Between Sisters (20 page)

C
HAPTER
EIGHTEEN

T
HE AFTERNOON TURNED GRAY AND COLD. RAIN FELL IN
tiny staccato bursts that were all but invisible to the naked eye.

Claire spent the rest of the day pretending to work.

“Go home, Claire,” her father said to her whenever he happened to walk into the office and see her.

“I've got work to do,” was her standard answer, and every time she said it, he laughed.

“Yeah. You're a big help today. Go take a bath. Do your nails.”

She was too nervous to take a bath or do her nails. Thirty-five was too old to marry for the first time. How could she possibly be doing the right thing?

But every time her worries threatened to overwhelm her, she'd turn a corner or open a door and see Bobby. He was painting the fence around the laundry room the first time she saw him, scrubbing canoes the second.

He'd looked up at her approach both times.
Hey, darlin'
, he'd said, smiling.
I love you
.

Just that, those few and precious words, and Claire breathed easier again, for an hour or so, until the doubts once again welled up.

Finally, at around three in the afternoon, she gave up and walked back to her house. Toys lay scattered on the grass in the front yard; a Barbie that was half dressed, a pink plastic bucket and tiny shovel, a red Fisher-Price barn, complete with farm animals. She picked everything up and headed for the house.

“There you are,” Meghann said when she walked in.

“Hey,” she said, sighing as she walked over to the toy box and dumped her load in.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She certainly didn't want to discuss her wedding jitters with Miss Prenup.

Meghann got up. Claire could feel her sister's gaze; it was lawyerly and intense. Not a sister-to-sister look at all. “I was just going to have some iced tea. Would you like one?”

“A margarita would be better.”

“You got it. Sit.”

Claire sank onto the sofa and put her feet up on the magazine-covered coffee table.

Meg was back in no time, holding two glasses. “Here you are.”

Claire took the glass and tried the margarita. “This is good. Thanks.”

Meg sat in the bentwood rocker by the fireplace. “You're scared,” she said gently.

Claire jumped as if she'd been shouted at. “Anyone would be.” She took another drink, careful not to make eye contact. She felt like a squirrel in the presence of a cobra.

Meg moved to the sofa and sat down beside Claire. “It's normal, believe me. If you weren't scared right now, I'd take your pulse.”

“You think I
should
be scared.”

“I remember when Elizabeth and Jack got married. They were as in love as any two people I've ever seen. And she
still
needed two martinis to walk down the aisle. Only a fool wouldn't be afraid, Claire. Maybe that's why weddings take place in churches—because each one is an act of faith.”

“I love him.”

“I know you do.”

“But I should sign a prenuptial agreement to protect my assets in case we get divorced.”

“I'm a lawyer. Protecting people is what I do.”

“You protect strangers. Members of your family are a different thing.”

Meghann looked down at her drink, then said softly, “I guess.”

Claire wished she could take back that little cruelty. What was it about their past that made them wound each other so consistently? “I know you're trying to help, but how can you? You don't believe in love. Or marriage.”

It was a moment before Meg answered, and when she did speak, her voice was soft. “I've never seen a baby crow.”

“What?”

“On my way to work, I see crows clustered along the phone lines in the waterfront park. So I know that every spring there are nests somewhere, filled with tiny newborn crows.”

“Meg, are you having a seizure?”

“My point is: I know things exist that I never see. Love has to be one of them. I'm trying to believe in it for you.”

Claire knew how much it cost her sister to say something like that. No one who'd grown up in Mama's shadow found it easy to believe in love. That Meghann would try, for Claire's sake, really meant something. “Thank you. And thanks for planning the wedding. Even if you are keeping every detail a secret.”

“It's been more fun that I thought. Kinda like being on the prom committee—not that I ever would have been on such a thing.”

“I was Prom Queen.” Claire grinned. “No kidding, and Rhododendron Princess, too, at Mountaineering Days.”

Meghann laughed. Obviously she was relieved by a return to casual conversation. “What does the rhodie princess do?”

“Sit in the back of a 1953 Ford pickup in a dress the color of Pepto-Bismol and wave at the crowd. The 4-H Goat Club walked behind us in the parade. It was raining so hard that I ended up looking like Tim Curry at the end of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. Dad took about three dozen photos and put them all in an album.”

Meghann looked down at her drink again. It was a moment before she spoke. “That's a nice memory.”

Claire immediately regretted her comment. All it did was highlight Meghann's fatherlessness. “I'm sorry.”

“You were lucky to have Sam. And Ali is lucky to have you. You're a great mother.”

“Do you regret it?” Claire said, surprising both of them with the intimate question. “Not having kids, I mean.”

“Being a divorce lawyer made me sterile.”

“Meghann,” she said evenly.

