Between Sisters (14 page)

Meghann looked up at the ridiculously cute house. “We could zip down to Escada or Nordstrom. . . .”

“Don't be yourself, Meg.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “I'll be Tammy Faye. Or better yet, Small-Town Sally. Lead on. I'll shut my mouth.”

They walked up the rickety stairs and entered the store. There was merchandise everywhere—plastic flowers and seashell picture frames, and Christmas ornaments made of painted dough. The fireplace screen was alight with votive candles.

“Hello!” Claire called out.

There was an immediate response. A gaggle of women's voices, then a herd of running footsteps.

A large, older woman barreled around the corner, her gray sausage-curled hair bobbing like Cindy's on
The Brady Bunch
. She wore a floral muumuu and white pom-pomed mule slippers. “Claire Cavenaugh. I'm so glad to
finally
be able to show you the second floor.”

“Wedding dresses are on the second floor,” Claire said to Meghann. “Abby had given up on me.”

Before Meghann could respond, two other women hurried into the room. One was short and wore a baggy, waistless dress and white tennis shoes. The other was tall, perhaps too thin, and dressed flawlessly in beige silk.

Two of the Bluesers. Meg recognized the women but couldn't have matched a name to a face for all the prize money in the world.

Waistless dress, she learned, was Gina, and beige silk was Charlotte.

“Karen couldn't make it today,” Gina said, eyeing Meghann suspiciously. “Willie had an orthodontist appointment and Dottie sat on her glasses.”

“In other words,” Charlotte said, “an ordinary Karen day.”

They all started talking at once.

Meghann watched Claire fall in beside Charlotte and Abigail. They were talking about lace and beadwork and veils.

All Meg could think was:
The perfect accessory is a prenup
. It made her feel decades older than these women, and distinctly apart.

“So. Meghann. The last time I saw you, Alison was a newborn.” Gina stood beside a cast-iron statue of a crane. “Now you're back for the wedding.”

Claire's friends had always been good at the not-so-subtle reminder than Meghann didn't belong here. “Hello, Gina. It's nice to see you again.”

Gina looked at her. “I'm surprised you could get away from the office. I hear you're the best divorce attorney in Seattle.”

“I wouldn't miss Claire's wedding.”

“I know a divorce attorney. She's good at breaking up families.”

“That's what we do.”

A look passed through Gina's eyes. Her voice softened. “Do you ever put them back together?”

“Not often.”

Gina's face seemed to fall; it crumpled like an old paper bag, and Meghann understood. “You're going through a divorce.”

Gina tried valiantly to smile. “Just finished it, actually. Tell me it'll get better.”

“It will,” Meg said softly. “But it may take a while. There are several support groups that might help you.” She started to reach into her purse.

“I've got the Bluesers to cry with, but thank you. I appreciate the honesty. Now let's go upstairs and find your sister the perfect wedding dress.”

“In Hayden?”

Gina laughed at that and led Meg upstairs. By the time they got there, Claire was already wearing the first dress. It had huge leg-of-mutton sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and a skirt that looked like an upside-down teacup. Meg sat down in an ornate white wicker chair. Gina stood behind her.

“Oh, my. That's lovely,” Abigail said, “and it's thirty-three percent off.”

Claire stood in front of a three-paneled full-length mirror, turning this way and that.

“It's very princesslike,” Charlotte said.

Claire looked at Meg. “What do you think?”

Meghann wasn't sure what was expected of her. Honesty or support. She took another look at the dress and knew support was impossible. “Of course the dress is on sale. It's hideous.”

Claire climbed down from the platform and went in search of a different dress.

At her exit, Charlotte and Abigail looked at Meghann. Neither woman was smiling.

She'd been too honest—a common flaw—and now she was suspect. The outsider.

She would
not
comment on the next dress. She absolutely would not.

“What do you think?” Claire asked a few moments later.

Meg squirmed in her chair. Was this a joke? The dress looked like something you'd wear to a formal hoedown. Maybe the Country Music Awards. The only thing missing was a beaded milking pan. The dress was ugly. Period. And cheap-looking, to boot.

