke and claimed a lounge chair near the edge of the patio. The slats still held the warmth of the day, and I settled into them, sunglasses hiding my ever-scanning eyes.

From behind the dark lenses, I watched. Laughter swelled, cigarette smoke curled, the air sticky with suntan oil and spilled liquor. A boy with golden hair leaned close to a girl in white, his hand on her knee, her laugh bright and knowing. Another pair disappeared behind the hedge, leaving behind only the echo of their chatter.

I took a sip of Coke, the fizz sharp against my tongue. To anyone else, I probably looked aloof, detached. But in truth, I was measuring it all with the double sight I carried now, half teenager, half a seventy-nine-year-old woman who already knew where nights like this could lead.

My gaze caught on someone across the patio, and the world seemed to tilt just slightly. She was striking, not in the polished, careful way of the other girls, but in something freer, almost reckless. White shorts, a dark blouse that hinted at defiance, her dark hair gathered in a loose ponytail that looked as though she had thrown it together without a thought. She laughed, head tilted, her brown eyes alight with an energy that felt both wild and knowing. When her eyes met mine, I felt it in my chest, a soft thrum, a flutter. She smiled, barely more than a suggestion, and then turned away.

I slid my sunglasses lower, as if I could see her better through less glass, though it only left me more exposed. A moment later I pushed them back up, but I watched her carefully. She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it, yet she was never swallowed by it. A part of the scene and apart from it at once. Different. Free.

The lounge chair lurched beneath me, nearly throwing me forward. Daniel collapsed onto it, grinning, his breath sharp with alcohol.

“Hey, new girl,” he said, his words slurred just enough to be dangerous. “Let me show you my room.”

I started to protest, but his hand was already on my arm. He pulled, hard, and I stumbled after him.
 “Daniel, wait…”

He yanked harder, his laugh cutting through the music. The patio spun away as we slipped into the house.

He dragged me through a hallway, into a library heavy with the scent of old books and polish. Before I could turn, he spun me against the wall, the force rattling the shelves at my back. His arm slammed beside my head, caging me in.

“Give me a kiss.” His grin was crooked, hungry.

I shook my head. “No.”

He leaned closer, the heat of him pressing into the air between us. “I know you want it. You let me touch your thigh the other night.”

Anger flared, cutting through the fear. I shoved at his chest. “I was trapped. I did not have a choice.”

He did not hesitate. His body pressed against mine, heavy and insistent, his face inches from mine.
 “You want me,” he whispered. “I know you do.”

I squirmed, pushing, my voice rising sharp and fierce. “I do not! Get away from me!”

Daniel’s hot breath pressed against my neck as I twisted and squirmed, trying to pull away. His hand grabbed my hip, hard, and panic surged through me. I wasn’t entirely small, maybe five feet nine, tall for a woman in the 1960s, but still far smaller than he was. I was no match. My voice cut through the haze anyway, sharp and trembling. “No!”

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her, the brunette. Standing behind Daniel. Her eyes blazing.

“Let her go. Now.”

Daniel grunted dismissively. “Away with you, Tessa,” he said, as though she were some minor annoyance.

I shoved him again, just as she moved. Her kick was fast, precise, and painfully effective, connecting between his legs with a crack. He crumpled to the floor, groaning, clutching himself.

Tessa turned to me, grabbing my hand. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, my chest heaving. “Just… frightened.”

She gave a small, knowing smile and tugged me away from him. “Do you want to get away from here?”

“Yes. Please.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he writhed on the floor, moaning.

Tessa’s smile widened, quiet and confident. She led me out through the throng of people, past the tables heavy with food and drinks. She grabbed a paper bag, emptied a silver platter of shrimp inside along with a couple of beers, some cheese, and odds and ends. Rolling it up, she took my hand firmly.

We slipped our sandals off as we exited the party, our bare feet sinking into the wet sand. The noise faded behind us as we walked along the beach. Waves lapped gently at our toes, and the breeze carried away the tension. Eventually, we came to a more private cove, hidden from the others, where the world felt like ours alone.

Tessa found a spot tucked among driftwood logs and long grasses, half-hidden from the world. She dropped the bag down and motioned. “Come, sit.”

The adrenaline still coursed through me, but as I lowered myself onto the log beside her, it drained all at once. My body felt heavy, shaky, as though I had been holding my breath since Daniel first cornered me.

Tessa studied me, her eyes steady. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, though my voice felt small. “I am now. Thank you. That was… unexpected, and yet not. Thanks for helping me.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “Those are not people you really want to be hanging out with.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Tessa.”

I took it. “Amelia.”

The warmth of her touch lingered even after she let go. She reached into the paper bag and pulled out two bottles of beer, setting one in front of me.

I hesitated, staring at the dark glass. “I’m not sure… my parents…”

She winked, a flash of mischief softening her features. “It’s all right if you don’t want one. I noticed you weren’t drinking at the party.”

My gaze drifted to her eyes, such deep brown, lively and strong, and I felt myself blush. “I’m sort of walking a fine line with my parents this summer. No alcohol is just one of the plethora of rules they’ve set for me.”

Tessa tilted her head, considering. “You must be a wild girl if they put so many rules on you.”

I shook my head quickly. “It was all a misunderstanding. Now I feel like they’re pushing me where they think I should go, who I should spend time with, what hours I need to keep. I even have to learn to cook this summer.”

Tessa’s smile deepened, slow and knowing, and I found myself caught in it, unable to look away. She leaned back, drawing one knee up and balancing her beer against it. “I understand full well the need to balance expectations. But I won’t let my family dictate how I live my life. I give them what they want when I must… and live my life the way I see fit when I’m out from under their gaze.”

Tessa leaned forward, her eyes never leaving mine. “If it were not for the rules, would you share a beer with me?”

I hesitated only a moment before nodding. “I just… would not want to make things worse.”

Her smile widened, playful and warm. “One beer will not make you drunk, and the rest of the goodies in the bag will help cover your breath.”

There was something remarkable about her. A joy of life, untamed, that pulled at me like the tide. I could not look away.

“Okay,” I said softly.

Her grin turned radiant. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a set of keys with a bottle opener dangling from them. With a casual flick, she opened one beer and handed it to me, then popped the cap on her own. She lifted the bottle. “To freedom. Life the way we want to live it. And many bags of frozen peas for Daniel.”

I burst out laughing, harder than I had in ages, the tension of the afternoon breaking free. I clinked my bottle against hers. “To all of that.”

The first sip was sharp and fizzy, cold on my tongue, and it made me almost giddy. I was suddenly aware of the moment, this secret little world carved out on the beach, just the two of us, free from everything else.

Tessa tugged the tie loose from her ponytail and shook her head, releasing a cascade of dark brown hair that tumbled about her shoulders. She set her beer down, then leaned closer, her hand brushing against my arm as she reached for me.

“Do you mind?” she asked softly, fingers already hovering near the ribbon that held my hair back.

My breath caught. “It’s fine.”

Being so close to her was intoxicating in its own way, far more than the beer. She slipped the ribbon free and let my long blonde hair spill down, her fingers combing gently through it, spreading it out across my shoulders. Her touch lingered just enough to make my skin prickle.

She pulled back, smiling with such simple, honest admiration that my heart fluttered. “You are absolutely gorgeous. You should not conform to the standards of the time. Be a trendsetter, not a follower. You are pretty enough to be a model.”

Her words left me breathless. No one had ever looked at me the way she was looking at me now.

I was unsure where this was going. It felt like a dance, the kind you do when every step could be either thrilling or dangerous. Getting to know someone you found fascinating but not wanting to show all your cards, especially in a time when such thoughts and actions were whispered, not spoken.

Tessa plucked a shrimp from the paper bag, popped it into her mouth, then handed the bag to me. “You must live in the area if you were invited to Daniel’s party.”

I nodded, biting into a shrimp to stall. “My family owns a beach house north of the wharf. We are staying for the summer.” I hesitated, then asked, “And you, Tessa? Do you live near here?”

She nodded, taking another slow sip of beer. “I have lots of family in the area. Too many. I am looking forward to a summer break before I start at Harvard this fall. I am nineteen. You?”

I stared down at the sand. “Seventeen. Just one more year of school.”

Her lips curved in a smirk. “I hated school. I am a bit of a rebel.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “What was your crime, Amelia? Why did your parents impose all the rules on you?”

The question caught in my throat. I broke eye contact, turning my gaze to the sea where the water glinted like shards of glass. “I… I kissed a girl, and Dad saw it happen.”

Tessa reached out, her fingers brushing under my chin to turn my face back toward hers. “You are ashamed of that, Amelia?”

I nodded, then shook my head, my voice low and unsteady. “She was my best friend, and she distanced herself from me after that. I lost my friends. I am not ashamed of why… what is in me that wanted to kiss her… but more afraid of the outcome.”

Tessa’s eyes sparkled as though she had been waiting for this moment. “Is that why you were checking me out, Amelia? Are you attracted to me?”

Heat rose to my face. I could not quite meet her eyes, but I offered the smallest of nods.

Tessa’s smile bloomed wide, radiant and unafraid. “Good. Because I am attracted to you too.”

Tessa leaned closer, her voice soft but steady. “Would you like to hang out with me this summer?”

I could not stop my smile. “That would be the absolute best, but I am not sure how I could with my parents.”

Her grin only widened. “I can help with that if you want. I have lived my entire life knowing how to slip through corridors of expectations and rules. I am good at reading people, at telling them exactly what they want to hear. But I would never want to pull you away from the path you want to follow. I just… I would hate to see the passion in your eyes dimmed by culture and rules. We only live life once, and I do not want mine filled with regrets.”

Her words struck something deep inside me. We only live once. For me, this was already a second chance, and there was no way I wanted to repeat the same mistakes, living the way everyone else expected me to.

“As long as no one gets hurt,” I whispered. “I want to honor my parents, but I also want to live my own life. I want to be a writer. I do not want to be forced into marrying some Daniel just to expand my family’s influence, then push out 2.3 children, adopt a dog, buy the white picket fence, and spend the rest of my days as an unhappy homemaker. I want to travel, I want to find the love of my life, and I want, at the end, to have no regrets.”

Tessa brushed a strand of hair from my eyes with a tenderness that sent a shiver through me. “There it is,” she said. “The passion.”

“When do you need to be home?” she asked.

“Seven-thirty. My mom is picking me up.”

She reached down, squeezed my hand. “Then let us finish this and walk the beach toward your place. It would be good to get you home well before your mom leaves.”

A pang of worry stirred in me at the thought of being seen with another woman. Before I could say anything, she leaned in and kissed my cheek.

“Do not worry about your parents,” she murmured. “Believe me, once I meet them, I would be surprised if they did not open the door wide for me to spend the summer with you.”

My face grew hot at her touch, my heart beating faster than the waves behind us. “If nothing else,” I said, trying to steady my voice, “I got to spend time with the most beautiful woman in Cape Cod for a few hours before I am chained to a post for the rest of the summer.”

Her laughter rose like music. She caught my hand again. “We are going to have so much fun together,” she said. “I promise.”

 

***

 

We had lingered over the food until not a crumb remained, laughing and talking for what felt like forever. I could not believe how much I had learned about her in just an hour, tiny details, quirks, hopes. By the time we finally rose to head back, the sun had slid lower, gilding everything in gold. We walked the long stretch toward the beach house, another hour drifting by as naturally as the tide.

At the wharf, she stopped us, reaching up to gather her hair again. I did the same with my ribbon. The simple gesture seemed deliberate, as if she wanted me to pause and look at her one more time. When she finished, she gave me a half-smile, and we continued.

As the beach house came into sight, my nerves began to return. I let a sliver of space open between us, but she noticed instantly and brushed against me again, close enough that I felt the warmth of her arm.

“Trust me,” she whispered.

I nodded, though my chest tightened.

Inside, the kitchen lights spilled across the sand-colored floor. My mom stood at the counter, stirring something with her back to us. My dad entered from the living room.

“Why are you here early?” Mom asked, turning sharply. “I was going to pick you up at seven-thirty.”

I swallowed, feeling my throat catch. “Mom, Dad… this is Tessa. Things did not go well at the party.”

Tessa seemed to sense the hesitation in my voice. She stepped forward smoothly, extending her hand as if she had done this a hundred times before. “It is so nice to meet you both. I am Tessa. Tessa Kennedy.”

I froze. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flicker of surprise on my parents’ faces. Their eyes widened ever so slightly at her surname. Mine must have too.

She continued without missing a beat. “Yes, I am one of those. The president is my grand uncle. Anyway, Amelia was the unfortunate victim of Daniel Sutton tonight. I know him and his family well. Daniel has a habit of taking advantage of any young woman he can corner. Amelia was such a proper lady, but his parents were nowhere to be found and there was far too much alcohol. Daniel was drunk, as usual, and decided Amelia would be his next conquest.”

Her words hung in the air like a shield between me and my parents’ gaze.

I found my voice at last. “Tessa helped me get away before things got out of hand. I am so grateful to her.”

Mom’s hand found mine. “Are you all right?”

I nodded quickly. “I am no match physically for Daniel, and Tessa stepped in before things went too far out of line.”

Dad’s face hardened, then softened as he turned to Tessa. “We are very grateful for your help.”

Tessa dipped her head as though it were nothing at all, her tone casual. “If I could be of any service, I would be pleased to show Amelia around, introduce her to some good families… and good young men.”

I bit my tongue so hard I almost tasted blood.

“As a matter of fact,” she went on smoothly, “my family is having a gathering at the Kennedy compound two days from now. I would be happy to extend an invitation to Amelia.”

Mom’s whole face lit. “That is so gracious and kind of you, Tessa.”

“It is not a bother,” Tessa assured her. She turned toward me, a hint of warmth flickering in her eyes before she faced my parents again. “Amelia is such a proper young lady. She avoided the smoking and the alcohol, and she was unfailingly polite. That is rare these days, especially around here. Do you have a pen and paper? I would be glad to leave my number.”

Mom nearly tripped over herself opening the drawer and thrusting a pad and pen toward her. She scribbled quickly as though the digits were gold.

“It would truly be an honor if you could show Amelia around,” Mom said, almost breathless. “So long as it is not a bother.”

“Not at all.” Tessa’s smile was radiant. She set the pen down and straightened. “I should be going. It is a long walk back to the Suttons’ where my car is.”

Dad shook his head. “Nonsense. I will drive you. It is the least we can do. Amelia, would you like to come along?”

“Yes, please,” I said softly, though inside I was still caught between a dizzy thrill and a rising dread.

Tessa slid gracefully into the front seat beside dad, her legs crossing with effortless confidence. I sat quietly in the back, watching as he adjusted the mirror and, with an air of formality, asked about her future.

“Will you be attending college in the fall, Tessa?”

“Yes,” she said easily, her voice smooth as silk. “Harvard. I intend to major in political science. My family insists on it, though I imagine my heart may wander elsewhere.”

I could almost hear Dad’s breath catch. The way he nodded, leaning forward just a little more than usual, told me everything, he wanted a thread, even the thinnest, to tie our family closer to hers.

The drive was short, mercifully so, yet I could have sworn the space between Tessa and me stretched farther with every turn of the wheels. When we reached the Sutton’s, she thanked Dad with polished poise, her tone light but genuine.

I slipped out to help her with the door, to at least steal one last moment. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Her hand found mine, a gentle squeeze that lingered. I walked her to her car, a tad skittish thinking Daniel might be around yet. Her car, a stunning 1963 Jaguar XK-E convertible, painted in an opalescent bronze that shimmered like something alive in the evening light. I could not help but stare as she slid behind the wheel. She waved, lips curved in a smile meant only for me, before the engine roared to life and carried her away.

Back in the car, I settled into the front seat beside Dad. His voice brimmed with admiration. “You could learn a lot from a woman of such poise and grace, Amelia.”

I nodded. “I am just thankful she was there. Daniel… he grabbed my thigh at dinner the other night.”

My dad’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “I am sorry, Amelia. We should have done a better job of protecting you.” He exhaled slowly, his jaw working. “You have such a good opportunity here. The Kennedys are among the most influential people in the world. If you play your cards right, you will be set for life.”

I kept my voice calm, agreeable. “It is a rare opportunity, indeed.”

Back at the beach house, Mom was practically glowing. She talked and planned with me late into the evening, her eyes alight with dreams of futures that were not mine. I smiled, nodded where I should, but my mind was elsewhere.

When I finally slipped into bed, I closed my eyes and held fast to one thought, that somewhere out there, Tessa might be thinking of me too.

 

***

 

The next morning began simply enough. I had just finished breakfast and was helping Mom clear the table, stacking plates carefully so I would not chip the delicate porcelain. William’s voice drifted faintly from outside, he had already found new friends, their laughter carrying across the sand like gulls.

The phone rang, shrill and obnoxious, cutting through the calm. Mom wiped her hands on her apron and answered. She glanced at me, her brow lifting, and covered the mouthpiece.

