Between Sisters (15 page)

How could a dress highlight everything that had gone wrong with your life and subtly promise a different future? She imagined the look on Bobby's face when she walked down the aisle. Bobby, who'd knelt on one knee when he asked her to please, please be his wife. If he saw her in this dress . . .

Meghann came up behind her, stood on the platform.

There they were, side by side. Mama's girls, who'd once been closer than sisters and were now so far apart.

Meghann touched Claire's bare shoulder. “Don't even try to find something wrong with this dress.”

“I didn't look at the price tag, but—”

Meghann ripped the tag in half. “And you won't.” She turned, raised a hand. “Risa. Get over here.”

Claire looked at her sister. “You knew, didn't you? You handpicked it.”

Meg tried not to smile. “It's Vera Wang, honey. Of course I knew. I also knew your defenses were a bit high at the outset. You don't want me to buy your dress.”

“It's not that I don't want you to.”

“It's okay, Claire. It means a lot to me that you've included me in your wedding.”

“We're family,” Claire answered after a long pause. It felt awkward, this conversation, and vaguely dangerous. As if they were skating on a frozen pond that couldn't possibly hold their weight. “Thank you for the dress. It's what . . .” Her voice cracked a little. “I always dreamed of.”

Meg finally smiled. “Just because I don't believe in marriage doesn't mean I can't plan a kick-ass wedding, you know.”

Risa stepped into the dressing room, her face flushed, her arms full of gowns. “The Wang,” she said softly, looking at Meg. “You said this would be her choice.”

“A good guess.”

“She is the picture of love, yes?” Risa hung up the unnecessary gowns and went to Claire. “We'll need to take in the bust a little—just to there, don't you think?—and let out the waist. We'll also need to choose a veil. Something elegant, yes? Not too ornate. What shoes will you wear?” She began pinning and pulling.

“These pumps are fine.”

Risa knelt down to pin the hemline. “I'll keep the skirt long. In case you change your mind, which you must do. It'll be ready in time,” she promised when she was finished, then hurried off.

After she'd been gone for a moment, Claire said, “How did you know I'd choose this dress?”

“At my wedding, I overheard you talking to Elizabeth. You said a wedding dress should be simple. You were right. Mine looked like something a circus performer would wear.” Meghann seemed determined to smile. “Maybe that's why Eric left me.”

Claire heard the hurt in her sister's voice. It was thin and quiet, a thread fluttering. It surprised her. Claire always imagined her sister's defenses to be solid granite. “He hurt you, didn't he?”

“Of course he hurt me. He broke my heart and then wanted my money. It would have been a lot easier if I'd had a prenuptial agreement. Or better yet, if I'd lived with him instead of marrying him.”

Claire couldn't help smiling at the not-so-subtle reminder. This time it made sense. “If marrying Bobby is a mistake, it's one I want to make.”

“Yeah. That's the thing about love. It's inherently optimistic. No wonder I stick to sex instead. Now, how about if we pick up some takeout from the Wild Ginger and eat at my place?”

“Alison—”

“—is having dinner at Zeke's Drive-In and joining Sam and Bobby for date night at the Big Bowl. I called Gina from Everett.”

Claire smiled. “Bobby is going to date night at the bowling alley? And you don't believe in true love. Now, help me out of this dress.” Claire hiked up the falling dress and picked her way carefully to the dressing room. She was just about to shut the door when she remembered to say, “Your wedding dress was beautiful, Meghann, and you were beautiful. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings when I said that to Elizabeth. We'd had a few drinks by then.”

“My sleeves looked like open umbrellas. God knows why I picked it. No, that's not true. Sadly, I inherited Mama's style sense. As soon as I started making money, I hired a personal shopper. Anyway, thanks for the apology.”

Claire closed the dressing-room door and changed back into her clothes. They spent another hour trying on veils and then shoes. When they had chosen everything, Meghann took Claire by the arm and led her out of the boutique.

In front of the Wild Ginger, Meghann double-parked, ran into the restaurant, and came out three minutes later with a paper sack. She tossed it into Claire's lap, jumped into the driver's seat, and stomped on the gas.

