Between Sisters (4 page)

“Two hundred. Two hundred and one . . .”

“We sure haven't seen a drop-off,” Happy said. “But we're like you—all returning guests. Year after year. Which reminds me: Gina is already here. So is Charlotte. The only one missing is Karen. And this is your year for the honeymoon cabin.”

“Yep. The last time Alison slept in the big cabin, she was in a Portacrib.”

“We get the TV,” Alison said, jumping up and down. Counting was forgotten for the moment. “I brought
tons
of movies.”

“Only one hour a day,” Claire reminded her daughter, knowing it was a mantra that would be repeated at least ten times a day for the next week. Her daughter could literally watch
The Little Mermaid
24/7.

Behind them, the screen door screeched open. A group of children burst through the door laughing, followed by six adults.

Happy slid a key across the desk. “You can fill out the paperwork later. I have a feeling this is a group of site hunters. They'll want a photo tour of each site before they commit.”

Claire understood. The River's Edge Resort had only a minimum number of campsites—nineteen—and she doled out the good ones carefully. If she liked the guest, she put them near the restrooms and the river. If not . . . well, it could be a long walk to the toilets on a rainy night. She slapped the worn pine counter. “Come over for drinks one night.”

“With you crazy girls?” Happy grinned. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Claire handed Alison the key. “Here you go, Ali Kat. You're in charge. Show us the way.”

With a yelp, Ali was off. She zigzagged through the now-crowded lobby and burst outside. This time her feet slapped the porch steps.

Claire hurried along behind her. As soon as they'd gotten their luggage from the car, they raced across the expanse of lawn, past the boat-rental shed, and plunged into the trees. The ground here was hard-packed dirt, carpeted with a hundred years' worth of pine needles.

Finally, they came to the clearing. A silvery wooden dock floated on the wavy blue water, tilting from side to side in a gentle rocking motion. Far out, across the lake, a white condo grouping sat amid the golden humps of the distant foothills.

“Clara Bella!”

Claire tented a hand over her eyes and looked around.

Gina stood at the shoreline, waving.

Even from here, Claire could see the size of the drink in her friend's hand.

This would be Gina's intervention week. Usually Gina was the conservative one, the buoy that held everyone up, but she'd finalized her divorce a few months ago and she was adrift. A single woman in a paired-up world. Last week, her ex-husband had moved in with a younger woman.

“Hurry up, Ali!” That was Gina's six-year-old daughter, Bonnie.

Alison dropped her Winnie-the-Pooh backpack and peeled off her clothes.

“Alison—”

She proudly showed off her yellow bathing suit. “I'm ready, Mommy.”

“Come here, honey,” Gina said, pulling out an industrial-size plastic tube of sunscreen. Within moments, she'd slathered Alison all over and released her.

“Don't go in past your belly button,” Claire said, dropping their suitcases right there, in the sand.

Alison grimaced. “Aw, Mommy,” she whined, then ran for the water, splashing in to join Bonnie.

Claire sat down beside Gina in the golden sand. “What time did you get here?”

Gina laughed. “On time, of course. That's one thing I've learned this year. Your life can fall apart, frigging
explode
, but you're still who you are. Maybe even more so. I'm the kind of woman who gets someplace on time.”

“There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Rex would disagree. He always said I wasn't spontaneous enough. I thought it meant he wanted sex in the afternoon. Turns out he wanted to skydive.” She shook her head, gave Claire a wry smile. “I'd be happy to shove him out of the plane now.”

“I'd rig his parachute for him.”

They laughed, though it wasn't funny. “How's Bonnie doing?”

“That's the saddest part of all. She barely seems to notice. Rex was never home anyway. I haven't told her that he moved in with another woman, though. How do you tell your kid something like that?” Gina leaned against Claire, who slipped an arm around her friend's ample body. “God, I needed this week.”

They were silent for a long moment. The only sound between them was the slapping of the water against the dock and the girls' high-pitched laughter.

Gina turned to her. “How have you done it all these years? Been alone, I mean?”

