Between Sisters (13 page)

Sam walked toward her. “Your mama is a piece of work, that's for sure, and I was mad at her for a lot of years, but I'm glad I married her.”

“You must be on drugs.”

“Claire” was all he said.

“Oh.” Meghann felt a pinch of jealousy. There it was again—the Claire father-daughter thing. It pissed her off. She ought to be long past that.

“Be careful with her,” he said. “You're her sister.”

“I know I'm her sister.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I do.” Once again, she walked away. She strolled through the campground, surprised at the number of guests who were there. All of them seemed to be having a good time. The place was well maintained and perfectly situated. Every view was a picture postcard of mountain, trees, and water. Finally, she returned to her car and drove to Claire's house.

This time when she knocked on the front door, she heard the patter of feet come from inside. The door burst open.

Alison stood there, dressed in daisy-festooned denim overalls and a pretty yellow eyelet blouse.

“You can't be Alison Katherine Cavenaugh. She's a baby.”

Ali beamed at that. “I'm a big girl now.”

“Yes, you are.”

Alison frowned up at her. “Your hair is longer and there's gray in it.”

“Why, thank you for noticing. Can you give your Aunt Meg a hug?”

“You look like you're breathing okay.”

Meg had no idea what the child meant by that. “I am.”

Alison moved forward and gave her a lukewarm hug. When she stepped back, Meg said, “I brought you a present.”

“Let me guess.” Claire emerged from the shadows at the end of the hallway. “You thought every five year old needs a Swiss Army Knife.”

“No. A BB gun.”

“You didn't.”

Meghann laughed. “I went into the bowels of Hell—a toy store at Northgate—and found the dullest-looking salesperson. She recommended this instead.” She handed Alison a brightly wrapped box.

Ali ripped it open. “It's a Groovy Girl, Mommy. A Groovy Girl!” She flung herself at Meghann, this time hugging for real. She showed the doll to Claire, then ran upstairs.

Meghann handed Claire a bottle of wine—Far Niente 1997. “This is one of my favorites.”

“Thank you.”

They stared at each other. Their last meeting had been a year ago, when Mama was in town for the Fan-ference. Mama had taken Claire and Ali to the zoo, then later, Meghann had joined them at the Seattle Center. They'd spent most of their time taking Alison for rides in the Fun Forest. That way, they didn't need to talk.

Finally Claire surged forward, pulled Meghann into a quickie hug, then let her go.

Meghann stumbled back, too surprised by the gesture to respond. Afterward, she wished she'd hugged Claire in return. “Dinner smells good, but you didn't have to cook. I wanted to take you out.”

“The Chuck Wagon smorgasbord isn't exactly your style. I didn't want to hear about it.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, come in. It's been too long since you were here.”

“You've never been to my place.”

Claire looked at her. “It's called small talk, Meg. I wasn't picking a fight.”

“Oh,” Meghann said again, feeling like an idiot.

She followed Claire to the sofa and sat down beside her. She couldn't help noticing the ridiculous engagement ring—a band of tinfoil, for God's sake. It was good she'd come up here. There was no point in putting it off. “Claire, I think—”

Then
he
walked into the room. Meghann knew instantly why her sister had fallen so hard. Bobby might be a loser as a singer, but he was a winner in the looks department. He was tall and lean, but broad-shouldered, with blond hair that fell almost to his shoulders. When he smiled, it was with his whole face.

A man like this didn't just sweep you off your feet; he twirled you into the air so far and fast there was nowhere to go but down.

He and Claire exchanged a look that radiated love. Meg was reminded of
The Way We Were
, that paean to the bittersweet truth that sometimes the wrong man could look so good he took your breath away.

But sooner or later a woman had to breathe.

“I'm Bobby Austin,” he said, smiling.

Meghann rose to her feet and shook his hand. “Meghann Dontess.”

“Claire says folks call you Meg.”

“My friends do, yes.”

He smiled. “I'm judging by that bite-on-a-lemon look of yours that you'd like me to stick with Miz Dontess.”

“I imagine those mountain girls in Arkansas think you're charming.”

“The Texas girls sure did.” He put an arm around Claire. “But those days are behind me now. I've found the girl I want to grow old with.” He kissed Claire lightly on the cheek and squeezed her hand, then he took the wine bottle and walked into the kitchen.

In the few moments he was gone, Meghann stood there, staring at her sister, trying to choose her words with care, but nothing seemed quite right.

Bobby returned with two glasses of wine and handed one to Meghann. “I imagine you have some questions for me,” he said, sitting down.

