Between Sisters (6 page)

That was why Meghann gravitated toward younger men. They still believed in themselves and the world. They hadn't yet learned how life really worked, how dreams were slowly strangled and right and wrong became abstract ideas instead of goalposts for all to see. Those truths usually hit around thirty-five, when you realized that your life was not what you'd wanted.

That, of course, and the fact that they never demanded more than she wanted to give. Men her age tended to think sex meant something. Younger men knew better.

For the next hour, Meghann nodded and smiled as Donny talked about himself. By the time she'd finished her fourth drink, she knew that he had graduated from WSU, was the youngest of three brothers, and that his parents still lived in the same Iowa farmhouse that his grandfather had homesteaded. It all went in one ear and out the other. What she really focused on was the way his knee brushed up against hers, the way his thumb stroked the wet beer glass in a steady, sensual rhythm.

He was telling her about a frat party in college when she said, “You want to come to my place?”

“For coffee?”

She smiled. “That, too, I guess.”

“You don't screw around, do you?”

“I'd say it's quite clear that I do. I simply like to be direct about it. I'm . . . thirty-four years old. My game-playing days are behind me.”

He looked at her then, smiling slowly, and the knowing sensuality in his gaze made her engine overheat.
This is going to be good.
“How far away do you live?”

“As luck would have it, not far.”

He stood up, reached his hand down to help her up.

She told herself he was being gallant. As opposed to helping the elderly. She placed her hand in his; at the contact a shivery thrill zipped through her.

They didn't talk as they made their way through the now-dark and empty market. There was nothing to say. The niceties had been exchanged, the foreplay initiated. What mattered from this point on had more to do with bare skin than baring questions.

The doorman at Meghann's building did his job wordlessly. If he noticed that this was the second young man she'd brought home in the last month, he showed no signs of it.

“Evening, Ms. Dontess,” he said, nodding.

“Hans,” she acknowledged, leading—
Oh, God, what was his name?

Donny.
As in Osmond.

She wished she hadn't made that connection.

They stepped into the elevator. The minute the door closed, he turned to her. She heard the little catch in her breathing as he leaned toward her.

His lips were as soft and sweet as she'd thought they would be.

The elevator pinged at the penthouse floor. He started to pull away from her, but she wouldn't let him. “I'm the only apartment on this floor,” she whispered against his mouth. Still kissing him, she reached into her bag and pulled at her keys.

Locked together, they centipeded toward the door and stumbled through it.

“This way.” Her voice was harsh, gruff, as she led him toward the bedroom. Once there, she started unbuttoning her blouse. He tried to reach for her but she pushed his hand away.

When she was naked, she looked at him. The room was dark, shadowy, just the way she liked it.

His face was a blur. She opened her nightstand drawer and found a condom.

“Come here,” he said, reaching out.

“Oh. I intend to come. Here.” She walked toward him slowly, holding her tummy as taut as possible.

He touched her left breast. Her nipple immediately responded. The ache between her legs graduated, deepened.

She reached down, took hold of him, and began stroking.

After that, everything happened fast. They fell on each other like animals, scratching, humping, groaning. Behind them, the headboard banged against the wall. Her orgasm, when it finally happened, was sharp and painful and faded much too quickly.

She was left feeling vaguely dissatisfied. That was happening more and more often. She lay back onto the pillows. He was beside her, so close she could feel the warmth of his bare flesh alongside her thigh.

He was right next to her, and yet she felt alone. Here they were, in bed together, with the scent of their sex still in the air, and she couldn't think of a single thing to say to him.

She rolled over and moved closer to him. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she'd cuddled up alongside him. It was the first time she'd done something so intimate in years.

“Tell me something about you no one knows,” she said, sliding her naked leg across his.

He laughed softly. “I guess you live in Bizarro World, where they do everything backward, huh? First you screw my brains out,
then
you want to know me. In the bar, you were practically yawning when I told you about my family.”

She drew away from him, pulled back into herself. “I don't like to be ordinary.” She was surprised by how okay she sounded.

“You're not, believe me.”

He pushed her leg aside and kissed her shoulder. The brush-off. Frankly, she preferred it without the kiss.

“I gotta go.”

