Between Sisters (8 page)

“The Darrington farm hires transients sometimes. Usually at harvesttime. I dunno about now. And the Whiskey Creek Lodge needs maintenance men during the salmon run.”

Picking fruit or gutting fish. He'd done plenty of both in the past three years. “Thanks.”

“Hey. You look sick.” The kid frowned. “Do I know you?”

“I'm okay. Thanks.” Joe kept moving, afraid that if he stopped for too long he'd stumble, then fall. He'd wake up in a hospital bed or on a jail-cell cot. He wasn't sure which fate was worse. Each brought too many bad memories.

He was outside the mini mart, unsteady on his feet, trying to will the aspirin to take effect when the first raindrop hit. It was big and fat and splatted right in his eye. He tilted his chin up, saw the sudden blackness of the sky overhead.

“Shit.”

Before he finished the word, the storm hit. A pounding rain that seemed to nail him in place.

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin.

Now his flu would escalate into pneumonia. Another night outside in wet clothes would seal it.

And suddenly he couldn't live like this anymore. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Home.

The idea came to him like a balmy breeze, took him far away from this ugly spot in the driving rain. He closed his eyes and thought of the small town where he'd been raised, where he'd played shortstop for the local ball team and worked at a garage after school and every summer until he went away to college. If any town would still accept him after what he'd done, it would be that one.

Maybe.

Moving slowly, his emotions a convoluted mixture of fear and anticipation, he went to the phone booth and stepped inside its quiet enclosure. Now the rain was only noise; it was like his heartbeat: fast, breathless.

He let out a long breath, then picked up the phone, punched
0
and placed a collect call.

“Hey, little sister,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”

“Oh, my
God
. It's about damn time. I've been worried sick about you, Joey. You haven't called in—what? Eight months? And then you sounded awful.”

He remembered that call. He'd been in Sedona. The whole town had seemed to be draped in crystals and waiting for otherworld contact. He'd thought Diana had called him there, but of course she hadn't. It had just been another town to pass through. He'd called his sister on her birthday. Back then, he'd thought he'd be home any day. “I know. I'm sorry.”

She sighed again, and he could picture her perfectly: standing at her kitchen counter, probably making a list of things to do—shopping, carpool, swimming lessons. He doubted she'd changed much in the last three years, but he wished he knew for sure. Missing her blossomed into an ache; it was the reason he never called. It hurt too much. “How's my beautiful niece?”

“She's great.”

He heard something in her voice. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, then more softly. “I could use my big brother right about now, that's all. Has it been long enough?”

There it was, the question upon which everything rested. “I don't know. I'm tired, I know that. Have people forgotten?”

“I don't get asked so much anymore.”

So some had forgotten, but not everyone. If he returned, the memory would tag along. He didn't know if he was strong enough to stand up to his past. He hadn't been when it was his present.

“Come home, Joey. It has to be time. You can't hide forever. And . . . I need you.”

He heard the sound of her crying; it was soft and broken and it pulled something out of him. “Don't cry. Please.”

“I'm not. I'm chopping onions for dinner.” She sniffed. “Your niece is going through a spaghetti phase. She won't eat anything else.” She tried to laugh.

Joe appreciated the attempt at normalcy, however forced.

“Make her some of Mom's spaghetti. That should end it.”

She laughed. “Gosh, I'd forgotten. Hers was awful.”

“Better than her meat loaf.”

After that, a silence slipped through the lines. Softly, she said, “You've got to forgive yourself, Joey.”

“Some things are unforgivable.”

“Then at least come home. People care about you here.”

“I want to. I can't . . . live like this anymore.”

“I hope that's what this phone call means.”

“I hope so, too.”

It was that rarest of days in downtown Seattle. Hot and humid. A smoggy haze hung over the city, reminding everyone that too many cars zipped down too many highways in this once-pristine corner of the country. There was no breeze. Puget Sound was as flat as a summer lake. Even the mountains appeared smaller, as if they, too, had been beaten down by the unexpected heat.