His forthrightness threw Meghann off. Slowly, feeling a little uncertain, she sat down in the chair opposite the sofa. They were separate entities now: Bobby and Claire versus Meghann. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I love Claire.”

“Something substantive.”

“You're a facts-and-figures, gal, huh? I'm thirty-seven years old. Graduated from Oklahoma State. Degree in music appreciation. Rodeo scholarship. I was a calf roper. Which is why my knees are gone. I've . . . been married.”

Meghann leaned forward, on alert. “How many times?”

He glanced at Claire. “Three.”

“Oh,
shit
.” Meghann looked at Claire. “You've got to be kidding. If marriages were felonies, he'd be in prison for life.”

He scooted forward. “I married Suellen when we were eighteen years old. She was pregnant, and where I come from—”

“You've got kids?”

“No.” His voice grew soft. “Miscarriage. After that, there wasn't much reason to stay married. We lasted less than three months. I'm a slow learner, though. I got married again at twenty-one. Unfortunately, it turned out that she wanted a different life than I did. Nice cars, nice jewelry. I got arrested when they busted her for selling cocaine out of our house. I lived with her for two years and never noticed it. I just thought she was moody as hell. Nobody believed I wasn't a part of it. Laura was the only one who counted. She was—is—a pediatrician who loves country music. We were married for ten years. It broke up about a year ago. I could tell you why, but it's none of your business. Claire knows everything, though.”

A three-time loser and a felon.

Perfect.

And now the bad sister had to break the good sister's heart.

How?

That was the $64,000 question. How did you say the things that needed to be said at a time like this? Especially with Mr. Better-Looking Than God sitting there? Harriet had been right about one thing: Meghann and Claire had been poised on a cliff of politeness and pretense for years. The wrong approach could send them over the edge.

Claire got off the sofa, moved toward her. She sat on the carved Chinese chest that served as a coffee table.

“I know you can't be happy for me, Meg.”

“I want to be.” It was the truth. “It's just that—”

“I know. He wouldn't get a platinum rating. I know. And you handle divorces for a living. I know that, too. Most of all, I know that you grew up in Mama's house.” She leaned forward. “I
know
, Meg.”

Meghann felt the weight of those few words. Her sister had thought of all the same reasons, had seen all the possible outcomes. There wasn't anything Meghann could say that Claire didn't already know.

“It won't ever make sense and I know it's crazy and risky and—worst of all—Mama-like. I don't need you to tell me these things. What I need is for you to trust me.”

Trust.
Exactly what Harriet had predicted. But Meghann had forgotten long ago how to trust people. If she'd ever known.

“It's hard for you, I know. The leader of the pack never makes a good follower. But it would mean a lot to me if you'd let this go. Maybe hug me and say you're happy for me. Even if it's a lie.”

Meghann looked into her sister's pale green eyes. Claire looked frightened right now; expectant, too. She was obviously preparing herself to be wounded by Meghann's response, but a slim part of her couldn't help believing. . . .

It reminded Meghann of their childhood. Whenever Mama had brought a new “friend” home, Claire had let herself believe that
finally
there would be a daddy in her life. Meghann had tried to protect Claire from her own optimism, but she'd never succeeded, and so, each stepfather had broken a tiny piece of Claire's heart. And yet, when the next man arrived, her sister found a way to believe again.

Of course Claire believed in Bobby Austin.

There was no way Meghann would change her sister's mind, or—more important—her heart. Thus, she had two choices: pretend to give her blessing or stick to her guns. The first choice allowed her and Claire to remain the almost sisters they were. The second choice risked even that tenuous relationship.

“I trust you, Claire,” Meghann said at last. She was rewarded with a small, uncertain smile. “If you say Bobby Austin is the man you love, that's good enough for me.”

Claire released a sharp breath. “Thank you. I know that wasn't easy for you.” She leaned forward and hugged Meghann, who was too surprised by it to hug her back.

Claire drew back and stood up. She went over to the sofa and sat down by Bobby, who immediately put an arm around her and pulled her in close.

Meghann tried to think of what to say in the awkward silence that followed. “So, what's the wedding plan? Justice of the peace? I have a friend who's a judge. . . .”

“No way.” Claire laughed. “I waited thirty-five years for this. I'm having the whole enchilada. White dress. Formal church wedding. Cake. Reception with dancing. All of it.”

Meghann didn't know why she was surprised. Claire had been one of those children who played bride endlessly. “There's a consultant in my building. I think she planned Bill Gates's wedding.”

“This is Hayden, not Seattle. I'll rent the VFW hall and everyone will pitch in with potluck. The Bon Marché has a bridal department now. It'll be great. You'll see.”