“So, go.”

He frowned. “Don't sound pissed off. It's not like we fell in love tonight.”

She reached down to the floor for her Seahawks nightshirt and put it on. She was less vulnerable dressed. “You don't know me well enough to know whether I'm pissed off. And frankly, I can't imagine falling in love with someone who used the term ‘ball handling' as often as you did.”

“Jesus.” He got out of bed and started dressing. She sat in bed, very stiffly, watching him. She wished she had a book on her nightstand. It would have been nice to start reading now.

“If you keep bearing left, you'll find the front door.”

His frown deepened. “Are you on medication?”

She laughed at that.

“Because you should be.” He started to leave—almost breaking into a run, she noticed—but at the door, he paused and turned around. “I liked you, you know.”

Then he was gone.

Meg heard the front door open and click shut. She finally released a heavy breath.

It used to take weeks, months even, before men began to ask if she was medicated. Now she'd managed to completely alienate Danny—
Donny
—in a single night.

She was losing her grip. Life seemed to be unraveling around her. Hell, she couldn't remember the last time she'd kissed a man and felt something more than desire.

And what about loneliness
? Dr. Bloom had asked her.
Do you like that, too?

She leaned sideways and flicked on the bedside lamp. Light fell on a framed photograph of Meghann and her sister, taken years ago.

Meghann wondered what her sister was doing right now. Wondered if she was awake at this late hour, feeling alone and vulnerable. But she knew the answer.

Claire had Alison. And Sam.

Sam.

Meghann wished she could forget the few memories she had of her sister's father. But that kind of amnesia never overtook her. Instead, Meghann remembered everything, every detail. Mostly, she remembered how much she'd wanted Sam to be her father, too. When she'd been young and hopeful, she'd thought:
Maybe we could be a family, the three of us
.

The pipe dreams of a child. Still painful after all these years.

Sam was
Claire's
father. He had stepped in and changed everything. Meg and Claire had nothing in common anymore.

Claire lived in a house filled with laughter and love. She probably only dated upstanding leaders of the community. No anonymous, dissatisfying sex for Claire.

Meghann closed her eyes, reminding herself that
this
was the life she wanted. She'd tried marriage. It had ended exactly as she'd feared—with his betrayal and her broken heart. She didn't ever want to experience that again. If sometimes she spent an hour or so in the middle of the night with an ache of longing that wouldn't quite go away, well, that was the price of independence.

She leaned across the bed and picked up the phone. There were five numbers on her speed dialer: the office, three take-out restaurants, and her best friend, Elizabeth Shore.

She punched in number three.

“What's the matter?” said a groggy male voice. “Jamie?”

Meghann glanced at the bedside clock.
Damn
. It was almost midnight; that made it nearly three o'clock in New York. “Sorry, Jack. I didn't notice the time.”

“For a smart woman, you make that mistake a lot. Just a sec.”

Meghann wished she could hang up. She felt exposed by her error. It showed how little a life she had.

“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said, sounding worried.

“I'm fine. I screwed up. Tell Jack I'm sorry. We can talk tomorrow. I'll call before I leave for work.”

“Just hang on.”

Meghann heard Elizabeth whisper something to her husband. A moment later, she said, “Let me guess. You just got home from the Athenian.”

That made her feel even worse. “No. Not tonight.”

“Are you okay, Meg?”

“Fine, really. I just lost track of time. I was . . . working on a messy deposition. We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Jack and I are leaving for Paris, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Have a great time.”

“I could postpone it—”

“And miss that huge party at the Ritz? No way. Have a wonderful time.”

There was a pause on the line, then softly Elizabeth said, “I love you, Meg.”

She felt the start of tears. Those were the words she'd needed, even if they came from far away; they made her feel less alone, less vulnerable. “I love you, too, Birdie. Good night.”

“'Night, Meg. Sleep well.”

She slowly hung up the phone. The room seemed quiet now; too dark. She pulled the covers up and closed her eyes, knowing it would be hours before she fell asleep.

C
HAPTER
SEVEN

T
HEIR FIRST GATHERING AT LAKE CHELAN HAD BEEN IN
celebration. Nineteen eighty-nine. The year Madonna urged people to express themselves and Jack Nicholson played the Joker and the first pieces of the Berlin Wall came down. More important, it was the year they all turned twenty-one. There had been five of them then. Best friends since grade school.

