(Martin Amis)

 

Rosie knows three things for certain. One, she was born Rosemary Katheryn Elizabeth Carson. Two, she never learned how to live up to that name. And, three, she would never let others tell her who to be again.

 

She was Rosie now, just Rosie. She loved the sunshine, the smell of the ocean air and the sound of the mopeds that tourists used when they visited her new island home. Island life meant freedom to Rosie. It was a simple life after leaving the craziness of Chicago behind. When she’d discovered this tiny island off the coast of Rhode Island, the farthest east she could drive, Rosie knew she’d found her home.

 

With the money from the trust fund her grandparents had left her, Rosie dropped out of college to pursue her dream of creating jewelry. She was an artist, a dreamer. Rosie was a creator of beauty. The family business never interested her, college courses outside of the arts left her frustrated. She just wanted to design jewelry that people would adore.

 

The tinkling of her shop’s bell still made her smile with excitement even after a year of living on the island and owning her own jewelry shop. Tourists and residents alike made her shop a success, keeping Rosie busy creating custom orders and making enough jewelry to keep her display cases stocked.

 

She’d just hired a part-time assistant to help in the store because lately, there didn’t seem to be enough time in the day. Ivy, the young single mother who came in four days a week, had been a lifesaver. Rosie could spend those days in her production studio designing and crafting new jewelry.

 

Life was good. Rosie was happy. 

She had everything she wanted. 

She did. 

Really. 

Except sometimes, at night, Rosie was lonely.