Claire studied herself in the mirror, again turning this way and that. Then she turned to look at Meghann. “You're awfully quiet.”

“It's the vomit backing up in my throat. I can't talk.”

Claire's smile froze. “I take it that's a negative.”

“A cheap dress from the Bon Marché is a negative. That piece of lace-festooned shit is a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-you've-lost-your-mind thing.”

“I think you're being a bit harsh,” Abigail said, puffing up like a colorful blowfish.

“It's her
wedding
,” Meg said. “Not a tryout for
Little House on the Prairie.
”

“My sister is always harsh,” Claire said quietly, walking back into the dressing room.

Meghann sighed. She'd screwed up again, wielded her opinion like a blunt instrument to the back of the head. She hunkered down in her chair and clamped her mouth shut.

The remainder of the afternoon was a mind-wrecking parade of cheap dresses. One after another, Claire zipped in, got opinions, and zipped out. She didn't again ask for Meghann's opinion, and Meghann knew better than to offer it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and rested her head against the wall.

A jab in the rib cage woke her up. She blinked, leaned forward. Charlotte, Abigail, and Claire were walking away from her, talking animatedly until they disappeared into a room marked
Hats and Veils.

Gina was staring at her. “I'd heard you could be a bitch, but falling asleep while your sister tries on wedding dresses is pretty rude.”

Meghann wiped her eyes. “It was the only way I could keep quiet. I've seen better-looking dresses on Denny's waitresses. Believe me, I was doing her a favor. Did she find one?”

“No.”

“I want to say thank God, but I'm afraid there's another shop in town.” Meghann frowned suddenly. “What do you mean I'm a bitch? Is that what Claire says?”

“No. Yes. Sometimes. You know how it is when you're drinking margaritas on a bad day. Karen calls her sister Susan the Soulless Psychopath. Claire calls you Jaws.”

Meghann wanted to smile but couldn't. “Oh.”

“I remember when she moved here, you know,” Gina said softly. “She was quiet as a mouse and cried if you looked at her the wrong way. All she'd say for years was that she missed her sister. I didn't find out until after graduation what had happened to her.”

“What I'd done, you mean.”

“I'm not one to judge. Hell, I've waded through some ugly shit in my life, and motherhood is the hardest job in the world. Even if you're grown-up and ready for it. My point is this: Claire was wounded by all of that, and sometimes, when she hurts the most, she turns into Polly Politeness. She's really nice, but the temperature in the rooms drops about twenty-five degrees.”

“I've pretty much needed a coat all day.”

“Stick with it. Whether she admits it or not, it means a lot to her that you're here.”

“I told her I'd plan the wedding.”

“You seem perfectly suited for it.”

“Oh, yeah. I'm a real romantic.” She sighed.

“All you have to do is listen to Claire. Really listen, and then do whatever you can to make her dream come true.”

“Maybe you could get the info and report back to me. Sort of a CIA-like mission.”

“When was the last time you sat down for a drink with your sister and just
talked
?”

“Let's put it this way: We wouldn't have been old enough to have wine with our meal.”

“That's what I thought. Go with her now.”

“But Alison—”

“Sam can take care of Ali. I'll let him know.” She opened her purse and dug through it, finally pulling out a scrap of paper. She wrote something down and handed it to Meghann. “Here's my cell phone number. Call me in an hour and I'll let you know Ali's schedule.”

“Claire won't want to go with me. Especially not after I nixed the dresses.”

“And fell asleep. The snoring was especially poignant. Anyway, I got the impression from Claire that other people's needs or wants didn't matter much to you.”

“You don't pull any punches, do you?”

“Thus, the divorce. Take Claire out for dinner. Go see a movie. Look at wedding flowers. Do
something
sisterly. It's about time.”

C
HAPTER
THIRTEEN

C
LAIRE KNEW HER LIPS WERE DRAWN IN A TIGHT,
unyielding line that communicated displeasure. She'd honed that skill; the ability to convey anger without having to form the words that would make her feel regret afterward. Her dad often remarked on this talent of hers
.
Lordy, Claire
,
he'd say
,
no one else can yell at me without saying a word. Someday all that silent anger of yours is gonna back up in your throat and choke you.