“It is another boy for you. You are getting popular.”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks as I took the phone, slipping away toward the hallway, as far from her ears as I could manage.

“Amelia, it’s Edward.” His voice came quick, anxious, yet threaded with excitement. “I… I did not want to sound so abrupt when I ended the call the other day. How are you doing?”

“I am good. Really good,” I said softly. “How are you doing?”

“I am ecstatic!” Edward nearly burst through the line. “I love being Edward. I do not know how this happened, but I just wanted to make sure you are still all right. I feel like this is a gift.”

“Me too,” I whispered, glancing back toward the kitchen. “You are in Illinois, right?”

“Yes,” he replied eagerly.

I closed my eyes and spoke what I knew he needed. “Your best friend is Bob Montgomery. He lives three doors down. You are allergic to walnuts. Your parents are hands-off, but they will want you to earn money this summer by mowing lawns.”

There was a pause, then Edward laughed softly. “Thank you. That is helpful. I already heard about the lawn mowing from Mom.”

His voice grew more tender. “You live at 9 Westwood Avenue, in Brockton. Sadly, you have no friends. I have a diary that might be useful in you understanding why.”

“I found that,” I admitted. “It has been helpful.”

Faintly, I heard an older voice bark in the background. Get off the phone, Edward!

Edward’s tone rushed, urgent. “I am thankful. I wish you a good life, Amelia. It is unlikely I can call again.”

My throat tightened. “Edward…”

But the line went dead.

I stood there with the receiver pressed against my ear, listening to nothing, my reflection caught in the hallway mirror, seventeen on the outside, yet carrying two lives within.

A car crunched to a stop on the drive, its engine cutting off just as I hung the receiver back on its cradle. A firm knock followed, quick and confident. Before I could even cross the room, Mom had already gone to the door.

I peered around her shoulder, my heart leaping when I saw who stood there. Tessa. She looked absolutely radiant in a cream blouse tucked neatly into a skirt, her hair loose today, catching the morning light as if it had been brushed by fire.

“Tessa!” Mom exclaimed warmly. “It is so nice to see you. Would you like to come in?”

Tessa dipped her head politely. “Thank you, Mrs. Grant.” Her voice was smooth, practiced, the kind of voice that fit easily in parlors or at grand dinners. “I must apologize for not calling, but I did not have your number. I wanted to stop by because I arranged for Amelia to attend the party, and it is semi-formal. Since the President will be there, I thought she should have extra notice to be prepared.”

My stomach tightened. I mentally scrolled through the small wardrobe I had at the beach house. Cotton dresses, shorts, sandals, nothing that would withstand the scrutiny of a Kennedy gathering.

Mom opened her mouth, ready to suggest a solution, but Tessa, as though reading her mind, spoke first. “I am sure Amelia does not have clothes suitable here on a summer holiday. She is my size. I would be happy to see what I have that might fit her.”

Mom’s face lit up with excitement. “You would do that for her?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Tessa said smoothly. Then, with that same effortless confidence, she added, “Secret Service are doing a cursory review, but since she is my guest, she will be fine, unless you are hiding something.”

Mom laughed, charmed. “Aren’t you a darling.”

Tessa inclined her head again, gracious but with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “We should go soon. I know this is sudden. Is there anything I can do to help you before we leave?”

Mom waved her hand. “No, no. You are already doing enough. Amelia is free if you two want to go.”

I felt a rush of both nerves and giddiness. Hugging Mom quickly, I tried to mask the thrill running through me as I turned to follow Tessa.

Her Jaguar glinted in the sunlight, the opalescent bronze paint shifting like liquid fire. She opened the passenger side for me herself, her smile soft as if it were meant only for me. I slid inside, unable to hide the grin tugging at my lips as she closed the door gently behind me.

I waved at Mom as Tessa eased the Jaguar out of the drive, the sunlight catching the chrome and scattering it like sparks. Only when the house slipped from sight did I finally turn to her, my heart full to bursting.

“I do not know how you did it. But thank you! You are magnificent! A classic, just like this car.”

Tessa’s lips curled into a slow smile as she reached over and took my hand. The warmth of her palm against mine sent a current through me. “So many compliments, Amelia. You will make me blush.”

The words tumbled out of me before I could stop them, giddy and reckless. “I would kiss you if you were not driving.”

The car veered gently, tires crunching on gravel as she pulled us into a small turnout overlooking the dunes. She glanced around, her eyes sharp and calculating before she turned fully to me. That mischievous smile lit her face.

“I am no longer driving, Amelia.”

The world seemed to still. I leaned forward, cupping her cheek with trembling fingers, and kissed her. It lingered, soft at first, then deepened with a hunger I had not expected to find so soon. When I pulled back, my breath uneven, her hand slid onto my thigh, anchoring me there.

Her eyes burned with promise. “We are going to have so much fun this summer. But we must be careful. There are always people wanting to get dirt on the Kennedys.”

I cast another nervous glance around the quiet roadside, the wild dunes and waving grasses our only witnesses. “I am sorry,” I whispered.

Tessa shook her head firmly, her thumb brushing against my skin. “Do not be sorry. I loved it.”

She slid the car back onto the road, smooth as ever, as though nothing had happened. My pulse, however, was far from calm. I studied her profile, the confident way she held the wheel, and finally asked the question that pressed against my chest.

“I am not a dalliance, am I?”

Her jaw tightened, then softened. She shook her head. “I do not do dalliances. I will be honest with you, Amelia. There is something about you that I want more of. I noticed you the moment you arrived yesterday. I want to know you in the deepest way.”

A smile spread across my face before I could help it. “Likewise.”

The road ahead shimmered in the heat, full of possibilities.

 

***

 

Tessa turned into a gated drive that curved between tall elms and hedges trimmed as neat as soldiers. The house that emerged was smaller than the Kennedy compound, but still striking   with white clapboard, black shutters, and wide lawns rolling down toward a glint of ocean. A fountain trickled in the circular drive, and flowerbeds lined the walk in bursts of hydrangea blue. It was quieter here, elegant in a way that felt less public but no less powerful.

Inside, the air smelled of lemon polish and sea breeze drifting through open windows. The foyer held a tall granddad clock and a mirror framed in gold. From a parlor to the right, Tessa’s mom appeared. Mrs. Kennedy carried herself with the unshakable grace of her name, silk dress, pearls at her throat, her hair set as if she were prepared for company at any moment. Her eyes lingered on me, soft and searching, before sliding to Tessa. In that brief silence I sensed something unspoken, a recognition she would never put into words.

I smoothed my skirt and smiled, careful to be as polite as I could manage. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kennedy.”

Her lips curved, faint but approving. “Welcome, Amelia. Any friend of Tessa’s is welcome in this home.”

Tessa slipped her hand into mine as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. She led me past a dining room with crystal catching the light, then up a sweeping staircase whose polished banister gleamed under my fingertips. My heart raced with every step, drawn higher into her private world.

Her bedroom was expansive, filled with sunlight from tall windows overlooking the lawn. Ivory drapes stirred in the salt breeze, and the four-poster bed seemed impossibly grand. The moment the door shut, Tessa turned with eyes bright as flame and kissed me so deeply that I nearly lost my breath.

“I could not let your kiss go unanswered,” she whispered.

Before I could respond, she tugged me into a walk-in closet larger than most bedrooms I had ever seen. My breath caught at the sight of gowns in every shade, silks and satins lined in perfect order, shoes glinting beneath.

Tessa grinned, her laughter warm. She pulled dress after dress from their hangers. An emerald that shimmered like the sea, a silver that glittered like starlight, a soft blue that could have been woven from sky. She piled them into my arms, teasing me with each choice.

“Hold these,” she said, her voice playful. “I want to see you in something that makes the world stop.”

I clutched the gowns, laughing with her, swept up in her lightness, her daring, and the secret thrill of being here with her.

Tessa paused mid-motion, a dress draped over her arm, her gaze sharpening as if she had just thought of something better. She reached for the pile I was holding.

“Hand those back, Amelia.”

I blinked, surprised. “What… why?”

Her lips curved. “Have you ever worn a Dior?”

My breath caught. “Christian Dior? No. I could not possibly.”

Her eyes fixed on mine, bright with mischief. “Oh yes, you can.”

She returned the other gowns to their hangers with swift precision, then stepped deeper into the closet. When she turned, she held an ivory gown that shimmered faintly even in the shaded light. My stomach flipped.

“With your blond hair, you will look stunning,” she said.

“Tessa… that must be worth a fortune.”

She grinned, tilting her head in that way she had when she knew she was going to get what she wanted. “That is why it is perfect. And also… self-serving.” She pressed the gown into my arms. “Go put it on. There is a bathroom for you to use, for I do not think I have enough self-control if you change here.”

As I stared at her, she darted over to a shelf, plucked a navy wide-brimmed hat, then stooped for ivory pumps that gleamed like porcelain. She set them atop the gown with a flourish.

I gathered everything and hesitated at the closet’s threshold. She had already flung herself backward onto her bed, hands behind her head, eyes sparkling as she watched me go. My face burned as I hurried into the bathroom.

The space was private and marble-cool, smelling faintly of lavender soap. I let the gown slip over my fingers, the fabric impossibly fine beneath my touch. My heart hammered as I shed my blouse, skirt, and shoes, folding them carefully aside. Sliding into the Dior was like stepping into a dream. The silk clung and flowed in ways I never would have imagined. I eased my feet into the pumps, adjusted the hat at a slight tilt, and faced the mirror.

For a moment I did not recognize myself. My reflection stared back like someone pulled from a magazine. I was sleek, elegant, and radiant. I drew a long breath, steadying my nerves, and opened the door.

Tessa bounced to her feet, eyes widening the moment she saw me. She clapped her hands together once, a delighted laugh escaping her. “That dress never looked so good on me. Wow! It is perfect!”

The warmth in her gaze made me dizzy.

“You will wear that for me tomorrow?” she asked.

I spun slowly, the silk whispering around my legs, the hat brim catching the light as I turned. I felt like a modern-day princess. “I would do anything for you, Tessa.”

She stepped forward, closing the space between us, her voice low and trembling with something far more dangerous than play. “I have a very long list of anythings growing in my mind, Amelia. A very long list.”

Her hands framed my face before I could reply, and then her lips found mine, soft yet insistent, pulling me into a promise I felt deep in my bones.

 

***

 

I sat at Mom’s vanity, watching her reflection in the mirror as she twisted my hair into a French twist. Her hands were careful but firm, pinning and smoothing until my hair looked as though it belonged to someone older, more sophisticated than I felt.

“I cannot believe she let you borrow a Dior, Amelia,” she said, her voice full of awe. “That dress is probably worth over two thousand dollars. I have never worn anything like it.”

I stared at her reflection, struck by how serious her face was as she worked. A moment like this, her tending to me as if I were a debutante preparing for a ball, was something I had dreamed of more times than I could count. “I am honored to wear it,” I whispered.

Mom nodded, her lips pressed tight. “You will be as polished and polite as you have ever been today. You have been given a rare opportunity.”

She spun from the vanity and returned with a small velvet case. When she opened it, pearls gleamed softly in the light, a bracelet, a long necklace, and earrings. Her expression softened as she placed them in my hands. “My mom gave me these. Please return them.”

I stood, fastening the pearls carefully around my neck and wrist, slipping the earrings into place, then lifting the navy-brimmed hat so it sat at just the right angle. I turned to her. “Thank you, Mom. How do I look?”

Her eyes glistened, and she shook her head. “Like a million dollars, sweetheart.”

I made my way down the stairs, each step light, as if the Dior itself carried me. Dad stood the instant he saw me, his eyes widening with pride. William sat open-mouthed on the sofa, too stunned to tease. Dad drew me into a gentle hug. “You look beautiful. We are proud of you.”

Before I could answer, a knock sounded at the door. Mom moved quickly to answer it, and there stood Tessa, stunning in a navy Chanel, her ivory hat angled just so. I had to bite my lip to keep from staring outright. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

Behind her idled a sleek black limousine, the driver standing ready, holding the rear door open.

“Mr. and Mrs. Grant,” Tessa said with effortless poise, “the event will run late, until after eleven. When would you like me to bring Amelia back? I will watch over her, making sure she stays clear of a few less desirable young men.”

Dad’s face softened. “Thank you for doing this for Amelia. As long as she is home before midnight.”

Tessa’s smile was calm and assured. “I will make sure of it.”

I looked back once over my shoulder, taking in my parents’ proud faces, then gathered my skirts and slid into the limousine beside Tessa. The leather smelled rich, the world beyond the shaded glass suddenly distant. Tessa’s hand brushed mine, and my pulse quickened.

As soon as the door closed, Tessa reached forward and slid the polished glass barrier shut between us and the driver. The faint click felt like a secret being sealed away. She turned to me, her eyes sweeping over every inch of my borrowed elegance.

“You look amazing, Amelia,” she murmured. “The pearls, your hair… it is all perfect. I am afraid others will be so captivated by you I will have a hard time getting close.”

I reached for her hand almost without thinking. Her fingers were warm, her grip sure. “I’m nervous,” I admitted, my voice low enough that only she could hear.

Tessa’s grin had a kind of mischief threaded through it. “You will do well. Just be yourself. Sometimes acting confident will make you feel more confident. The people tonight will all be very rich and very influential but remember, I did not bring you here for them. It is all a charade. I plan on staying close.”

I studied her navy dress and ivory hat, then glanced down at my own ivory dress and navy hat. The symmetry struck me. “Your dress is the same color as my hat,” I said softly, “and your hat is the same as my dress. If I did not know any better, I would think you were making a statement.”

Tessa’s smile curved like a secret message. “As much as I can in this world we live,” she said. “If you have not figured it out yet, I wanted to subtly suggest you are mine.”

I squeezed her hand tighter. “You already have me,” I whispered, “and I do not mean that casually.”

Her thumb moved in slow, gentle circles across the back of my hand. Her eyes, dark and intent, never left mine. “My very long list of ‘anythings,’” she said quietly, “is getting longer by the minute.”

 

***

 

The limousine slowed and came to a stop before a small gatehouse. The window nearest Tessa lowered with a soft hum, and I sat silently while she handled the exchange with the men outside. Their dark glasses and sharp suits made my stomach tighten, though Tessa’s voice was calm and assured, each word smooth as velvet. After a brief pause, the barrier rose and we were waved inside.

I pressed close to the glass, my breath fogging slightly against it as the grounds opened before us. The Kennedy compound seemed endless. The rolling lawns cut sharp as emerald, oaks casting long shadows, white fences stretching like ribbons. When the mansion itself came into view, it seemed almost unreal in its size, a great white structure rising proudly against the blue of the sky.

The car halted. The driver came around and opened the door with a practiced gesture, offering his hand. Tessa accepted first, elegant as if born to these rituals, then turned and offered her arm for me to take. I slipped mine through hers, my steps steadier for it, though my heart pounded as I took in the sheer magnitude of it all. Servants at the door guided us inside and through gleaming hallways until we stepped out again into the back garden.

The scene was like something from a dream. A band played softly near the terrace, the gentle notes of strings drifting on the air. White tents arched gracefully over tables draped in linen, flowers spilling from tall arrangements in shades of cream and blush. The air was warm, the sun bright but not harsh, a perfect Cape Cod afternoon in June.

Tessa led me to a small table and together we were handed crystal glasses filled with sparkling punch. The bubbles fizzed against my lips as I sipped, my nerves lightened only by the warmth of her arm still linked through mine.

It did not take long for people to notice us. A tall, broad-shouldered young man in a perfectly pressed suit approached, his hair slicked neatly back. He carried himself with easy confidence that suggested he belonged to this place far more than I ever could.

“Tessa,” he said warmly, “it is good to see you again.” His eyes shifted to me, and for a moment I felt caught in his gaze. “And who is this beautiful young lady with you?”

I sensed Tessa stiffen slightly beside me, though her voice stayed smooth. “This is Amelia Grant,” she replied. “A very good friend of mine.”

His smile deepened. He extended his hand, palm flat. I hesitated, unsure what he expected, then reached forward to shake it. Instead, he caught my fingers lightly, lifted them, and brushed his lips against the back of my hand.

“I’m Preston Langford. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Grant,” he said, his eyes still on mine. “If I may be so bold, you look absolutely stunning today.”

My cheeks burned, though I forced a polite smile. I could feel Tessa’s attention on me, sharp and protective, and suddenly I wished I knew exactly what game we had stepped into.

The party unfolded around me like a living magazine spread, linen tables, crystal glasses, silver trays carried by silent men in white coats. The smell of salt from the ocean mixed with the sweetness of peonies arranged in towering vases. Everywhere I turned there were faces I recognized from photographs in books: senators, actors, people whose names would fill the front pages years from now. They drifted in and out of our little orbit, smiling and shaking hands, speaking in voices that always seemed just a touch too polished.

