Between Sisters (3 page)

Today, it was too damn hot to hear anything except the beating of your own heart.

Joe Wyatt stood on the poured-concrete slab that served as the warehouse's front porch, holding a now-warm can of Coke, all that was left of his lunch.

He stared at the distant fields, wishing he were walking along the wide rows between the trees, smelling the sweet scent of rich earth and growing fruit.

There might be a breeze down there; even a breath of one would alleviate this stifling heat. Here, there was only the hot sun, beating down on the metal warehouse. Perspiration sheened his forehead and dampened the skin beneath his T-shirt.

The heat was getting to him and it was only the second week of June. There was no way he could handle summer in the Yakima Valley. It was time to move on again.

The realization exhausted him.

Not for the first time, he wondered how much longer he could do this, drift from town to town. Loneliness was wearing him down, whittling him away to a stringy shadow; unfortunately, the alternative was worse.

Once—it felt long ago now—he'd hoped that one of these places would feel right, that he'd come into some town, think,
This is it
, and dare to rent an apartment instead of a seedy motel room.

He no longer harbored such dreams. He knew better. After a week in the same room, he started to feel things, remember things. The nightmares would start. The only protection he had found was strangeness. If a mattress was never “his,” if a room remained unfamiliar territory, he could sometimes sleep for more than two hours at a time. If he settled in, got comfortable, and slept longer, he invariably dreamed about Diana.

That was okay. It hurt, of course, because seeing her face—even in his dreams—filled him with an ache that ran deep in his bones, but there was pleasure, too, a sweet remembrance of how life used to be, of the love he'd once been capable of feeling. If only the dreams stopped there, with memories of Diana sitting on the green grass of the Quad in her college days or of them cuddled up in their big bed in the house on Bainbridge Island.

He was never that lucky. The sweet dreams invariably soured and turned ugly. More often than not, he woke up whispering, “I'm sorry.”

The only way to survive was to keep moving and never make eye contact.

He'd learned in these vagrant years how to be invisible. If a man cut his hair and dressed well and held down a job, people saw him. They stood in line for the bus beside him, and in small towns they struck up conversations.

But if a man let himself go, if he forgot to cut his hair and wore a faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt and ragged, faded Levi's, and carried a ratty backpack, no one noticed him. More important, no one recognized him.

Behind him, the bell rang. With a sigh, he stepped into the warehouse. The icy cold hit him instantly. Cold storage for the fruit. The sweat on his face turned clammy. He tossed his empty Coke can in the trash, then went back outside.

For a split second, maybe less, the heat felt good; by the time he reached the loading dock, he was sweating again.

“Wyatt,” the foreman yelled, “what do you think this is, a damn picnic?”

Joe looked at the endless row of slat-sided trucks, filled to heaping with newly picked cherries. Then he studied the other men unloading the crates—Mexicans mostly, who lived in broken-down trailers on patches of dry, dusty land without flushing toilets or running water.

“No, sir,” he said to the florid-faced foreman who clearly got his kicks from yelling at his workers. “I don't think this is a picnic.”

“Good. Then get to work. I'm docking you a half an hour's pay.”

In his former life, Joe would have grabbed the foreman by his sweaty, dirty collar and shown him how men treated one another.

Those days were gone.

Slowly, he walked toward the nearest truck, pulling a pair of canvas gloves out of his back pocket as he moved.

It was time to move on.

Claire stood at the kitchen sink, thinking about the phone conversation with Meg yesterday.

“Mommy, can I have another Eggo?”

“How do we ask for that?” Claire said absently.

“Mommy, may I
please
have another Eggo?”

Claire turned away from the window and dried her hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven door. “Sure.” She popped a frozen waffle into the toaster. While it was warming, she looked around the kitchen for more dirty dishes—

And saw the place through her sister's eyes.