She glanced sideways at her sister, who was behind the wheel, driving too fast, her black hair flapping behind her like some celebrity starlet's. Sunglasses that probably cost more than Claire's net worth covered her eyes. “Where are we going?” she asked for the fourth time.

“You'll see.” Always the same answer. Clipped and unadorned. As if Meghann were afraid to say more.

She'd fallen asleep.

It wasn't as if Claire asked much of her sister. Hell, nothing was farther from the truth. She hadn't expected her sister to join in the fun of buying a wedding gown. God, no. Meghann enjoy a day with girlfriends? Hardly.

What galled most was that Claire had asked Meg's opinion first, even with Gina and Charlotte right there. Claire had put her neediness on the table:
What do you think, Meghann?

She'd asked her
twice
. After the second time, she rectified her mistake and ignored Meghann completely.

Then she'd heard the snores.

That was when she'd felt the sting of tears.

It hadn't helped, of course, that all of the dresses had been wrong, or that even ugly dresses were expensive these days, or that, by the end of the afternoon, she'd actually begun to think that a white sundress might be more practical. That had only brought the tears closer. But now Claire was just plain mad. Meghann would ruin this wedding; there was no doubt about it. Her sister was like an airborne virus. Ten seconds in the room with her and you began to feel sick.

“I need to get back to Ali,” Claire said, also for the fourth time.

“You will.”

Claire took a deep breath. Enough was enough. “Look, Meg, about planning my wedding. Honestly, you—”

“We're here.” Meg tucked the silver Porsche into an empty parking spot on the street. Before Claire could respond, Meghann was out of the car and standing by the meter. “Come on.”

They were in downtown Seattle now. Her sister's territory. Meg probably wanted to show off her hugely expensive condo.

Claire frowned. They were parked at the base of a long, slowly rising hill. Up ahead—maybe six blocks away—she could see the Public Market. Behind them, also several blocks away, was the ferry terminal. A street musician played a sad tune on a saxophone; the music floated above the traffic noises. To their left, a waterfall of concrete steps spilled down the courtyard of a condo complex. Across the street was a Diamond Parking lot, the stalls mostly empty on this non-game day.

“Do you live here?” Claire asked as she grabbed her bag and climbed out of the sports car. “I always pictured you in some sleek high-rise.”

“I invited you to my place a ton of times.”

“Twice. You invited me over once that day Mama was in town for the el creepo convention and once for Christmas dinner. You canceled the Christmas dinner because you got the flu, and Mama took us out for dinner at Canlis instead.”

Meghann looked surprised by that. “Really? I thought I was always asking you to see my place.”

“You were. You just never set up a day and time. I was always supposed to stop by when I was in town. News flash: I'm never in town.”

“You seem a little hostile today.”

“Do I? I can't imagine why.” Claire slung her purse strap over her shoulder and fell into step beside Meghann, who was marching uphill like Patton. “We need to talk about the wedding. Your performance this morning—”

“Here,” Meghann said, stopping suddenly in front of a narrow white door flanked by windows on either side. A small iron-scrolled sign read:
By Design.
A man in a severe black suit was busily undressing a mannequin behind the glass. He saw Meghann and waved her in.

“What
is
this place?”

“You said I could plan your wedding, right?”

“Actually, that's what I've been trying to discuss with you. Unfortunately, your listening skills are seriously underdeveloped.”

Meg opened the door and went inside.

Claire hesitated.

“Come on.” Meghann waited for her in front of an elevator.

Claire followed.

A second later, the elevator pinged and the doors slid open. They went in; the doors closed.

Finally, Meghann said, “I'm sorry about this morning. I know I screwed up.”

“Sleeping is one thing. Snoring is another.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

Claire sighed. “It's the story of our lives, Meg. Don't you get tired of it? One of us is always sorry about something, but we never—”

The elevator doors opened.

Claire gasped.

