Between Sisters (25 page)

“I
wanted
children.” She practically hurled the words at Meg. “He was the one who didn't. He should have to pay for that, too. He took away the best reproductive years of my life.”

“Robin. You're forty-nine years old.”

“Are you saying I'm too
old
to have a child?”

Well, no. But you've been married six times and frankly, you have the mental and emotional stability of a two-year-old. Believe me, your never-conceived children thank you.
“Of course not, Robin. I'm simply suggesting that the children approach won't help us. Washington is a no-fault state, you remember. The whys of a divorce don't matter.”

“I want the dogs.”

“We've discussed this. The dogs were his before you got married. It seems reasonable—”

“
I
was the one who reminded Lupe to feed and water them. Without me, those Lhasa Apsos would be hairy toast. Dead by the side of the pool. I want them. And you should quit fighting with me. You're
my
lawyer, not his. I can hardly live on twenty grand a month.” She laughed bitterly. “He still has the jet, the place in Aspen, the Malibu beach house, and all our friends.” Her voice cracked and, for just a moment, Meghann saw a flash of the woman Robin O'Houlihan had once been. A now-frightened, once-ordinary girl from Snohomish who'd believed a woman could marry her way to the top.

Meghann wanted to be gentle, say something soothing. In the old days, it would have been easy. But those days were gone now, stamped into muddy nothingness by the stiletto heels of a hundred angry wives who didn't want to work and couldn't possibly live on twenty grand a month.

She closed her eyes briefly, wanting to clear her mutinous mind. But instead of a quiet darkness, she flashed on an image of Mr. O'Houlihan, sitting quietly in the conference room, his hands clasped on the table. He'd answered all her questions with a sincerity that surprised her.

No prenuptial, no. I believed we'd last forever.

I loved her.

My first wife died. I met Robin nearly ten years later.

Oh. Yes. I wanted more children. Robin didn't.

It had been one of those uncomfortable moments that occasionally blindsided an attorney. That sickening realization that you were leading the wrong team.

Simply put, she'd believed him. And that was no good.

“Hel-
lo
. I'm talking here.” Robin pulled a cigarette from her quilted Chanel bag. Remembering suddenly that she couldn't smoke in here, she jammed it back in her purse. “So, how do I get the house in Aspen? And the dogs.”

Meghann rolled the pen between her thumb and forefinger, thinking. Every now and then the pen thumped on the manila folder open in front of her. It sounded vaguely like a war drumbeat. “I'll call Graham and hash this through. Apparently your husband is willing to be very generous, but trust me on this, Robin. People get pissed off over a lot less than a beloved dog. If you're going to go to the mat for Fluffy and Scruffy, be prepared to give up a lot. Your husband could yank the houses from the table in an instant. You better decide how important those dogs are.”

“I just want to hurt him.”

Meghann thought of the man she'd deposed more than a month ago. His look had been sad—worn, even. “I think you already have, if that's any consolation.”

Robin tapped a long scarlet fingernail against her teeth as she stared out toward Bainbridge Island. “I shouldn't have slept with the pool guy.”

Or the meat delivery boy or the dentist who bleached your teeth.
“This is a no-fault state, remember.”

“I'm not talking about the divorce. I'm talking about the marriage.”

“Oh.” There it was again, that flash of a real person hiding behind the decoupage of expensive makeup. “It's easy to see your life in retrospect. It's too bad we don't live life backward. I think it was Kierkegaard who said that.”

“Really.” Robin was clearly disinterested. “I'll think about the dogs and let you know.”

“Act fast. Graham said this offer lasts for thirty-six hours. After that, he said it was ring time. Round one.”

Robin nodded. “You seem awfully timid for someone they call the Bitch of Belltown.”

“Not timid. Practical. But if you'd prefer other representation—”

“No.” Robin slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door. As she opened it, she said, “I'll call you tomorrow.” Without looking back, she left. The door clicked shut.

Meg let out a heavy sigh. She felt pummeled, smaller somehow.

She set the file aside, and as she did, she thought of Mr. O'Houlihan's sad face again.

No prenuptial, no. I believed we'd last forever.

This was going to rip his heart out. It wouldn't be enough to break his heart. Oh, no. Meghann and Robin were going to take it one step further and show him the true character of the woman he'd married. He'd find it damn near impossible to trust his heart the next time.

With a sigh, she checked her schedule. Robin had been her last appointment. Thank God. Meghann didn't think she could handle another sad story of failed loved right now. She packed up her papers, grabbed her purse and briefcase, and left the office.

