Between Sisters (7 page)

The man leaned toward the microphone. “I'm gonna fill in while the band takes a short break. I hope y'all don't mind.”

A round of lackluster applause followed his words.

Claire pushed through the crowd, elbowing past a young man in skintight Wrangler jeans and a Stetson as big as a bathtub.

She halted at the edge of the dance floor.

He strummed a few notes on the guitar and started to sing. At first, his voice was uncertain, almost too soft to be heard above the raucous, booze-soaked din.

“Be quiet,” Claire was surprised to hear the words spoken out loud; she'd meant only to
think
them.

She felt ridiculously conspicuous, standing there in front of the crowd, only a few feet away from him, but she couldn't move, couldn't look away.

He looked up.

In the smoky darkness, with a dozen people crammed in beside her, Claire thought he was looking at her.

Slowly, he smiled.

Once, years ago, Claire had been running along the dock at Lake Crescent behind her sister. One minute, she'd been laughing and upright; the next second, she was in the freezing cold water, gasping for breath and clawing her way to the surface.

That was how she felt right now.

“I'm Bobby Austin,” he said softly, still looking at her. “This song is for The One. Y'all know what I mean. The one I've been lookin' for all my life.”

His long, tanned fingers strummed the guitar strings. Then he started to sing. His voice was low and smoky, seductive as hell, and the song had a sad and haunting quality that made Claire think of all the roads she hadn't taken in her life. She found herself swaying in time to the music, dancing all by herself.

When the song ended, he set down the guitar and stood up. The crowd clapped politely, then turned away, heading back to their pitchers of beer and buffalo wings.

He walked toward Claire. She couldn't seem to move.

Directly in front of her he stopped. She fought the urge to look behind her, to see if he was actually looking at someone else.

When he didn't say anything, she said, “I'm Claire Cavenaugh.”

A smile hitched one side of his mouth, but it was strangely sad. “I don't know how to say what I'm thinking without sounding like an idiot.”

Claire's heart was beating so fast she felt dizzy. “What do you mean?”

He closed the distance between them, small as it had been. Now he was so near she could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, and the tiny half-moon-shaped scar at the edge of his upper lip. She could see, too, that he trimmed his hair himself; the ends were uneven and sloppy.

“I'm The One,” he said softly.

“The one what?” She tried to smile. “The way? The light? There is no way to Heaven but through you?”

“No joking. I'm the one you've been looking for.”

She ought to have laughed at him, told him she hadn't heard that corny a pick-up line since the year she tried shaping her eyebrows with a Lady Bic.

She was thirty-five years old. Long past her believing-in-love-at-first-sight years. All of that was what she meant to say, the response she framed in her head. But when she opened her mouth, she heard her heart speak. “How do you know that?”

“Because, I've been lookin' for you, too.”

Claire took a tiny step backward; just far enough so that she could breathe her own air.

She wanted to laugh at him. She really did.

“Come on, Claire Cavenaugh,” he said softly. “Dance with me.”

C
HAPTER
EIGHT

S
OME MARRIAGES ENDED WITH BITTER WORDS AND UGLY
epithets, others with copious tears and whispered apologies; each proceeding was different. The one constant was sadness. Win, lose, or draw, when the judge's gavel rang out on the wooden bench, Meghann always felt chilled. The death of a woman's dream was a cold, cold thing, and it was a fact, well known in Family Court, that no woman who'd gone through a divorce ever saw the world—or love—in quite the same way again.

“Are you okay?” Meghann asked May.

Her client sat rigidly upright, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. To an outside observer, she might have appeared serene, almost unconcerned about the heartbreaking drama that had just played out in this courtroom.

Meghann knew better. She knew that May was close to the breaking point. Only sheer force of will kept her from screaming.

“I'm fine,” May said, her breathing shallow. That was common, actually. In times like these, women often began Lamaze-type breathing.

Meghann touched May's arm. “Let's go next door and get something to eat, okay?”

“Food,” was May's reply, neither an agreement to nor a rejection of the idea.

In the front of the courtroom, the judge stood up. She smiled at Meghann; then at George Gutterson, the opposing counsel; then left the courtroom.

Meghann helped May to her feet. She held on to her arm to keep her steady as they headed toward the door.

“You
bitch
!”

Meghann heard May's sharply indrawn breath, felt her client's body tense. May stumbled to a halt.

Dale Monroe surged forward. His face was a deep, purply red. A blue vein throbbed down the middle of his forehead.

“Dale,” George said, reaching for his client. “Don't be stupid—”

Dale shook his lawyer's arm away and kept coming.

Meghann sidestepped easily, putting herself between Dale and May. “Step back, Mr. Monroe.”

“That's
Dr.
Monroe, you avaricious bitch.”

“Excellent word usage. You must have gone to a good liberal arts college. Now, please, step back.” She could feel May trembling behind her, breathing too fast. “Get your client out of my face, George.”

George lifted his hands, palms up. “He isn't listening to me.”

“You took my children away from me,” Dale said, looking right at Meghann.