If it was hot outside, it was sweltering in the courthouse. An old air-conditioning unit sat awkwardly in an open window, making soft, strangled noises. A white flap of ribbon, tied to the frontpiece, fluttered every now and then, defeated.

Meghann stared down at the yellow legal pad in front of her. A neat stack of black pens were lined up along one side. The desktop, scarred by decades of clients and attorneys, wobbled on uneven legs.

She hadn't written a word.

That surprised her. Usually her pen was the only thing that worked as fast as her brain.

“Ms. Dontess. Ahem.
Ms. Dontess.
”

The judge was speaking to her.

She blinked slowly. “I'm sorry.” She got to her feet and automatically smoothed the hair back from her face. But she'd worn it back this morning, in a French twist.

The judge, a thin, heronlike woman with no collar peeking out from the black vee of her robes, was frowning. “What are your thoughts on this?”

Meghann felt a flare of worry, almost panic. She looked again at her blank legal pad. Her right hand started to shake. The expensive pen fell from her fingers and clattered on the table.

“Approach the bench,” said the judge.

Meghann didn't glance to her left. She didn't want to make eye contact with her opposing counsel. She was weak right now—shaking, for God's sake—and everyone knew it.

She tried to look confident; perhaps it worked. As she crossed the wooden floor, she heard her heels clacking with each step. The sound was like an exclamation mark on the sentence of her every breath.

At the high oak bench, she stopped and looked up. It took an act of will to keep her hands open and at her sides. “Yes, Your Honor?” Her voice, thank God, sounded normal. Strong.

The judge leaned forward to say softly, “We all know what happened last week, Meghann. That bullet missed you by inches. Are you certain you're ready to be back in a courtroom?”

“Yes.” Meghann's voice was softer now. Her right hand was trembling.

The judge frowned down at her, then cleared her throat and nodded. “Step back.”

Meghann headed back to the desk. John Heinreid stepped in beside her. They'd tried dozens of cases against each other. They often shared a glass of wine and a plate of oysters after a long day in court.

“You sure you're okay? I'd be willing to shove this back a few days.”

She didn't look at him. “Thanks, John. I'm fine.” She went back to the table, slid into her seat.

Her client, a Mercer Island housewife who couldn't possibly live on nineteen thousand dollars a month, stared at her. “What's going on?” she mouthed, twisting the gold chain of her Chanel handbag.

Meghann shook her head. “Don't worry.”

“I'll restate, Your Honor,” John said. “My client would like to stay these proceedings for a short time so that he and Mrs. Miller can obtain counseling. There are, after all, small children involved. He'd like to give the marriage every opportunity to succeed.”

Meghann heard her client whisper, “No way,” as she planted her hands on the desk and slowly rose.

Her mind went blank. She couldn't think of a single argument. When she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, she heard a different voice, gruff and desperate.
It's your fault, you bitch.
Then she saw the gun pointed at her, heard an echoed blast. When she opened her eyes, everyone was looking at her. Had she flinched or cried out?
Shit.
She didn't know. “My client believes that the marriage is irretrievably broken, Your Honor. She sees no benefit to counseling.”

“No benefit?” John argued. “Certainly, after fifteen years of living together, it couldn't hurt to spend a few hours with a therapist. My client believes that the children's welfare should be paramount here. He's merely asking for an opportunity to save his family.”

Meghann turned to her client. “It's a reasonable request, Celene,” she whispered. “You won't look good if we fight this battle in front of the judge.”

“Oh. I guess . . .” Celene frowned.

Meghann returned her attention to the bench. “We'd ask for a time limit and a follow-up court date to be set now.”

“That's acceptable to us, Your Honor.”

Meghann stood there, a little unsteady on her feet as the details were worked out. Her right hand was still trembling and a tic had begun spasming in her left eyelid. On autopilot, she packed up her briefcase.

“Wait. What just happened?” Celene whispered.

“We agreed to counseling. A few months or so. No more. Maybe—”

“Counseling? We've tried counseling—or did you forget that? We've also tried hypnosis and romantic vacations and even a weeklong couples' self-help seminar. None of it worked. And do you know why?”

Meghann had forgotten all of that. The information that should have been at her fingertips had vanished. “Oh” was all she could manage.