Luckily for me, it was perfectly normal for the women to gather in small clusters, their hats tilting like wings as they leaned toward one another. No one questioned that Tessa stayed so close to me, her hand sometimes brushing my arm, her shoulder grazing mine as we moved through the garden. The closeness steadied me.

Then he arrived. A stir passed through the crowd like a current before a storm. People straightened, glasses lowered. The President walked out onto the terrace, his wife at his side, her gloved hand tucked into the crook of his arm. They both looked luminous in the sunlight. They appeared so young, so polished, so perfectly human.

My breath caught. A memory of a grainy black-and-white video flashed in my mind. November 1963. Dallas. The impossible grief on her face. The weight of history pressed on me and for a moment I could not move.

Tessa’s lips brushed my ear. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“He looks so normal,” I murmured back, my voice shaking.

She guided me gently to a nearby chair, her hand warm over mine. “I’ve lived my whole life in their shadow,” she said softly. “And I’ve learned one thing. They are no different than you or me. If you had the right resources and people backing you, you could be just as well known. But watch him carefully. He always needs to seem personable, approachable, yet keep an aura of authority. It’s exhausting. The stress eats at them.” Her eyes darkened. “I would rather stay hidden so I could live my life the way I want it.”

I tore my gaze from the President and his wife as they moved through the crowd, their smiles like practiced weapons. My eyes found Tessa instead, the sunlight caught in the curve of her hat.

“What do you want in your life, Tessa?” I asked quietly.

She scooted closer until her knee brushed mine and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Like you,” she said, “I want to find the love of my life. But the love of my life will not conform to cultural standards of the time. I would live in Paris, where no one would challenge who I choose to love.”

Her words rooted me to the spot. I felt my eyes lock with hers. “I would go to Paris with you,” I whispered.

A slow smile curved her mouth. “Oh, Amelia,” she murmured, “you have no idea how good that sounds.” She straightened, her composure returning as a shadow crossed her expression. “We best mingle before people start wondering what we’re plotting.”

I rose with her, the music drifting over the garden as we stepped back into the swirl of history.

Somehow, in the soft shuffle of introductions and champagne laughter, Tessa and I were separated. One moment she was at my elbow, the next she had been drawn into another cluster of women in wide-brimmed hats. I found myself alone, a focal point in the middle of strangers. Their eyes found me, curious and appraising. My pulse thudded in my throat, but I lifted my chin, straightened my shoulders, and played the part. Polished, polite, exactly as I had practiced in front of a mirror.

Young men began drifting toward me like moths to a flame. Some bowed slightly, some grinned too easily. A few spoke with the earnestness of well-bred sons, others with the smoothness of men who thought charm was a game to be won. I smiled, nodded, spoke when it was expected, all the while scanning for Tessa. Her absence felt like a missing anchor.

Then the atmosphere shifted. A ripple of quiet moved through the crowd. He was there, the President himself, flanked by men with sunglasses and rigid postures. Their eyes never stopped moving, scanning, assessing. My heart hammered as he stopped in front of me.

“Welcome to my party,” he said warmly. “I do not believe we have met.”

He held out his hand. I took it, my fingers trembling only slightly. For a breathless second I imagined leaning close, whispering the warning, telling him not to go to Dallas in November. In my mind’s eye I saw the future unspooling differently. The motorcade, the gunfire never happening. But just as quickly, I crushed the thought. Knowledge like mine would not save him; it would destroy me. They would drag me away before I could draw my next breath.

“I am Amelia Grant,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Guest of Miss Tessa Kennedy. I am humbled and honored to be here today.”

He smiled, took my hand lightly, and with a small spin turned me toward the light. A flash went off, a photographer capturing the moment. “Sorry for that,” he said with an easy shrug. “They are a necessary evil at times.” His smile returned, practiced yet kind. “It is very nice meeting you, Miss Grant. Enjoy your time.”

I murmured my thanks as he moved on, his retinue flowing around him like a tide.

I slipped to the edges of the crowd, breathing hard, my palms damp. My eyes followed him as he made his way through the garden, torn between the impossible urge to alter history and the certainty that I could not.

Then Tessa’s voice found me. “I am so tempted to show you the boathouse,” she said as she reached my side, her tone low but bright with mischief. “But the security is too tight. We should find our seats for dinner. I need to keep you close. You have no idea how many eyes are on you, and I promised your parents I would keep you safe.”

I let out a shaky breath, relief washing through me at her presence. The smell of her perfume cut through the ocean scents. For the first time that afternoon, I allowed myself to lean toward her, even if only for a heartbeat.

Tessa and I found our seats at one of the long white-clothed tables. A servant in a crisp jacket pulled out my chair, and I smoothed my dress as I sat, acutely aware of the elegance surrounding me. My eyes stole to Tessa. She seemed to flow into every conversation as though she were water, slipping easily into the rhythm of the gathering. I realized then that she had been born for this world, the careful laughter, the clever turns of phrase, the subtle nods of acknowledgment.

More people joined the table, and soon the seats near us were filled, mostly with young men who clearly thought proximity to Tessa, or perhaps to me, might work in their favor. Preston Langford claimed a chair opposite us, leaning forward as though he had been waiting all day for the chance. He spoke with the other men around us, about markets, opportunities, the next great thing to invest in. They spoke with the ease of men who believed the world was theirs to mold.

When their words glided toward us, I braced myself. They asked for Tessa’s opinion, as though it were a novelty, the amusement of hearing a woman play at their game. Tessa gave them more than amusement. Her voice was calm, measured, and strikingly intelligent. She offered a thoughtful analysis of trade and expansion, what she believed would be steady returns in the years to come. I could have kissed her then and there for the way the men blinked, caught off guard by her poise.

Then Preston turned his gaze on me. “And you, Miss Grant? What say you?”

I felt the light pressure of Tessa’s hand on my thigh beneath the table. My pulse steadied. I straightened and met his gaze.

“Mr. Langford,” I said evenly, “I would invest in IBM and Xerox. Computers will change the world, and in time they will be consumable for home use. IBM and Xerox are poised to step into that future. Coca-Cola, once they secure global distribution, will become a name recognized everywhere. And finally, I would invest in Boeing. As air travel continues to shrink the world, conflicts will be inevitable, and air superiority will make Boeing a giant through defense contracts.”

The table fell silent. Forks paused. Tessa’s hand tightened on my leg, and when I looked at her, her eyes were wide, locked on mine with something close to awe.

Preston sat back, his expression unreadable, and another man at the far side of the table leaned toward me, his voice lower, edged with curiosity.

“Who are you?” he asked.

For a breathless moment, I froze. The man’s question seemed to ripple outward, drawing more eyes to me than I could manage. I felt the pearls at my throat suddenly too tight, as if they meant to choke the words back down. Who was I? A girl from a modest Cape Cod beach house with sand in her shoes and sunburn on her nose. I had no right speaking with such certainty before men bred to believe the world owed them answers.

Heat rose in my face. I scrambled for some harmless reply, but Tessa moved first. She leaned forward with the kind of grace I could only dream of and gave the man a polished smile.

“Amelia Grant,” she said smoothly, “is precisely what she appears to be, a brilliant young woman who thinks more deeply than most people twice her age. It is one of the many reasons I admire her.”

Her hand remained steady on my thigh, anchoring me when I wanted to shrink into the linen folds of the tablecloth. A few polite chuckles rippled around us, though I could feel their curiosity sharpening.

“I did not realize Miss Grant had such an eye for markets,” Preston said, his tone carrying just the faintest edge.

“She has an eye for many things,” Tessa replied, lifting her glass with deliberate calm. “The rest of us would be wise to listen.”

I lowered my gaze, praying the conversation would drift away, and thankfully it did. Talk shifted back to real estate, to board seats, to families with names that rang through the Cape like bells.

Still, my hands trembled in my lap. I dared a glance at Tessa. She looked as if nothing could touch her, her profile noble in the late afternoon light. Then she shifted, the corner of her mouth curving just for me, a silent promise that she would shield me from whatever storm I might have stirred.

I exhaled slowly and sipped my punch, willing my heartbeat to quiet.

 

***

 

I woke slowly, sunlight spilling across my bed. The dress from last night hung carefully in the closet, its fabric still wrinkle free and pristine, the pearls tucked neatly back in Mom’s case. After getting up, I sat at the edge of the deck, legs crossed, staring at the sea. The waves rolled in rhythmically, white froth glinting in the morning sun, and for a moment, it felt like I could breathe in time with them.

Dad joined me, steaming coffee in hand, followed by Mom, who settled into the wicker chair opposite me. The salty breeze tugged at my hair, and I was acutely aware of how much I wanted, no, needed, to touch Tessa again, to feel the warmth of her hand on mine, to steal one more kiss. I had seen her among the elite last night, moving through their polished world with confidence that seemed born into her, not earned. She was brilliant, unshakable, and I was hopelessly, utterly in trouble.

Mom broke the quiet, her voice soft but tinged with curiosity. “You got in late, but still before we expected. Tell us about the event. How was it?”

I swallowed, looking at the horizon before replying. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The house, the grounds… the people. I even shook the president’s hand. It was marvelous. But I’m not sure I’m quite fit for those circles.”

Dad chuckled, the sound warm and grounding. “Of course you are. Do you know the only difference between us and them?”

I shook my head, wary of his tone. “Inherited wealth?”

His laughter rang out across the deck. “Yes! Exactly right. Money may buy the best schooling, tutors, the fanciest cars, but you are no less than them in any way. You’ve always been smart, and the way you looked yesterday, you could easily fit in with them.”

Mom leaned forward, her hands wrapped around her coffee cup. “Did you meet anyone… special?”

My chest tightened, and I hesitated. I could feel Tessa’s presence still lingering in my mind, the way she had smiled, whispered, and kept me close through the party. I chose my words carefully. “Only time will tell.”

They didn’t press further, and for a moment, it was enough to sit quietly, the sea stretching endlessly before us, the memory of last night flickering like sunlight on water.

There was a knock at the door. Mom rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt before she opened it. Tessa stood there, her usual poise slightly cracked, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. I had never seen her flustered, and my stomach twisted immediately. Something had happened.

“Come in, dear,” Mom said warmly, stepping aside.

Tessa entered, her eyes sweeping the room before she spoke. “I was hoping I could speak with all of you.”

My pulse quickened. Fear threaded through me. Had someone noticed? Her hand beneath the table? The way she hovered close to me last night? My mind spun with the possibilities, each one worse than the last.

We gathered in the living area, Dad in his chair, Mom perched on the sofa’s edge, and me pressed beside her, watching Tessa carefully. She folded her hands together, choosing her words with precision.

“I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with Amelia last night,” she began. Her voice carried that calm authority she so often wielded, but there was an edge to it now. “She handled herself with grace and confidence. The way she spoke, the way she carried herself… Amelia, you had seasoned politicians listening to you. At dinner, when Preston Langford asked about investments, you answered with foresight beyond your years. I watched the entire table fall silent. Even the older men, the ones who rarely pause long enough to let a woman finish a sentence, were leaning in to hear your opinion.”

Heat flushed my cheeks, though I tried to keep my expression steady.

Tessa continued, her eyes locked on my parents now. “It was not only that. She managed to capture attention without looking like she was trying. People notice that sort of thing. They remember it. And when someone new appears in our circles, looking like she belongs, speaking like she belongs… it creates ripples. People even hinted to me that Amelia reminds them of Grace Kelly.”

Mom smiled, pleased. Dad chuckled as if it were a compliment paid to him as well. But I saw the seriousness in Tessa’s eyes. She was not praising me for the sake of praise. She was warning us.

Mom’s face lit up. “She has always been remarkable. I am glad she was noticed.”

Tessa nodded, then sighed softly. “It may or may not be a good thing. All morning, people have been calling me. They want to know who Amelia is.”

Mom waved her hand as if brushing away the concern. “That is wonderful news. It means she made an impression.”

But Tessa shook her head firmly. “I’ve seen this happen before. Someone new. Someone beautiful, articulate, and smart steps into the circle, and it stirs a frenzy. People begin digging. It rarely ends as a blessing.”

Dad chuckled under his breath, unconcerned. “You worry too much, Tessa. They will lose interest by next week.”

As if summoned by fate, the phone rang from the hallway. Dad rose, muttering something about timing, and answered it. We could hear his voice carrying back into the room.

“Yes… Yes, that’s right. Amelia Grant. She is seventeen. Brockton, Massachusetts… No, this is her first time attending… Yes, I can confirm that…”

Tessa’s eyes flicked to mine, a shadow of worry tightening her expression. I felt heat crawl up my neck.

Dad returned, adjusting his glasses. “That was the White House photographer. He wanted to gather details about Amelia. He said the photo from last night will be released to the press.”

My breath caught. My face in newspapers. Questions I could not possibly answer.

Tessa lowered her gaze, her voice quiet but certain. “I am sorry. This is exactly what I feared.”

Mom, however, smiled as if we had all been handed a gift. “Whatever for? This is wonderful news. Imagine, our Amelia in the papers!”

I forced a small smile, though my hands tightened in my lap. Wonderful was not the word that came to mind.

I rose from the sofa, smoothing my skirt as if that would steady my pulse. “Would you excuse us?” I asked softly. “I would like a word with Tessa alone.”

Mom’s eyes brightened, and Dad gave a small nod, both of them clearly delighted at the prospect. I knew they would use the time to whisper about opportunities and introductions, about what my presence in that glittering world might mean for his work.

I led Tessa upstairs to my room, closing the door behind us with a quiet click. When I turned to face her, my breath caught. A thousand things swirled inside me, longing, fear, gratitude, and I forced the words into a whisper.

“Last night… it was the most painful night I have ever had.”

Her brow furrowed as she stepped forward. “Why?”

I swallowed, my throat tight. “Because I wanted to touch you so badly, but it was forbidden. To be that close to you without…” My voice faltered.

Tessa crossed the room in two strides. She cupped my face, her hands cool and steady, and kissed me with a passion that left me dizzy. My back brushed against the edge of the dresser before she finally drew away.

Her eyes burned into mine. “I felt the same. Do you know how hard it was to sit there, to keep my hand on your thigh when all I wanted was more? And then at the table… Amelia, when you spoke with such conviction, such brilliance… I found even more things to love about you.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I lowered my gaze, but she tipped my chin up again.

“Your parents see this as a good thing,” she continued, her voice quieter now. “But Amelia, you don’t know just how much of a stir you caused. People notice. Things might get… crazy.”

I nodded, heart hammering. “Nothing will change how I feel about you.”

Her lips curved into that smile I was beginning to crave. “Nor I about you.”

I reached for the dress where I had hung it carefully on my wardrobe door, holding it out. “You should take this back. I was only borrowing it.”

But Tessa shook her head. She took the gown from me, lifted it with both hands as though it were a sacred thing, and then rehung it with deliberate care.

“Amelia,” she said firmly, “I’m giving you the dress. You keep it.”

My breath caught. “But…”

She turned to me, her tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s yours, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

I stole one more kiss before I dared to lead Tessa back downstairs. My lips still tingled, my chest was alive with a nervous, unsteady rhythm that I could not hide no matter how calm I tried to appear. The living room waited below, my parents perched in anticipation.

The moment they saw us, Mom’s face lit with an almost mischievous brightness. “Tessa, why don’t you stay for dinner?” she asked, her tone as though she had already decided it would be so.

For the briefest instant, I thought Tessa might hesitate, but she did not. She straightened her shoulders, a touch of her old confidence returning, and replied with her usual graciousness. “I would be delighted, Mrs. Grant. Thank you.”

At first, I wondered if this was wise. More time together meant more chances to be caught, to slip, to reveal what should not be revealed. But then I saw how my parents looked at her, how they seemed eager to nurture the connection, and I realized it also meant more hours where I could breathe beside her without excuse.

The afternoon passed in a gentle, golden sort of harmony. William, who had been unusually quiet at breakfast, seemed almost bewitched by her presence. He followed Tessa about the house, asking questions, laughing at her smallest jokes, and at one point blushing so deeply that I suspected he was suffering his first true crush. Tessa bore it all with warmth and patience, never once brushing him aside. Watching her with him only deepened the ache inside me.

Later, we played a game at William’s insistence. Charades, of all things, and though I barely had the heart for it, I played along. Tessa made it impossible not to laugh. She was hopelessly bad at pretending, her elegance betrayed by her inability to mimic anything without dissolving into giggles. I had never seen her laugh so freely.

By late afternoon, Mom disappeared into the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans telling us she had taken dinner into her own hands. When Tessa and I offered to help, Mom waved us away with a smile that carried just enough finality to leave no room for argument. I knew then what she was doing. She wanted control over the evening, wanted every detail to be perfect. She was trying to make an impression that would last in Tessa’s mind, just as Tessa had made one in hers.