It wasn't a bad house, certainly not by Hayden standards. Small, yes: three tiny bedrooms tucked into the peaked second floor; a single bathroom on each floor; a living room; and a kitchen with an eating space that doubled as a counter. In the six years Claire had lived here, she'd painted the once moss-green walls a creamy French vanilla and replaced the orange shag carpeting with hardwood floors. Her furniture, although mostly secondhand, was all framed in wood that she'd stripped and refinished herself. Her pride and joy was a Hawaiian koa-wood love seat. It didn't look like much in the living room, with its faded red cushions, but someday, when she lived on Kauai, it would stop people in their tracks.

Meg would see it differently, of course. Meg, who'd graduated high school early and then breezed through seven years of college, who never failed to mention that she had buckets of money, and had the nerve to send her niece Christmas gifts that made the others under the tree look paltry by comparison.

“My waffle's up.”

“So it is.” Claire took the waffle from the slot, buttered and cut it, then put the plate in front of her daughter. “Here you go.”

Alison immediately stabbed a piece and popped it into her mouth, chewing in that cartoon-character way of hers.

Claire couldn't help smiling. Her daughter had had that effect on her since birth. She stared down at the miniature version of herself. Same fine blond hair and pale skin, same heart-shaped face. Although there were no pictures of Claire at five, she imagined that she and Alison were almost carbon copies of each other. Alison's father had left no genetic imprint on his daughter.

It was fitting. The minute he'd heard Claire was pregnant, he'd reached for his running shoes.

“You're in your jammies, Mommy. We're gonna be late if you don't hurry.”

“You're right about that.” Claire thought about all the things she had to do today: mow the back field; recaulk the showers and bathroom windows; bleach the mildewed wall in cabin three; unplug the toilet in cabin five; and repair the canoe shed. It was early yet, not even 8:00, on the last day of school. Tomorrow, they'd be leaving for a week of rest and fun at Lake Chelan. She hoped she could get everything done in time. She glanced around. “Have you seen my work list, Alison?”

“On the coffee table.”

Claire picked up her list from the table, shaking her head. She had absolutely no memory of leaving it there. Sometimes she wondered how she'd get by without Alison.

“I want ballet lessons, Mommy. Is that okay?”

Claire smiled. It occurred to her—one of those passing thoughts that carried a tiny sting—that she'd once wanted to be a ballerina, too. Meghann had encouraged her to dream that dream, even though there had been no money for lessons.

Well, that wasn't quite true. There had been money for
Mama's
dance lessons, but none for Claire's.

Once, though, when Claire had been about six or seven, Meghann had arranged for a series of Saturday-morning lessons with a junior high friend of hers. Claire had never forgotten those few perfect mornings.

Her smile faded.

Alison was frowning at her, one cheek bunched up midbite. “Mommy? Ballet?”

“I wanted to be a ballerina once. Did you know that?”

“Nope.”

“Unfortunately, I have feet the size of canoes.”

Ali giggled. “Canoes are
huge
, Mommy. Your feet are just really big.”

“Thanks.” She laughed, too.

“How come you're a worker bee if you wanted to be a ballerina?”

“Worker bee is what Grampa calls me. Really I'm an assistant manager.”

It had happened a long time ago, her choosing this life. Like most of her decisions, she'd stumbled across it without paying much attention. First, she'd flunked out of Washington State University—one of the many party casualties of higher education. She hadn't known then, of course, that Meghann was basically right. College gave a girl choices. Without a degree, or a dream, Claire had found herself back in Hayden. Originally, she'd meant to stay a month or so, then move to Kauai and learn to surf, but then Dad got bronchitis and was down for a month. Claire had stepped in to help him out. By the time her father was back on his feet and ready to resume his job, Claire had realized how much she loved this place. She was, in that and in so many things, her father's daughter.

Like him, she loved this job; she was outside all day, rain or shine, working on whatever needed to be done. When she finished each chore, she saw tangible proof of her labor. There was something about these gorgeous sixteen acres along the river that filled her soul.

It didn't surprise her that Meghann didn't understand. Her sister, who valued education and money above everything, saw this place as a waste of time.

Claire tried not to let that condemnation matter. She knew her job wasn't much in the great scheme of things, just managing a few campsites and a couple of cabins, but she never felt like a failure, never felt that her life was a disappointment.