“Potluck?
Potluck?
” Meghann got to her feet. Apparently there was something of her mother in her after all. She wasn't going to let her sister have a Wal-Mart wedding. “I'll organize the wedding and reception,” she said impulsively. Once she'd offered, she felt steady again. In control of something.

Claire's smile faded. “You?”

“I'm not a social moron. I can do this.”

“But . . . but . . . your job is so hectic. I couldn't ask you to take time out of your busy schedule for this.”

“You didn't ask. I offered. And it so happens that I find myself . . . underutilized at work.” The idea seized hold of her. Maybe it could bring them together. “This would be perfect, really. I'd
like
to do this for you, Claire.”

“Oh.” Claire sounded underwhelmed. Meghann knew what her sister was thinking—Meghann was a bull in a small-town china shop.

“I'll listen to you and do what you want. It'll be
your
wedding. I promise.”

“I think it sounds great,” Bobby said, smiling broadly. “You're very generous, Meghann.”

Claire frowned at Meghann. “Why am I seeing
Father of the Bride
playing in my head? You never do anything in a small way, Meg.”

Meghann felt awkward suddenly, vulnerable. She wasn't certain why she wanted this so badly. “I will this time. Honest.”

“Okay,” Claire said finally. “You can help me plan my wedding.”

Meghann grinned and clapped her hands. “Good. Now, I better get started. Where's a local phone book? And what's the date again—the twenty-third? Next Saturday? That's not much time to pull this together.” She headed for the kitchen, where she found a scrap of paper and began a to-do list.

“Oh, man,” she heard her sister say. “I've created a monster.”

C
HAPTER
TWELVE

B
Y THE SECOND NIGHT IN HIS SISTER
'
S HOUSE, JOE FELT AS IF
he were suffocating. Everywhere he looked he saw glimpses of his old life. He didn't know how he was going to go forward, but he knew he couldn't stay here.

He waited until Gina left to go grocery shopping, then crammed his things—including several framed photographs of Diana that he'd taken from the house—into the old backpack and headed for the door. He left a note on the kitchen counter.

Can't stay here. Sorry. Hurts too much.

I know this is a rough time for you, so

I won't go far. Will call soon. Love you.

Thank you.

J.

He walked the few miles back to town. By the time he reached Hayden, it felt as if he were slogging through mud. He was tired again, weary.

He didn't want to run away, didn't want to hunker down in some shitty little motel room and gnaw on the old guilt.

He looked up and saw a sign for the Mountain View Cemetery. A shiver passed through him. The last time he'd been there it had been pouring rain. There had been two policemen beside him, shadowing his every move. The mourners had kept their distance. He'd felt their condemnation, heard their whispers.

He'd tried to walk away during the ceremony, but the police yanked him back in line. He'd whispered,
I can't watch this
in a broken voice. One of his guards had said,
Too bad
and held him in place.

He should go there now, to the cemetery. But he couldn't do it, couldn't kneel on the sweet green grass in front of her headstone.

Besides, he wouldn't find her at the cemetery. There was more of her in his heart than beneath any gray stone.

He skirted town and hiked across an empty field toward the river. The soft, gurgling sounds sparked a dozen memories of their youth. Days they'd picnicked along the water's edge and nights they'd parked there, making love in the dark interior of the Dodge Charger he'd once owned.

He knelt there.

“Hey, Di.” He squeezed his eyes shut, battling a wave of guilt.

“I'm home. What now?”

No answer came to him on the summer breeze, no scent of Red wafted his way. And yet, he knew. She was glad he'd come back.

He opened his eyes again, stared at the silver caps of the current. “I can't go to the house.” The thought of it made him almost ill. Three years ago, he'd walked out of their home on Bainbridge Island and never looked back. Her clothes were still in the closet. Her toothbrush was still by the sink.

No way he could go there. His only hope—if there was any hope at all—lay in baby steps. He didn't have to move
toward
his old life; he simply had to stop running from it.

“I could get a job in Hayden,” he said after a long silence.

Staying in town would be difficult, he knew. So many people remembered what he'd done. He'd have to endure the looks . . . the gossip.

“I could try it.”

With that, he found that he could breathe again.

He spent another hour there, kneeling in the grass, remembering. Then, finally, he climbed to his feet and walked back to town.

There were a few people milling around the streets, and more than one face peered frowningly up at him, but no one approached him. He saw when he was recognized, saw the way old friends lurched at the sight of him, drew back. He kept his head down, kept moving. He was about to give up on the whole damn idea of finding a job here when he came to the end of town. He stood across the street from Riverfront Park, staring at a collection of cars, all lined up on a patch of gravel behind a sagging chain-link fence. A metal Quonset hut advertised
Smitty's, The Best Auto Shop in Hayden.