“It didn't work because he doesn't love me,” Celene's voice cracked. “Mr. Computer Software likes male prostitutes, remember? Blow jobs under the Viaduct and in X-rated theaters.”

“I'm sorry, Celene.”

“Sorry?
Sorry.
My children and I need to start over, not relive the same old shit.”

“You're right. I'll fix this. I promise I will.” And she could. A phone call to John Heinreid that threatened to reveal Mr. Miller's preferred sex partners and it'd be handled instantly. Quietly.

Celene sighed. “Look, I know what happened last week. It was on every channel. I feel sorry for that lady—and for you. I know that husband tried to kill you. But I need to worry about myself. For once. Can you understand that?”

For a terrible moment, Meghann thought she was going to lose it. How in God's name had she glanced at Celene Miller and seen just another pampered, spoiled housewife? “You
should
be taking care of yourself first. I did you a disservice in here. I screwed up. But I'll fix it, and you won't be paying a dime for this divorce. Okay? Can you trust me again?”

Celene's frown released. “Trusting people has always been easy for me. It's part of why I'm here.”

“I'll catch up with John right now. We'll talk tomorrow about what I came up with.”

Celene tried valiantly to smile. “Okay.”

Meghann put a hand down on the desk to steady herself as she stood there, watching her client walk out of the courtroom. When Celene was gone, Meghann sighed heavily. She hadn't realized that she'd been holding her breath.

She reached for her yellow pad, noticed her trembling fingers and thought:
What's wrong with me?

A hand pressed against her shoulder, and she jumped at the contact.

“Meg?”

It was Julie Gorset, her partner.

“Hey, Jules. Tell me you weren't in the courtroom today.”

Julie looked at her sadly. “I was. And we need to talk.”

The Pike Place Public Market was wall-to-wall people on a sunny summer's day. Now, at nighttime, it was quiet. Sweaty vendors in gauzy clothes were busy packing up their homemade crafts and loading them onto trucks parked outside on the cobblestone street. The night air rang out with the ping-ping-ping of delivery trucks in reverse gear.

Meghann stood outside the Athenian's open door. The bar was hazy with cigarette smoke; the expansive Puget Sound view sparkled in the few open spaces between patrons. There were at least two dozen people at the bar, no doubt shooting oysters—drinking them raw from a glass jigger. It was a house tradition.

She glanced from table to table. There were plenty of possibilities. Single men in expensive suits and college boys in cutoff shorts that showed their lean torsos and checkered boxers.

She could go in there, put on her
kiss me
smile and find someone to spend time with her. For a few blessed hours, she could be part of a couple, no matter how false and fragile that pairing might be. At least she wouldn't have to think. Or feel.

She started to take a step forward. Her toe caught on the threshold and she stumbled sideways, skimming the door's side.

And suddenly, all she could think about was what would really happen. She'd meet some guy whose name wouldn't matter, let him touch her body and crawl inside of her . . . and then be left more alone than when she'd started.

The tic in her left eye started again.

She reached into her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. She'd already left a desperate-sounding
call me
message on Elizabeth's answering machine, when she remembered that her friend was in Paris.

There was no one else to call. Unless . . .

Don't do it.

But she couldn't think of anywhere else to turn.

She punched in the number, biting down on her lip as it rang. She was just about to hang up when a voice answered.

“Hello? Hello?” Then: “Meghann. I recognize your cell phone number.”

“I'm going to sue whoever invented Caller ID. It's ruined the time-honored tradition of hanging up on someone.”

“It's eight thirty at night. Why are you calling me?” Harriet asked.

“My left eyelid is flapping like a flag on the Fourth of July. I need a prescription for a muscle relaxer.”

“We talked about a delayed reaction, remember?”

“Yeah. Post-traumatic stress. I thought you meant I'd get depressed; not that my eyelid would try to fly off my face. And . . . my hands are shaking. It would
not
be a good week to start quilting.”

“Where are you?”

Meghann considered lying, but Harriet had ears like a bloodhound; she could probably hear the bar noises. “Outside of the Athenian.”