Between Sisters (2 page)

“I love you, too. Now, go get my granddaughter. If you hurry, we'll have time to watch
SpongeBob SquarePants
before the game.”

C
HAPTER
TWO

T
HE WEST SIDE OF THE OFFICE BUILDING FACED PUGET
Sound. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows framed the beautiful blue-washed view. In the distance lay the forested mound of Bainbridge Island. At night, a few lights could be seen amid all that black-and-green darkness; in the daylight, though, the island looked uninhabited. Only the white ferry, chugging into its dock every hour, indicated that people lived there.

Meghann sat alone at a long, kidney-shaped conference table. The glossy cherry and ebony wood surface bespoke elegance and money. Perhaps money most of all. A table like this had to be custom-made and individually designed; it was true of the suede chairs, too. When a person sat down at this table and looked at that view, the point was clear: Whoever owned this office was damn successful.

It was true. Meghann had achieved every goal she'd set for herself. When she'd started college as a scared, lonely teenager she'd dared to dream of a better life. Now, she had it. Her practice was among the most successful and most respected in the city. She owned an expensive condo in downtown Seattle (a far cry from the broken-down travel trailer that had been her childhood “home”), and no one depended on her.

She glanced down at her watch. 4:20.

Her client was late.

You would think that charging well over three hundred dollars an hour would encourage people to be on time.

“Ms. Dontess?” came a voice through the intercom.

“Yes, Rhona?”

“Your sister, Claire, is on line one.”

“Put her through. And buzz me the second May Monroe gets here.”

“Very good.”

She pushed the button on her headset and forced a smile into her voice. “Claire, it's good to hear from you.”

“The phone works both ways, you know. So. How's life in Moneyland?”

“Good. And in Hayden? Everyone still sitting around waiting for the river to flood?”

“That danger's passed for the year.”

“Oh.” Meghann stared out her window. Below and to her left, huge orange cranes loaded multicolored containers onto a tanker. She had no idea what to say to her sister. They had a past in common, but that was pretty much it. “So, how's that beautiful niece of mine? Did she like the skateboard?”

“She loved it.” Claire laughed. “But really, Meg, someday you'll have to ask a salesperson for help. Five-year-old girls don't generally have the coordination for skateboards.”

“You did. We were living in Needles that year. The same year I taught you to ride a two-wheeler.” Meg immediately wished she hadn't said that. It always hurt to remember their past together. For a lot of years, Claire had been more of a daughter to Meghann than a sister. Certainly, Meg had been more of a mother to Claire than Mama ever had.

“Just get her a Disney movie next time. You don't need to spend so much money on her. She's happy with a Polly Pocket.”

Whatever
that
was. An awkward silence fell between them. Meghann looked down at her watch, then they both spoke at once.

“What are you—?”

“Is Alison excited about first grade—?”

Meghann pressed her lips together. It took an act of will not to speak, but she knew Claire hated to be interrupted. She especially hated it when Meg monopolized a conversation.

“Yeah,” Claire said. “Ali can't wait for all-day school. Kindergarten hasn't even ended and she's already looking forward to the fall. She talks about it constantly. Sometimes I feel like I'm holding on to the tail of a comet. And she never stops moving, even in her sleep.”

Meghann started to say,
You were the same way
, and stopped herself. It hurt remembering that; she wished she could push the memory aside.

“So, how's work going?”

“Good. And the camp?”

“Resort. We open in a little more than two weeks. The Jeffersons are having a family reunion here with about twenty people.”

“A week without phone access or television reception? Why am I hearing the
Deliverance
theme music in my head?”

“Some families like to be together,” Claire said in that crisp
you've-hurt-me
voice.

“I'm sorry. You're right. I know you love the place. Hey,” she said, as if she'd just thought of it, “why don't you borrow some money from me and build a nice little Eurospa on the property? Better yet, a small hotel. People would flock there for a good body wrap. God knows you've got the mud.”

Claire sighed heavily. “You just have to remind me that you're successful and I'm not. Damn it, Meg.”

“I didn't mean that. It's just . . . that I know you can't expand a business without capital.”