I sat watching the sunlight creep across the floorboards, listening to Tessa’s voice fill the room, and wondered how much longer I could keep from reaching for her hand.

Dinner began like a dance, each of us stepping carefully in rhythm. Dad asked Tessa about her studies, Mom complimented her poise, and William, cheeks still faintly pink, stared at her as though she were some vision conjured from one of his adventure books. Tessa returned every word with grace, but beneath the table, our legs brushed and lingered. It was the only rebellion I dared allow, and even that sent a tremor through me.

Halfway through the roast chicken, a sharp rap came at the front door. We all froze for a moment before Mom rose. Her heels clicked across the wood floor, and soon her voice floated back, polite but surprised. When she returned, a uniformed messenger had already gone, leaving only a sealed envelope in her hand.

“It is addressed to you, Amelia,” she said, laying it before me with deliberate care, as if she feared it might vanish if she looked away.

I broke the seal with trembling fingers. The paper inside was thick, the ink precise. I read the words silently once, then again, before my stomach tightened. Without comment, I passed the letter to Mom.

She read it aloud, her tone careful, deliberate:

“Miss Amelia Grant, I respectfully request the honor of escorting you to dinner at a time of your convenience. Should you be agreeable, I will await word of your acceptance through your family’s preferred channel of reply. With all courtesy, Preston William Langford.”

Mom looked up, eyes bright with curiosity. “And who is Preston Langford?”

Before I could find my voice, Tessa answered. “His family has long ties with Washington society. His dad is a prominent attorney, his mom sits on half a dozen boards. He is well-spoken, well-placed… and quite sought after.” She kept her tone smooth, but her eyes flickered toward me, a glint of something sharper hiding there.

I wanted to protest, to say aloud that it was not a good idea, that I could not bear the thought of sitting across a table from anyone but Tessa. Yet Mom and Dad exchanged pleased glances, their smiles almost conspiratorial.

“This is excellent,” Dad declared, carving into his chicken with renewed energy. “Langford is a fine name. A dinner could mean opportunities… social and otherwise.”

“I agree,” Mom chimed in, folding the letter neatly. “You should accept, Amelia. It would reflect well on our family.”

I lowered my eyes to my plate, my appetite vanished. Every part of me resisted, yet the weight of their approval pressed down, leaving me silent. Under the table, Tessa’s leg pressed more firmly against mine, and I clung to that quiet defiance as though it were the only truth I had left.

Dad’s tone carried that familiar edge of finality. “Amelia, you should accept. A dinner with Preston Langford is not an offer one tosses aside lightly.”

I swallowed, summoning what courage I could. “But I am only seventeen, Dad. He is likely at least twenty-two…”

“Twenty-three,” Tessa corrected gently, her voice steady, though her eyes flickered toward me.

Mom leaned forward, her hands folded neatly on the table. “All the same, it is a very good opportunity. At a public restaurant, there is no reason to fear. If it eases your mind, we can arrange an impromptu gathering with his parents first. That way, everything will be proper.”

Her words closed around me like a cage. I could not breathe. Pushing back from the table, I forced my voice to remain calm. “May I be excused?”

No one had the chance to answer. I was already on my feet, climbing the stairs, each step heavier than the last. My room felt cold and small when I shut the door behind me. I pressed my forehead against the frame, the echoes of voices still chasing me.

Would I ever be able to choose for myself? To live the life I wanted, not the one laid out like a well-pressed dress at the foot of my bed? My thoughts tangled with memories of Daniel Sutton, his grasping hands and false charm, mixing with the pressure of my parents’ smiles. Choice seemed further away with every breath.

A soft knock broke through my storm. Then the door eased open, and Tessa stepped inside, closing it carefully behind her. She did not ask permission. She did not need to.

“How can I help, Amelia?” she asked, her voice hushed, stripped of its usual poise.

I moved into her arms without a word. Her embrace was steady, and I sank into it, holding on longer than I dared allow myself at dinner.

After a moment, she spoke against my hair. “My parents have been trying to set me up for years. Being a Kennedy means always being on display, always expected to smile, to play the part.”

I pulled back enough to look into her face. “How do you do it? How do you give the impression you are happy and content when you want something else entirely?”

I hesitated, then asked more softly, the words trembling out of me, “I am assuming you want similar things as I do.”

Her eyes softened. She led me to the bed, and we sat close enough our knees touched. “Yes, Amelia. I want the same as you. But there is no harm in saying yes to Preston to keep your parents happy. Even though I will despise every second of it, I know Preston. He is a good man. He is polite, kind, and honorable. Not like Daniel at all. He would never try to take advantage of you.”

Her gaze fell, and for the first time I saw guilt flicker across her face. “I am sorry. This is all my fault. I wanted you near me, and I could not bear to face another event without you at my side.”

Her words struck deep, because they echoed my own hidden truth.

 

***

 

By the next morning the world felt different. The newspaper article had gone out, and there I was, front page, smiling beside the president. By mid-morning the phone had rung seven times, two reporters had knocked at the door, two more invitations had arrived, and a magazine writer had left his card. A young man I half remembered from the event even came to the house, asking for me like some character out of a romance novel. Dad came home early, his tie loose, his jaw tight, to try and manage it all.

I sat curled on the couch with my knees pulled tight against my chest, watching the flurry move around me like I was not part of it. In another sixty years people would call it my fifteen seconds of fame, little blips on glowing screens that vanished by the end of the day. But this was 1963. Sensations rose and faded more slowly, the wave carrying on for weeks instead of minutes.

Mom swept into the living room, her tone brisk and purposeful. “Up, Amelia. Tessa is here, and we are going shopping. You need proper clothes. Something for a fine dinner out, and a wardrobe for everyday outings as well.”

A protest formed in my throat, but it never left. The only good part was that Tessa was coming.

Minutes later we were in the car. Dad drove, his eyes locked on the road as though glare alone could hold back the reporters. Mom sat beside him, her lap stacked with papers and envelopes, reading aloud each new request as if she were my secretary.

Tessa and I sat in the back seat together. Her perfume reached me with every breath, light and elegant, and I leaned slightly toward her without meaning to. The storm of voices from the front faded. For a moment, all I heard was the steady hum of the tires and the quiet presence of Tessa beside me.

“First stop, Filene’s,” Tessa suggested as the car rolled through Hyannis. She said it with that casual confidence of hers, like she already knew it was the only proper answer.

When we stepped through the glass doors, I nearly froze. The polished floors gleamed, mannequins posed like royalty in the windows, and the smell of perfume hung heavy in the air. Before I could even gather my bearings, the owner herself came rushing from behind the counter.

“Miss Grant!” Her eyes lit up as though I were an old friend. She snatched up the newspaper folded neatly by the register and held it high. “I knew it was you. Look at this! You’re on the front page!”

I hesitated, but she pressed the paper into my hands. It was the first time I had actually seen it. The photo stunned me. It was crisp, not at all the grainy blur I had expected. The sun lit my face just so, the pearls catching the light, and for a terrible moment I understood what others had been saying. I did look a little like Grace Kelly standing beside the president, Cape Cod in the background like a stage set.

My cheeks burned. “I do not look like that in real life.”

Tessa leaned close, her lips almost brushing my ear as she whispered, “Yes, you do.”

Mom’s voice carried across the store. “Amelia needs two formal dinner dresses, two social event outfits, and two casual outfits. She must be ready for any invitation.”

I groaned. “Six outfits? Mom, when am I ever going to wear…”

“Sooner than you think,” Tessa interrupted smoothly. She was already drifting toward a rack of silk gowns, her hand brushing the fabric like it belonged to her. “Better to be ready than scrambling later.”

And so it began. For the next three hours I was a mannequin. Dress after dress, skirt after skirt, blouses, jackets, pants. At first, I thought it would all blur together, but Tessa’s influence quickly became obvious.

Mom pointed toward a conservative blue sheath dress. “That one. It would be very respectable.”

Tessa shook her head gently. “Respectable is safe, Mrs. Grant. But Amelia isn’t safe, she’s memorable.” She held up an ivory gown with a daring neckline. “This sets trends, not follows them.”

I whispered from inside the dressing room as I wriggled into the gown, “Tessa, I can’t wear half these things. They’ll all stare at me.”

She slipped inside the curtain just far enough to adjust the straps on my shoulders. Her fingers lingered a second too long. “Let them stare,” she murmured. “The point is to make them see you, not forget you.”

Mom hovered near the racks, fingers tugging at hems as if searching for something solid, respectable. “This one,” she said firmly, pulling out a navy sheath dress that looked like it belonged to a governor’s wife. “It is elegant, dignified. A safe choice.”

Tessa stood opposite her, holding up a navy gown with a slit on the leg area something Mom would ever approve. “Safe,” she repeated, her smile polite but pointed, “is another word for forgettable. Amelia isn’t forgettable.”

Mom stiffened. “She’s seventeen. She doesn’t need to be… provocative.”

Before I could shrink away, the store owner appeared between them, a swath of silk scarves draped over her arm like banners. Her eyes gleamed with the kind of authority only a woman who lived and breathed fashion possessed.

“Mrs. Grant,” she said warmly, “your daughter is already on the front page beside the President of the United States. The world has seen her. She cannot step back into the shadows now.” She lifted the gown from Tessa’s hands and held it up to my shoulders, her voice dropping lower, conspiratorial. “This, my dear, is Paris. Straight from the Rue Montaigne. You would see it in Milan too, just ahead of the season. Daring, but refined.”

As if to prove her point, a woman walked past the shop window outside, wearing a plain cotton skirt and blouse. The store owner gave a soft tsk. “There… do you see? Perfectly fine, but you would never see Grace Kelly in that. Entirely forgettable. And Amelia Grant is not forgettable.”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks, though not from embarrassment. The way she said it, Amelia Grant, not forgettable, made something flutter inside me.

Mom pressed her lips together. “I only want her to be taken seriously.”

Tessa stepped closer, her tone gentle but unyielding. “She will be. But seriousness doesn’t require dullness. Paris teaches us that power lies in presence. And Amelia has presence in abundance.”

The store owner nodded sharply. “Exactly. She has the face and the carriage to set trends, not follow them.”

I smoothed my hands over the gown, the fabric cool and impossibly fine beneath my fingertips. “I don’t know if I can live up to all this,” I whispered.

Tessa caught my reflection in the mirror. “You already are,” she murmured, so low only I could hear.

Even the casual wear she chose pushed boundaries. Capri pants paired with sharp blazers, bright colors instead of pastels. Every time Mom raised an eyebrow, Tessa countered with a calm, “Trust me. This will be the future.”

By the time I emerged in the last outfit, a chic pair of tailored trousers with a crisp blouse, I felt both exhausted and strangely exhilarated. The mirror showed someone older, bolder, someone who might actually belong in the world I had stumbled into.

Tessa caught my reflection in the mirror beside mine. “Perfect,” she said softly. “Exactly as I imagined.”

And in that moment, it was hard to tell if she was talking about the clothes or me.

Dad finally called a halt to the shopping spree. The car was stacked with boxes tied with beautiful ribbons, each one holding the carefully selected outfits Tessa had helped pick. I could barely believe how much had changed in a single afternoon. As we drove back to Cape Cod, Mom thanked Tessa for all her help, her tone warm but still tinged with a hint of skepticism over some of the more daring outfits. Tessa simply smiled, gracious and confident as always.

When we pulled into the driveway, Tessa leaned over and squeezed my hand. “You’ll look amazing,” she said softly. Then she waved goodbye, slipping out of the car with that effortless poise that made my chest ache. Internally, I pouted. Another day gone without a single quiet moment alone with her.

Once we were inside, William burst through the front door, his face lighting up at the sight of us. “Amelia! You’ll never guess how many people came by the beach house today! Mom, Dad, what’s going on?”

I gave a small shrug and grabbed the boxes from the car, heading straight to my room. I needed to put these away before I even tried to think about anything else.

Minutes later, there was a soft knock at my door. “Come in,” I called, still breathing a little heavy from carrying all the boxes upstairs.

Mom stepped inside, her smile bright, but I could see the purposeful gleam in her eyes. “Amelia,” she began, “we’ve decided who we’re accepting for the dinners after the article yesterday.”

I froze, mid-motion, the satin of a dress slipping from my fingers. “Decided?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, placing a folder on my bed. “We sent formal responses to Preston Langford for dinner tomorrow night and Samuel Renton the night after. And we think it would be wise to schedule an interview as well. Perhaps a brief piece in the Cape Cod Gazette.”

I sank onto the edge of my bed, speechless for a moment. The world felt heavy, and I could feel panic curling in my chest. “Don’t I… get any say in this?” I finally found my voice, trembling but loud enough.

Mom shook her head. “Preston and Samuel come from very influential families. These connections will help your dad’s business and put you in a position to be set for life.”

I swallowed hard, my hands clenched in my lap. “I… I want love, not connections.”

Mom shrugged lightly, almost as if that were an expected comment. “That’s why you’re going on these dinners, Amelia. To see if you could actually love one of them.”

She left then, closing the door quietly behind her, and for the first time, I really understood why my predecessor had run away. The pressure of other people deciding my life, the constant burden to be beautiful, polite, strategic, it was suffocating. And now I had to figure out how much of myself I was willing to surrender to survive in this world.

I stared at the boxes on the floor, the ribbons glinting, and for the first time, I truly felt the sharp edge of the life I had inherited.

 

***

 

I came down the stairs, still brushing the last of the sleep from my eyes, only to have Mom shake her head the moment she saw me. “You’ll need to change into one of the new casual outfits after breakfast,” she said, her tone more businesslike than usual. “We can’t have someone taking a picture of you when you aren’t looking your best. A writer from the Gazette will be coming tomorrow.”

I paused mid-step and looked at her, my stomach twisting. “I’m new to all of this,” I admitted softly. “And Tessa has been a big help. Can I at least spend some time with her to prepare?”

Mom’s face softened slightly, and she nodded. “That’s a good idea, if she can spare the time.”

Breakfast passed in a blur, and I quickly changed into one of the pants outfits Tessa had chosen. It was smart, chic, and surprisingly comfortable. Just as I was slipping my blouse into place, Tessa arrived, looking effortless and radiant in a light linen dress. I felt a flutter in my chest.

We headed straight to the beach, the morning sun warming our backs. At least Mom wasn’t hovering with more rules, no threats hanging over my head. Once we were out of earshot, Tessa reached over and took my hand, her thumb brushing softly over my knuckles. “You look beautiful,” she said, her eyes holding mine in a way that made my chest tighten.

I stopped walking and couldn’t keep my gaze from hers. “Can I… can I run away with you?” I whispered, the words raw and desperate.

Tessa’s smile was soft, almost secretive. “I would like that very much,” she murmured.

Suddenly, tears slipped down my cheeks. “Mom and Dad have two dinner dates and a newspaper interview set up for me over the next two days,” I admitted, voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

Tessa pulled me close, her arms steady around me. “Maybe it will blow over soon,” she said gently.

Even as she spoke, the sharp clicks of a camera shutter made me jump. A photographer was crouched on the sand, snapping pictures. “You’re Amelia Grant from the newspaper article yesterday,” he said quickly, voice clipped with urgency. “You two look gorgeous. I’m doing an article on the latest beach fashions. I’d love to include you both.”

Tessa didn’t miss a beat. She handled him with that familiar grace and poise, charming him into leaving without a fuss. I stood there, stunned, my heart still pounding from the close call.

As the photographer walked away, Tessa leaned close, her lips brushing my ear. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, and I felt a rush of relief as we turned and began walking back, arm in arm, the sound of the ocean filling the spaces between our words.

Tessa and I slipped away from the shoreline, following a narrow trail through the dunes until we found a small cove sheltered by tall grasses and driftwood. It felt cut off from the rest of the world, a secret pocket of quiet that belonged only to us. We sat close together, the breeze carrying the faint cry of gulls. Tessa brushed a strand of hair from my face, and before I could think better of it, I leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft at first, tentative, but when her hand cupped the back of my neck, I melted into her, letting the moment stretch. The tension of the last two days, the stares, the calls, the expectations, all of it slipped away. We talked there for what felt like hours, sharing whispers and stolen kisses, laughing at the absurdity of how the world seemed determined to pry us apart. It was exactly what I needed.

By the time we walked back along the sand toward the beach house, the sun was lowering, an indication my dinner date was approaching far too quickly. At the porch steps, Tessa paused, squeezing my hand one last time before heading home. I watched her go until she disappeared around the bend, my chest aching with sudden emptiness.

Inside, the house hummed with preparation. Dinner with Preston loomed, and I could no longer pretend it was not happening. I went upstairs, showered, and slipped into one of the new formal dresses, a deep sapphire silk that caught the light with every movement. Mom joined me, her hands surprisingly gentle as she pinned my hair into place and fastened a string of pearls at my throat.

For the first time, I stopped fighting and simply asked, “What do I even talk about, Mom? I don’t know how to do this.”