Claire hadn't thought much about her solitude since Alison's birth. Yes, she'd been alone—in the sense that she'd never been married or lived with a man, but she rarely felt lonely. Oh, she noticed it, ached sometimes for someone to share her life, but she'd made that choice a long time ago. She wouldn't be like her mother. “The upside is, you can always find the TV remote and no one bitches at you to wash the car or park in the perfect spot.”

“Seriously, Claire. I need advice.”

Claire looked out at Alison, who was standing up to her belly button in the water and jumping up and down, yelling out the ABC song. The sight made Claire's chest tighten. Only yesterday Ali had fit in the crook of her arm. In no time, she'd be asking to have her eyebrow pierced. Claire knew she loved her daughter too much; it was dangerous to need another human being so desperately, but Claire had never known any other way to love. That was why she'd never been married. Men who loved their wives unconditionally were few and far between. In truth, Claire wondered if that kind of true love existed. That doubt was one of many legacies handed down from mother to daughter like an infectious disease. For Mama, divorce had been the answer; for Claire, it was never to say “I do” in the first place.

“You get past being lonely. And you live for your kids,” she said softly, surprised to hear regret in her voice. There was so much she'd never dared to reach for.

“Ali shouldn't be your whole world, Claire.”

“It's not like I didn't
try
to fall in love. I've dated every single guy in Hayden.”

“None of them twice.” Gina grinned. “And Bert Shubert is still in love with you. Miss Hauser thinks you're crazy for letting him go.”

“It's sad when a fifty-three-year-old plumber with Coke-bottle glasses and a red goatee is considered an eligible bachelor just because he owns an appliance store.”

Gina laughed. “Yeah. If I ever tell you I'm going out with Bert, please shoot me.” Slowly, her laughter turned to tears. “Aw,
hell
,” she said, leaning into Claire's embrace.

“You'll be okay, Gina,” Claire whispered, stroking her friend's back. “I promise you will.”

“I don't know,” Gina said quietly, and something about the way she said it, maybe the softness in a voice that was usually as hard as steel, made Claire feel empty inside. Alone.

Absurdly, she thought about the day her life had changed. When she'd learned that love had a shelf life, a use-by date that could pass suddenly and turn everything sour.

I'm leaving you
, her sister had said. Until that moment, Meg had been Claire's best friend, her whole world. More of a mother than Mama had ever been.

And then Claire was crying, too.

Gina sniffed. “No wonder no one wants to sit with me anymore. I'm the princess of darkness. Ten seconds in my company and perfectly happy people start to weep.”

Claire wiped her eyes. There was no point in crying about the past. It surprised her, actually, that she had any tears left. She thought she'd made peace with Meg's abandonment long ago. “Remember the year Char fell off the dock because she was crying so hard she couldn't see?”

“Bob's midlife crisis. She thought he was having an affair with their housekeeper.”

“And it turned out he was secretly getting hair-plug treatments.”

Gina tightened her hold around Claire. “Thank Jesus for the Bluesers. I haven't needed you all this much since I was in labor.”

C
HAPTER
FOUR

T
HE INTERCOM BUZZED.
“
JILL SUMMERVILLE IS HERE TO
see you.”

“Send her in.”

Meghann grabbed a new yellow legal pad and a pen from the overhead cabinet. By the time Jill was led into the conference room, Meg had returned to her seat and was smiling politely. She rose. “Hello, Jill. I'm Meghann Dontess.”

Jill stood near the door, looking ill at ease. She was a pretty woman, thin; maybe fifty. She wore an expensive gray suit with a cream silk shell underneath.

“Come, sit down,” Meghann said, indicating the empty chair to her left.

“I'm not certain I want a divorce.”

Meghann heard that all the time. “We could talk for a while if you'd like. You could tell me what's going on with your marriage.”

Jill sat stiffly in the empty chair. She placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed, as if she were afraid the wood might levitate. “It's not good,” she said softly. “I've been married for twenty-six years. But I can't. Do it. Anymore. We don't talk at all. We've become one of those couples who go out to dinner and sit silently across from each other. I saw my parents do that. I swore I never would. I'm going to be fifty next year. It's time I have
my
life.”