They turned down Pike Street and veered left hard, into an underground parking lot.

Claire followed her sister into the elevator, up to the penthouse floor, and into the condo.

The view was breathtaking. An amethyst almost-night sky filled every picture window. To the north, the sleepy community of Queen Anne sparkled with multicolored light. The Space Needle, decked out in summertime colors, filled one window. Everywhere else, it was the midnight-blue Sound, its dark surface broken only by the streamers of city lights along the shore.

“Wow,” Claire said.

“Yeah. It's some view,” Meghann said, plopping the paper sack on the kitchen's black granite countertop.

Everywhere Claire looked, she saw perfection. Not a painting was askew on the silk-covered walls, not a piece of paper cluttered a table. Of course there was no dust.

She walked over to a small Biedermeier desk in the corner. On its shiny surface stood a single framed photograph. It was the only one in the room, as far as she could tell.

It was a photograph of Claire and Meghann, taken long ago. In it, they were kids—maybe seven and fourteen—sitting at the end of a dock with their arms looped around each other. In the corner, a glowing cigarette tip identified Mama as the photographer.

Surprisingly, Claire found that it hurt to see them this way. She glanced over at Meg, who was busily dividing up the food.

She put the photograph back and kept moving through her sister's condo. She saw the white-on-white bedroom that only a woman without pets or children would possibly choose and the bathroom that contained more beauty products than the cosmetics counter at Rite Aid. All the while, Claire found herself thinking that something was wrong.

She made her way back to the kitchen.

Meg handed her a margarita in a frosted glass. “On the rocks. No salt. Is that okay?”

“Perfect. Your home is gorgeous.”

“Home.” Meg laughed. “That's funny. I never think of it that way, but it is, of course. Thanks.”

That was it. This wasn't a home. It was a really nice hotel suite. Definitely four-star, but cold. Impersonal. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

“You're kidding, right? The last thing I chose for myself was the wedding gown with parachute sleeves. I hired a decorator. German woman who didn't speak English.” She set out the plates. “Here. Let's eat out on the deck.” She carried her plate and drink outside. “We'll have to sit on the floor. The decorator chose the most uncomfortable outdoor furniture in the world. I returned it all and haven't found the time to buy new stuff.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Seven years.”

Claire followed her sister outside. It was a beautiful night. Stars everywhere.

As they ate, silence fell between them. Meg said a few odd, awkward things, clearly designed to break the quiet, but like seawater in a rising tide, the silence always returned.

“Did I thank you for the gown?”

“Yes. And you're welcome.” Meg put her empty plate down on the deck and leaned back.

“It's funny,” Claire said. “It's loud out here at night—between the traffic and the ferry horns and the railroad, but it still feels . . . empty. Kind of lonely.”

“The city can be that way.”

Claire looked at Meghann and, for once, she didn't see the harsh, judgmental older sister who was always right. Neither did she see the older sister who'd once loved her so completely. Now, she saw a pale, rarely smiling woman who seemed to have no life apart from work. A lonely woman who'd had her heart broken long ago and now wouldn't allow herself to believe in love.

She couldn't help remembering the old days, when they'd been best friends. For the first time in years, she wondered if that could happen again. If so, one of them would have to make the first move.

Claire took a chance. “Maybe you'd like to come stay at my house for a few nights, while you're planning the wedding.”

“Really?” Meghann looked up, obviously surprised.

“You're probably too busy.”

“No, actually. I'm . . . between cases right now. And I do need to spend some time in Hayden. Getting stuff ready, you know. I have a meeting there tomorrow, in fact. With the wedding consultant. But I wouldn't want to intrude.”

Big mistake, Claire. Incredible Hulk big
. “It's settled, then. You'll spend a few nights at my house.”

C
HAPTER
FOURTEEN

M
EGHANN PARKED THE CAR AND STEPPED OUT ONTO THE
curb. She checked her instructions again, then looked up the street.

Hayden shimmered in the warm, lemony sunlight. People drifted across the street and along the boardwalks, gathering now and then in gossipy circles, waving to one another as they moved on.