Meg finally looked at her. “I don't think I'd be any good at it. Let's just leave it at that.”

“You were a good mother to me. For a while.”

“It's the ‘for a while' that matters.”

Claire leaned toward her sister. “I'd like you to baby-sit Alison next week. While Bobby and I are on our honeymoon.”

“I thought you weren't taking a honeymoon.”

“Dad insisted. His wedding gift was a week's trip to Kauai.”

“And you want
me
to baby-sit?”

Claire smiled. “It would mean a lot to me. Ali needs to know you better.”

Meghann released a fluttery breath. She looked nervous. “You'd trust me?”

“Of course.”

Meg sat back. A tremulous smile curved her lips. “Okay.”

Claire grinned. “No taking her to the shooting range or teaching her to bungee-jump.”

“So, skydiving lessons are out. Can I take her for a pony ride?”

They were still laughing when Dad pushed through the door and came into the living room. He was already dressed for the rehearsal in black pants—freshly ironed—and a pale blue denim shirt with a River's Edge logo on the pocket. His brown hair had been recently cut and was combed back from his forehead. If Claire didn't know better, she'd think he'd moussed it.

“Hey, Dad. You look great.”

“Thanks.” He flashed an uncomfortable smile at her sister. “Meg.”

“Sam,” Meg said stiffly as she got to her feet. “I need to get dressed. Good-bye.”

When Meghann had disappeared upstairs, Sam sighed and shook his head. “I feel about two feet tall when she looks at me.”

“I know the feeling. What's going on, Dad? I need to get dressed.” She looked past him. “I thought you were playing checkers with Ali?”

“Bobby is trying to French-braid her hair.”

Claire laughed at that and started for the stairs. “I'll redo it before we leave. You want to pick me up in forty-five minutes?”

“I need to talk to you first. Just for a minute. I didn't know if I should talk to Bobby at the same time—”

She smiled. “I hope this isn't my long-overdue sex talk.”

“I talked to you about sex.”

“
Don't do it
is not a talk.”

“Wiseass.” He nodded toward the couch. “Sit down. And don't give me any lip. This'll just take a second.”

He sat down on the coffee table. “Margaritas, already?” he said, glancing at Meg's glass.

“I was a little nervous.”

“It makes me think of when I married your mama.”

“Let me guess, she was power-drinking all day.”

“We both were.” He smiled, but it was a little sad, that smile, and it excluded Claire somehow.

After a short pause, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black box, and opened it.

Inside was a marquise-cut yellow diamond set on a wide platinum band. “It's your grandma Myrtle's diamond. She wanted you to have it.”

The ring sparked a dozen sweet memories. Whenever her grandmother had dealt a hand of cards, this diamond had splashed tiny colored reflections on the walls.

Dad reached out, took her hand. “I couldn't let my baby get married with a tinfoil ring.”

She tried it on. The ring fit as if it had been made for her. She leaned over and pulled him into her arms. “Thanks, Dad.”

He smelled of woodsmoke and bay rum aftershave, as he had for the whole of her life, and in that moment, as she held him with her face pressed against his cheek, she remembered a dozen times from her girlhood. Nights they'd gone bowling and had dinner at Zeke's Drive-In . . . the way the porch light flickered ten seconds after she and her date pulled into the driveway . . . the stories he used to tell her at bedtime when she felt scared and alone and missed her big sister.

After tomorrow, she would be a married woman. Another man would be the center of her life, another arm would keep her steady. She would be Bobby's wife from now on; not Sam Cavenaugh's little girl.

When Dad drew back, there were tears in his eyes, and she knew he'd been thinking the same thing.

“Always,” she whispered.

He nodded in understanding. “Always.”

C
HAPTER
NINETEEN

M
EGHANN WISHED TO GOD SHE
'
D NEVER AGREED TO LET
Gina host and plan the rehearsal dinner. Every moment was pure hell.

Are you here by yourself?

Where's your husband?

You don't have children? Well. That's lucky, sometimes I wish I could give mine away.
This one was followed by a clearly uncomfortable laugh.

No husband, huh? It must be great to be so independent
. This one was always followed by a frown.

Meghann knew that Claire's friends were trying to make conversation with her; they just didn't know what to say. How could they? This was a group of women who talked endlessly about their families. Summer camp start-times were a big topic of conversation; also resorts that were “kid friendly” on Lake Chelan and along the Oregon Coast. Meghann had no idea what
kid friendly
even meant. That they served ketchup with every meal, maybe.

They were trying to include her, especially the Bluesers, but the more they tried to make her a part of the group, the more alienated she felt. She could talk about a lot of things—world politics, the situation in the Mideast, where to get the best deal on designer clothes, real estate markets, and Wall Street. What she couldn't talk about were family things. Kid things.