Her reflection met mine in the mirror, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. “Be polite, be gracious, and let him see your intelligence without overwhelming him. Men like Preston expect confidence but not arrogance. And above all, Amelia, remember you are a Grant. Hold yourself as such.”

I nodded, the words sinking into me like a weight I could not shake. Tonight, I realized there would be no escape.

 

***

 

Preston arrived exactly at five o’clock, not a minute early, not a minute late. Dad answered the door, his broad frame filling the doorway as he launched into what I could only describe as the Dad-to-date interrogation. I lingered in the living room with Mom, who leaned closer and whispered with a little thrill in her voice, “He’s very handsome.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes. Handsome was hardly the point.

When I finally stepped forward, Preston turned, and for a moment his expression froze into something I could only describe as awe. His eyes swept over me slowly, reverently, and then he bowed his head slightly. “Miss Grant,” he said, voice low and formal, “you look absolutely beautiful this evening.”

The words, though sincere, struck me as belonging to another century. Still, I had been raised on politeness, and I knew how to play the part. “Thank you, Mr. Langford. You look very handsome yourself.”

His black suit was sharp and perfectly tailored, every button and crease in place. He extended his arm, and with the faintest hesitation, I laid my hand on it, letting him lead me out to his Porsche. The low-slung car gleamed in the driveway, a sleek contrast to the quiet Cape Cod house behind me. He opened the passenger door with a practiced flourish, and I managed, with a little wiggle, to slide into the seat without wrinkling my dress.

The thirty-minute drive to Anthony’s Cummaquid Inn passed in a haze of polite conversation. We spoke of Cape Cod summers, of the weather, of the restaurant itself. He asked if I had been before. I had not and he smiled as if pleased to be the one introducing me to it.

The inn was everything he promised: elegant, hushed, the harbor stretching out in soft blues beyond wide glass windows. A hostess led us to a window table, the kind of spot where the view itself felt like part of the meal. Candles flickered faintly against silver and crystal, and for a moment I forgot to breathe.

Preston pulled out my chair, waiting until I was seated before taking his own. His eyes lingered on me across the linen-draped table, and I realized that now, finally, the real date was beginning.

Dating was a strange concept now. The last time I had been on an official date had been with my wife, my wife I had in a previous life and that existed in the future. The thought sat oddly in my chest as Preston leaned forward, his elbows brushing the edge of the white linen tablecloth.

“May I call you Amelia?” he asked, his dark eyes fixed on mine with polite intensity.

I nodded, allowing a small smile. “As long as I get to call you Preston.”

He chuckled softly, then shifted, as though what he wanted to say required careful placement. “Does it bother you… that I am twenty-three? Your mom was candid about your age.”

I tilted my head. The truth hovered somewhere between eras. “In the grand scheme of things, six years is hardly worth considering in the long term. Although,” I let a little mischief enter my tone, “women tend to live longer than men. It is usually better if the woman is the older one.”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Duly noted. To be honest, Amelia, you seem older than your years, in your beauty, your poise, your grace, and your intelligence.”

I felt my smile tug wider. “So many compliments. My poise and grace, however, are rented. They expire at midnight.”

His eyes glimmered, and he leaned in, caught between amusement and something more serious. “I saw your photograph in the newspaper yesterday. You must be thrilled.”

I shook my head gently. “I am certain most women would love the opportunity to be famous, albeit temporarily. I am not like most women.”

His lips curved again. “May I ask why?”

I took a sip of water, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the question to deepen before I answered. “Because I prefer to live my life according to my own tune, not the tune of others. Being in the social limelight comes with restrictions and imposed values, subtle hidden guidelines. It is a dance I do not wish to learn.”

Preston raised one eyebrow, studying me as though I were some curious puzzle he had stumbled across in a familiar room. “You are fascinating, Amelia Grant.”

The waiter came by, setting down a basket of warm bread before handing us menus. We ordered without much fuss. Steak for him and salmon for me. When the waiter left, a natural pause settled between us. The clink of glasses and low murmur of other diners filled the quiet.

Preston leaned forward slightly, elbows brushing the edge of the table. “You have not asked about my future plans,” he said, watching me carefully.

I sipped my water before answering. “I hope you are not just following in your dad’s footsteps. I hope you are choosing what your passion is. Money and influence are nice to have, but they are far less important than love, relationships, and enjoying the work you do.”

He smiled faintly, like I had surprised him. “You are the first woman I have spent time with who is not concerned about money or status.”

“I would rather live within my means,” I said, “on my own terms.”

That seemed to intrigue him. He shifted in his chair, eyes bright. “What is your passion, Amelia?”

I did not hesitate, though my first thought was of Tessa. “I want to write. Fiction novels mostly.”

His smile widened. “What genre would you write in?”

“My imagination is not constrained to any particular genre,” I said, feeling a little spark of excitement at talking about it. “I might write science fiction, romance, thriller, mystery, or maybe even a western.”

Preston tilted his head, fascinated. “Do you have any ideas for a novel?”

I smiled. “Lately I have been considering a story where the protagonist travels back through time carrying knowledge that could prevent the assassination of a prominent figure. The challenge would be how he could do that without people thinking he was part of the plot. And if he succeeded, would he alter the future so much that he no longer existed there?”

Preston nodded slowly. “How would you make time travel possible? Would it be purely fantasy or something scientifically or at least theoretically possible?”

“I think any good fiction has slivers of truth embedded in it,” I said. “My mechanism might use quantum states. Or perhaps a nuclear blast that creates a wormhole between two points of time.”

Preston’s eyes lingered on me with a warmth I had not expected. “You are, by far, the most intriguing woman I have ever met.”

 

***

 

I woke the next morning with a sense of clarity I had not expected. The evening with Preston had been strangely comfortable. I had not been trying to impress him, and there had been no pressure, at least not from within me. I was not romantically interested in him, and yet, the conversation had bolstered my confidence. In some quiet way, it had helped me define who I was becoming.

The house was already busy when I came downstairs. My mom was at my side in an instant, insisting I needed to choose one of the new casual dresses for the interview. She pulled the two outfits from the wardrobe, holding them up to me as if the choice of fabric and cut could somehow determine my future.

Sadly, I realized there would be no chance to see Tessa before the interview, and none after either, with another dinner looming on my schedule. The phone rang steadily in the background, Mom or dad answering in clipped, polite tones, but I tried to tune it all out. I knew what I wanted now. My mind was busy, already scheming how I might achieve it in a world that was not built for me.

In 1963, options were limited. Lesbian relations were whispered about, if they were mentioned at all, and almost always in the tone of scandal. My parents wanted wealthy suitors, respectable connections. I wanted freedom. I wanted Tessa, and perhaps a life that did not fit their design.

A knock at the door broke the rhythm of the morning, followed by the delivery of a large bouquet of flowers. My mom beamed as the vase was set down, the blooms filling the room with their perfume. Tucked among the stems was an envelope with my name written in Preston’s careful hand.

I opened it slowly. The note was formal, thanking me for a delightful evening. His words were gracious, complimentary, painting me as poised, intelligent, and elegant. There was no direct declaration, but the implication was clear enough, he already saw me as marriage-worthy.

I folded the note and slid it back into its envelope. My mom’s eyes were bright with unspoken hope, but I felt only the quiet pull of determination. Preston might have been charming, but my path was not meant to lead to him.

Late in the morning, the reporter from the Gazette arrived with a photographer in tow. They wasted no time taking advantage of the light spilling through the windows, posing me near the stairs, then against the big front windows that looked out toward the ocean. I smiled as naturally as I could manage, though I could feel Mom watching every angle of my face as if she might rearrange it herself if given the chance.

Once the photographer was satisfied, we settled into the living room. The reporter, a man in his late thirties with kind eyes and an easy smile, opened his notebook and leaned forward.

“Amelia Grant,” he said, drawing my name out as though it were the headline itself. “Your picture appeared two days ago and has already caused a bit of a stir. Tell me, how does it feel to suddenly be a household name here in Cape Cod?”

I crossed my legs and tilted my head slightly. “It feels rather odd, if I am being honest. I never set out to be known. I am more comfortable as an observer of life than the center of attention. But I am learning quickly that sometimes you do not get to choose when the spotlight finds you.”

He chuckled and scribbled in his notebook. “So, you did not grow up wanting to be famous?”

“Not in the least,” I replied. “As a child, my ambitions were much simpler. I wanted to climb trees, read every book I could get my hands on, and perhaps eat more ice cream than was good for me. Fame was not on the list.”

The laughter that followed was genuine, even from Dad, though I noticed William sitting off to the side, half ignored. My heart ached for him. Whenever I could, I tried to include him in conversation or slip away later to spend time together. He did not deserve to be sidelined simply because Mom thought my future was more marketable.

The reporter continued, “Tell me, Amelia, what do you think makes you different from the other young women here?”

I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice as if it were a secret. “I suppose I am too curious for my own good. I question things. I do not always accept the rules at face value, and I have a bad habit of wanting to see the world from more than one perspective. It does not always endear me to people, but it certainly makes life interesting.”

He grinned. “I can see that. And what do you think is the most important quality a person can have?”

“Kindness,” I said without hesitation. “Brilliance, beauty, wealth… those are fleeting. But kindness leaves echoes long after you have gone.”

The room went quiet for a moment. My parents looked at me as though they were seeing me in a new light, and the reporter gave a small nod of appreciation before jotting it down.

He glanced back up. “Last question. If you could write the headline about yourself, what would it be?”

I laughed, tapping my chin theatrically. “Oh, that is a dangerous power to give me. Let us see… perhaps ‘Young Woman Found Reading Under Tree, Prefers Mystery Over Spotlight.’ Or maybe, ‘Amelia Grant Eats Entire Pint of Ice Cream, Smiles Anyway.’ Something honest. Something imperfect. I think people relate more to that than polished illusions.”

The reporter roared with laughter, and even the photographer snorted behind his camera. My mom, to my surprise, looked almost proud, though she tried to mask it with a delicate sip of her tea.

For once, I felt entirely myself and it was enough.

After the interview, I changed into one of the casual beach outfits Tessa had chosen. Loose linen trousers with a striped top that felt breezy and free. When I came downstairs, my parents were still speaking with the reporter at the door. I waited until they finished before clearing my throat gently.

“Would it be all right,” I asked, “if I took William to the lobster shack for lunch? I feel like I have been ignoring him these past days, and I would like to spend some time with him.”

My mom raised an eyebrow as if weighing propriety against my request, but Dad surprised me by nodding almost immediately. “Go on then. Just do not let the Gazette photographer catch you with butter all over your chin.”

William and I were out the door before she could change her mind. We ran barefoot down the beach, the salty air sharp in our lungs, laughing as we chased gulls and drew crooked messages in the sand. He was four years younger than I, but in those moments it did not matter. We were just brother and sister again, not pawns in someone else’s game.

The lobster shack was bustling as usual, the scent of fried clams and drawn butter wrapping around us like a blanket. I bought us both lunch. Lobster rolls, French fries, and sodas, and we found a picnic table near the edge of the wharf. We dug in with happy abandon, though I tried to ignore the way a few people pointed at me or whispered. Fame, it seemed, clung like sea salt, impossible to shake off once it was in the air.

The low growl of a Corvette’s engine made me glance up. Red and white, gleaming like a predator’s smile. My own smile faded when Daniel jumped out. His stride was bold, rehearsed, and for a moment I thought of a matador entering the ring.

“Amelia,” he began smoothly, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day.”

I felt William stiffen beside me. I drew in a breath, gathering the courage I had not had before. “I will forgive you,” I said evenly, “only if you promise never to do that again… to me, or to any woman.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes darkened, like clouds rolling over the sun. Then he recovered, masking it with a practiced smile. “Mom suggested we invite you to dinner. They would very much like to meet you.”

“Is this another invitation,” I asked lightly, “where your parents would not actually be there?”

He shook his head. “No, they will be there. They want to meet you.”

I smiled politely, careful to keep my voice soft enough that only he could hear. “Thank them for the offer, but I must politely decline. My calendar seems rather full these days.”

A small crowd had begun to gather around us, sensing drama as surely as gulls sense scraps of bread. Daniel leaned closer, lowering his voice to a hiss. “Do you know who we are, who I am?”

Before I could answer, William, perfect William, gave the Heinz ketchup bottle one last smack. The ketchup erupted in a glorious arc, splattering all over Daniel’s fine white shirt.

I burst out laughing. It was unstoppable, tears welling in my eyes as Daniel stood frozen, dripping red as though a painter had used him for a canvas.

Daniel swore under his breath, spun on his heel, and stormed back to his Corvette. The engine roared, then the car peeled away, leaving behind only the tang of exhaust and the faintest ripple of humiliation in the air.

I wiped my eyes, still laughing, and looked at William. “For that,” I told him, “I am getting you a milkshake.”

He grinned, ketchup still on his hands like a badge of honor.

 

***

 

When William and I came back into the beach house, sand still clinging to our ankles, Mom was waiting in the foyer. She held out an envelope with a look I could not quite place, half amusement, half relief.

“This came for you while you were out,” she said. “Tessa dropped it off herself.”

I took the envelope and broke the seal. A neat card slid out, written in a careful hand. It was an invitation. Girls’ night sleepover. Bonfire on the beach. Sailing in the morning. Pick you up at three.

I read it twice before Mom spoke again. “It would be good for you to meet more young women your age. Less reporters, more friends.”

I nodded, though my chest was doing a little flip. Thrilled hardly described it, though a part of me ached at the thought of having to share Tessa with others.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations. Another dinner loomed, this time with Samuel Renton. I chose the second formal dress Tessa had helped me select, a pale blue number with a neckline that made me feel elegant without feeling caged. Mom pinned my hair and fussed over details until Dad announced Samuel had arrived.

He was punctual, of course, but his energy was different from Preston’s. A little more casual, a little easier in his skin. Samuel was younger by a couple of years, and it showed in the way he laughed quickly and did not overthink each sentence.

We drove to another restaurant, equally elegant but with a slightly warmer atmosphere. Our conversation was surprisingly pleasant, lighter than the weightier turns with Preston. He asked questions, listened well, and managed to make me laugh without feeling rehearsed. By the time dessert was cleared, I realized I had actually enjoyed myself. Not in the way my parents hoped, but enough to make the evening less of a chore.

The next morning, I was woken by another delivery, a fresh bouquet of flowers, this time from Samuel. The card tucked inside read simply: Last night was wonderful. I would very much like to do it again.

Before I could decide how I felt about that, Dad came in with the newspaper. He dropped it on the kitchen table where my plate of toast sat untouched. My face was on the front page again, this time under a headline that dripped with praise. The Gazette’s writer had spared no ink, calling me witty, intelligent, charming, beautiful. Every flattering adjective one could think of.

“Over the top,” I muttered under my breath, though I could not help but blush.

The phone rang again. And again. By the time I finished breakfast, two more invitations had arrived. Mom beamed as if each ring of the telephone was a victory.

For me, it felt more like the world was pressing in, shrinking the air around me. I wanted nothing more than three o’clock tomorrow, the bonfire, and Tessa.

 

***

 

I sat on the couch with my knee bouncing like a drumbeat, my small overnight bag perched beside me like an impatient dog waiting for its leash. The beach house was chaos again. Phones ringing, my parents darting back and forth with messages and invitations piling up. I tuned it all out, staring at the clock, waiting for the sound of Tessa’s car.

When she finally arrived, I almost bolted across the room to her. Instead, I forced myself to sit still, answering my parents’ routine questions with what I hoped was polite composure. Only after the ritual nods and reassurances did I hug Mom and Dad quickly and follow Tessa out.

The second the car doors shut, silence washed over me like a wave. Tessa reached across the seat and squeezed my hand, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said.

I arched an eyebrow, already smiling. “We are driving to Mexico?”

Her grin widened. “Nope. Guess again.”

I pretended to think hard, though the relief of being with her loosened my tongue. “A drive-in movie? And you dressed like a man so we can sneak kisses in the back seat?”

Tessa laughed, the kind of laugh that curled inside me like warmth. “I like your thinking, Amelia. But no.”

When we turned up the long drive to her house, I felt my pulse quicken. She parked neatly, stepped out, and came around to open my door. With a mock flourish, she bowed. “Welcome home. Just you and me for the next twenty-four hours. No one else around.”

I blinked, then stared at her. “What? There’s no sleepover?”

“Yes,” she said, her lips twitching. “If we can sleep tonight, that is technically a sleepover. And no, no one else was invited.”

A rush of joy nearly knocked me off balance. I flung my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder. “You sneaky fox. I did not want to share you anyway.”

She hugged me tighter, her lips brushing the top of my hair. “Good. Because I do not share.”

The second the front door clicked shut behind us, Tessa tugged me close and kissed me. Not the stolen, hesitant kisses we had shared before, but a kiss that poured over me with certainty, with a kind of possession that made my knees weak. My bag slipped from my shoulder to the floor, forgotten.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against mine, her breath still mingling with mine. “I have been dying to do that since the moment I saw you at the beach house,” she whispered.