Across the street, standing all by herself, was a magenta-haired teenager wearing pants that would have been big on Shaquille O'Neal.

Meghann knew how that girl felt, the outsider in this pretty little town. The girl who didn't fit in. Trailer parks, Meghann had learned early on, were always on the wrong side of the tracks, regardless of where they'd been built. And when your clothes were wrong and your address was even worse, you were always treated like a slut, whether you were or not. Sooner or later—and with Meghann, it had been sooner—you gave in and started being what everyone already thought you were.

No wonder Mama had never stopped in towns like Hayden.
One tavern and four churches? I think we'll pass this burg right on by.
She liked the kind of place where nobody knew your name . . . where nobody knew how to find you when you snuck off in the middle of the night, with three months' back rent due.

Meghann walked two blocks, then turned right on Azalea Street.

Her destination was easy to spot: a narrow Victorian house painted canary yellow with purple trim. A sign hung askew on the white picket fence out front:
Royal Event Planning.
There were glittery roses all around the pink letters.

Meghann almost kept walking. There was no way that someone who painted with glittery paint could plan a classy wedding.

But it was Claire's day, and she wanted a small, casual wedding.

Do you hear me, Meg? I mean it.

Claire had said it three times last night and twice this morning.

What, no swing bands or ice sculptures?
she'd teased.

Ice sculptures? I hope you're kidding. I mean it, Meg.
Simple
is the adjective you should remember. We don't need it catered, either. Everyone will bring something to eat.

Meghann had drawn the line there.
It's a wedding, not a funeral, and while I see certain similarities in the two events, I am not—repeat not—going to let you have a potluck wedding.

But—

Hot dogs wrapped in Kraft cheese and pink Jell-O in wedding-ring molds?
She shuddered.
I don't think so.

Meg
, Claire had said,
you're being you again.

Okay. I'm a lawyer. I can compromise. The food will be casual.

And the reception has to be outside.

Outside. Where it rains? Where bugs breed? That outside?

Claire had been smiling by then.
Outside. In Hayden
, she added.

It's a good thing you mentioned that. I might have accidentally booked the Bloedel Reserve on Bainbridge Island. It is beautiful there. And not a horrible drive
, she'd added hopefully.

Hayden.

Okay. But a bird will probably crap on your head during the ceremony.

Claire had laughed, then sobered.
You don't have to do this, you know. Really. It's a lot of work to have a wedding ready in nine days.

Meg knew Claire didn't really want her planning this, and that knowledge stung. As with all opposition, it strengthened her resolve to do a great job.
I have a meeting in town, so I'd better run.
As Meg started to leave, Claire had said,
Don't forget the bridal shower. Tomorrow night at Gina's.

Meghann had forced herself to keep smiling. A “couples' ” shower. No doubt she'd be the only single woman in the room besides Gina.

What fun.

She unlatched the picket gate and stepped into a surreal Candy Land yard, half expecting Pee-wee Herman and his pals to jump out at her. A green Astro Turf walkway led her to the porch steps, which sagged beneath her weight. At the salmon-pink door, she knocked.

The door started to open, then thunked into something. A voice cursed thickly, “Damn door.”

This time the door opened all the way.

An old woman with pink hair sat in a motorized wheelchair, a canister of oxygen beside her. Clear tubes slipped into each nostril, rode across her high, hollow cheekbones, and tucked behind her ears.

“Am I supposed to guess?” she said, frowning.

“Excuse me?”

“What you want, for Henry's sake. You knocked on the damn door, dintcha?”

“Oh. I'm here to see the event coordinator.”

“That's me. Whaddaya want? Male strippers?”

“Now, Grandma,” came a thin male voice from the other room. “You know you retired twenty years ago.”

The woman backed up, spun her wheelchair around, and headed away. “Erica is in trouble. I better go.”

“Forgive Granny,” said the tall man who came to the door. He had curly bottle-blond hair and a California-dark tan. His glasses were heavy and black-rimmed. He wore skintight black leather pants and a teal green muscle-shirt, which showed off scarecrow-thin arms. “She has a little memory loss now and then. You must be Meghann Dontess. I'm Roy Royal.”