Outside, it was a balmy early-summer night. The hustle and bustle of rush hour traffic clogged the streets. In the market, tourists were still crowded around the fish stand. White-aproned vendors threw thirty-pound king salmons through the air to one another: at every toss, tourists snapped photographs.

Meghann barely noticed the familiar show. She was past the fish market and down to the vegetables when she realized what route she'd chosen.

The Athenian was the next doorway.

She paused outside, smelling the pungent familiar odors of cigarette smoke and frying grease, listening to the buzz of conversations that were always the same, ultimately circling back to
Are you here alone?

Alone.

It was certainly the most accurate adjective to describe her life. Even more so now that Ali was gone. It was amazing how big a hole her tiny niece had left behind.

She didn't want to go into the Athenian, pick up some man she didn't know, and bring him back to her bed. She wanted—

Joe
.

A wave of melancholy came with his name, a deepening of the loneliness.

She pushed away from the doorway and headed home.

In the lobby of her building, she waved to the doorman, who started to say something to her. She ignored him and went into the elevator. On the penthouse floor, the elevator bell clanged, and she got out.

Her apartment door was open.

She frowned, wondering if she'd left it that way this morning.

No.

She was just about to slink back into the elevator when a hand appeared in her doorway; it held a full bottle of tequila.

Elizabeth Shore stepped out into the hallway. “I heard your transatlantic cry for help, and I brought the preferred tranquilizer for the slutty, over-the-hill set.”

To Meghann's complete horror, she burst into tears.

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

J
OE WAS ALMOST FINISHED FOR THE DAY. IT WAS A GOOD
thing because he actually had places to go and people to see.

It felt good to look forward to something, even if that something would ultimately cause him pain. He'd been drifting and alone for so long that simply having an itinerary was oddly calming.

Now he lay on his back, staring up at the dirty underside of an old Impala.

“Hey there.”

Joe frowned. He thought he'd heard something, but it was hard to tell. The radio on the workbench was turned up loud. Willie Nelson was warning mamas about babies that grew up to be cowboys.

Then someone kicked his boot.

Joe rolled out from underneath the car.

The face looking down at him was small, freckled, and smiling. Earnest green eyes stared down at him. She squinted just a bit, enough to make him wonder if she needed glasses, then he realized that his worklight was shining in her face. He clicked it off.

“Smitty's in the office,” he said.

“I know that, silly. He's always there. Did you know that the sand in Hawaii is like sugar? Smitty lets me play with the tools. Who are you?”

He stood up, wiped his hands on his coveralls. “I'm Joe. Now, run along.”

“I'm Alison. My mom mostly calls me Ali. Like the gator.”

“It's nice to meet you, Ali.” He glanced up at the clock. It was 4:00. Time to get going.

“Brittani Henshaw always says, ‘See you later, Ali Gator,' to me. Get it?”

“I do. Now—”

“My mom says I'm not 'posed to talk to strangers, but you're Joe.” She scrunched up her face and stared up at him. “How come your hair is so long? It's like a girl's.”

“I like it that way.” He went to the sink and washed the grease from his hands.

“My backpack has Ariel on it. Wanna see?” Without waiting for an answer, she scampered out of the garage. “Don't go anywhere,” she yelled back at him.

He was halfway to his cabin when Alison skidded in beside him. “See Ariel? She's a princess on this side and a mermaid on the other.”

He missed a step but kept moving. “I'm going into my house. You better run along.”

“Do ya hafta poop?”

He was startled into laughter by that. “No.”

“You wouldn't tell me anyway.”

“I definitely would not. I need to get ready to go somewhere. It was nice to meet you, though.” He didn't slow down.

She fell into step beside him, talking animatedly about some girlfriend named Moolan who'd cut off all her hair and played with knives.

“They have school counselors for that kind of behavior.”

Alison giggled and kept talking.

Joe climbed the porch steps and opened his door. “Well, Alison, this is where—”

She darted past him and went inside.

“Alison,” he said in a stern voice. “You need to leave now. It's inappropriate to—”

“Your house smells kinda funny.” She sat on the sofa and bounced. “Who's the lady in all the pitchers?”

He turned his back on her for a second; when he looked again she was at the windowsill, pawing through the pictures.

“Put those down,” he said more sharply than was necessary.

Frowning, she put it down. “I don't like to share my stuff, either.” She glanced at the row of photographs. There were three of them along the living-room window and two on the mantel. Even a child recognized an obsession when she saw one.

“The woman in the pictures is my wife. Diana.” It still hurt to say her name aloud. He hadn't learned yet to be casual about her.