On the chain-link fence was a sign:
Help Wanted. Experience requested, but who am I kidding?

Joe crossed the street and headed toward the entrance.

A dog started barking. He noticed the
Beware of Dog
sign. Seconds later, a miniature white poodle came tearing around the corner.

“Madonna, stop that damn yapping.” An old man stepped out from the shadowed darkness of the Quonset hut. He wore oil-stained overalls and a Mariners baseball cap. A long white beard hid the lower half of his face. “Don't mind the dog. What can I do ya for?”

“I saw your help-wanted sign.”

“No kiddin'.” The old man slapped his thigh. “That thing's been up there since Jeremy Forman went off to college. Hell, that's been pret near on two years now. I—” He paused, stepped forward, frowning slowly. “Joe Wyatt?”

He tensed. “Hey, Smitty.”

Smitty blew out a heavy breath. “I'll be damned.”

“I'm back. And I need a job. But if it'd cost you customers to hire me, I understand. No hard feelings.”

“You want a job
wrenching
? But you're a doctor—”

“That life is over.”

Smitty stared at him a long time, then said, “You remember my son, Phil?”

“He was a lot older than me, but yeah. He used to drive that red Camaro.”

“Vietnam ruined him. Guilt, I think. He did stuff over there. . . . Anyway, I've seen a man run before. It isn't good. Of course I'll hire you, Joe. The cabin still comes with the job. You want it?”

“Yes.”

Smitty nodded, then led the way through the Quonset hut and out the other end. The backyard was big and well maintained. Flowers grew in riotous clumps along the walkway. There, a thicket of towering evergreens stood clustered behind the small log cabin. Moss furred the roof; the front porch sagged precariously.

“You were a teenager the last time you lived here. I couldn't keep track of all the girls you dated.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Smitty sighed. “Helga still keeps it spick-'n'-span clean. She'll be glad to have you back.”

Joe followed Smitty to the cabin.

Inside, it was as clean as always. A red-striped woolen blanket covered an old leather sofa and a rocking chair sat next to the river-rock fireplace. The yellow Formica-clad kitchen appeared well stocked for appliances and pots and pans, and a single bedroom boasted a queen-size four-poster bed.

Joe reached out and shook Smitty's bear-claw hand. “Thank you, Smitty,” he said, surprised at how deep his gratitude ran. His throat felt tight.

“There are a lot of people in this town who care about you, Joe. You seem to have forgotten that.”

“That's nice to hear. Still, I'd be happier if no one knew I was here, for a while, anyway. I don't . . . feel comfortable around people anymore.”

“It's a long road back from something like that, I guess.”

“A very long road.”

After Smitty left, Joe burrowed through his backpack for one of the framed photographs that he'd taken from his sister's house. He stared down at Diana's smiling face. “It's a start,” he said to her.

Meghann woke up disoriented. In the first place, the room was dark. Second, it was quiet. No honking horns and sirens and the beep-beep-beep of trucks in reverse gear. At first she thought a radio was on, in a room down the hall. Then she realized that the noise was birdsong. Birdsong, for God's sake.

Claire's house.

She sat up in bed. The beautifully decorated guest room was oddly comforting. Everywhere were handmade trinkets—proof of time spent on the little things—as well as Ali's artwork. Framed photographs cluttered every surface. In another time and place, Meghann might have laughed at the crudely painted macaroni-coated egg carton that acted as a jewelry box. Here, in her sister's house, it made her smile. When she looked at it, she pictured Ali, with her pudgy little fingers, gluing and placing and painting. And Claire, clapping with pride when the project was done; then proudly displaying it. All the things their own mama wouldn't have had time for.

There was a knock at the door, then a hesitantly called out “Meg?”

She glanced at the bedside clock.

Ten fifteen.

Oh, man.
She rubbed her eyes, which felt like a sandpit from lack of sleep. As usual, she'd tossed and turned all night. “I'm up,” she said, throwing the covers back.

“Breakfast is on the table,” Claire said through the closed door. “I'm going to go clean the swimming pool. We'll leave at about eleven, if that's still okay?”

It took Meghann a second to remember. She'd promised to join Claire and her friends in town. Wedding-dress shopping in Hayden with grown women who called themselves the Bluesers.

Meghann groaned. “I'll be ready.”

“See you then.”

Meghann listened to the footsteps as Claire walked away. How long could she keep up this charade of
I'm your sister, I support your wedding
? Sooner or later, her head would pop off, or—worse—her mouth would open and her opinion would explode, bomblike:
You can't marry him. You don't know him. Be smart.