That first get-together had happened by accident. The girls had pooled their money to give Claire a weekend in the honeymoon cabin for her birthday. At the time—in March—she'd been head over heels in love with Carl Eldridge. (The first of many head-over-heels-in-love relationships that turned out to be a plain old kick in the head.) By mid-July, on the designated weekend, Claire had been out of love, alone, and more than a little depressed. Never one to waste money, she'd gone on the trip by herself, intending to sit on the porch and read.

Just before dinnertime of the first day, a battered yellow Ford Pinto had pulled into the yard. Her best friends had spilled out of the car and run across the lawn, laughing, holding two big jugs of margarita mix. They'd called their visit a love intervention, and it had worked. By Monday, Claire had remembered who she was and what she wanted out of life. Carl Eldridge had most definitely not been “the one.”

Every year since then, they'd managed to come back for a week. Now, of course, it was different. Gina and Claire each had a daughter; Karen had four children, aged eleven to fourteen; and Charlotte was trying desperately to conceive.

In the past few years, their parties had quieted; less tequila and cigarettes came out of suitcases these days. Instead of getting dressed up and going to Cowboy Bob's Western Roundup to slam tequila and line-dance, they put the kids to bed early, drank glasses of white wine, and played hearts at the round wooden table on the porch. They kept a running score for the week. The winner got the keys to the honeymoon cottage for the next year.

Their vacation had evolved into a sort of slow, lazy merry-go-round rhythm. They spent their days by the lake, stretched out on red-and-white-striped beach towels or sitting on battered old beach chairs, with a portable radio set up on the picnic table. They always listened to the oldies station, and when a song from the eighties came on, they'd jump up and dance and sing along. On hot days—like this one had been—they spent most of their time in the lake, standing neck-deep in the cool water, their faces shielded by floppy hats and sunglasses. Talking. Always talking.

Now, finally, the weather was perfect. The sky was a bright seamless blue, and the lake was like glass. The older kids were in the house, playing crazy eights and listening to Willie's ear-splitting music, probably talking about the latest, grossest R-rated movie that everyone else's mothers allowed their children to see. Alison and Bonnie were pedaling a water bike in the cordoned-off section of the lake. Their giggles could be heard above the others.

Karen sat slouched in her chair, fanning herself with a pamphlet from the water-slide park. Charlotte, completely protected from the sun by a floppy white hat and a diaphanous, three-quarter-sleeved cover-up, was reading the latest Kelly Ripa book club choice and sipping lemonade.

Gina leaned sideways and opened the cooler, rooting noisily through it for a Diet Coke. When she found one, she pulled it out and snapped it open, taking a long drink before she shut the cooler. “My marriage ends and we're drinking Diet Coke and lemonade. When Karen's dickwad first husband left, we slammed tequila and danced the macarena at Cowboy Bob's.”

“That was my second husband, Stan,” Karen said. “When Aaron left, we ate those pot brownies and went skinny-dipping in the lake.”

“My point remains,” Gina said. “My crisis is getting the
Sesame Street
treatment. You got
Animal House
.”

“Cowboy Bob's,” Charlotte said, almost smiling. “We haven't been there in years.”

“Not since we started dragging around these undersize humans,” Karen pointed out. “It's hard to rock and roll with a kid on your back.”

Charlotte looked out at the lake, to where the little girls were pedaling their water bike. Her smile slowly faded. That familiar sadness came into her eyes again. No doubt she was thinking about the baby she wanted so much.

Claire glanced at her friends. It startled her for a moment, as it sometimes did on these trips, to see their thirty-five-year-old selves. This year, more than any other, they seemed quieter. Older, even. Women on the edge of a sparkling lake who had too much on their minds.

That would never do. They came to Lake Chelan to be their younger, freer selves. Troubles were for other latitudes.

Claire pushed herself up on her elbows. The scratchy cotton of her beach towel seemed to bite into her sunburned forearms.

“Willie's fourteen this year, right?”