Meghann stood at the fireplace in Gina's beautifully decorated house, sipping her second margarita. This one, like the first, was disappearing much too quickly. There were pods of people everywhere—on the deck, in the living room, sitting at the dining-room table—all talking and laughing among themselves. Across the room, Claire stood at the kitchen bar/counter, eating potato chips and laughing with Gina. As Meghann watched, Bobby came up behind Claire and whispered something in her ear. She immediately turned into his arms. They came together like puzzle pieces, fitting perfectly, and when Claire looked up at Bobby, her face glowed.

Love.

There it was, in all its quicksilver glory.

Please, God
, she found herself praying for the first time in years,
let it be real.

“Okay, everyone,” Gina said, coming into the room. “Now it's time for the second part of the evening.”

A hush fell. Everyone looked up.

Gina smiled. “Hector is opening the bowling alley just for us! We leave in fifteen minutes.”

Bowling.
Rented shoes. Polyester shirts. The division of people into teams.

Meg eased away from the wall. Taking a sip of her cocktail, she realized that she'd finished it. “Damn.”

“We haven't really met yet. I'm Harold Banner. Karen's husband.”

Meghann was startled by the man's presence. She hadn't heard him approach. “Hello, Harold.”

He was a tall, thin man with bushy black eyebrows and a smile that was just a bit too wide, as if maybe he had too many teeth. “I hear you're a lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“Let me ask you then—”

She tried not to groan.

He barked out a braying laugh. “Just kidding. I'm a doctor. I get the same thing all the time. Everyone I meet mentions a pain somewhere.”

In the ass, maybe.
She nodded and looked down into her empty glass again.

“I guess you left your husband at home, huh? Lucky guy. Karen makes me show up at everything.”

“I'm single.” She tried not to grit her teeth, but this was about the tenth time she'd had to reveal that tonight.

“Ah. Footloose and fancy-free. Lucky you. Kids?”

She knew he was just being nice, trying to find some common ground for conversation, but she didn't care. Tonight had been brutal. One more reminder that she was a woman alone in the world and she'd probably scream. Normally she was proud of her independence, but this small-town crowd made her feel as if she lacked something important. “I'm sorry, Harold. I need to go now.”

“What about bowling?”

“I don't bowl.” She walked across the living room and came up beside Claire, gently putting her hand on her sister's shoulder.

Claire turned. She looked so happy right then it took Meghann's breath away. When she saw Meghann, she laughed. “Let me guess. You're not a bowler.”

“Oh, I love bowling. Really,” she added at her sister's skeptical look. “I have my own ball.” She knew immediately that she'd gone too far with that one.

“You do, huh?” Claire leaned against Bobby, who was talking animatedly to Charlotte's husband.

“Unfortunately, I have a few last-minute details I need to go over for tomorrow. I have to get up early.”

Claire nodded. “I understand, Meg. I really do.”

“I thought I'd call Mama again, too.”

Claire's happy look faded. “Do you think she'll show up?”

Meghann wished she could protect Claire from Mama. “I'll do my best to get her here.”

Claire nodded.

“Well. Bye. I'll tell Gina why I'm leaving.”

Fifteen minutes later, Meghann was in her car, speeding down the country road toward Hayden. She had the top down, and the cool night air whipped through her hair.

She tried to forget the rehearsal dinner, get the hurtful memories out of her mind, but she couldn't do it. Her sister's well-meaning friends had managed to underscore the emptiness of Meg's life.

She saw the sign for Mo's Fireside Tavern and slammed on the brakes.

It was a bad idea to go in, she knew. There was nothing but trouble in there. And yet . . .

She parked on the street and went inside the smoky bar. It was crowded tonight.

Friday. Of course.

Men sat on every barstool, at every table. There were a few women scattered throughout the crowd, but damn few.

She made her way through the place, boldly checking out every man. She got enough smiles to know that she could definitely find one here tonight.

She had toured the whole place and made her way back to the front door when she realized why she was really here.

“Joe,” she said softly, surprised. She honestly hadn't known that she wanted him.

That wasn't good.

She left the bar. Out on the street, she took a deep breath of sweet mountain air. She never slept with a man twice. Or rarely, anyway. As her friend Elizabeth had once pointed out, Meghann would sometimes make a New Year's resolution to quit screwing college kids, and then date men without hair for a week or two, but that was pretty much the extent of her so-called dating life.

The amazing thing was, she didn't want to cull through the possibilities in the bar and bring home a stranger.

She wanted . . .

Joe
.

She stood at her car, looking down the street at his small cabin. Light glowed from the windows.

“No,” she said aloud. She shouldn't do it, but she was walking anyway, crossing the street, and entering his yard, which smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine. At the door, she paused, wondering what in the hell she was doing.

