Praying for Sleep

all in the city. That’s what Owen said.”
    “You haven’t been out for a long time. I don’t get into the city very much.”
    “If you mean we don’t see each other very much, well, that’s sure true. But there’s something else on your mind, isn’t there? Other than sisters socializing.”
    Lis didn’t speak and watched another bag vigorously fill with wet sand.
    “What is this,” Portia continued, “kiss and make up?”
    Lis refused to let herself be stung by the mocking tone. Gripping a bag by the corners she carried it to the culvert and slung it fiercely on top. “Why don’t we take five?”
    Portia finished filling another bag then planted the shovel and pulled off the gloves, examining a red spot on her index finger. She sat down, beside her sister, on the low wall of bags.
    After a moment Lis continued, “I’m thinking of leaving teaching.”
    Her sister didn’t seem surprised. “I never could quite see you as a teacher.”
    And what exactly did she see me as? Lis wondered. She assumed Portia had opinions about her career—and about the rest of her life, for that matter—but couldn’t imagine what they might be.
    “Teaching’s been good to me. I’ve enjoyed it enough. But I think it’s time for a change.”
    “Well, you’re a rich woman now. Live off the fat of the land.”
    “Well, I’m not going to just quit.”
    “Why not? Stay home and garden. Watch Oprah and Regis. There’re worse lives.”
    “You know Langdell Nursery?”
    “Nope.” The young woman squinted, shaking her head. “Oh, wait, that place off 236?”
    “We used to go there all the time. With Mother. They’d let us water flowers in the hothouse.”
    “Vaguely. That’s where they had those big bins of onions?”
    Lis laughed softly. “Flower bulbs.”
    “Right. It’s still there?”
    “It’s for sale. The nursery and a landscaping company the family owns.”
    “Jesus, look.” Portia was gazing across the lake into the state park. The water had pushed an old boathouse off its pilings. The ghostly white structure of rotting clapboard dipped slowly into the water.
    “The state was going to tear it down.” Lis nodded toward the boathouse. “The taxpayers just saved a few dollars, looks like. The nursery, I was saying? . . .” She rubbed her hands together a few times and felt her palms go cold as the nervous sweat evaporated. “I think I’m going to buy the place.”
    Portia nodded. Again a bit of yellow hair wound between her fingers and the tips of the strands slipped into her mouth. In the muted light, her face seemed particularly pale and her lips black. Had she refreshed her lipstick before coming out here to stack sandbags?
    “I need a partner,” Lis said slowly. “And I was thinking I’d like it to be you.”
    Portia laughed. She was a pretty woman and could instantly, as if by turning on a switch, become entirely sensual or charming or cute. Yet she often laughed with a deep breathiness that, Lis felt, instantly killed her appeal. This usually occurred when, as now, she was critical in an obscure way, leaving it to others to deduce their slipups.
    Heat bristled at Lis’s temples as the blush washed over her face. “I don’t know business. Finances, marketing, things like that. You do.”
    “I’m a media buyer, Lis. I’m not Donald Trump.”
    “You know more than I do. You’re always talking about getting out of advertising. You were thinking about opening a boutique last year.”
    “Everybody in advertising talks about quitting and opening a boutique. Or a catering company. You and me in business?”
    “It’s a good deal. Langdell died last year and his wife doesn’t want to keep running the place. They’re asking three million for everything. The land alone’s worth two. Mortgage rates are great now. And Angie said she’d be willing to finance some of it herself, as long as she gets a million and a half at the closing.”
    “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
    “I need a change, Portia. I love gardens and—”
    “No, I think it makes sense for you. I meant, you’re serious about us. Working together.”
    “Of course I am. You handle the business and finance, and I handle the product—there, doesn’t that sound professional? The ‘product’?”
    Portia had been staring at the pile of bags she’d filled. She picked one up, carried it to the wall, dropped it into place. “Heavy bastards, aren’t they?” she gasped. “Maybe I oughta shovel