Chapter 6
The night air was cool on Sylvie’s skin as she pushed open the slatted wooden screen and stepped onto the small balcony outside her bedroom.
Leaning her elbows on the railing, she could feel the rough wood pressing into her skin through the thin satin dressing gown she’d pulled on over what passed for pajamas these days.
When she was younger, she had gone out of her way to buy nice things to sleep in—matching sets and frilly lace.
Now, though, bike shorts and a singlet were as fancy as she got.
Despite Juliette’s teasing, she hadn’t suddenly become a frump overnight when Kenny left. It had been a slow process—losing faith in romance, yes, but more than that, in life, really.
“It can’t all be Kenny’s fault,” she said to herself. “That gives him way too much credit.” She shook her head as she laughed at her own joke. “You’re losing it, Sylvia. Going mad.”
She knew full well that sleep deprivation was harmful, but she could never really help it. Whenever she was stressed or sad, try as she might, falling asleep was a struggle, and staying asleep was even tougher.
All right, she decided. It was time to go inside and make some tea.
That was one thing Kenny had left her with when he jumped town—a set of activities that might help her sleep.
Sylvie mused on this as she wandered downstairs to the kitchen.
She was glad, for once, that they didn’t have any guests booked.
The brown glass jar of tea at the back of the cupboard only came out when she couldn’t sleep, and she hadn’t needed it for months now—not since the electrician said the whole place might need rewiring and that potential bill had loomed over her for a whole month until he found the actual problem.
She turned on the water to boil in a kettle on the stove and raised her arms overhead, stretching tall and leaning to one side, then the other. Slowly rolling her shoulders, she went through the stretches she’d been told would help her feel less stiff.
To complete her ritual, she needed a book. Despite the New Year’s resolution Lilly had mentioned, she hadn’t actually set up a physical to-be-read pile. There were a few on her e-book app, but she shouldn’t look at screens when trying to fall asleep.
“Storage room next,” she said under her breath.
Pouring the hot water over the tea leaves and letting them steep was her favorite part—the leaves unfurling, the delicious aroma filling the air. She moved to put the glass jar back in the cupboard but hesitated, then left it on the counter instead.
The storage room was located just down the hall, behind the office.
She had walked these halls so many times she didn’t need the lights on to find her way, even in the parts of the house where the moonlight barely reached.
Inside, though, there were no windows at all, so she needed some light.
A table lamp on the small desk was perfect, casting a soft, warm glow over the shelves and boxes.
She wanted something to help her sleep—something she had read before.
The shelves were cluttered with a mix of titles, some left by guests, others from her family’s collection over the years.
She tried to swap out the books on the small guest library shelf in the sitting room every few weeks, but she often forgot to do so.
“Why is there so much Shakespeare?” she muttered after finding the third volume in a row. Then her fingers brushed against a leather-bound spine with no title, and a tingle of recognition threaded through her. She took a slow inhale and pulled it down. “Seriously?”
It was the notebook her parents had given her on her thirteenth birthday.
Back then, she thought it was the nicest book she had ever seen—it even had a ribbon bookmark.
She was supposed to use it as a journal, but it felt too special for that.
Over time, the book became a repository for special things and eventually evolved into more of a scrapbook—a place to record milestones she felt were worth celebrating.
Tickets from the first concert she’d gone to. A pressed and dried flower from the corsage her high school sweetheart had given her for prom. And the Sweet Somedays list.
Starting from the last page and working backward through the book was a list of all the things she wanted to do in her life.
There was a clear change in both tone and penmanship halfway down the third page.
The original list was written in the careful handwriting of a teenager who believed she was doing something very serious.
The second author had been a twenty-two-year-old Sylvie, heartbroken after Kenny’s sudden decision to end their marriage, which had lasted barely three years.
As she scanned the list, she saw that some items were checked off, and she smiled. At seventeen, she had gone to see the band she was obsessed with when they played in Charleston. She’d gotten her own car. Gone to prom with Luke.
Sylvie squeezed her eyes shut as tears raced down her face.
Her mom had been right. She’d barely done any of the things she once wanted to do in her life, and half of the things on the list were so boring. Normal. Like getting a car. Going to a concert. Going to prom?
These weren’t big dreams or achievements. They were basic rites of passage.
The only ones crossed off were things most people did regularly.
Finding her way to the old-fashioned wingback chair with the tear in the upholstery she’d been meaning to fix for six months, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
She had been happy with her life, right? So why was the idea of never doing these things so distressing? Why was the thought of not getting a tattoo or going to the island from Femme de Force so upsetting?
That made her laugh so suddenly that it sounded more like a hiccup.
She hadn’t thought about that movie in years.
It had been her and her mom’s favorite film for the longest time; they watched it almost every weekend when she was in school.
In fact, as she leaned back in her chair, she remembered exactly how it ended up on the Sweet Somedays.
Her dad had teased them about watching it every single weekend for the entire school year, and her mom had corrected him—they’d been watching it the previous year as well.
Her mom figured they must have watched it at least a hundred times by then, and when the idea of visiting the island where it was filmed came into Sylvie’s mind and out of her mouth, her mom had said, “Maybe someday.”
That’s how it made it onto the list.
Closing the notebook, she moved over to the shelf of DVDs she hardly watched anymore.
With little time to watch TV and a streaming service for the guest rooms, it had been gathering dust. But she was aware it was there.
They first watched Femme de Force on TV when Sylvie was just a kid.
The first copy they owned was a VHS tape.
There it was. She pulled it from the shelf—a relic from Hollywood’s golden era. It wasn’t a famous movie—no Clark Gable or Katharine Hepburn names in the credits, though she always thought it should have been.
Scouting around for the right switch on the wall, Sylvie smiled as the television screen—the one that’d been removed from room five last year because it flickered—lit up.
The attached DVD player, also a room reject, hummed as it started to play.
She didn’t mind, though. Her tea was cool enough to drink by now, and she settled into the chair, letting herself get lost in the familiar title music.