She tried not to smile.

“Go ahead, have a good laugh. I'm just lucky my middle name isn't Al.” He swung one hip out, planted a hand on it. “Those are some pretty sharp clothes, Ms. Dontess. We don't see much Marc Jacobs in Hayden. Our labels of choice are Levi's and Wrangler. I can't imagine what brings you here.”

“I'm Claire Cavenaugh's sister. I'm here to plan her wedding.”

He actually jumped into the air and screeched. “Claire! All right, girl! Well, let's get going. Only the best for Claire.” He ushered her into the sitting room, toward a pink velvet settee. “Wedding at the Episcopal Church, of course. Reception at the Moose Lodge, catering by the Chuck Wagon. We can get tons of silk flowers from Target. Then they can be reused.”

Meg thought,
Simple and casual, simple and casual.

She couldn't do it. “Wait.”

Roy stopped in mid-excited-utterance. “Yes.”

“That's a wedding in Hayden, huh?”

“Top drawer. Only Missy Henshaw's was better, and she sprang for the clubhouse at the golf course in Monroe.” He leaned forward. “They had champagne, not just beer.”

“And what does a wedding cost around here?”

“Not like Missy's, but a good, solid event? Say . . . two thousand dollars.” He looked at her. “Maybe a little less if one of the community college kids takes the photos.”

Meg was the one who leaned forward now. “Do you read
People
magazine, Roy? Or
In Style
?”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? Cover to cover.”

“So you know what a celebrity wedding is like. Especially the kind they call ‘simple and elegant.' ”

He waved his hand in the air, snapped his fingers. “Are you kidding, honey? Denise Richard's wedding was supposedly simple and they had enough fresh flowers to cover a Rose Parade float. Simple in Hollywood just means really, really expensive but no bridesmaids and an outdoor reception.”

“Can you keep a secret, Roy?”

“I stayed in the closet during the Reagan years. Believe me, honey, these lips know when to close.”

“I want the kind of wedding this town has never seen. But—and this is important—no one but you and I can know that it's a big deal. You have to master the phrase
It was on sale.
Deal?”

“No kidding,” he grinned and clapped. “What's your budget?”

“Perfection. Every little girl's dream.”

“In other words—”

“Money isn't something we should worry about.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Honey, that's a sentence I've
never
heard before. I do believe you're the best-looking woman I've ever seen.” He reached out to the coffee table and grabbed a copy of
Bride's
magazine. “We should start with the gown. It's—”

“She's got it.”

He looked up.

“Vera Wang.”

“Vera Wang,” he repeated it in a reverent tone of voice and closed the magazine. “Okay. Let's get to work.”

“It has to be outside.”

“Ah. A tent. Perfect. We should start with the lighting. . . .”

Meghann barely listened as his voice droned on and on about a zillion details. Lighting. Flowers. Table dressings. Grooms' cakes, for goodness' sake.

She had
definitely
made the right decision in coming here. All she had to do was write the checks.

Joe was elbow-deep in the undercarriage of an old Kubota tractor, changing the oil, when he heard a car drive up. He listened for Smitty's booming voice, always loud when he welcomed customers to the garage, but now there was nothing except the tinny, scratchy strains of an old Hank Williams song on the radio.

“Anyone here?” someone called out. “Smitty?”

Joe rolled out from under the tractor and got to his feet. He was just putting his baseball cap on, pulling the brim low on his eyes, when a florid, heavyset man walked into the garage.

Joe recognized the man. It was Reb Tribbs, an old-time logger who'd lost an arm on the job.

Joe pulled his cap down lower and didn't make eye contact. “What can I do for you?”

“My truck's dyin' again. I just brought the damn thing to Smitty. He said he fixed it. Some job, he done. I ain't payin' for it till it runs.”

“You'll have to take that up with Smitty. But if you want to drive into the garage, I'll—”

“Do I know you?” Reb frowned, pushed the cowboy hat back on his head, and stepped closer. “I don't never forget a voice. Can't see for shit, but I got the hearin' of a damn wolf.”

