Free Beach Plum Island by Holly Robinson

meanwhile, wondered what these strange new clay creations—so crowded with men and women and children—could possibly say about her.
    Afterward, she drove back to her studio to meet Sandra Judd, a photographer Caroline had recommended. Elaine had convinced Ava to invest in a Web site; she’d even offered to design it. Sandra, who arrived at Ava’s studio a few minutes later in a white van full of camera equipment, was going to shoot photographs for it. She was a squat brunette in blue jeans and a red T-shirt, a bulldog of a woman who said little but worked efficiently.
    Caroline stopped by at lunchtime to check on their progress. They’d nearly finished shooting when Olivia, a painter who lived on the basin side of Beach Plum Island and was one of Ava’s dearest friends, came loping toward them wearing a sweat suit that must have been one of her son’s castoffs. Ava and Caroline stared in amazement as Olivia dropped to the beach in front of them and did twenty push-ups, then stood up and succumbed to a coughing fit.
    “I think she’s losing a lung,” Caroline said.
    Ava patted Olivia’s back. “Are you okay? Why in the world are you jogging?”
    “I could hardly button my jeans this morning,” Olivia wheezed. “Damn that menopause middle.”
    Caroline laughed. “Welcome to my world. And I’ve got ten years to go before the Big M.”
    “Right, rub it in now while you can. Don’t worry. Your invitation to Cronesville will come.” Olivia reached into the pocket of her gray hoodie, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one, ignoring their cries of disbelief. “So what’s all this?” She gestured toward Sandra, who had placed one of Ava’s pitchers on a small hillock of sand and was kneeling in front of it with a light meter.
    “Portfolio shots for my Web site,” Ava said. “We’re doing the mugs next. Any ideas?”
    Olivia cocked her head at the row of mugs Ava had lined up on the bench outside her studio. “They look like birds, because of those bright glazes and the feathery swirls on the handles. What if we play with that?”
    “I’m not sure what you mean,” Ava said.
    “Here.” Cigarette dangling between her lips, Olivia carried the mugs from the bench to a hunk of driftwood, where she arranged them on the log with the handles facing outward like birds on a fence, tails in a row.
    “Perfect!” Ava said, grinning at Olivia.
    “Not completely terrible,” Caroline said.
    Olivia snorted. “High praise from the High Priestess of the local art scene.”
    Ava called the photographer over. “What do you think, Sandra? If you shoot these mugs from down low, in front of the driftwood, maybe we can get the grass in the background, too.”
    Sandra nodded. “That should work.” She shot the mugs from various angles, then packed up her equipment and said she’d have the pictures ready in two days. Caroline said good-bye as well and followed her out of the driveway.
    Olivia had regained her composure after a second cigarette and somehow managed to look put together even in the oversized sweatshirt. Her hair was the same shade of gray as the fabric and had escaped from the hood to fall in long tendrils around her narrow face. “Who’s your little stalker?” she asked, gesturing behind Ava.
    “What?” Ava started to turn around, but Olivia put a hand on her arm.
    “No need to be so obvious,” Olivia whispered. “You don’t want to spook the wild critter. It’s a girl, and she’s up by your studio on a bike.”
    “Oh! That must be Gigi, my half sister.”
    Olivia pursed her lips. “That’s some hair color.”
    “Yes, well. Wait until you see the rest of her. Come on. I’ll introduce you. She needs friends. Just put out that cigarette, will you, please? Gigi’s trying to quit.”
    “Oh, great. Another self-righteous reformed smoker. Just what I need in my life,” Olivia grumbled, tossing the butt onto the sand.
    “Hey! You shouldn’t litter,” Gigi called from the studio