“Are you suggesting that
I
was the one who fraudulently transferred assets out of my wife's reach . . . or that
I
stole money and equity from my family?” She took a step toward him. “Or wait. Maybe you're suggesting that
I
was the one who banged my daughter's piano teacher every Tuesday afternoon.”

He paled. It made that vein look even more pronounced. He edged sideways, tried to make eye contact with his wife.

Ex-wife.

“May, come on,” he said. “You know me better than that. I didn't do all of those things. I would have given you everything you asked for. But the kids . . . I can't see them only on weekends and two weeks in the summer.”

He sounded sincere, actually. If Meghann hadn't seen the ugly truth in black and white, she might have believed he was upset about the children.

She spoke quickly, so May wouldn't have to. “The separation of your assets was entirely fair and equitable, Dr. Monroe. The custody issues were also fairly resolved, and when you calm down, I'm sure you'll agree. We all read the depositions that reflected your lifestyle. You were gone in the morning by six
A
.
M
.—before the children woke up—and you rarely returned home before ten
P
.
M
.—after they were in bed. Weekends you spent with the guys, playing golf and poker. Hell, you'll probably see your children more now than you did while you resided at the family home.” Meghann smiled, pleased with herself. That had been a smart, well-thought-out argument. He couldn't disagree. She glanced at George, who stood silently beside his client. The attorney looked like he was going to be sick.

“Who do you think you are?” Dale whispered harshly, taking a step toward her. At his sides, his fingers curled into fists.

“You going to hit me, Dale? Go ahead. Lose what little custody you have.”

He hesitated.

She took a step toward him. “And if you
ever
hit May again, or even touch her too hard, you'll find yourself back in this courtroom, only it won't be money at risk. It'll be your freedom.”

“Are you
threatening
me?”

“Am I?” Her gaze found his. “Yes. I am. Are we clear on that? You stay the hell away from my client or I'll make sure your life turns into a shower scene from
Oz
. And I don't mean Munchkinland. Every other Friday you can park in front of the house and wait for the kids to come out. You return them on time, as stipulated, and that's the sum of your contact with May. We're all clear on that, right?”

May touched her arm, leaned close, and whispered, “Let's go.”

Meghann heard the tired strain in May's voice. It reminded Meghann of her own divorce. She'd tried so hard to be strong, but the moment she'd stepped out of the courtroom, she'd broken like an old drawbridge, just crumbled. There was a big part of her that had never stood upright again.

She grabbed her briefcase off the oak library table and slipped her other arm around May's waist. Linked together, they walked out of the courtroom.

“You'll pay for this, you bitch,” Dale screamed to their backs. Then something crashed against the floor.

Meghann guessed it was the other oak table.

She didn't look back. Instead, she kept a steadying hand on May's waist and led her to the elevator. In the small cubicle, they stood side by side.

The moment the door closed, May burst into tears.

Meghann held May's hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it seems impossible now, but life will get better. I promise. Not instantly, not even quickly, but it will get better.”

She led May down the courthouse steps and outside. The sky was heavy and gray with clouds. A dismal rain spit itself along the car-clogged streets. The sun was nowhere to be seen. No doubt it had followed the geese south, to places like Florida and California. It wouldn't return to western Washington full-time until after the Fourth of July.

They walked down Third Street to the Judicial Annex, the favorite lunch spot for the Family Court gang.

By the time they reached the front door, Meghann's suit was more than a little damp. Gray streaks marred the collar of her white silk blouse. If there was one accessory no local owned, it was an umbrella.

“Hey, Meg,” said a few colleagues as she walked through the restaurant to an empty table at the back. She pulled out a chair for May, then sat down opposite her.

Within moments, a harried-looking waitress was beside them. She pulled a pencil out from her ponytail. “Is this a champagne or a martini day?” she asked Meghann.

“Definitely champagne. Thanks.”

May looked across the table at her. “We aren't really going to drink champagne, are we?”

“May. You are now a millionaire. Your children can get Ph.D.s from Harvard if they want. You have a beautiful waterfront home in Medina and no mortgage payment. Dale, on the other hand, is living in a thirteen-hundred-square-foot condo in Kirkland. And you got full custody of the kids. Hell yes, we're celebrating.”

“What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“My life has been hit by a Scud missile. The man I love is gone. Now I find out he might have existed only in my mind, anyway. I have to live with the fact that not only am I alone, but, apparently, I've been stupid, too. My children will have to live all their lives knowing that families break, that love is impermanent, and, most of all, that promises get broken. They'll go on, of course. That's what children and women do—we go on. But we won't ever be quite whole again. I'll have money. Big fat deal. You have money, I assume. Do you sleep with it at night? Does it hold you when you've awakened from a nightmare?”

“Did Dale?”

“A long time ago, yes. Unfortunately, that's the man I keep remembering.” May looked down at her hand. At the wedding ring on her finger. “I feel like I'm bleeding. And there you sit. Drinking champagne.” She looked up again. “What's wrong with you?”