Meg had to lay a hand on her shoulder and gently shove her forward. She stumbled over the off-kilter threshold and into the store.

Only it wasn't a store. That was like calling Disneyland a carnival.

There were mannequins everywhere, poised perfectly, and dressed in the most beautiful wedding dresses Claire had ever seen. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, stepping forward. The gown in front of her was an off-the-shoulder creation, nipped at the waist. Ivory silk charmeuse fell in folds to the floor. Claire felt the fabric—softer than anything she'd ever touched—and peeked at the price tag. It read:
Escada $4,200.

She let go of it suddenly and turned to Meghann. “Let's go.” Her throat felt tight. She was a little girl again, standing in the hallway of a friend's house, watching a family have dinner together.

Meg grabbed her wrist, wouldn't let her go. “I want you to try on dresses
here
.”

“I can't. I know you're just being you, Meg. But this . . . hurts a little. I work at a campground.”

“I don't want to say this twice, Claire, so please listen and believe me. I work eighty-five hours a week, and my clients pay almost four hundred dollars an hour. I'm not showing off. It's a fact: Money is something I have. It would mean a lot to me to buy you this wedding gown. You don't belong in the dresses we saw this morning. I'm sorry if you think I'm a bitch and a snob, but that's how I feel. Please. Let me do this for you.”

Before Claire had come up with her answer, a woman cried out, “Meghann Dontess. In a wedding shop. Who would
ever
believe it?”

A tall, rail-thin woman in a navy blue sheath dress strode forward, her impossibly high heels clacking on the marble floor. Her hair, a perfect combination of white-blond and silver, stood out from her face in a Meg Ryan–type cut.

“Hello, Risa,” Meg said, extending her hand. The women shook hands, then Risa looked at Claire.

“This is the great one's baby sister, yes?”

Claire heard the barest hint of an Eastern European accent. Maybe even Russian. “I'm Claire.”

“And Meghann is letting you marry.”

“She's advised against it, actually.”

Risa threw back her head and laughed. “Of course she advised against it. I have heard such advice from her twice. Both times I should have listened, yes, but love will have its way.” She took a step back, studying Claire from head to toe.

Claire fisted her left hand, hiding the tinfoil ring.

Risa tapped a long, dark fingernail against her front teeth. “This is not what I expected,” she said, glancing pointedly at Meghann. “You said your sister was a country girl. Getting married in the middle of nowhere.”

Claire didn't know whether to smile or smack Meghann in the head. “I am a small-town girl. Meghann used to be.”

“Ah. That must be where she left her heart, yes?” Risa tapped her teeth again. “You are beautiful,” she said at last. “Size ten or twelve, I expect. We won't need to pad your bra.” She turned to Meghann. “Can she get an appointment with Renaldo? The hair . . .”

“I can try.”

“We must accentuate those beautiful eyes. So blue. It makes me think of Brad Pitt's wife. The nervous one from
Friends
. Yes. This is who your sister looks like. For her, I think the classics. Prada. Valentino. Armani. Wang. Maybe a vintage Azzaro. Come.” She turned and began marching away. Her hand snaked out now and then to grab a dress.

Claire looked at Meghann. “Armani? Vera Wang?” She shook her head, unable to say,
You can't do this
. They were the right words, the thing she should say, but the denial of this moment caught in her throat. What little girl hadn't dreamed of this? Especially a girl who had believed in love even after so many broken promises.

“We can always leave without buying anything,” Meghann said. “Try them on. Just for fun.”

“Just for fun.”

“Hurry up, you two! I haven't the whole day.” Risa's voice rang out, startling Claire, who hurried forward.

Meghann hung back as Risa went from rack to rack, piling one dress after another into her arms.

A few minutes later, Claire stepped into a dressing area that was bigger than her bedroom. Three floor-to-ceiling mirrors fanned out in front of her. A small wooden platform stood in the center.

“Go on. The dresses are in there. Try one on,” Risa gave her a gentle shove.