Karen nodded. “He's starting high school in September. Can you believe it? He still sleeps with a stuffed animal and forgets to brush his teeth. The ninth-grade girls look like Solid Gold Dancers next to him.”

“Why couldn't he baby-sit for an hour or two?”

Gina sat upright. “Hot damn, Claire. Why didn't we think of that before? He's fourteen.”

Karen frowned. “With the maturity of an earthworm.”

“We all baby-sat at his age,” Charlotte said. “Hell, I was practically a nanny that summer before high school.”

“He's a responsible kid, Karen. He'll be fine,” Claire said gently.

“I don't know. Last month his fish died. Lack of food.”

“They won't starve to death in two hours.”

Karen looked back at the cabin.

Claire understood exactly what her friend was thinking. If Willie was old enough to baby-sit, he wasn't really a little boy anymore.

“Yeah,” Karen said finally. “Of course. Why not? We'll leave a cell phone with him—”

“—and a list of numbers—”

“—and we'll tell them not to leave the cabin.”

Gina smiled for the first time all day. “Ladies, the Bluesers are going to leave the building.”

It took them two hours to shower, change their clothes, and make the kids' dinner. Macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. It took them another hour to convince the kids that their plan was possible.

Finally, Claire took firm hold of Karen and led her outside. As they walked down the long, winding driveway, Karen paused and looked back every few feet. “Are you sure?” she said each time.

“We're sure. The responsibility will be good for him.”

Karen frowned. “I keep thinking about those poor little goldfish, floating belly-up in the dirty water.”

“Just keep walking.” Gina leaned close to Claire and said, “She's like a car in the ice. If she stops, we'll never get her going again.”

They were standing across the street from Cowboy Bob's when it hit them.

Claire was the first to speak. “It's not even dark out.”

“As party animals, we've lost our touch,” Charlotte said.

“Shit.”
This from Gina.

Claire refused to be thwarted. So what if they looked like sorority girls amid the professional drinkers that populated a place like this in the early evening? They were here to have a good time and Cowboy Bob's was their only choice.

“Come on, ladies,” she said, storming forward.

Her friends fell into line behind her. Heads held high, they marched into Cowboy Bob's as if they owned the place. A thick gray haze hung along the ceiling, drifting in thin strands between the overhead lights. There were several regulars along the bar, their hunched bodies planted like soggy mushrooms on the black bar stools. Several multicolored neon beer signs flickered in the gloomy darkness.

Claire led the way to a round, battered table near the empty dance floor. From here they had an unobstructed view of the band—which was now noticeably absent. A whiny Western song played on the jukebox.

They had barely made it to their seats when a tall, thin waitress with leathery cheeks appeared beside them. “What c'n I get for y'all?” she asked, wiping down the table with a gray rag.

Gina ordered a round of margaritas and onion rings, which were promptly served.

“God it feels good to get
out
,” Karen said, reaching for her drink. “I can't remember the last time I went out without having to do enough preplanning to launch an air strike.”

“Amen to that,” Gina agreed. “Rex could never handle getting a sitter. Not even to surprise me with a dinner date. The surprise was always:
We're going out to dinner. Could you plan it?
Like it takes ovaries to pick up the phone.” At that, her smile slipped. “It always bugged the hell out of me. But it's a pretty small grievance, isn't it? Why didn't I notice that before?”

Claire knew that Gina was thinking about the changes that were coming in her new, single life. The bed that would be half empty night after night. She wanted to say something, offer a comfort of some kind, but Claire knew nothing of marriage. She'd dated plenty in the last twenty years, and she'd fallen into pseudo-love a few times. But never the real thing.

She'd figured she was missing out, but just now, as she saw the heartbreak in Gina's eyes, she wondered if maybe she'd been lucky.

Claire raised her glass. “To us,” she said in a firm voice. “To the Bluesers. We made it through junior high with Mr. Kruetzer, high school with Miss Bass the Wide Ass, through labors and surgeries, weddings and divorces. Two of us have lost our marriages, one hasn't been able to get pregnant, one of us has never been in love, and a few years ago, one of us died. But we're still here. We'll
always
be here for one another. That makes us lucky women.”

They clinked their glasses together.