Before I could find my words, she took my hand and led me up the stairs, my heart thudding as if I had crossed into another world. We entered her bedroom, sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, and she turned with a sly smile. From the nightstand she picked up a single red rose and held it out to me.

“For you,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving mine.

I took it, my fingers trembling slightly. “You are impossibly romantic, Tessa Kennedy.”

“I try,” she teased, brushing her thumb along my cheek before kissing me again, slower this time, lingering.

The rose rested between us as if sealing a promise. When the kiss ended, Tessa tilted her head. “Tell me, Amelia Grant, did you bring your bathing suit?”

I nodded, my breath still unsteady.

“Good,” she said, her grin returning. “Go change and meet me in the back by the pool. I want to see you in the sunlight without the world watching.”

I clutched the rose to my chest, smiled at her, and headed toward the small adjoining room. My heart raced, not from nerves, not from fear, but from the thrilling knowledge that for the next twenty-four hours, she was mine, and I was hers.

The air shimmered above the water, the scent of salt and chlorine blending into something heady. Tessa emerged from the house barefoot, the sunlight catching on her dark hair. She wore a bikini, sleek and daring, a deep sapphire blue, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. No photograph or whispered rumor could have prepared me for this.

“You like?” Tessa teased, standing at the pool’s edge with one hand on her hip.

I swallowed hard, heat blooming in my cheeks. “You are… breathtaking.”

Tessa’s smile curved, slow and knowing. “Good. That was the point.” She reached for my hand and led me closer. “Come on, let’s cool off before I combust.”

We dove in together, the water closing over us with a soft hiss. I surfaced beside Tessa, my hair slicked back and immediately felt Tessa’s fingers graze my waist under the water. Every brush of skin felt like a spark. We swam in slow circles, laughing, splashing, our movements lazy and unhurried until we drifted to the deep end, arms entwined.

“Do you always look this good when you swim?” I asked, brushing a strand of wet hair from Tessa’s forehead.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Tessa’s hand traced down my arm, a light touch that lingered just long enough to make me shiver despite the heat.

When we climbed out of the pool, water streaming from our bodies, the sunlight turned each drop into glass. Tessa handed me a towel, eyes lingering on me like a secret. We settled onto the lounge chairs side by side, the warm canvas beneath them drying our skin.

Tessa tilted her head toward me. “Tell me. How have things been since the photo with the President came out?”

I stared up at the pale sky for a moment, twisting the edge of my towel in my hands. “Busy. More dates, more invitations. The Gazette interview went well. My parents were thrilled.” I paused, voice softening. “But it all feels like it belongs to someone else. The boys are charming enough, but…”

“No spark?” Tessa’s voice was gentle.

“Not even the faintest pull.” I turned her head toward Tessa, my gaze open, vulnerable. “It is what Mom and Dad want. Not what I want.”

Tessa’s hand slid across the gap between their chairs until our fingers touched. “Then what do you want, Amelia?”

I rose from my lounge chair and crossed to Tessa, slipping onto the edge beside her. I leaned down until our faces were close, my wet hair dripping onto Tessa’s shoulder. “I want you,” I whispered. “Just you.”

Tessa’s breath caught. She reached up, cupping my face with both hands, her thumbs brushing water from my cheeks. “Then you have me,” she murmured, before drawing me down into a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like sunlight and saltwater.

Tessa’s house smelled faintly of lemon polish, the windows open to let the sea breeze drift through. When she sent me upstairs to her bedroom bath, I felt almost like a schoolgirl again, tucked away in some borrowed space, caught between propriety and the pull of what I wanted more than anything.

The shower washed away the chlorine but not the tingling memory of Tessa’s hands on my skin. I dressed in my simple beach outfit, light blouse, shorts, the sandals I had slipped into almost without thought when leaving the beach house. It was casual, nothing remarkable, but when I caught my reflection in her mirror I saw something unfamiliar in my own eyes. A glow, perhaps, or a daring I did not usually allow myself.

When I stepped out, she was waiting at the top of the stairs. Tessa leaned against the wall, her smile soft, eyes bright. She crossed the space between us in three long strides and kissed me with such quiet certainty that my knees weakened. Then she drew back with a playful look. “My turn,” she said, brushing her lips once more over mine before slipping past me toward the bath. “Make yourself at home.”

I lingered for a moment, hands trembling slightly at my sides, then wandered down the staircase. The house felt empty but not lonely, every corner carrying her mark, the books stacked on the side table, the framed photographs of her dad’s sailboat, the half-burned candle on the mantle. It was a home lived in, not staged, and I loved it for that reason.

I stepped out onto the deck, the boards warm beneath my feet, and drew in a breath of the ocean air. The horizon stretched wide and endless, the waves folding into each other like the rise and fall of breath. My thoughts tangled with the memory of Tessa’s body against mine, her laughter spilling into the hot air of the poolside, the taste of pool water on her lips. Every kiss we had shared so far lingered like a secret promise, growing heavier with each heartbeat.

I did not hear her footsteps, but suddenly her arms circled me from behind, strong and sure, pulling me against her. I gasped, then melted into her warmth. She pressed a kiss against the curve of my neck, and my entire body seemed to lean toward her.

“I have something special planned for you, Amelia,” she whispered, her breath warm against my skin.

A shiver ran down my spine. I turned my face slightly toward her. “Special?”

She only smiled, slipping her fingers through mine. “Come,” she said simply.

There was no refusing her. She led me back inside, her grip steady, her presence filling every space of the house as though she carried the very air with her. My heart raced in anticipation, not knowing what awaited me but certain that whatever it was, it would be unforgettable.

Tessa led me straight into the kitchen, sunlight spilling across the wide counters and the polished wood floor. The moment we stepped inside, she gave my hand a squeeze and said, “Will you help me in here?”

I laughed, setting my little bag down on a chair. “I would do slave labor if it means I can stay close to you.”

Her grin was quick and mischievous. “Good. Because we are making pizza.”

“Pizza?” I repeated, half-surprised. Somehow I had expected something formal, something French and impossibly elegant.

“Yes,” she said, rolling her sleeves up, “but not just any pizza. My mom’s recipe she got when she was in Italy. Fresh dough, fresh sauce, and if we do it right, it will taste like heaven.”

I could not help but smile at her enthusiasm. “I’m already in heaven.”

The kitchen soon filled with our laughter. Tessa tossed a cloud of flour into a bowl, and when I leaned over to watch, a puff rose up and dusted my blouse. I squeaked, which made her double over with laughter. I retaliated with a swipe of flour across her nose.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” she said, chasing me around the island. I darted left, she cut me off right, and finally she caught me, pressing me back against the counter with her hands braced on either side. She was grinning like a fox, but the heat in her eyes made my breath falter. Then, with sudden softness, she dabbed her flour-covered fingertip against the tip of my nose. “There. Now we match.”

I laughed, but the sound caught in my throat as her fingers lingered, brushing my cheek. For a heartbeat, we forgot the dough and the sauce and everything else. Then she stepped back, clearing her throat. “All right. Back to work before I forget why we came in here.”

Together we kneaded the dough, her hands guiding mine, her touch deliberate yet tender. She showed me how to spread the sauce, how to layer the cheese just so, how to scatter basil leaves across the top as if we were painting a canvas.

When the pizza was finally slid into the oven, the kitchen looked as though a storm had blown through it, flour dusted across the counters, streaked across our clothes, even clinging to the floor. I was breathless, my cheeks aching from smiling, my heart racing from more than just the chase around the island.

As she closed the oven door, Tessa turned back to me with that grin again, the one that always seemed to undo me. “I have to admit,” she said, brushing flour from her hands, “you make a very charming kitchen slave.”

I tilted my chin at her, feigning indignation. “Slave labor has never been so fun.”

Her laugh rang out, low and rich, and I knew there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be.

We cleaned up the kitchen together, flour dusted on our clothes and hair, laughing as we wiped counters and stacked dishes. The scent of baking pizza drifted through the house, warm and comforting, and Tessa lit candles on the small dining table for two. The soft glow made her eyes sparkle, and I had to fight the urge to just reach across and hold her hand.

She moved to the record player and put on a low, romantic tune. The kind of music that made everything else fade. I watched her set the table with quiet precision, and when she finally looked at me with that half-smile, I realized I had been holding my breath.

The pizza came out perfectly golden and steaming. Tessa slid it onto the table, and we each grabbed a slice, settling into our chairs as the sun began its slow dip behind the horizon. The light hit her face just so, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her hair, and I felt my heart skip.

“So,” she said, taking a bite, “what has been the highlight of your day so far?”

I smiled, letting the moment stretch. “Honestly? You. But there were a few moments with William that were… hilarious.”

“Do tell,” she said, eyes bright.

I laughed, recounting the ketchup disaster with Daniel at the lobster shack. I watched her laugh, the kind of laugh that made me feel lighter than I had in weeks. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment,” I said.

Tessa shook her head, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “I bet William didn’t even realize what perfect timing his accident was.”

As we ate, the conversation flowed easily, dipping into our passions. I told her about my writing, my ideas for novels, the worlds I wanted to create. She leaned in, asking questions, teasing me about the possibility of putting her in a story. I told her about the time-travel idea I’d been mulling over, how I wrestled with the consequences of changing history.

Tessa listened, fascinated, genuinely enthralled. “You’re incredible,” she said softly. “I could listen to you talk for hours.”

“And you,” I said, lowering my voice, “you are a puzzle I never want to stop trying to solve.”

We laughed, we teased, we spoke of things we rarely told anyone else, of hopes and dreams, small fears and secret plans. The pizza vanished, crumbs on our plates and laughter lingering in the air. When we washed and put away the dishes together, our fingers brushed more than once, sending small sparks up my arm.

Tessa led me out onto the deck. The boards were still warm from the day, the last light of the sun glinting across the water. The music followed us, soft and undemanding, like it had been waiting just for us. She took my hands in hers.

“Dance with me?” she asked, voice low, playful, and something deeper underneath.

I nodded, heart hammering. She pulled me close, and we swayed, just feet apart, lips brushing necks, hands exploring gently, as if memorizing every contour. We moved in rhythm, whispering into each other’s ears, laughter mingling with the music, the heat of the day clinging to our skin.

Time passed, and an hour felt like minutes. Every touch was electric, every whispered word laden with meaning. I felt something shift in me, a deep certainty that I had never felt before.

When the evening finally settled into a comfortable hush, Tessa led me by the hand back inside, up the stairs, and into her bedroom. I felt a pang of longing even as my fingers tightened around hers, knowing that in this room, for the first time, we had no rules, no witnesses, just each other.

Tessa held my hands, her eyes searching mine like she could see every thought, every hesitation. “I’m torn, Amelia,” she whispered, her voice low, almost trembling. “I want to make love to you, and yet our world… it does not recognize how we feel for each other. I’m torn because if we did, and we never got another chance, I would be utterly broken.”

I swallowed hard, my heart racing. “And if I didn’t,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

Her lips met mine, soft at first, tasting, exploring, and then the kiss deepened. I felt her warmth seep into me, a trembling awareness of the electricity between us. Every brush of her hand along my arm, every gentle press of her fingers against mine sent shivers up my spine. Goosebumps broke out along my arms, my neck, the backs of my legs, each touch magnified a longing I had never known could feel so consuming.

Tessa’s hands cupped my face, her thumbs tracing the line of my jaw. I leaned into her, letting my eyes flutter closed, savoring the exquisite torment of wanting her completely yet knowing we had to move slowly. Every motion, every caress, carried the weight of forbidden desire.

We breathed together, hearts racing in unison, and I could feel the subtle heat of her body pressing against mine. Our foreheads rested together, the rhythm of her breathing matching mine, and a quiet understanding passed between us without words. Tenderness, longing, and the ache of what we could not fully claim yet intertwined in a way that left me dizzy.

She kissed my neck, her lips grazing my collarbone, sending a current through me that made my knees weak. My fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, and yet there was restraint, a deliberate patience that only heightened the tension. Every touch, every shiver, every whispered breath was a promise, a declaration, a fragment of the love we were discovering together.

And then, after a long, suspended moment of exquisite intensity, we paused, hearts pounding, breathing heavy, staring into each other’s eyes. The air between us vibrated with anticipation, a perfect, suspended hush of desire and devotion, leaving everything unspoken and everything possible, all at once.

I knew what we wanted, and yet what would come next belonged to a future we could only imagine together.

 

***

 

The sun caught on Tessa’s hair and illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. I couldn’t help staring, my heart thudding in my chest. Every line of her face, every quiet breath, made me ache. I leaned over and pressed my lips to hers, gentle at first, testing, savoring.

“Mmm…” she murmured, her arms curling around me, pulling me close. “Good morning, angel.” Her voice was still thick with sleep, soft, intimate. “Last night… it was so much better than I could possibly have imagined. And I’ve imagined it a lot, ever since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

I smiled against her lips, heart soaring, and we kissed again, longer this time, letting the warmth of our bodies and the quiet of the morning settle over us. When we finally parted, she took my hand and led me to the bathroom. “Shall we shower?” she asked, her grin mischievous but tender.

A long, languid shower followed, water tumbling over us as we teased and touched, laughing softly when the soap slipped, lingering under the warm spray. When we emerged, we dressed in light, comfortable clothes, and I felt a calm settle in me that I hadn’t known I could feel. Something had shifted. Last night had changed me, and the world outside could wait for now.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of leftover pizza and the beginnings of breakfast. We bumped into each other playfully as we moved around the counter, flour from the pancake mix dusting our clothes. My hands grazed hers, and it sent a shock through me, so ordinary and yet so full of meaning.

Then, unexpectedly, tears began slipping down my cheeks. I didn’t even try to stop them. Tessa froze, her hands hovering over mine. “Amelia… what’s wrong?”

I blinked rapidly, trying to compose myself. “I… I love you, Tessa,” I whispered.

Her eyes softened, and a smile touched her lips. She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “I love you, Amelia. But… why are you crying?”

I swallowed hard, letting the tears flow a little longer. “Because… this feels perfect. Waking up together, making breakfast together… this is the future I long for, the one my heart beats for. And the one the world will deny us.”

Her arms wrapped around me, tight and protective. “Shhhhh,” she murmured into my hair. “We will find a way, Amelia… because I want that too. Just like you.”

I rested my head against her shoulder, letting the tears come and go, knowing in that quiet, sunlit kitchen that whatever the world might demand, we had this moment. We had each other. And for now, that was enough.

After breakfast, we cleaned up together, our fingers brushing occasionally, little sparks igniting each time. Tessa leaned against me for a moment, resting her head on my shoulder. “Ready for some fun?” she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“Absolutely,” I replied, my heart skipping. “But I’m warning you, I’m a terrible sailor.”

She laughed and took my hand. “Perfect. I like a little chaos.”

We walked down the path to her little sailboat tucked in at the dock. The sun gleamed off the water, sparkling like tiny diamonds, and the salty breeze whipped through my hair. Tessa helped me into the boat with a grin. “Ladies first,” she said, giving me a mock bow.

As soon as we pushed off, I could feel the thrill of the open water. Tessa held the tiller, guiding us expertly while I sat at the bow, feet dangling over the side, toes skimming the water. “Careful,” she warned with a smirk, “I might make you swim if you fall in.”

“And I will blame you if I am eaten by a shark!” I shot back, laughing.

The wind caught the sails, and we lurched forward. I shrieked, and Tessa grabbed my hand, holding it tight. Our laughter mixed with the rush of the water, and I felt completely alive, free, untethered, and utterly at ease. Every glance, every touch from her sent tiny shivers up my spine.

We tried a little game, seeing who could splash the other without tipping the boat. It was less about strategy and more about pure, silly fun. I leaned over to flick water at her, and she retaliated instantly, soaking me. “Tsk, tsk,” she teased, grabbing a small bucket. “You’ll pay for that.”

Half an hour later, we were laughing so hard that our cheeks ached, the boat tilting dangerously with every playful move. Suddenly, a red-and-white sailboat appeared nearby with no one other than Daniel at the helm. We suspected he was trying to intimidate us as his sailboat was gliding far too close for comfort. “Watch it!” Tessa shouted, her hands tightening on the tiller.

Daniel waved smugly, apparently unaware, or blissfully unconcerned, about the wake we were creating. I froze as he edged too close. Tessa yanked the tiller, and the boat tilted sharply. Water splashed over the side, and in a spectacularly clumsy maneuver, Daniel lost his balance and tumbled headfirst into the water.

I gasped and then dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. “Did you see that?!” I cried, clutching Tessa’s arm.

Tessa laughed too, the sound warm and infectious. “Watch out for the sharks, Daniel!” She shook her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “You think he’ll learn?”

I snorted, leaning against her. “Not in a million years.”