The second-chance-at-life reason for divorce. It was number two, beaten only by that perennial favorite: He's cheating on me. “Everyone deserves to be happy,” Meg said, feeling strangely remote. On autopilot, she reeled off a series of questions and statements designed to elicit solid information as well as inspire trust. Meg could tell that she was doing well on both counts. Jill had begun to relax. Occasionally, she even smiled.

“And how about assets? Do you have an idea of your net worth?”

“Beatrice DeMille told me you'd ask that.” She opened her Fendi briefcase and pulled out a packet of papers that were stapled together, then pushed them across the table. “My husband and I started the Internet company Emblazon. We sold out to AOL at the top of the market. That, combined with the lesser companies and homes, puts our net worth at somewhere around seventy-two million.”

Seventy-two million dollars.

Meghann held on to her ordinary smile by dint of will, afraid that her mouth would drop open. This was the biggest case ever to fall in her lap. She'd waited her whole career for a case like this. It was supposed to be the trade-off for all of the sleepless nights she'd spent worrying over clients who couldn't pay their bills. Her favorite law professor used to say that the law was the same regardless of the zeroes. Meg knew better: The legal system favored women like Jill.

They should probably hire a media consultant. A case like this could generate a lot of publicity.

She should have been excited by the prospect, energized. Surprisingly, she felt detached. Even a little sad. She knew that, for all her millions, Jill was still a woman about to be broken.

Meg reached for the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Rhona, bring me the lawyer lists. Seattle. L.A. San Francisco. New York and Chicago.”

Jill frowned. “But . . . ,” she paused when the secretary came into the room, carrying a sheet of paper.

“Thanks.” Meghann handed the paper to Jill. “These twenty lawyers are the best in the country.”

“I don't understand.”

“Once you've spoken to them, they can't represent your husband. It's a conflict of interest.”

Jill's gaze flicked over the list, then slowly lifted. “I see. This is divorce strategy.”

“Simply planning ahead. In case.”

“Is this ethical?”

“Of course. As a consumer, you have every right to get second opinions. I'll need a retainer—say twenty-five thousand dollars—and I'll use ten thousand of that to hire the best forensic accountants in Seattle.”

Jill looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing. Finally, she nodded and stood up. “I'll go see everyone on your list. But I assume that if I choose you, you'll represent me.”

“Of course.” She remembered at the last minute to add, “But hopefully you won't need me.”

“Yes,” Jill said, “I can see that you're the hopeful type.”

Meghann sighed. “I know people all across this country are happily married. They just don't come to see me, but I do hope—honestly—that I won't see you again.”

Jill gave her a sad, knowing look, and Meghann knew: The decision might be soft around the edges and filled with regret, but it had been made.

“You go ahead and hope, then,” Jill said softly. “For both of us.”

“You don't look good.”

Sprawled in the black leather chair, Meghann didn't move. “So, that's why I pay you two hundred dollars an hour. To insult me. Tell me I smell, too. Then I'll really get my money's worth.”

“Why do you pay me?”

“I consider it a charitable deduction.”

Dr. Bloom didn't smile. She sat—as always, chameleon still—watching. If it wasn't for the compassion in her dark brown eyes, she could easily be mistaken for a statue. It was often that compassion—an emotion that bordered on pity—that undid Meghann. Over the past twenty years, Meg had seen a constant stream of shrinks. Always psychiatrists, never counselors or psychologists. First off, she believed in a surplus of education. Second, and more important, she wanted to talk to someone who could dispense drugs.

In her thirties, Meg had gone through a new shrink every two years. She never told them anything that mattered, and they always returned the favor.

Then she'd stumbled across Harriet Bloom, the stone queen who could sit quietly for an entire hour, take the check, and tell Meghann it was her money to spend wisely or throw away.