Karen turned to Gina. “I know it feels like you're cracking apart. But it gets better. Life goes on. That's all I can say.”

Charlotte pressed a hand on Gina's but said nothing. She was the one of them who knew best that sometimes there were no words to offer.

Gina managed a smile. “Enough. I can mope at home. Let's talk about something else.”

Claire changed the subject. At first, it was awkward, a conversation on a one-way road trying to change directions, but gradually, they found their rhythm. They returned to the old days and everything made them laugh. At some point, they ordered a plate of nachos. By the time the second order of food came, the band had started. The first song was a bone-jarringly loud rendition of “Friends in Low Places.”

“It sounds like Garth Brooks got caught in a barbed-wire fence,” Claire said, laughing.

By the time the band got around to Alan Jackson's “Here in the Real World,” the place was wall-to-wall people. Almost everyone was dressed in fake leather Western wear. A group was line-dancing in a thigh-slappin' way.

“Did you hear that?” Claire leaned forward and put her hands on the table. “It's ‘Guitars and Cadillacs.' We
gotta
dance.”

“Dance?” Gina laughed. “The last time I danced with you two, my butt hit an old man and sent him flying. Give me another drink or two.”

Karen shook her head. “Sorry, Charlie. I danced until I hit a size sixteen. Now I consider it wise to keep my ass as still as possible.”

Claire stood up. “Come on, Charlotte. You're not as damn old as these two. You want to dance?”

“Are you kidding? I'd love to.” She plopped her purse onto her chair and followed Claire to the dance floor. All around them, couples dressed in denim were dancing in patterns. A woman pirouetted past them, mouthing
1-2-3
along the way. She clearly needed all of her concentration skills to keep up with her partner's moves.

Claire let the music pour over her like cool water on a hot summer's day. It refreshed her, rejuvenated her. The minute she started to move in time with it, to swing her hips and stamp her feet and clap her hands, she remembered how much she loved this. She couldn't believe that she'd let so many quiet years accumulate.

The music swept her away and peeled back the layer of motherhood years. She and Charlotte became their teenage selves again, laughing, bumping hips, singing out loud to each other. The next song was “Sweet Home Alabama,” and they had to stay for that one. Next came “Margaritaville.”

By the time the band took a break, Claire was damp with perspiration and out of breath. A tiny headache had flared behind her left eye; she stuck a hand in her pocket and found an Excedrin.

Charlotte pushed the hair out of her eyes. “That was
great
. Johnny and I haven't danced since . . .” She frowned. “Jeez. Maybe not since our wedding. That's what happens when you try like hell to get pregnant. Romance hits the road.”

Claire laughed. “Believe me, honey, it's
after
you get knocked up that romance changes ZIP codes. I haven't had a decent date in years. Come on. I'm so dehydrated I feel like a piece of beef jerky.”

Char nodded toward the back. “I need to use the rest room first. Order me another margarita. And tell Karen this round is on me.”

“Sure thing.” Claire started to head for the table, then remembered the aspirin in her fist. She went to the bar instead and asked for a glass of tap water.

When the water came, she swallowed the single pill, then turned away from the bar. As she started to head back to the table, she saw a man walk onto the stage. He carried a guitar—a regular, old-fashioned guitar that didn't plug in or amp out. The rest of the band had left the stage, but their instruments were still there.

He sat down easily on a rickety bar stool. One black cowboy boot was planted firmly on the floor, the other rested on the stool's bottom rung. He wore a pair of faded, torn jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was almost shoulder length, and shone blond in the fluorescent overhead lighting. He was looking down at his guitar, and though a black Stetson shielded most of his face, Claire could make out the strong, high bones that defined his cheeks.

“Wow.” She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a man who was so good-looking.

Not in Hayden, that was for sure.

Men like him didn't show up in backwater towns. This was a fact she'd learned long ago. The Toms, the Brads, the Georges of this world lived in Hollywood or Manhattan, and when they traveled, they stood behind blank-eyed bodyguards in ill-fitting black suits. They
talked
about meeting “real people,” but they never actually did it. She knew this because they'd once filmed an action movie in Snohomish. Claire had begged her father to take her down to watch the filming. Not one of the stars had spoken to the locals.