Except when she talked to her sister.

C
HAPTER
THREE

T
WENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, CLAIRE WAS READY TO LEAVE
on vacation. She took a last pass through the tiny house, looking for anything forgotten or left undone, but everything was as it should be. The windows were locked, the dishwasher was empty, and all the perishables had been taken out of the fridge. She was straightening the shower curtain when she heard footsteps in the living room.

“What in the name of a frog's
butt
are you still doing here?”

She smiled and backed out of the minuscule bathroom.

Her father stood in the living room. As always, he dwarfed the small space. Big and broad-shouldered, he made every room seem smaller by comparison. But it was his personality that was truly oversize.

She'd first met him when she was nine years old. She'd been small for her age, and so shy she only spoke to Meghann in those days. Dad had seemed larger than life when he stepped into their travel trailer.
Well
, he'd said as he looked down at her,
you must be my daughter, Claire. You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen. Let's go home.

Home.

It was the word she'd waited for, dreamed of. It had taken her years—and more than a few tears—to realize that he hadn't offered the same welcome to Meghann. By then, of course, by the time Claire understood the mistake, it was well past the time to rectify it.

“Hey, Dad. I was making sure everything was ready for you to move in.”

His grin showed a row of Chiclet-white dentures. “You know damn well I ain't moving in here. I
like
my mobile home. A man doesn't need this much room. I got my fridge and my satellite TV. That's all I need.”

They'd been having this discussion ever since Claire had moved back to the property and Dad had given her use of the house. He swore up and down that the mobile home hidden in the trees was more than room enough for a fifty-six-year-old single man.

“But, Dad—”

“Don't talk about my butt. I know it's getting bigger. Now, dance on over here and give your old man a hug.”

Claire did as she was told.

His big, strong arms enfolded her, made her feel safe and adored. He smelled faintly of disinfectant today. That was when she remembered the bathroom that needed fixing.

“I'll leave in an hour,” she said. “The toilet in cabin—”

He spun her around and pushed her gently toward the door. “Get going. This place isn't going to fall apart without you. I'll fix the damn toilet.
And
I'll remember to pick up the PVC pipe you ordered and to stack the wood under cover. If you remind me again, I'll have to hurt you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.”

Claire couldn't help smiling. She'd reminded him about the pipe at least six times. “Okay.”

He touched her shoulders, forced her to stop long enough to look at him. “Take as long as you want. Really. Take three weeks. I can handle this place alone. You deserve a break.”

“
You
never take one.”

“I'm on the down side of my life, and I don't want to get out much. You're only thirty-five. You and Alison should kick up your heels a bit. You're too damn responsible.”

“I'm a thirty-five-year-old single mother who has never been married. That's not too responsible, and I
will
kick up my heels in Chelan. But I'll be home in a week. In time to check the Jefferson party into their cabins.”

He thumped her shoulder. “You've always done exactly what you wanted, but you can't blame a guy for trying. Have fun.”

“You, too, Dad. And take Thelma out for dinner while I'm gone. Quit all that skulking around.”

He looked genuinely nonplussed. “What—”

She laughed. “Come on, Dad. The whole town knows you're dating.”

“We're not dating.”

“Okay. Sleeping together.” In the silence that followed that remark, Claire walked out of the house and into the steely gray day. A drizzling rain fell like a beaded curtain in front of the trees. Crows sat on fence posts and phone wires, cawing loudly to one another.

“Come on, Mommy!” Alison's small face poked through the car's open window.

Dad hurried ahead of her and kissed his granddaughter's cheek.

Claire checked the trunk—again—then got into the car and started the engine. “Are we ready, Ali Kat? Do you have everything?”

Alison bounced in her seat, clinging to her Mary-Kate-and-Ashley lunch box. “I'm ready!” Her stuffed orca—Bluebell—was strapped into the seat with her.

“We're off to see the Wizard, then,” Claire said, shifting into drive as she yelled a final good-bye to her father.

Alison immediately started singing the Barney theme song: “I love you, you love me.” Her voice was high and strong, so loud that poodles all across the valley were probably hurling themselves to the ground and whining pitifully. “Come on, Mommy,
sing
.”

