𝑃𝑅𝑂𝐿𝑂𝐺𝑈𝐸 . . .

❝ Salt air, and the rust on your door
I never needed anything more
Whispers of, "Are you sure?"
"Never have I ever before"
But I can see us lost in the memory
August slipped away into a moment in time
'Cause it was never mine
And I can see us twisted in bedsheets
August sipped away like a bottle of wine
'Cause you were never mine
Your back beneath the sun
Wishin' I could write my name on it
Will you call when you're back at school?
I remember thinkin' I had you ❞
— 𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒕, taylor swift !

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Cousins had always belonged to the Beaumonts—just like the ocean, just like the summer.

There were three of them.

Clementine Sophia Beaumont was the oldest. The careful one. The golden girl. With her baby-blue sundresses, matching ribbon in her hair, and the way she always seemed to float rather than walk, you'd think she was carved from the coastline itself. Polished and polite, she had the voice of their mother and the pressure of their father's name. Everyone adored Clementine. But no one really knew her. Not even her siblings.

Magnolia Eloise Beaumont came second. The soft one. The middle child who never made too much noise, who brought the forgotten beach towels and remembered birthdays no one else did. Maggie was all bare feet, lemon-colored tank tops, and salt-curled hair. She spoke when it mattered and listened when it didn't. Some people looked right past her. That was their mistake.

And then there was Maxwell Sutton Beaumont. Max. The hurricane. The wild card with his shirts half unbuttoned and his trust fund burning holes in his back pocket. He was the boy who set off fireworks when no one was watching, the one who never followed the rules because he never really believed they applied to him. RosePoint was his playground, and he played too hard. He always did.

Every summer, the Beaumonts returned to the sea. To the cliffs and the white house with the roses and the secrets buried beneath floorboards and sand. And every summer, they pretended things were the same.

They arrived at RosePoint the way they always did—tired, tense, and already pretending nothing was wrong.

The gates opened with a mechanical hum, revealing the long, winding drive that cut through rows of trimmed hedges and gardens spilling over with blue hydrangeas so full they looked fake. The house came into view slowly, as if even it was too proud to be rushed — RosePoint, the Beaumonts' legendary summer estate, perched high on the bluff like it had been waiting all year to be admired again.

Whitewashed wood, wraparound porches, climbing roses trailing up the columns. The shutters were a soft gray-blue that matched the sea, and the house had that timeless kind of elegance that screamed old money and whispered don't touch anything unless your last name is engraved on a country club plaque.

In the front seat of the vintage Range Rover, Damien Beaumont had one hand on the wheel and the other holding his phone to his ear, already mid-conversation with someone he didn't bother to know the name of—Carter's assistant, he called her—something about a yacht being moved.

Next to him sat Lillian, his wife, once a New York socialite, still effortlessly glamorous even now, in linen slacks and oversized sunglasses she never took off unless absolutely necessary. She didn't speak, didn't need to.

In the back, crammed with duffels, designer weekender bags, and an overturned tennis racket, sat the Beaumont children.

Clementine, the oldest, was rereading an old paperback with a fabric bookmark and a perfectly bored expression. She hadn't taken out her earbuds, though the music had long since stopped. Her hair was braided and pinned like she'd stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. She looked like the kind of girl who kept secrets in satin-lined drawers.

Magnolia, the middle child, had her legs curled beneath her and was letting Butch, the most unhinged of their three golden retrievers, lick the sunscreen off her arm. She didn't seem to mind. Olive, the older, wiser dog, rested her chin on Maggie's knee, and the new puppy, Bodie, was somewhere beneath the seats chewing through a sandal that was just as expensive as his pedigree.

And finally, Max. Maxwell Sutton Beaumont, the youngest, the problem child, the disaster waiting to happen. He was shirtless, tanned, and smirking out the window like he had a secret no one else deserved to know. He chewed on the end of twizzlers and immediately offered one to Butch, who took it like a bullet. "We're back, baby," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Waiting for them on the front steps, as always, was Grandmother Esther — the matriarch. Or as the siblings called her when she was safely out of earshot: The General. She wore her best pearls to breakfast, kept a drink cart in every room, always had a martini with every meal, and had a way of knowing everything without ever asking a question.

"Look what the wind dragged in," she called as they pulled up, not moving from her spot in the shade. "And Lillian, darling, white before Labor Day?"

Lillian smiled, tight as thread. "Esther. How lovely to see you."

Esther hadn't left RosePoint in six years. She said the city gave her a headache and the winters made her cruel, though no one had noticed much of a difference between summer and winter when it came to her icy behavior.