We continued sailing, the near-miss adding a thrill to the morning. Every gust of wind, every spray of saltwater, every shared laugh pulled us closer. I reached for Tessa’s hand, and she intertwined her fingers with mine without hesitation. “This,” I whispered, “this is the best time I’ve ever had.”

She leaned down and pressed her lips to my temple. “Mine too, Amelia… mine too.”

 

***

 

I gripped Tessa’s hand tightly as we stopped in front of the beach house. “Thank you,” I murmured. “I loved every minute of it.”

She smiled, that calm, knowing smile that always made my chest tighten. “Maybe we can do it again before the summer ends,” she said softly. “I honestly cannot stay away from you.”

I felt my heart leap, and she added, almost teasingly, “Just remember we had Betty Milton, Samantha Rawlings, and Margaret Westing with us. We roasted hot dogs at the bonfire, and if pressed, we played spin the bottle.”

I laughed quietly, squeezing her hand once more. “I have it. Hopefully they’re too busy to even ask.”

I leaned closer, my lips brushing her ear. “I love you,” I whispered, and then reluctantly let go of her hand. Tessa watched me with a mixture of longing and amusement as I climbed out of the car and headed toward the house.

Inside, Mom greeted me immediately. “Go get cleaned up and changed,” she said briskly. “Your old clothes are fine, we’re having a family lunch and need to talk about developments.”

I paused at the doorway, frowning ever so slightly. “Developments?” I echoed, the word feeling heavy. What did that mean, exactly?

I went upstairs, carefully putting my things away. I glanced at myself in the mirror, touching my lips softly with the back of my fingers. A smile tugged at my mouth, small and private. The taste of Tessa lingered on my skin, her warmth lingering in the curve of my hand, and I let myself savor the memory of our time together.

Even though the room was quiet, even though the rest of the world waited just beyond the door, my heart felt full. And, despite everything, I knew somehow, impossibly, that we would find a way to be together.

I took one last look in the mirror, a secret smile to myself, and stepped into the kitchen, ready for lunch, ready to face the world… but still feeling like part of me was floating out there on the sparkling water with Tessa.

 

***

 

I stared at the stack of letters and gifts, my heart pounding. Flowers, chocolates, invitations. It was overwhelming. My fingers trembled as I picked up my sandwich, then set it down again.

Dad’s voice cut through the chaos in my head. “As you can see, there have been many more requests, interviews, and social events. Random young men have been sending gifts, asking for dates, but there are a few that we need to make decisions on. Preston came by yesterday and asked me for my permission to court you.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Fear, real and sharp, washed over me.

Dad held up his hand, letting me gather myself. “Samuel called and wants to see you again. Daniel’s mom called… she’s invited you to dinner. I told her about Daniel, and hopefully now he will leave you alone. We can scratch that one off the list.”

I stopped eating, my appetite gone. My stomach tightened with panic. This was not good.

Mom leaned forward, her tone a mixture of excitement and authority. “We had another call that was very interesting. Étienne Moreau works for Christian Dior. They saw the photo with the president. They are inviting you to Paris for a photo shoot. If the shoot goes well, you might be on the cover of Vogue magazine, and if that happens, you could be offered a job as a Christian Dior model.”

I coughed, trying to hide my disbelief. Paris? Vogue? Dior? My mind spun.

Dad continued, calm but firm. “We have discussed this at length and feel we may have been pressuring you too much. We think you should decide, but it must be Preston, Samuel, or the photo shoot.”

I put down my sandwich and leaned back, weighing the options. If I chose Samuel or Preston, there was a chance I could never have the opportunity with Dior. The photo shoot was a chance for something truly extraordinary. I knew little about modeling, but this, this was a door I might never get again.

“I would like to take Christian Dior’s offer,” I said, my voice steady despite the excitement and fear twisting inside me. “Would anyone go with me?”

Mom’s eyes softened. “Dad is working and can’t get away. I just checked my passport and it’s expired. Someone needs to be here for William. The invite was for you and one other person. It’s fully paid for. What do you think about going with Tessa? She’s lovely and has far more experience in these situations. I think she even speaks French.”

My chest lifted. A glimmer of hope sparked. Tessa. Of course, it had to be Tessa. I could imagine navigating Paris with her by my side, a steady presence, someone I could trust.

“I’ll ask her,” I whispered, my mind already racing with excitement. “When would they need me?”

Mom replied, “Next week.”

Next week. My heart skipped, then fluttered with anticipation. Paris, Dior, Tessa. It was everything I wanted and feared all at once.

I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining us walking through the streets of Paris together, laughing, leaning on each other, seeing the world as a secret just for us. And for the first time in days, I allowed myself to smile, a real smile that felt like possibility.

I nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. “Yes. The photo shoot feels like the best opportunity, and I am certain Preston and Samuel can hold off until I get back.”

Mom gave me a knowing smile. “I agree. Being on the cover of Vogue would create many more opportunities and perhaps suitors far more influential than the local stock, not that you could go wrong here.” She glanced toward Dad. “Your dad can stop off at home to pick up your passport. It’s still valid. I think we need to put everything else on hold for now. You need to be well rested.”

I folded my hands in my lap, trying to steady the excitement bubbling inside me. “I’ll call Tessa to see if we can meet and discuss.”

Later that afternoon, with the sun high and the harbor busy, I dialed her number. My heart beat faster just hearing her voice through the crackling line, and when we agreed to meet at the wharf, I could hardly keep myself from running.

When I arrived, Tessa was already there, leaning against the rail, her hair caught by the sea breeze. The moment our eyes met, a thrill shot through me, but with so many tourists wandering about, it was dangerous to let myself show it.

She grinned, and I longed to kiss her right there, yet I swallowed the urge and led her toward an out-of-the-way bench tucked between two weathered pilings. It smelled of salt and tar, but it was ours for the moment.

“I have something to tell you,” I began, clutching my hands together. “An opportunity. Christian Dior invited me to Paris next week for a photo shoot. I can take someone with me, but neither Mom nor Dad can come. Mom suggested… maybe you.” My voice cracked as I rushed the words. “Please, Tessa. Please, please, please?”

Her eyes widened, the surprise melting almost instantly into mischief. Her hand slipped between us, light as a whisper, and touched my thigh. My breath caught.

“A week with you in Paris,” she murmured, leaning closer, her voice pitched so no one else could hear. “Watching you do a photo shoot for Christian Dior. I think I can do that.” Her smile curled, soft and dangerous. “I’ll be a good chaperone and make sure no one tries to take advantage of you.”

I could not help the smile that spread across my face, wicked and sweet at once. “Even if you are the one that wants to take advantage of me?”

She tilted her head, her thumb brushing in the smallest circle against my leg, hidden from anyone’s view. “Especially then.”

The gulls wheeled above us, the noise of the crowd blurring into nothing. For that moment, Paris was already ours.

 

***

 

The next few days blurred into a whirl of details. Calls were made to Dior’s associate in New York, and suddenly everything seemed impossibly real. A limousine would arrive at the beach house to collect us, carry us to the airport, and from there we would fly Air France all the way to Paris. A room had already been arranged at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, just the name of it sounded like something pulled from a dream.

Mom insisted that I could not possibly go to Paris with the wardrobe I had, so she whisked me through another round of shopping. I tried not to fidget as we sifted through racks of dresses, skirts, and blouses. In truth, I felt almost giddy, not from the clothes but from the knowledge that Tessa and I would soon be halfway across the world, together, without watchful eyes.

Soon everything was packed, my dresses pressed and folded neatly into the new suitcase Mom had bought. The morning of the trip arrived, and I stood at the front door with my small bag, William peering at me like I was leaving forever. Mom hugged me tightly, Dad patted my shoulder with that proud but wary look of his, and William clung to my arm before I kissed his cheek.

Then the limousine pulled up, shining and black, and Tessa stepped out first, radiant as always, waving with that mischievous grin. My heart fluttered. We climbed inside, the leather seats cool beneath my palms, and with a smooth lurch we were off toward the airport.

At the terminal, everything felt like a film set, porters, flight attendants in chic uniforms, the buzz of many languages at once. We collected our tickets and my jaw nearly dropped. “First class,” I whispered to Tessa as though saying it aloud might make it vanish.

She gave a dramatic shrug. “I would expect nothing less for my Dior model.”

I laughed, but a rush of warmth filled me. The plane itself felt enormous, polished, and just slightly smoky. A faint haze hung in the air from passengers already enjoying their cigarettes. Once we were seated, a stewardess in a neat hat offered us champagne and cigarettes on a silver tray.

I took the flute of champagne, bubbles rising quick and restless, but waved off the cigarette. Tessa did the same, and I turned to her with a grin. “I am impressed. I half expected you to lean back with one in hand like some rebellious starlet.”

Her lips curved. “I don’t smoke. I will rebel in other ways.” She let her knee brush mine, a touch no one else could see.

I sipped my champagne, emboldened. “One day, you know, they will not allow smoking on airplanes. All this haze, gone.”

Tessa arched a brow, clearly amused. “You speak as if you can see the future.”

“Maybe I can,” I said lightly, though I meant it in more ways than I dared explain.

She tilted her glass toward mine. “Then tell me, clairvoyant Amelia, do we have a week in Paris filled with adventure… or scandal?”

I touched my glass to hers, the ring of crystal sharp and sweet. “Both, if I have anything to say about it.”

She leaned closer, her voice dropping just enough that my cheeks burned. “Good. Because I only packed for scandal.”

I nearly choked on my champagne, laughter spilling out between us as the plane soared higher, leaving the Cape and all its troubles below.

The food was a revelation. Nothing like what people would complain about years later, but carefully plated, fragrant, and rich with flavor. Each course seemed prepared to remind us that this was France, even before our feet touched French soil. I savored every bite, and Tessa grinned at me when I closed my eyes to taste the sauce more fully.

Halfway through the meal, a man across the aisle leaned forward, peering at me over his wine glass. “Pardon me, miss. Are you the young lady from the newspaper? The one with the president?”

Before I could respond, one of the stewardesses appeared, confirming it with a delighted smile. From that moment, the attention seemed to double. They checked on us constantly, refilled our champagne glasses before they were half empty, and one even whispered, “What are you traveling to Paris for?”

I told her about the Dior photo shoot, and she gave me a long, appraising look, her lips parting into a grin. “You will be perfect for Dior. Both of you.”

Tessa’s eyes danced as the stewardess moved on. She leaned close and murmured, “Hear that? Both of us. Maybe I should be the one on the cover.”

I laughed, shaking my head, but she pulled a fashion magazine from her bag and opened it between us. We flipped through glossy photographs of angular women in elaborate gowns, their eyes cold, their smiles non-existent. Tessa tapped one with her finger. “You are already more beautiful than any of these.”

I rolled my eyes. “As long as I do not fall on my face in front of them. That would make the cover of something, but certainly not Vogue.”

She laughed so loudly the stewardess glanced back at us, amused. I leaned into her shoulder, pretending to study the photos, though in truth all I could see was Tessa’s reflection in the slick paper.

By the time we landed in Paris, I felt drunk not on champagne but on possibility. The air outside was warm, tinged with fuel and rain. A man in a neat black suit held a sign that read “A. Grant.” He bowed slightly when we approached, whisking our luggage into the waiting car as if we were royalty.

The ride into the city passed in a blur of wide boulevards, wrought iron balconies, and flowers spilling from window boxes. Then, suddenly, the car turned and stopped before the Hôtel Plaza Athénée. It was more palace than hotel, its awnings bright red, its façade lined with flowers. I barely breathed as we followed the porter inside.

Our suite was a dream. Two small bedrooms opening onto a shared sitting room, all of it dressed in pale golds and creams. The balcony doors were tall and heavy, and when Tessa pushed them open, the air of Paris spilled inside. Beyond the rooftops, bathed in the orange glow of late sun, stood the Eiffel Tower.

I stepped beside her, and she slid her hand gently over mine. My pulse leapt at the touch.

“Did you know,” she said softly, “that Paris is one of the few places where two women being together is not frowned upon? Here, it is whispered about, yes, but not forbidden.”

I nodded, unable to form words. My throat was tight, my heart racing.

Tessa’s smile deepened, a secret and a promise all at once. She turned to me fully and held out her hand. “Come with me.”

Her fingers laced with mine as she drew me into one of the bedrooms.

 

***

 

The pale morning light spilled across the bed, softening the edges of everything it touched. I lifted my hand and traced the line of Tessa’s cheek, unable to stop myself from smiling. “Je t’aime,” I whispered, letting the words tumble off my tongue in my clumsy French.

Her lashes fluttered and she smiled, still drowsy but radiant. “I did not know you spoke French.”

I leaned forward and kissed her, lingering. “I barely do. Just scraps, really. Enough to get myself in trouble.” I paused, my lips brushing hers as I admitted, “I’m nervous.”

That pulled her upright, her hair tumbling around her shoulders as she looked at me with sudden seriousness. “Why, my love?”

I sat up too, clutching the sheet like it could steady me. “Because I want to do well, so well that maybe Dior keeps me here. If I could move to Paris… then you could come visit me.”

Her hand found mine, warm and sure. She kissed me softly and whispered, “If you get the job and live here, then I will move here to be with you.”

I stared at her, my heart thudding, hope and disbelief tangling together. “You would do that?”

She nodded, her eyes unwavering. “I told you, Amelia, I do not do dalliances. No pressure now. Just the little matter of our lives hanging in your balance.”

I tried to smile but it came out weak, trembling. “If it doesn’t work out, Mom and Dad will likely force me to marry Preston Langford. The only way you and I would get time together is if you came to be our maid.” I tilted my head, feigning thought. “You could make pizza for me. Draw my bath. Brush my hair. Perhaps even tuck me in at night.”

Tessa gasped, her grin widening into something wicked before she lunged at me. We collapsed in a tangle of sheets as she peppered my face with kisses, laughing between them. “Pizza and baths, is it? I will smother you with both until you beg for mercy.”

I laughed so hard I could hardly breathe, clinging to her, desperate to stretch that moment out forever.

When at last she let me up, both of us flushed and breathless, she brushed her hair back and said, “Come now. Let us get you ready for the ball, Cinderella.”

And just like that, reality crept back in, the glittering chance of Dior, the eyes that would be on me, and the delicate dream we were spinning together, fragile as glass.

After breakfast, Tessa and I strolled arm in arm down Avenue Montaigne, the morning air alive with the sounds of Paris. The boulevard shimmered with sunlight, glancing off polished windows and the hoods of black cars as if the city itself knew what day this would be. I tried to look calm, but my heart raced. Dior. Christian Dior himself. I had dreamed of this moment, yet I never thought it would actually come to pass.

The doorman at the boutique pulled the glass door open with a slight bow. We were greeted immediately by one of Dior’s right-hand men, tall and precise, as if every gesture had been rehearsed a thousand times. Without delay, he led us through the boutique and into a quiet conference room that smelled faintly of polished wood and delicate perfume.

And then he was there. Dior.

I froze as the great man entered, his presence filling the room without effort. He moved with unhurried grace, his eyes sharp and discerning, yet somehow kind. When he circled me, my breath caught.

“Spectacular,” he said at last, his voice warm but firm. “You have classic beauty, and your height will make my designs shine.”

A rush of heat flooded my cheeks. I wanted to answer, to thank him properly, but words deserted me.

Then his gaze turned to Tessa. His smile broadened. “Today I am blessed. I ask for one, and I receive two model-worthy ladies.”

He turned briskly to his staff. “Measure them both, step them through photoshoot training. I want the ivory gown adjusted for Miss Grant and the indigo gown for Miss Kennedy.”

And just as swiftly as he had entered, he was gone, leaving only the lingering trace of his cologne and an energy that made my head spin.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Tape measures snapped and whispered across fabric. Pins marked and pricked. Tessa and I were guided through a dizzying round of instruction, how to hold a gaze, how to walk as though air itself bent to our will, how to become a canvas upon which his art could live.

By the time evening came, my feet ached, and my mind reeled, but I had never felt so alive.

As we gathered our things, Dior’s right-hand man appeared once more, his voice crisp. “Tomorrow. Precisely ten o’clock. Do not be late.”

Tessa squeezed my hand as we stepped back into the twilight. Paris glowed around us, as though the city itself approved.

As soon as we stepped into the fading evening, Tessa caught both of my hands and spun me in a quick circle. I laughed, startled, but she only grinned at me with mischief in her eyes.

“Amelia Grant,” she declared, “you cannot come all this way and not see Paris at night.”

Before I could reply, she tugged me down the street with infectious energy. The lamps were beginning to glow, golden halos spreading across the sidewalks, and every window seemed alive with light. I had never felt so alive myself.

“Slow down, Tessa,” I teased, though my smile would not fade. “Are we racing someone?”

“Only the clock,” she answered, squeezing my hand. “Come on. You need to see this properly.”