“I don't want your money, Meg.
We
don't want it.”

There it was: the reminder that Meg was an
I
and Claire was a
we
. “I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing. I just want to help.”

“I'm not the baby girl who needs her big sister's protection anymore, Meg.”

“Sam was always good at protecting you.” Meg heard a tiny flare of bitterness in her voice.

“Yeah.” Claire paused, drew in a breath. Meghann knew what her sister was doing. Regrouping, climbing to softer, safer ground. “I'm going to Lake Chelan,” she said at last.

“The yearly trip with the girlfriends,” Meghann said, thankful for the change in subject. “What do you call yourselves? The Bluesers?”

“Yeah.”

“You all going back to that same place?”

“Every summer since high school.”

Meghann wondered what it would be like to have a sisterhood of such close friends. If she were another kind of woman, she might be envious. As it was, she didn't have time to run around with a bunch of women. And she couldn't imagine still being friends with people she'd gone to high school with. “Well. Have fun.”

“Oh, we will. This year, Charlotte—”

The intercom buzzed. “Meghann? Mrs. Monroe is here.”

Thank God. An excuse to hang up.
Claire could talk forever about her friends. “Damn. Sorry, Claire, I've got to run.”

“Oh, right. I know how much you love to hear about my college dropout friends.”

“It's not that. I have a client who just arrived.”

“Yeah, sure. Bye.”

“Bye.” Meghann disconnected the call just as her secretary showed May Monroe into the conference room.

Meghann pulled the headset off and tossed it onto the table, where it hit with a clatter. “Hello, May,” she said, walking briskly toward her client. “Thank you, Rhona. No calls, please.”

Her secretary nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

May Monroe stood in front of a large multicolored oil painting, a Nechita original entitled
True Love
. Meghann had always loved the irony of that; here, in this room, true love died every day of the week.

May wore a serviceable black jersey dress and black shoes that were at least five years out of date. Her champagne-blond hair fell softly to her shoulders in that age-old easy-care bob. Her wedding ring was a plain gold band.

Looking at her, you would never know that her husband drove a jet-black Mercedes and had a regular Tuesday tee-time at the Broadmoor Golf Course. May probably hadn't spent money on herself in years. Not since she'd slaved at a local restaurant to put her husband through dental school. Though she was only a few years older than Meghann, sadness had left its mark on May. There were shadowy circles under her eyes.

“Please, May, sit down.”

May jerked forward like a marionette who'd been moved by someone else. She sat in one of the comfortable black suede chairs.

Meghann took her usual seat at the head of the table. Spread out in front of her were several manila file folders with bright pink Post-it notes fanned along the edges of the paperwork. Meghann drummed her fingertips on the stack of papers, wondering which of her many approaches would be best. Over the years, she'd learned that there were as many reactions to bad news as there were indiscretions themselves. Instinct warned her that May Monroe was fragile, that while she was in the midst of breaking up her marriage, she hadn't fully accepted the inevitable. Although the divorce papers had been filed months ago, May still didn't believe her husband would go through with it.

After this meeting, she'd believe it.

Meghann looked at her. “As I told you at our last meeting, May, I hired a private investigator to check into your husband's financial affairs.”

“It was a waste of time, right?”

No matter how often this scene played and replayed itself in this office, it never got any easier. “Not exactly.”

May stared at her for a long moment, then she stood up and went to the silver coffee service set out on the cherry wood credenza. “I see,” she said, keeping her back to Meghann. “What did you find out?”

“He has more than six hundred thousand dollars in an account in the Cayman Islands, which is under his own name. Seven months ago, he took almost all of the equity out of your home. Perhaps you thought you were signing refinance documents?”

May turned around. She was holding a coffee cup and saucer. The porcelain chattered in her shaking hands as she moved toward the conference table. “The rates had come down.”

“What came down was the cash. Right into his hands.”

“Oh my,” she whispered.

Meghann could see May's world crumbling. It flashed through the woman's green eyes; a light seemed to go out of her.

It was a moment so many women faced at a time like this: the realization that their husbands were strangers and that their dreams were just that.

