The Long Weekend at Rosemary Beach

The cottage had been rented, over the phone, by the oldest sister, who was the only one of them who still used a phone that way. It was a pale-yellow two-story on the inland side of 30A, with a porch that faced, if you leaned out, a sliver of the Gulf between two other pale-yellow two-stories. The three siblings had not been in the same room for four years. In the trunk of the middle brother's car was a manila envelope containing their father's will, unopened.

They had agreed, on the drive down, that the will would wait until after the shrimp boil. The shrimp boil had been their father's ritual, a Friday-night event that involved a great deal of newspaper, a great deal of butter, and a rule against discussing money. They observed the rule now, in his absence, out of a mixture of habit and cowardice.

By the time the shrimp were on the table it was after nine. The oldest sister, who had been drinking a beer that she had opened at seven, asked, without preamble, whether anyone wanted to just get it over with. The middle brother, who had been dreading the question all week, said yes. The youngest, who had been dreading the answer, said nothing. The envelope was placed on the table between the shrimp and the butter, and remained there, unopened, for another forty minutes, while the three of them talked, for the first time since the funeral, about their father.