“She's pretty.”

He gazed at a small framed montage of shots on the table nearest him. Gina had taken those pictures at a New Year's Eve party. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. It was 4:15 now. Getting late. “Don't you have someplace to be?”

“Yeah.” She sighed dramatically. “I gotta go give Marybeth my Barbie.
Mine.
”

“Why?”

“I broke the head off hers. Grandpa says I hafta 'pologize
and
give her my doll. It's 'posed to make me feel better.”

He squatted down to be eye level with her. “Well, Ali Gator, I guess we have something in common, after all. I . . . broke something very special, too, and now I have to go apologize.”

She sighed dejectedly. “Too bad.”

He put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “So, I really need to get going.”

“Okay, Joe.” She walked over to the door and opened it, then looked back at him. “Do you think Marybeth will play with me again after I 'pologize?”

“I hope so,” he said.

“Bye, Joe.”

“See ya later, Ali Gator.”

That made her giggle, and then she was gone.

Joe stood there a minute, staring at the closed door. Finally, he turned and headed down the hallway. For the next hour, as he shaved and showered and dressed in his cleanest worn clothes, he tried to string together the sentences he would need. He tried pretty words—
Diana's death ruined something inside me
; stark words—
I fucked up
; painful words—
I couldn't stand watching her die
.

But none of them were the whole of it, none of them expressed the truth of his emotions.

He still hadn't figured out what he would say, when he turned onto their road or, a few minutes later, when he came to their mailbox.

Dr. and Mrs. Henry Roloff.

Joe couldn't help touching it, letting his fingertips trace along the raised gold lettering on the side of the mailbox. There had been a mailbox in Bainbridge like this one; that one read:
Dr. and Mrs. Joe Wyatt.

A lifetime ago.

He stared at his former in-laws' house. It looked exactly as it had on another June day, so long ago, when Joe and Di had gotten married in the backyard, surrounded by family and friends.

He almost gave in to panic, almost turned away.

But running away didn't help. He'd tried that route, and it had brought him back here, to this house, to these people whom he'd once loved so keenly, to say—

I'm sorry.

Just that.

He walked up the intricately patterned brick path, toward the white-pillared house that Mrs. Roloff had designed to look like Tara. There were roses and sculpted hedges on both sides of him, their scents a cloying sweetness. On either side of the front door stood a cast-iron lion.

Joe didn't let himself pause or think. He reached out and rang the bell.

A few moments later, the door opened. Henry Roloff stood there, pipe in hand, dressed in khaki pants and a navy turtleneck. “Can I—” At the sight of Joe, his smile fell. “Joey,” he said, his pipe aflutter now in a trembling hand. “We'd heard you were back in town.”

Joe tried like hell to smile.

“Who is it?” Tina called out from somewhere inside the house.

“You won't believe it,” Henry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Henry?” she yelled again. “Who is it?”

Henry stepped back. A watery smile spilled across his face, wrinkled his cheeks. “He's home, Mother,” he yelled. Then, softly, he said it again, his eyes filling with tears. “He's home.”

“Are you sure this is tequila? It tastes like lighter fluid.” Meghann heard the sloppy slur in her voice. She was past tipsy now, barreling toward plastered, and it felt good.

“It's
expensive
tequila. Only the best for my friend.” Elizabeth leaned sideways for a piece of pizza. As she pulled it toward her, the cheese and topping slid off, landing in a gooey heap on the concrete deck. “Oops.”

“Don't worry 'bout it.” Meghann scooped up the mess and threw it overboard. “Pro'ly just killed a tourist.”

“Are you kidding? It's ten o'clock. Seattle is empty.”

“That's true.”

Elizabeth took a bite of her crust. “So what's the problem, kiddo? Your messages lately sounded depressed. And you don't usually cry when I show up.”

“Let me see, I hate my job. My client's husband tried to shoot me after I ruined him. My sister married a country singer who happens to be a felon.” She looked up. “Shall I go on?”

“Please.”

“I baby-sat my niece when Claire went on her honeymoon and now my house feels obscenely quiet. And I met this guy. . . .”

Elizabeth slowly put down the pizza.

Meghann looked at her best friend, feeling a sudden wave of helplessness. Softly, she dared to say, “There's something wrong with me, Birdie. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my cheeks are wet. I don't even know why I'm crying.”

“Are you lonely yet?”

“What do you mean, yet?”

“Come on, Meg. We've been friends for more than twenty years. I remember when you were a quiet, way-too-young freshman at the UW. One of those genius kids who everyone believes will either kill themselves or cure cancer. You used to cry every night back then. My bed was next to yours on the sleeping porch, remember? It broke my heart, how quietly you cried.”