None of these opinions would sit well.

And yet, because Meghann couldn't return to work, had no friends to call, and no true vacation plans, she found herself preparing to plan her sister's wedding. Honestly, who could possibly be worse for the job?

She couldn't even remember the last wedding she'd attended. Oh, yes she could.

Hers.

Of course, it hadn't been the wedding that sent them on the wrong road; it was the pairing up that had done it.

She got out of bed and went to the door. Opening it a crack, she peeked out. Everything was quiet. She hurried down the hallway to the small second-floor bathroom. An unopened traveler's toothbrush lay on the side of the sink, no doubt a quick repossession from the “resort's” mini store. She brushed her teeth, then took a quick, very hot shower.

Thirty minutes later, she was ready to go, re-dressed in yesterday's clothes—a white Dolce & Gabbana blouse, a pair of low-rise Marc Jacobs jeans, and a wide brown belt with a silver circle buckle.

She quickly picked up the bathroom, made her bed, and left the house.

Outside, the sun shone brightly on the well-tended yard. It was late June, a glorious time of year in the Northwest. So much was in bloom. There was color everywhere in the yard, all of it backed and bordered by glossy green bushes and a thicket of trees. At the far end, looking almost close enough to touch, the granite triangle of Formidable Peak pushed up toward a high layer of clouds.

Meghann tossed her purse onto the passenger seat of her Porsche and got inside. The engine growled to life. She drove toward the resort slowly, careful not to stir up too much dust on the gravel road. It was a short distance, maybe five hundred yards between the house and the registration office, but her high-heeled sandals couldn't handle the loose stone.

Finally, she pulled up in front of the registration building and parked. Choosing a careful path through the dewy grass, she went into the building.

It was empty.

She went to the desk and found the Hayden phone book, then flipped to
Wedding Consultants
. There was one listing.
Royal Event Planning.
In fine print it read:
Pretend you'll only get married once.

Meghann couldn't help smiling at that. A cynic with humor. Who better to help Meghann plan a wedding? She wrote down the number and put it in her purse.

She found Claire in the campground's rest room, plunging a backed-up toilet. At Meghann's horrified expression, Claire laughed. “Go on outside, hotshot. I'll be out in a sec.”

Meghann backed out and stood on the edge of the grass.

True to her word, Claire was out in no time. “I'll wash up and we'll go.” She looked at the Boxster. “You
drove
over here?” Laughing, she walked away.

Meghann got in the car and started it up. The stereo immediately came on, too loud. “Hotel California.” She put the convertible top down and waited.

Finally Claire reappeared, wearing a pair of jeans and a River's Edge Resort T-shirt. She tossed her canvas handbag behind the seat and climbed in. “Now, this is going to town in style.”

Meghann didn't know if Claire intended that remark as a put-down or not, so she kept silent. Actually, that was her new mantra:
Shut up and smile.

“You sure slept late,” Claire said, turning down the music. “I thought you usually got to the office by seven.”

“I had trouble sleeping last night.”

“Please don't worry about me, Meg. Please.”

Meghann was trapped by that quiet
please
. She couldn't let her sister think the insomnia was because of the wedding. “It's not the wedding. I never sleep.”

“Since when?”

“I guess it started in college. Cramming all night for exams. You know how it is.”

“No, I don't.”

Meghann had been trying to protect Claire, to hide the fact that the insomnia had started when their family fell apart, but college had been the wrong tack. To Claire, it was another reminder of everything between them, one more instance of Meghann lording it over her sister. Over the years, Claire had made dozens of remarks about her brainiac older sister who started college early. It was a touchy subject. “From what I hear, motherhood causes a few all-nighters, too.”

“You know something about babies. Mama said I was colicky. A real pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, like Mama would know. You didn't have colic. You had ear infections. When you were sick, you wailed like a banshee. I used to carry you, screaming, down to the Laundromat. If I sat on top of the dryer, holding you, you'd finally fall asleep. Mama always wondered what happened to all her quarters.”

Meghann felt Claire's gaze on her. She tried to think of something to say, a way to change the conversation, but she came up empty.

Claire finally laughed, but the sound was brittle. “No wonder I don't mind doing the laundry. Turn here.”

They were on safe land once again, she and Claire; each standing on her separate shore.

“This is it.” Claire pointed to an old Victorian house, painted Pepto-Bismol pink with lavender trim. A gravel walkway cut through a perfectly shorn lawn. On either side were bright red roses in full bloom. The white picket fence bore a hand-painted sign that read:
Miss Abigail's Drawers. Come on in.