Max was the first out of the car, arms stretched high over his head, soaking in the salt air like it belonged to him. Clem got out next, brushing dog fur off her linen pants. Maggie lingered a moment longer, looking up at the house like she wasn't sure if she was ready to step inside again.

Then came the real chaos: Olive trotted out with practiced grace, immediately making a beeline for Esther with the quiet dignity of a retired queen. But Bodie, the golden retriever puppy — all ears and legs and bad decisions — shot out like a cannonball, chasing his own tail before darting through the hydrangeas with a string of Clementine's silk scarf still in his mouth.

Esther blinked as the blur of gold fur and dirt-streaked paws rocketed past her.

"Oh," she said flatly, stepping back as Bodie skidded to a halt at her feet and sneezed. "You got a new one."

There was a pause.

"Lovely."

Lillian muttered something under her breath and adjusted her sunglasses.

"Three dogs, now," Esther went on, shaking her head like she was tallying sins. "What— are you collecting?"

Maggie tried to gather Bodie up, murmuring apologies, but he wiggled free and launched himself after Butch, who was now halfway up the porch steps with a stick longer than his entire body that caught at the gate of the porch. Olive, ever dignified, sat beside Esther with a sigh like she, too, had outgrown all this chaos.

The front doors stood open — as they always did in the summer — letting in the salty breeze and the soft creak of the old wind chimes Clementine had once tried to replace with something chicer before being swiftly overruled. Esther said the new ones sounded like a "sad wind bell in a spa." The old ones stayed.

Inside, the house was the same as it had always been: grand but lived-in, white slipcovers and creaky floorboards, bowls of lemons that never seemed to rot, and framed family photos on every surface, most of them featuring sunburns and sandy feet and wide Beaumont smiles that didn't always match how people were feeling in them.

As Lillian stepped into the foyer, she slipped her sunglasses off and exhaled slowly, like even her bones remembered this place. Maggie lingered behind her, trailing her fingers along the banister. Max had already kicked off his sneakers and was making a beeline for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder: "If the cookie jar's empty again, I'm burning this house down."

"I had Margie bake fresh shortbread," Esther replied dryly. "Try not to eat all of them before dinner this time, darling."

The golden retrievers scattered — Olive claimed her usual spot on the cool marble floor, Butch launched himself at the back screen door, and Bodie attempted to climb the stairs before tripping over his own paws and sliding back down with a proud little yip.

Clementine paused by the mirror in the front hall, adjusting her pearl earrings and sweeping her long hair over one shoulder. "Are the Fishers in yet?" she asked casually.

"They arrived yesterday," Esther said. "Laurel dropped off tomatoes. As if anyone here eats tomatoes."

"I like tomatoes." Maggie said softly.

Max reappeared in the hall, a cookie already in his mouth. "Jeremiah texted me. He said they're doing a bonfire tonight."

"Of course they are," Clem murmured.

"Bonfires, bikinis, and bad decisions," Max declared, tossing Maggie a cookie. "Welcome to Cousins."

"I can't wait," Maggie said with a half-smile, catching the cookie just before it hit the floor.

Their father, Damien, was pacing in the driveway, cell phone pressed to his ear, talking about shipping delays and someone named Bradford who "needed to get their head out of their ass."

Lillian gave him a look as she passed the window. "A vacation, he said," she muttered. "A break."

"Don't worry," Esther said, gliding toward the staircase, already making herself a martini. "The rest of us will manage the leisure just fine."

The house creaked in response, the sea breeze shifting the curtains like a sigh. Outside, the hydrangeas bowed their heavy heads in the warm summer wind.

As Clementine and Maggie moved toward the grand staircase, Esther intercepted them with the precision of a general inspecting her troops.

"Girls," she began, her voice crisp and unforgiving, "I've been speaking with Madeline. You know—the corset maker. The one from Charleston who's outfitted the Vanderbilts and the Whitmores."

Clem exchanged a quick glance with Maggie. They both knew exactly what was coming.

"The ball at the end of the summer," Esther continued, "is non-negotiable. It's tradition. A Beaumont debutante must make an entrance worthy of the name."

Maggie bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cringe. Clem's jaw tightened.

"I've already had your fittings scheduled," Esther said with a pointed glance. "Madeline is designing two new corsets for you. Nothing less than exquisite. Expect boning, silk, and embroidery that screams Beaumont pedigree."

Clem tried to sound interested. "That sounds... lovely, Grandmother."

Maggie forced a smile. "Can't wait."

Esther's lips curled into a thin smile. "You will love them. And you will wear them. No complaints. These corsets are the kind that create the right silhouette—the one men will remember."

Clem and Maggie shared a look that said we secretly hate corsets but neither dared speak up.