“Is that why you started walking to class with me?”

“I wanted to take care of you—it's what we Southern women do, don't you know? I waited years for you to tell me why you cried.”

“When did I stop? Crying, I mean.”

“Junior year. By then, it was too late to ask. When you married Eric, I thought—I hoped—you'd finally be happy.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I've waited for you to meet someone else, try again.”

Meghann poured two more straight shots. Downing hers, she leaned back against the railing. Cool night air ruffled the fine hairs around her face. The sound of traffic drifted toward her. “I have . . . met someone.”

“What's his name?”

“Joe. I don't even know his last name. How pathetic is that?”

“I thought you liked sex with strangers.”

Meghann heard how hard Elizabeth was trying not to sound judgmental. “I like being in control and waking up alone and having my life exactly the way I want it.”

“So what's the problem?”

Meghann felt that wave again, the feeling of being sucked under a heavy current. “Being in control . . . and waking up alone and having my life exactly the way I want it.”

“So this Joe made you feel something.”

“Maybe.”

“I assume you haven't seen him since you realized that.”

“Am I so obvious?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Just a little. This Joe scared you, so you ran. Tell me I'm wrong.”

“You're a bitch, how's that?”

“A bitch who's right-on.”

“Yeah. That kind of bitch. The worst kind.”

“Do you remember my birthday last year?”

“Everything up until the third martini. After that, it gets fuzzy.”

“I told you I didn't know if I loved Jack anymore. You told me to stay with him. Mentioned something about me losing everything and him marrying the salad-bar girl from Hooters.”

Meghann rolled her eyes. “Another shining example of my humanity. You talk about love; I answer in settlement. I'm so proud.”

“The point is, I was dying in my marriage. All the lies I'd been telling myself for years had worn thin. Everything poked through and hurt me.”

“But it worked out. You and Jacko are like newlyweds again. It's frankly disgusting.”

“Do you know how I fell back in love with him?”

“Medication?”

“I did the thing that scared me the most.”

“You left him.”

“I had never lived alone, Meg.
Never.
I was so scared of not having Jack, I couldn't breathe at first. But I did it—and you were there for me. That night you came down to the beach house, you literally saved my life.”

“You were always stronger than you thought.”

Elizabeth gave her a so-are-you look. “You have to quit being afraid of love. Maybe this Joe is the place to start.”

“He's all wrong for me. I never sleep with men who have something to offer.”

“You don't ‘sleep' with men at all.”

“The bitch returns.”

“Why is he so wrong?”

“He's a mechanic in a small town. He lives in the run-down cabin that comes with the job. He cuts his hair with a pocket knife. Take your choice. Oh, and though he's not much on decoration, he has managed to fill his place with photos of the wife who divorced him.”

Elizabeth looked at her, saying nothing.

“Okay, so I don't really care about that stuff. I mean the photos are creepy, but I don't care about his job. And I sort of like Hayden. It's a nice town, but . . .”

“But?”

In Elizabeth's gaze, Meghann saw a sad understanding; it comforted her. “I left town without a word. Not even a good-bye. You can't turn that around easily.”

“You've never been one to go for the easy route.”

“Except for sex.”

“I never thought sex with strangers would be easy.”

“It isn't,” Meg said quietly.

“So, call him. Pretend you had business that called you away.”

“I don't know his number.”

“What about the garage?”

“Call him at work? I don't know. That seems kind of personal.”

“I'm going to assume you gave this guy a blow job, but a phone call is too personal?”

Meghann laughed at that. She had to admit how weird it was. “I sound like a psycho.”

“Yes. Okay, Meghann. Here's what we're going to do. And I mean it. You and I are going to drive up to the Salish Lodge tomorrow, where I've scheduled some spa treatments for us. We will talk and drink and laugh and plan a strategy. Before you complain, let me tell you that I've already called Julie and told her you'd be out of the office. When I leave, you're going to drop me off at the airport and then head north. You will not stop until you reach Joe's front door. Am I understood?”

“I don't know if I have the guts.”

“Do you want me to come with you? So help me, I will.”

“This is why they call you women steel magnolias.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Honey, you better believe it. You don't
evah
want to tell a Southern girl that you won't go after a good-looking man.”

“I love you, you know.”

Elizabeth reached for the pizza. “You just remember that phrase, Meg. Sooner or later, it's going to come in handy again. Now, tell me about Claire's wedding. I can't believe she let
you
plan it.”