By the time they reached the top of Stevens Pass, they'd sung forty-two Barney theme songs—in a row—and seventeen Froggy-Went-A-Courtings. When Alison opened her lunch box, Claire rammed a Disney audiotape into the cassette player. The theme music to
The Little Mermaid
started.

“I wish I was like Ariel. I want flippers,” Alison said.

“How could you be a ballerina then?”

Alison looked at her, clearly disgusted. “She has feet on
land
, Mommy.” Then she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, listening to the story of the mermaid princess.

The miles flew by. In no time, they were speeding across the flat, arid land on the eastern side of the state.

“Are we almost there, Mommy?” Alison asked, sucking on a licorice whip, bouncing in her seat. The area around her lips was smudged with black. “I wish we'd get there.”

Claire felt the same way. She loved the Blue Skies Campground. She and her girlfriends had first vacationed there a few years after high school graduation. In the early years there had been five of them; time and tragedy had whittled their number down to four. They'd each missed a year now and then, but for the most part, they met there year after year. At first they'd been young and wild and driven to pick up local boys. Gradually, as they'd started dragging bassinets and car seats with them, the vacation had settled down a bit. Now that the kids were old enough to swim and play on the playground alone, the girls—women—had refound a slice of their previous freedom.

“Mom
my
. You're spacing out.”

“Oh. Sorry, honey.”

“I
said
, we get the honeymoon cabin this year, remember?” She bounced even harder in her seat. “
Yippee!
We get the big bathtub. And this year I get to jump off the dock, don't forget. You
promised
. Bonnie got to jump when she was five.” Alison sighed dramatically and crossed her arms. “Can I jump off the dock or not?”

Claire wanted to go against her overprotective nature, but when you'd grown up in a house where your Mama allowed
anything
, you learned fast how easy it was to get hurt. It made you afraid. “Let's see the dock, okay? And we'll see how you're swimming. Then we'll see.”

“‘We'll see' always means no. You
promised
.”

“I did not promise. I remember it distinctly, Alison Katherine. We were in the water; you were on my back, with your legs wrapped around me. We were watching Willie and Bonnie jump into the water. You said, ‘Next year I'll be five.' And I said, ‘Yes, you will.' And you pointed out that Bonnie was five. I pointed out that she was almost six.”

“I'm almost six.” Alison crossed her arms. “I'm jumping.”

“We'll see.”

“You're not the boss of me.”

Claire always laughed at that. Lately it was her daughter's favorite comeback. “Oh, yes I am.”

Alison turned her face toward the window. She was quiet for a long time—almost two minutes. Finally, she said, “Marybeth threw Amy's clay handprint in the toilet last week.”

“Really? That wasn't very nice.”

“I know. Mrs. Schmidt gave her a
long
time-out. Did you bring my skateboard?”

“No, you're too young to ride it.”

“Stevie Wain rides his all the time.”

“Isn't that the boy who fell and broke his nose and knocked out two front teeth?”

“They were
baby
teeth, Mommy. He said they were loose anyway. How come Aunt Meg never comes to visit us?”

“I've told you this before, remember? Aunt Meg is so busy she hardly has time to breathe.”

“Eliot Zane turned blue when he didn't breathe. The amb'lance came to get him.”

“I didn't mean that. I just meant Meg is superbusy helping people.”

“Oh.”

Claire steeled herself for her daughter's next question. There was
always
a next question with Alison, and you could never predict what it would be.

“Is this the desert already?”

Claire nodded. Her daughter always called eastern Washington the desert. It was easy to see why. After the lush green of Hayden, this yellow-and-brown landscape seemed desolate and scorched. The black ribbon of asphalt stretched forever through the prairie.

“There's the water slide!” Alison said at last. She leaned forward, counting out loud. When she got to forty-seven, she yelled, “There's the lake!”

Lake Chelan filled their view to the left, a huge crystal-blue lake tucked into a golden hillside. They drove over the bridge that led into town.