“It gets worse,” Meghann went on, trying to be gentle with her words, but knowing how deep a cut she'd leave behind. “He sold the practice to his partner, Theodore Blevin, for a dollar.”

“Why would he do that? It's worth—”

“So you wouldn't be able to get the half you're entitled to.”

At that, May's legs seemed to give out on her. She crumpled into her chair. The cup and saucer hit the table with a clatter. Coffee burped over the porcelain rim and puddled on the wood. May immediately started dabbing the mess with her napkin. “I'm sorry.”

Meghann touched her client's wrist. “Don't be.” She got up, grabbed some napkins, and blotted the spill. “I'm the one who's sorry, May. No matter how often I see this sort of behavior, it still sickens me.” She touched May's shoulder and let the woman have time to think.

“Do any of those documents say why he did this to me?”

Meghann wished she didn't have an answer to that. A question was sometimes preferable to an answer. She reached into the file and pulled out a black-and-white photograph. Very gently, as if it were printed on a sheet of plastique explosives instead of glossy paper, she pushed it toward May. “Her name is Ashleigh.”

“Ashleigh Stoker. I guess I know why he always offered to pick Sarah up from piano lessons.”

Meghann nodded. It was always worse when the wife knew the mistress, even in passing. “Washington is a no-fault state; we don't need grounds for a divorce, so his affair doesn't matter.”

May looked up. She wore the vague, glassy-eyed expression of an accident victim. “It doesn't matter?” She closed her eyes. “I'm an idiot.” The words were more breath than sound.

“No. You're an honest, trustworthy woman who put a selfish prick through ten years of college so
he
could have a better life.”

“It was supposed to be
our
better life.”

“Of course it was.”

Meg reached out, touched May's hand. “You trusted a man who told you he loved you. Now he's counting on you to be good ole accommodating May, the woman who puts her family first and makes life easy for Dr. Dale Monroe.”

May looked confused by that, maybe even a little frightened. Meghann understood; women like May had forgotten a long time ago how to make waves.

That was fine. It was her lawyer's job anyway.

“What should we do? I don't want to hurt the children.”

“He's the one who's hurt the children, May. He's stolen money from them. And from you.”

“But he's a good father.”

“Then he'll want to see that they're provided for. If he's got a shred of decency in him, he'll hand over half of the assets without a fight. If he does that, it'll be a cakewalk.”

May knew the truth that Meghann had already surmised. A man like this didn't share well. “And if he doesn't?”

“Then, we'll make him.”

“He'll be angry.”

Meghann leaned forward. “You're the one who should be angry, May. This man lied to you, cheated on you, and stole from you.”

“He also fathered my children,” May answered with a calm that Meghann found exasperating. “I don't want this to get ugly. I want him . . . to know he can come home.”

Oh, May.

Meghann chose her words carefully. “We're simply going to be fair, May. I don't want to hurt anyone, but you damn sure aren't going to be screwed over and left destitute by this man. Period. He's a very, very wealthy orthodontist. You should be wearing Armani and driving a Porsche.”

“I've never wanted to wear Armani.”

“And maybe you never will, but it's my job to make sure you have every option. I know it seems cold and harsh right now, May, but believe me, when you're exhausted from raising those two children by yourself and Dr. Smiles is driving around town in a new Porsche and dancing the night away with his twenty-six-year-old piano teacher, you'll be glad you can afford to do whatever you want. Trust me on this.”

May looked at her. A tiny, heartbreaking frown tugged at her mouth. “Okay.”

“I won't let him hurt you anymore.”

“You think a few rounds of paperwork and a pile of money in the bank will protect me from that?” She sighed. “Go ahead, Ms. Dontess, do what you need to do to protect my children's future. But let's not pretend you can make it painless, okay? It already hurts so much I can barely breathe, and it has just begun.”

Across the blistered expanse of prairie grass, a row of windmills dotted the cloudless horizon. Their thick metal blades turned in a slow and steady rhythm. Sometimes, when the weather was just right, you could hear the creaking thwop-thwop-thwop of each rotation.