Claire went into the dressing room, where several gowns hung waiting. The first one was a stunning white silk Ralph Lauren with an intricate lace-and-beadwork patterned bodice. Another was a romantic peach-tinged ivory Prada with ruffled, capped sleeves and a slightly asymmetrical hemline. There was a white silk Armani sheath: simplicity itself with a plunging V neck and a draped, sexy back.

Claire didn't allow herself to look at the prices. This was her make-believe moment. She could afford anything. She peeled out of her wrinkled jeans and work T-shirt and tossed them on the floor. (She did
not
look at her faded, overwashed JCPenney bra and Jockey-for-Her underwear.)

The Ralph Lauren gown floated over her shoulders like a cloud and fell down her nearly naked body. From the neck down, she looked like Kim Basinger in
L.A. Confidential.

“Come on, honey. Let's see,” Risa said.

She opened the door and stepped into the dressing area.

There was a gasp at her entrance. Then Risa shouted, “Shoes!” and ran off.

Meg stood there, holding an armful of dresses. Her lips parted in a soft sigh.

Claire couldn't help smiling. At the same time, she had the oddest urge to cry. “That Ralph Lauren is no slouch. Of course, my car cost less than this dress.” She stepped up onto the platform and looked at herself in the mirror. No wonder Meghann had hated the gowns this morning.

Risa came back, brandishing a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals.

Claire laughed. “Who do you think I am—Carrie Bradshaw? My nose would bleed if I wore heels that high. Not to mention the fact that I'd break a hip when I fell.”

“Hush. Put them on.”

Claire did as she was told, then stood very still. Every breath threatened to send her toppling off the block.

“
Aagh
. Your mother, she did not teach you to stand in heels. A crime. I get you pumps.” Her mouth twisted slightly at the last word.

When Risa disappeared, Meghann laughed. “The only thing Mama taught us was how to walk in shoes you'd outgrown.”

“She always had a new pair.”

“Funny thing.”

A look passed between them, a moment of perfect understanding; when it passed, and they were back in ordinary time, Claire felt a tug of regret.

“I think the fabric is too flimsy, don't you?” Claire said. Her job was to find a flaw in each dress, a reason her sister shouldn't spend this much money.

Meghann frowned. “Too flimsy? You look gorgeous.”

“It hangs on every bulge. I'd have to wear undergarments made by Boeing.”

“Claire. It's a size ten. One more comment like that and you'll qualify for the Hollywood Wives Eating Disorder League.”

After that, Claire tried on a succession of dresses, each one more beautiful than the last. She felt like a princess, and it didn't ruin the day at all that she had to decline each one. She could always find one tiny thing that made the dress less than perfect.
The sleeves are too short, too wide, too ruffled. . . . The neckline is too sweet, too sexy, too traditional. . . . The feel of this one isn't right.

She could tell that Meghann was getting frustrated. She kept delivering armfuls of gowns. “Here, try these,” she said every time. Meg and patience had never known each other well.

Risa had long ago gone on to other customers.

Finally, Claire came to the last dress of the day. Meghann had chosen it. An elegant white gown with a heavily beaded tank bodice and a flowing taffeta silk skirt.

Claire unhooked her bra and stepped into the dress. She was still fastening the back as she stepped out of the dressing room.

Meghann was completely silent.

Claire frowned. She heard Risa in another part of the store, chattering loudly to another customer.

Claire looked at her sister. “You're uncharacteristically quiet. Should I begin the Heimlich?”

“Look.”

Claire lifted the heavy skirt off the ground and stepped up onto the platform. Slowly, she faced the trifold mirror.

The woman who stared back at her wasn't Claire Cavenaugh. No. This woman hadn't partied her way out of a state college and decided that cosmetology was a viable career choice, only to quit attending those classes as well . . . she hadn't borne a child out of wedlock because her lover refused to marry her . . . and she certainly didn't manage a campground that pretended it was a resort.

This woman arrived in limousines and drank champagne from fluted glasses. She slept on high-thread-count sheets and always had a current passport.

This was the woman she could have been, if she'd gone to college in New York and done graduate work in Paris. Maybe it was the woman she could still become.