Esther added with mock sweetness, "Of course, you may find it difficult to breathe or move, but that's part of the charm. Grace under pressure, girls. You'll learn."

The girls forced polite laughter, but as Esther swept away, Clem whispered under her breath, "I swear, I'm going to melt the damn thing in the fireplace."

Maggie laughed softly. "If only."

As Esther swept away, Clem and Maggie exchanged uneasy smiles, the weight of the corset conversation settling over them like a heavy fog.

Just then, Max appeared behind them on the staircase, a crooked grin already forming. He tossed a peanut M&M into his mouth and leaned casually against the banister.

"Honestly," he drawled, eyes gleaming with mischief, "I'm just glad I'm not a woman. All that breathing-in, standing-up-straight nonsense? No thanks. I'll take messy hair and bad decisions over a corset any day."

Clem shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Max shrugged, unbothered. "Just saying. You girls get the royal treatment — and the royal torture."

Maggie rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips.

Clem sighed, pushing past him toward the hall. "Somehow, I'm sure you'll find a way to make your summer memorable, Max."

Max grinned wider, already plotting his next disaster. "You know me too well."

Clem, Maggie, and Max headed upstairs together, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the high ceilings and polished wood floors. The air smelled faintly of sea salt, old books, and something faintly floral that Clem knew was Esther's signature scent lingering.

In Clem's room, sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching dust motes in lazy beams. Maggie immediately set down her tote, slipping off her sandals and running her fingers along the windowsill, already tracing familiar patterns in the worn wood.

Clem opened her suitcase with practiced ease, folding back the lid to reveal carefully organized stacks of linen dresses, crisp blouses, and a small box of delicate jewelry. She pulled out a light blue silk scarf and draped it over the chair before starting to unpack.

Maggie sat cross-legged on the floor, dumping her beach bag contents haphazardly: sunscreen, a dog leash, a battered paperback, and a pastel yellow sundress that had seen too many summers. She smiled softly as she laid it on the bed.

Max, on the other hand, was already rifling through the small liquor cabinet tucked under the stairs just outside their rooms. The bottle of aged bourbon was half out of the cupboard before he grinned and tossed a flask into his pocket.

"Been here less than fifteen minutes," Max said, popping the cap and taking a quick swig. "But priorities, right?"

Clem stuck her head out the door and gave him a look that was equal parts exasperated and amused. "You're impossible."

Max winked. "You love me."

Maggie shook her head but smiled anyway, settling onto her bed with a sigh. The house felt familiar and strange all at once, like a story they'd all lived but were about to tell differently.

Clem pulled a neatly folded blouse from her suitcase and glanced out the window. "I'm kind of excited to see the Fishers and the Conklins this summer. It's been a while."

Max smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "You mean you can't wait to see Conrad."

Clem shot him a sideways glance. "You were texting Jere earlier."

Max shrugged, grinning like he'd just won a game. "I always text Jere."

"Mhm," Clem said, eyes narrowing playfully.

Maggie rolled her eyes from the bed, tossing a stray hair behind her shoulder. "Damnit, you two. Can't we have one summer without you making it complicated?"

Both Clem and Max immediately got defensive.

"Complicated? Me? No way."

"Same here. I'm the picture of simplicity."

Maggie sat up, raising an eyebrow. "Am I the only one here who's actually self-aware?"

They all laughed, but the tension lingered just under the surface — the kind of tension that only summers at RosePoint seemed to bring.

Max's phone buzzed on the dresser, and he grabbed it without looking. A message from Jere popped up: "Belly and Steven will be here in half an hour."

He smirked and read it aloud, loud enough for Clem and Maggie to hear. "Alright, Beaumonts, to the Fishers we go. Looks like the party's starting sooner than I thought."

Clem rolled her eyes but smiled. "You make it sound so grand."

Max shrugged, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Because it is. This summer's about to get interesting."

Maggie glanced between them both, biting her lip. "I just want one normal summer."

Max laughed, shaking his head. "Good luck with that."

They headed downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath their feet as the fading afternoon sun cast long shadows through the wide windows. Outside, the scent of salt and blooming hydrangeas mingled with the distant sound of crashing waves—a familiar symphony at RosePoint.

Max's grin lingered as he led the way through the door, the promise of the evening ahead igniting the restless energy in all three siblings.

Clementine glanced back once, her gaze lingering on the sprawling estate—the place that held their family's history, secrets, and unspoken rules. For a moment, the weight of tradition pressed down on her, but the pull of what this summer might bring was stronger.

With a shared breath, the Beaumonts waltzed down the winding path, ready to face the tangled ties and shifting loyalties that awaited them beyond the gates. This was more than just another summer at RosePoint.

This summer was their summer.

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