“This can be a harsh job,” she answered truthfully. “Sometimes, the only way I can get through it is—”

A commotion broke out in the restaurant. Glass shattered. A table crashed to the floor. A woman screamed.

“Oh, no,” May breathed. Her face was pale.

Meghann frowned. “What in the—?” She turned around in her chair.

Dale stood in the open doorway, holding a gun in his left hand. When Meghann looked at him, he smiled and stepped over a fallen chair. But there was no humor in that smile; in fact, he appeared to be crying.

Or maybe that was the rain.

“Put down the gun, Dale.” She was surprised to hear the calmness in her voice.

“Your turn at the mike is over, counselor.”

A woman in a black pinstripe suit crawled across the floor. She moved slowly until she made it to the door. Then she got up and ran.

Dale either didn't notice or didn't care. He only had eyes for Meghann. “You ruined my life.”

“Put the gun down, Dale. You don't want to do something stupid.”

“I already did something stupid.” His voice broke, and Meghann saw that he
was
crying. “I had an affair and got greedy and forgot how much I love my wife.”

May started to get to her feet. Meghann grabbed her, forced her down, then stood up herself.

She raised her hands into the air. Her heart was a jackhammer trying to crack through her rib cage. “Come on, Dale. Put the gun down. We'll get you some help.”

“Where was all your help when I tried to tell my wife how sorry I was?”

“I made a mistake. I'm sorry. This time we'll all sit down and talk.”

“You think I don't know how screwed I am? Believe me, lady, I
know
.” His voice caught again. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Jesus, May, how did I get here?”

“Dale,” Meghann said his name in a calm, even voice. “I know how—”

“Shut
up
. It's your fault, you bitch. You're the one who did all of this.” He raised the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Joe awoke with a fever and a stinging throat. A dry, hacking cough brought him upright before he'd even fully opened his eyes. When it was over, he sat there, bleary-eyed, in desperate need of some water.

A glittering layer of frost coated his sleeping bag, its presence a testament to the altitude. Though the days in this part of the state were as hot as hell, the nights were cold.

He coughed again, then climbed out of the sleeping bag. His fingers were trembling as he rolled up the bag and tied it onto his backpack. He stumbled out of the still-dark forest and emerged molelike and blinking into a sunny day. Already the sun was angry as it climbed the cloudless sky.

Joe dug the toothbrush, soap, and toothpaste out of his pack and, squatting by the rushing rapids of Icicle Creek, readied himself for the day.

By the time he finished, he was breathing hard, as if the exertion of brushing his teeth was on par with running the Boston Marathon.

He stared at himself in the river. Though his reflection wavered in the current, the clear water captured his image in surprising detail. His hair was far too long and as tangled as the underbrush that had formed his bed for the last two nights. A thick beard covered the lower half of his face; it was a quiltlike combination of gray and black. His eyelids hung low, as if in tired defeat.

And today was his birthday. His forty-third.

In another time—another life—this would have been a day for celebration, for family. Diana had always loved a party; she'd throw one at the drop of a hat. The year he'd turned thirty-eight, she'd rented the Space Needle and hired a Bruce Springsteen impersonator to sing the soundtrack of their youth. The place had been packed with friends. Everyone wanted to celebrate Joe's birthday with him.

Then.

With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. A quick check of his wallet and pockets revealed that he was nearly broke again. The money he'd made last week mowing lawns had all but disappeared.

Slinging his backpack into place, he followed the winding river out of the National Forest. By the time he reached Highway 2, he was sweating so hard he had to keep wiping his eyes. His forehead was on fire. He knew he had a fever. One hundred degrees, at least.

He stared at the black river of asphalt that flowed down to the tiny town of Leavenworth. On either side, spindly green pine trees stood guard.

Town was only a mile or so away. From this distance, he could see the Bavarian-themed buildings, the stoplights and billboards. It was, he knew, the kind of town that sold handmade Christmas ornaments year-round and had a quaint bed-and-breakfast on every corner. The kind of place that welcomed tourists and visitors with open arms.

Unless you looked or smelled like Joe.

Still, he was too tired to walk uphill, so he turned toward town. His feet hurt and his stomach ached. He hadn't had a good meal in several days. Yesterday, he'd survived on unripe apples and the last of his beef jerky.

By the time he reached town, his headache was almost unbearable. For two hours, he went from door to door trying to find temporary work.

There was nothing.

Finally, at the Chevron station, he spent his last two dollars on aspirin, which he washed down with water from the rusty sink in the public rest room. Afterward, he stood in the candy aisle, staring blindly at the products.

Corn Nuts would be good now . . .

Or barbecue potato chips.

Or—

“You gotta get a move on, Mister,” said the young man behind the cash register. He wore a tattered brown T-shirt that read:
We interrupt this marriage to bring you elk-hunting season.
“Unless you're gonna buy something else.”

Joe glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that he'd been there more than an hour. Nodding at the kid, he took his canteen into the rest room and filled it with water, then used the facilities and headed out. At the cash register, he paused. Careful not to make eye contact, he asked if there was a place he could find part-time work.