Do I know you?
It was the question Joe had heard in every town in Washington. “I've got one of those faces. People always think they know me. Now, if you'll bring the truck around—”

“Joe Wyatt. Ho-ly shit.” Reb made a whistling sound. “It's you, ain't it?”

Joe sighed, beaten. “Hey, Reb.”

There was a long pause, during which Reb studied Joe, his head cocked to the side as if he were listening to someone. “You got some nerve comin' back here, boy. Folks around here remember what you done. Hell, I thought you were in prison.”

“No.” Joe fought the urge to walk away. Instead, he stood there, listening. He deserved every word.

“You'd best get a move on. Her daddy don't need to hear that you're back in town.”

“I haven't seen her dad.”

“Course not. Chickenshit piece of crap like you don't have the guts. You'd best move on, Joe Wyatt. This town doesn't need a man like you.”

“That's enough, Reb.” It was Smitty's voice. He stood at the open garage door, holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a can of Coke in the other.

“I can't believe you'd hire this piece of garbage,” Reb said.

“I said, that's enough.”

“I won't bring my truck here if he's gonna work on it.”

“I imagine I can lose your business and still survive,” Smitty said.

Reb made a sputtering sound, then turned on his heel and marched out. As he got into his truck, he yelled out, “You'll be sorry, Zeb Smith. Trash like him don't belong in this town.”

After he drove away, Smitty placed a hand on Joe's shoulder. “He's the trash, Joe. Always has been. Mean as a badger.”

Joe stared out the window, saw the beat-up red truck buck down the road. “You'll lose customers when word gets out that I'm here.”

“Don't matter. My house is paid for. My land's paid for. I own a rental house in town that brings in five hundred a month. Helga and I both have Social Security. I don't need a single damn customer. Ever.”

“Still. Your reputation is important.”

Smitty squeezed his shoulder. “Last Helga and I heard about our Philly, he was living in Seattle. Under the Viaduct. Heroin. Every day I hope someone offers him a helping hand.”

Joe nodded. He didn't know what to say.

Finally, Smitty said, “I gotta make a Costco run. You think you can handle the garage for the next two hours?”

“Not if Reb is any indication.”

“He isn't.” Smitty tossed him the keys. “Close up anytime you want.” Then he left.

Joe finished out the workday, but he couldn't forget the incident with Reb. The old man's words seemed to hang in the garage, poisoning the air.

This town doesn't need a man like you.

By the time he closed up shop, he felt empty again. Gutted by the truth of Reb's observations.

Then he remembered Gina. He had family here now; he didn't have to be alone.

He went into the office and called her. The answering machine picked up. He hung up without leaving a message.

Instead, he locked up for the night. He was just about to turn toward his cabin when he happened to glance down the street.

The neon
Redhook
sign in Mo's window caught his attention.

And suddenly he was thirsty. He wanted to sneak into that smoky darkness and drink until the ache in his chest went away.

He pulled the baseball cap low on his forehead and crossed the street. Outside the tavern he paused just long enough to pray that no one he knew was inside, then he pushed through the scarred wooden door.

He glanced around, saw no familiar faces, and finally breathed easily. He made his way to a table in the back, the one tucked farthest from the overhead lights. A few minutes later, a tired-looking waitress appeared. She took his order for a pitcher, then left. In no time, she was back with his beer.

He poured himself a schooner. Unfortunately, the three empty chairs around the table reminded him of other times, of another life, in fact. Back then, he never drank alone.

Meghann hadn't been to a bridal shower in more than a decade. Her friends and colleagues lived with their boyfriends for years and then—sometimes—quietly got married. She had no idea how to blend in to this small-town crowd, how to adapt to their coloration. The last thing she wanted to do was stand out.

Yesterday, after her four-hour meeting with Roy, Meghann had spent another hour in Too Many Cooks. Although she wasn't much of a cook, she was familiar with all the gadgets and gizmos. Sometimes, when she couldn't sleep, she'd watch cooking shows on TV. So she knew what every kitchen needed. She bought Claire (and Bobby, although she didn't think of them as a couple, really) a Cuisinart food processor.