We turned a corner, and there it was, the Eiffel Tower, rising above us like a dream made of iron and stars. It glittered against the night sky, every light shimmering as though Paris was breathing through it.

I stopped short, my breath catching. “It is… beautiful.”

Tessa leaned closer, her voice softer now. “Not as beautiful as you.”

Before I could protest, she kissed me. Right there, under the tower’s glow, as if the world itself had hushed to watch. And no one frowned, no one whispered. Paris accepted us as if it had always known.

I kissed her back, smiling against her lips. “I am starting to see why this is called the city of love.”

Her laugh was quiet but full of warmth. “I told you.”

We lingered there, hand in hand, until hunger finally drove us back to the hotel. The restaurant was elegant, and though neither of us had planned such a meal, it felt perfect. We ordered something neither of us could pronounce properly, giggling through the attempt, and Tessa raised her glass toward me.

“To the next cover model of Vogue,” she said.

“To the chance we could make this our home.”

Afterward, back in our suite, we pushed the table aside and played music on the little radio near the bed. The melody was low, romantic, and Tessa held out her hand with mock formality.

“Dance with me, Miss Grant?”

I curtsied in jest before slipping my hand into hers. “It would be my honor, Miss Kennedy.”

We moved slowly across the carpet, bare feet brushing, our laughter spilling out whenever we nearly stumbled. Between steps, between kisses, words came softly, almost shy at first but growing bolder.

“I love you, Amelia,” Tessa whispered against my ear.

My chest swelled until it ached. I pulled back just far enough to look at her face. “I love you too. More than I thought possible.”

The city outside shimmered through the window, but for me, Paris was no longer out there. It was here, in her arms.

 

***

 

We had a late breakfast on the terrace, the kind where you linger long after the coffee is gone just to watch the city wake. Car horns blended with the hum of voices, bicycles darted past, and the smell of bread from a nearby boulangerie made me want to stay forever. Tessa looked at me over her cup with that sly grin of hers, and I thought nothing could spoil this day.

I was wrong. It was not spoiled, but it was stolen away, swept into Dior’s orbit the moment we walked through his doors.

First came the fittings. Seamstresses circled us, tugging, pinning, snipping, every gesture sharp and sure. Tessa winked at me as one woman nearly knelt at her feet to re-pin the hem of the indigo gown. I had no time to admire her before they pulled me into a chair, fussing with my hair, filing my nails, adjusting everything I thought I had known about myself.

We ate something, pastries perhaps, though I barely tasted them before more hands swept us toward makeup and accessories. The world blurred into powders and silks, brushes whispering against my skin, jewels clasping at my neck and wrists.

Then came the car, gliding us through Paris until we spilled out at a location with the Eiffel Tower crowning the sky behind it. Photographers were already shouting, directing their assistants, shifting reflectors. A tent had been set up as a changing space.

Inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. For a moment, I could not breathe. The woman staring back at me was me but transformed. My hair had been cut shorter, styled so cleverly it framed my face like something carved. The ivory gown shimmered against my skin, every line and fold a whisper of elegance. I had never seen myself like this.

Then Tessa stepped out. The indigo gown clung to her as if it had been created for her alone. I had thought her beautiful in the morning sun, but this, this was something else. My heart stumbled in my chest. I knew then, with a certainty that shook me, that nothing and no one could compare.

A crowd had gathered by now, pressing closer as the photographers tested their equipment. Murmurs rippled through them, all eyes on us. Then Dior himself appeared, calm amidst the storm. He circled us once, making tiny adjustments, straightening a fold on my gown, brushing Tessa’s shoulder, nodding at the light.

“Miss Grant,” he said, his voice low but firm, “in the ivory gown you are simply stunning. And Miss Kennedy…” his gaze lingered on me with an approving smile, “…you are breathtaking. I think the lighting favors Miss Kennedy first. More amber for Miss Grant as the sun lowers. Get to work.”

Tessa’s hand brushed mine before she stepped forward, and I smiled as she struck her poses, elegant and unshaken, like she had been born to it. The crowd adored her.

Then it was my turn. The photographer adjusted his camera and called out, “Look straight at me. Neutral. Sophisticated. As if you own the world.”

I tried, though my heart raced. The flashes burst one after another, the crowd murmured, and I lifted my chin. For those moments, I was no longer Amelia Grant, daughter of an up and coming Cape family. I was someone else, someone untouchable.

When it ended, applause rippled through the crowd, but Dior was already whispering to his team, his sharp eyes never still.

We changed back into our own clothes and stepped out, still half-dreaming. Dior’s right-hand man intercepted us, pressing an envelope into my hand.

“Tomorrow. One o’clock. Dior’s offices. Do not be late.”

I opened the envelope and my eyes widened. Enough francs for another dinner overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Enough to feel like queens.

Tessa leaned close, her lips brushing my ear. “Cinderella,” she whispered, “I think your ball has just begun, for there is no finer princess in all the world. Soon the world will see what I see in you.”

 

***

 

The next morning, Tessa and I walked hand in hand back through Dior’s doors, my nerves hidden behind a carefully steady smile. The air inside felt charged, as though everyone had already been waiting for us. Dior himself swept toward us, all charm, and kissed us lightly on both cheeks.

“Mesdemoiselles,” he said warmly, “today is important.”

We were led into a room where several people were already sitting. Dior introduced them as representatives from Vogue. My pulse quickened at the name alone. One of the women leaned forward, her eyes narrowing slightly in recognition.

“I know you,” she said to me. “I saw the photograph with the president. The moment I saw it, I thought, ‘We must find this girl.’ And here you are.”

The table before us was covered in glossy photographs from the day before. The team slid them around with quick, practiced hands, holding them up against the light, murmuring in French. Tessa gave my hand a small squeeze under the table.

At last, they paused, lifting one photo. It was me, staring straight into the camera, chin slightly raised, expression calm but unyielding.

“This one,” the representative said with certainty. “This is the cover. It will be tight, but the timing works. We can capitalize on recent events. Miss Grant, you will be our July 1963 Vogue cover. And these…” she slid several photos of Tessa across the table “we will run with the editorial. A double debut.”

I swallowed hard, my voice lost, until Dior stood and clasped my hand, then Tessa’s. “Then it is decided. Let us make it happen.”

We were swept into a private office, and once again the pace shifted. Dior himself laid the agreements in front of us, his eyes sharp, his words soft.

“You must release your images for publication. For Vogue, Miss Grant, the payment is twenty-five hundred dollars for the cover. Miss Kennedy, two thousand for the editorial. Beyond this, I would like to offer you both something more, exclusive contracts. Dior models. Photo shoots, runway, every opportunity Paris can give you. Salaries, expenses, lessons in French, etiquette, finishing school. But those decisions must come with family. For today, we start with Vogue.”

I stared down at the papers, my hand trembling slightly as I picked up the pen. For all the weight of it, the act was quick. A scrawl of ink, Tessa’s hand steady beside mine, and it was done.

Christian Dior smiled and added, “Tonight we have a celebration and a social event at your hotel. The gowns you wore yesterday have been delivered to your suite. We would appreciate it if you could join us. The event begins at 8:00pm but if you could, please enter around 8:30pm.”

We thanked him for the opportunity and promised we would attend the social event.

When we stepped back into the sunlit street, the city felt different. The air itself seemed brighter, alive. Tessa did not hesitate, she threw her arms around me, kissed me full on the lips in the open air, not caring who saw.

“You did it!” she laughed breathlessly against my cheek.

I shook my head, dizzy with joy. “We did it.”

 

***

 

Tessa turned slowly in the soft glow of the hotel’s corridor, the indigo silk of her gown catching the light like rippling water. She smiled at me, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You are absolutely breathtaking,” she whispered.

I spun once for her, the ivory gown fanning around me like a cloud. “Look who’s talking,” I murmured, stepping close enough to breathe in her perfume. “I am so tempted to not share you tonight when you look this beautiful.” I brushed a kiss against her lips, quick but lingering.

“What do you think your parents will say?” she asked softly, fingertips grazing my arm.

I drew in a steadying breath. “I think they will allow it, but there will be conditions around schooling, appearances, the usual. And yours? Will the Kennedys let you be a model?”

Tessa gave a small, almost mischievous smile. “I’m not that important as a Kennedy. But any positive press about them? That’s gold. Dior will be seen as glamorous and respectable. They will approve.”

Her confidence loosened something inside me. I stared into her eyes, my voice low. “I wish I could marry you. But if I cannot, I will take living with you here in Paris. Would you like that?”

Her hand tightened around mine. “You have no idea how much I want this. It’s a dream come true.” Then she laughed softly, like the sound of breaking glass. “Come on. Let’s not keep the world waiting.”

We walked arm in arm down the grand staircase of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, our heels clicking softly against polished marble. The scent of roses and expensive perfume drifted upward as we descended into a sea of soft music and warm golden light.

At the foot of the stairs, Dior himself stood waiting, immaculate in his suit. He took both my hands and then Tessa’s, kissing our knuckles as though we were royalty. “Mesdemoiselles,” he said with a bow, “Paris has been waiting for you.”

Inside the ballroom, everything shimmered. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a golden glow. Velvet drapes pooled on the polished floors, and silver trays glided past us bearing champagne flutes and tiny jeweled hors d’oeuvres. The guests were a living tapestry of silks, jewels, and evening gowns. Countesses, diplomats, editors, and princes murmuring in a dozen languages.

Tessa’s fingers brushed against mine, grounding me as Dior led us into the throng. “You are safe,” he whispered. “Tonight, you are not debutantes. You are my stars.”

We moved from group to group, smiling, greeting, answering questions as best we could. I caught names as though in a dream. The Baroness de Rothschild, a Saudi princess, an Italian duke, an editor from Le Monde. Every few minutes a flashbulb went off, catching us in candid laughter or conversation.

Tessa was radiant. She carried herself as though she had been born for this world, and more than once I caught dignitaries staring openly at her, enchanted. She leaned close, her breath warm on my ear. “No one cares here,” she whispered. “No one minds that I want to hold your hand.”

My heart thudded. “It feels like another world,” I murmured back. “Like a dream.”

Champagne found its way to our hands, bubbles rising in delicate gold streams. A string quartet played near the balcony doors, and through them we could see the Eiffel Tower blazing in the night, its iron lattice glowing like molten copper. Dior clinked his glass to get the room’s attention, then gave a small toast in French. Words about beauty, elegance, and the future, and all eyes turned toward us for a moment, warm applause following.

Tessa turned to me, her lips brushing my ear. “Tonight, Amelia,” she said softly, “we belong to no one but ourselves.”

We smiled, and under the glow of Paris, we raised our glasses.

 

***

 

The scent of the ocean and flowers hit me the moment I stepped into the beach house. The limo had just dropped Tessa off, and already I felt the emptiness she left behind. If anything, there were even more flowers than before. Bouquets stacked on tables, boxes of chocolates lined up like soldiers, and letters spilling across the console. It looked less like our living room and more like a florist’s shop after a holiday rush.

“Amelia!” Mom’s voice cut through the murmur of the house. She stood in the doorway to the living room, her hands fluttering as though she did not know where to put them. “Come in, darling!”

After hugs all around, Mom’s perfume familiar and grounding, Dad’s grip solid but hesitant, I tried to condense the whirlwind of Paris into something they could hold. “It was magical,” I told them. “Unbelievable. Every moment felt like a dream.”

Mom’s eyes were bright. “Tell me about Dior and Vogue!”

I smiled, teasing. “Hold that thought.”

I took my suitcase upstairs, my heart still pounding from the flight and the gala. In the mirror I saw a girl who had stepped into another life. I changed quickly into Dior dress from the photo shoot, touched up my hair, added the right accessories, a necklace Tessa had chosen for me in Paris and slipped the photo and the envelope into my hands.

When I walked back down the stairs, Mom gasped, a sound sharp enough to slice through the chatter of the house. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my! Look at you!”

Dad stood up, his eyes fixed on me as though I had stepped out of a photograph. “Amelia…” he said quietly.

I handed Mom the photo first. “You will see this on the cover of Vogue in a few weeks.”

She drew it close, her lips parting. “You did it!” she whispered.

“I did.” My voice trembled just a little. “And there is more.”

I handed Dad the envelope. Inside was the $2,500 check and the preliminary contract from Dior. He unfolded the papers and began to read, his brow furrowing, his thumb brushing the embossed letterhead as though to confirm it was real.

“Dior has offered me an exclusive modeling contract in Paris,” I said softly, “complete with ongoing education support.”

“I do not like the idea of you being alone over there,” he said, still reading.

I smiled. “I won’t be. Tessa was offered the same contract.”

His head lifted sharply at that, eyes flicking from me to Mom. “We had a call from a prince this morning,” he said slowly, “inquiring about your eligibility.”

“A prince?” The words came out as a laugh, but my stomach fluttered.

“And Le Monde also called,” Mom added. “You’re famous, Amelia.”

I looked at them both, the flowers and letters a silent chorus behind them. “Famous,” I echoed softly.

Dad’s expression shifted, something tender behind his eyes. “What do you desire most of all?”

 

***

 

Sunlight poured through the open balcony doors, turning the little kitchen golden. The scent of fresh herbs drifted in from the planter boxes, mingling with the tang of tomato sauce and the warmth of baking bread. A dusting of flour clouded the air as I flicked my fingers, sending a spray of white across Tessa’s cheek.

“You will pay for that,” Tessa laughed, darting around the narrow island.

I squealed as Tessa lunged, the chase spinning us in circles until she caught me by the waist, pulling me close. Our laughter dissolved as I pressed my lips to Tessa’s, lingering, soft and certain.

“We really did it,” I whispered when we parted, my forehead resting against Tessa’s. “We live together in Paris. I love you so much.”

Tessa brushed her flour-dusted hands along my jaw, her brown eyes shining. “And I love you, Amelia. More than the city, more than the lights, more than the dream that brought us here. I can safely say I will never love another.”

I felt the truth of it sink deep into my chest, as steady as my own heartbeat. I kissed Tessa again, not out of excitement this time but with the quiet knowledge of forever. Outside, the city stirred, the bells of a distant cathedral marking the hour. Inside, our kitchen glowed with sunlight, laughter, and a love that had found its home.

 

***

 

Epilogue – 2025

I walked slowly along the shoreline, my bare feet sinking into the cool sand as the waves whispered in and out. The beach had changed over the years, though the salt air still carried the same promise it had when I was a teenager. William had sold the family beach house only a week ago. I would miss it, even though I had homes scattered across the world. Paris, Rome, Cape Cod. Tessa had left me her Cape Cod house when she passed, a bittersweet gift that I cherished more than all the others.

The ache of her loss still lived in my chest, sharp even after time had dulled the edges. Sixty years together had not been nearly enough. My breath caught and I wiped at the tears that might never stop at her loss, at the hole left behind in my heart. Her family had eventually accepted the truth of our lives together, even if they never said the words aloud. At some point I had stopped needing to hear them.

I spotted the weathered lobster shack, and I smiled faintly remembering the ketchup incident. I was not even the slightest bit interested in a low-quality forty-dollar meal. The magical summer of 1963 rose in my mind with a vividness that startled me. The laughter, the gowns, Paris at night, the moment Tessa kissed me beneath the Eiffel Tower. It was a summer of romance that lasted a lifetime.

For so long it had seemed like a dream, another life I had only imagined. Yet the letters, the contracts, the photos on my walls, Tessa’s kisses on my lips, and the wealth from my careful investments had proven it all real. And yes, I did buy a 1963 split window corvette which was in the garage at Tessa’s old home.

I slowed as I neared the Grant beach house. The porch rail gleamed with fresh paint, a stranger’s touch now. An older man waved to me from the deck, his hand steady, his eyes bright with recognition.

I tilted my head. There was something achingly familiar in his face.

The man stepped down onto the sand and approached with measured steps. His voice caught the years and scattered them like shells. “I would recognize you anywhere, Amelia Grant.”

My breath caught. “Edward?”

He nodded, smiling warmly. “I followed your career. You always seemed so alive. First the modeling, then those photographs of you with Tessa Kennedy. Later your novels… I read every one. But I was never envious. I was glad to see you shine; glad you found love and lived the life you wanted.”

My lips trembled as I smiled back. “And you, Edward? Did life give you what you dreamed of?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his voice quiet with gratitude. “More than I could have hoped. My wife passed two years ago, but I have children, grandchildren, and more joy than I ever imagined. From the very first morning I woke as Edward, I felt right. I do not know why it happened, or how, but I have always been thankful.”

I lifted my hand to my cheek, brushing away the tears that had gathered there. “Me too,” I whispered, my voice carried away by the wind. “Me too.”

 

***

***

Author’s note: When I did the research for locations and prices, clothing and customs for 1963, I was suddenly nostalgic for life the way it was.

Please take a moment to write a comment or send me a personal message. I love to hear from you and hear your thoughts on the story.

Avia Conner