Two decades ago, this town had been less than three blocks long, without a national franchise to be found. But over time, word of the weather had spread west, to those soggy coastal towns that so prized their plate-size rhododendrons and car-size ferns. Gradually, Seattleites turned their attention eastward. It became a summer tradition, the trek across the mountains toward the flat, scorched plains. As the tourists came, so did the development. Condominium complexes sprouted along the water's edge. As one filled up, another was built beside it, and so on and so on, until, at the millennium, this was a thriving vacation destination, with all the kiddie-required amenities—pools, water-slide parks, and Jet Ski rentals.

The road curved along the lakeshore. They passed dozens of condominium complexes. Then the shore became less inhabited again. They kept driving. A half mile upshore, they saw the sign:
Blue Skies Campground: Next Left.

“Look, Mommy, look!”

The sign showed a pair of stylized trees bracketing a tent with a canoe in front.

“This is it, Ali Kat.”

Claire turned left onto the gravel road. Huge potholes caught the tires and sent the car bouncing right to left.

A mile later, the road took a hairpin turn into a grassy field dotted with trailers and motor homes. They drove past the open field and into the trees, where the few coveted cabins sat in a cluster along the shore. They parked in the gravel lot.

Claire helped Alison out of her car seat, then shut the door and turned toward the lake.

For a split second, Claire was eight years old again, a girl at Lake Winobee, standing at the shoreline, wearing a pretty pink bikini. She remembered splashing into the cold water, shrieking as she went deeper and deeper.

Don't go in past your knees, Claire,
Meghann had hollered out, sitting up on the dock.

For Christ's sake, Meggy, quit bein' such an old fuddy-duddy.
Mama's voice.
Go on in, sweetums
, she'd yelled to Claire, laughing loudly, waving a Virginia Slims menthol cigarette.
It won't do to be a scaredy-cat.

And then Meghann was beside Claire, holding her hand, telling her there was nothing wrong with being afraid.
It just shows good sense, Claire-Bear.

Claire remembered looking back, seeing Mama standing there in her tiny bicentennial bikini, holding a plastic cup full of vodka.

Go ahead, sweetums. Jump in that cold water and swim. It doesn't do a damn bit o' good to be afraid. It's best to get your yuks in while you can.

Claire had asked Meghann,
What's a yuk?

It's what so-called actresses go looking for after too many vodka collinses. Don't you worry about it.

Poor Meg. Always trying so hard to pretend their life had been ordinary.

But how could it have been? Sometimes God gave you a mama that made normal impossible. The upside was fun times and parties so loud and crazy you never forgot them . . . the downside was that bad things happened when no one was in charge.

“Mommy!” Alison's voice pulled Claire into the present. “Hurry up.”

Claire headed for the old-fashioned farmhouse that served as the campground's lodge. The wraparound porch had been newly painted this year, a forest green that complemented the walnut-stained shingles. Big mullioned windows ran the length of the lower floor; above, where the owners lived, the smaller, original windows had been left alone.

Between the house and the lake was a strip of grass as wide as a football field. It boasted a Lincoln Log–type swing set/play area, a permanent croquet course, a badminton court, a swimming pool, and a boat-rental shed. Off to the left were the four cabins, each with a wraparound porch and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Alison ran on ahead. Her little feet barely made a noise on the steps as she hurried up. She wrenched the screen door open. It banged shut behind her.

Claire smiled and quickened her pace. She opened the screen door just in time to hear Happy Parks say, “—can't be little Ali Kat Cavenaugh. You're too big to be her.”

Alison giggled. “I'm gonna be a first grader. I can count to one thousand. Wanna hear?” She immediately launched into counting. “One. Two. Three . . .”

Happy, a beautiful, silver-haired woman who'd run this campground for more than three decades, smiled over Alison's head at Claire.

“One hundred and one. One hundred and two . . .”

Happy clapped. “That's wonderful, Ali. It's good to have you back, Claire. How's life at River's Edge?”

“We got the new cabin done. That makes eight now. I just hope the economy doesn't hurt us. There's that talk of a gas price hike.”