Harriet, who'd uncovered a few artifacts of the past that mattered, and surmised some of the rest. A dozen times in the past year, Meghann had decided to sever their relationship, but every time she started to actually do it, she panicked and changed her mind.

The silence was gaining weight.

“Okay, I look like shit. I'll admit it. I haven't been sleeping well. I need more pills, by the way.”

“That prescription should last for another two weeks.”

Meghann couldn't make eye contact. “A couple of times this week, I needed two. The insomnia . . . it really rips me. Sometimes I can't take it.”

“Why do you think you can't sleep?”

“Why do
you
think I can't sleep? That's the relevant opinion, isn't it?”

Dr. Bloom studied her. She was so still it seemed impossible that her lungs were functioning. “Is it?”

“I have trouble sleeping sometimes. That's all. Big deal.”

“And you use drugs and strangers to help you through the night.”

“I don't pick up as many men as I used to. But sometimes . . .” She looked up, saw a sad understanding in Harriet's eyes. It pissed her off. “Don't look at me that way.”

Harriet leaned forward, rested her elbows on the table. Her steepled fingers brushed the underside of her chin. “You use sex to dispel loneliness. But what's lonelier than anonymous sex?”

“At least when the guys leave my bed, I don't care.”

“Eric again.”

“Eric.”

Harriet sat back. “You were married for less than a year.”

“Don't minimize it, Harriet. He broke my heart.”

“Of course he did. And you suck on that candy every day in your practice, as women tell you their sad and similar stories. But the flavor has been gone for years. You're not worried about someone breaking your heart again. You're worried you don't have a heart to break. The bottom line is, you're scared, and fear isn't an emotion that fits well with your need to control.”

It was true. Meg was tired of being alone and terrified that her life would be a stretch of empty road. A part of her wanted to nod her head, to say yes, and beg for a way to shed her fear. But that was a thin, reedy voice lost amid the screaming blare of self-preservation. The bedrock lesson of her life was that love didn't last. It was better to be lonely and strong than heartbroken and weak.

Her voice, when she found it, was honed and tight. “I had a difficult week at the office. I'm getting impatient with my clients. I can't seem to feel for them the way I used to.”

Harriet was too professional to show her disappointment with something as obvious as a sigh or a frown. Her only reaction was to unsteeple her fingers. That oozing, uncomfortable compassion was back in her eyes, though. That poor-Meghann-so-afraid-of-intimacy look. “Your emotions feel distant and inaccessible? Why do you think that would be?”

“As an attorney, I'm trained to see things dispassionately.”

“Yet we both know that the best lawyers are compassionate. And you, Meghann, are an extremely good attorney.”

They were on safe ground again, although it could get slippery again in a second. “That's what I've been trying to tell you. I'm not as good as I used to be. I used to
help
people. Even care about them.”

“And now?”

“I'm some balance-sheet automaton who moves through the day crunching finances and spitting out settlements. I find myself hashing and rehashing canned speeches to women whose lives are falling apart. I used to be pissed off at the husbands. Now I'm just tired. It's not a game—I take it too seriously still for that—but it's . . . not real life, either. Not to me.”

“You might consider a vacation.”

“A what?” Meghann smiled. They both knew that relaxation didn't come easily.

“A vacation. Ordinary people take weeks in Hawaii or Aspen.”

“Dissatisfaction isn't something you can run away from. Isn't that Psychology 101?”

“I'm not suggesting you run away. I'm suggesting you give yourself a break. Maybe get a tan. You could spend a few days at your sister's place in the mountains.”

“Claire and I aren't likely to vacation together.”

“You're afraid to talk to her.”

“I'm not afraid of anything. Claire's a campground manager in Podunk. We have nothing in common.”

“You have history.”

“None of it good. Believe me, the tour bus driver of Claire's life would hit the gas and keep driving when he came to our childhood years.”

“But you love Claire. That must count for something.”

“Yeah,” Meg said slowly. “I love her. That's why I stay away.” She glanced down at her watch. “Oh, damn. Hour's up. See you next week.”