Then she knocked. There was a long silence. No one answered.

She twisted the knob and went inside. The cabin was dark and quiet. A single lamp glowed with soft light, and a fire crackled in the hearth.

“Joe?” Cautiously, she stepped forward.

No answer.

A shiver crept along her spine. She sensed that he was here, close by, burrowed into the darkness like a wounded animal, watching her.

She was being ridiculous. He simply wasn't home. And she shouldn't be here.

She started to turn for the door when she saw the photographs. They were everywhere—on the coffee table, the end tables, the windowsills, the mantel.

Frowning, she walked from place to place looking at the pictures. They were all of the same woman, a lovely blond with a Grace Kelly kind of elegance. There was something familiar about her. Meghann picked one up, smoothed her finger across the cheap Plexiglas frame. In this photograph, the woman was clearly trying to make pie dough from scratch. There was flour everywhere. She wore an apron that read:
Kiss the Cook.
Her smile was infectious. Meghann couldn't help smiling along with her.

“Do you always break into other people's homes and paw through their things?”

Meghann jumped back. Her fingers went numb—just for a second, but it was time enough. The picture crashed to the floor. She turned around, looking for him. “Joe? It's me, Meghann.”

“I know it's you.”

He was slumped in the corner of the room, with one leg bent and the other stretched out. Firelight illuminated his silvery hair and half of his face. She didn't know if it was the dim lighting, but she noticed the lines etched around his eyes. Sadness clung to him, made her wonder if he'd been crying.

“I shouldn't have come in. Or come here, for that matter,” she said, uncomfortably. “I'm sorry.” She turned and headed for the door.

“Have a drink with me.”

She released a breath, realizing just then how much she'd wanted him to ask her to stay. Slowly, she faced him.

“What can I get you?”

“Martini?”

He laughed. It was a dry, rustling sound that bore no resemblance to the real thing. “I've got scotch. And scotch.”

She sidled past the coffee table and sat down on the worn leather sofa. “I'll have a scotch.”

He got up, shuffled across the room. She saw now why he'd been so invisible; he had on worn black jeans and a black T-shirt.

She heard a splash of liquid, then a rattling of ice. As he poured her drink, she looked around the room. All those photographs of the Grace Kelly look-alike made her uncomfortable. These pictures weren't decoration; they were obsession, naked and unashamed. She tried to figure out where she'd seen this woman but couldn't.

“Here.”

She looked up.

He stood in front of her. The top two buttons of his Levi's were undone, and the T-shirt was ripped at the collar, revealing a dark patch of chest hair.

“Thank you,” she said.

He took a drink straight from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure.” He didn't move away, just stood there, staring down at her. He was unsteady on his feet.

“You're drunk,” she said, finally getting it.

“Iss June twenty-second.” He smiled, or tried to, but the sadness in his eyes made it impossible.

“Do you have something against the twenty-second?”

His gaze darted to the end table beside her. To the photographs clustered there. He looked quickly back at her. “You were here the other day. You didn't come in.”

So he'd seen her, standing on the street that afternoon, looking at his house. She couldn't think of how to answer, so she drank instead.

He sat down beside her.

She twisted around to face him, realizing an instant too late how close they were. She could feel his breath against her lips. She tried to edge away.

He reached out, grabbed her wrist. “Don't go.”

“I wasn't leaving. But maybe I should.”

He let go of her wrist suddenly. “Maybe you should.” He took another swig from the bottle.

“Who is she, Joe?” Her voice was soft, but in the quiet room, it seemed too loud, too intimate. She flinched, wishing she hadn't asked, surprised that she cared.

“My wife. Diana.”

“You're married?”

“Not anymore. She . . . left me.”

“On June twenty-second.”

“How'jou know?”

“I know about divorces. The anniversaries can be hell.” Meghann stared into his sad, sad eyes and tried not to feel anything. It was better that way, safer. But sitting here beside him, close enough to be taken into his arms, she felt . . . needy. Maybe even desperate. Suddenly she wanted something from Joe; something more than sex.

“Maybe I should go. You seem to want to be alone.”

“I've been alone.”

She heard the ache of loneliness in his voice and it drew her in. “Me, too.”

He reached out, touched her face. “I can't offer you anything, Meghann.”

The way he said her name, all sad and drawn out and slow, sent a shiver along her spine. She wanted to tell him that she didn't want anything from him except a night in his bed, but amazingly, she couldn't form the words. “It's okay.”

“You should want more.”

“So should you.”

She felt fragile suddenly, as if this man she didn't know at all had the power to break her heart. “We're talking too much, Joe. Kiss me.”

In the fireplace, a log fell to the hearth floor with a thud. Sparks flooded into the room.

With a groan, he pulled her into his arms.