Between Sisters (9 page)

“Of course. I'll be in my office in thirty minutes.”

“You don't have to do that. If you could just call in a prescription—”

“My office. Thirty minutes. If you aren't there, I'll come looking for you. And nothing scares off drunk college boys like an angry shrink named Harriet. Understood?”

Honestly, Meghann was relieved. Harriet might be a pain in the ass, but at least she was someone to talk to. “I'll be there.”

Meghann hung up the phone and put it back in her purse. It took her less than fifteen minutes to get to Harriet's office. The doorman let her in and, after a short question-and-answer routine, pointed to the elevator. She rode up to the fourth floor and stood outside the glass-doored office.

At precisely 9:00, Harriet showed up, looking rushed and poorly put together. Her normally smoothed black hair had been drawn back in a thin headband and her face shone pink without makeup. “If you make a crack about the headband, I'll charge you double.”

“Me? Be judgmental? You must be joking.”

Harriet smiled at that. They'd often discussed avid judgmentalism as one of Meghann's many flaws. “I had to choose between being on time and looking decent.”

“Clearly, you're on time.”

“Get inside.” Harriet unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Even now, late at night, the office smelled of fresh flowers and worn leather. The familiarity of it immediately put Meghann at ease. She walked through the reception area and went into Harriet's large corner office, going over to stand in front of the window. Below her, the city was a grid of moving cars and stoplights.

Harriet took her usual seat. “So, you think a prescription will help you.”

Meghann slowly turned around. Her eyelid was thumping like a metronome. “Either that or a Seeing Eye dog. If the other one starts, I'll be blind.”

“Sit down, Meghann.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, no. I could go home and finish watching
Friends
.”

“You watch
Friends
? I would have guessed you tuned in to PBS. Maybe the Discovery Channel.”

“Sit.”

Meghann did as she was told. The comfortable chair enfolded her. “I remember when I hated this chair. Now it seems made for me.”

Harriet steepled her fingers and peered at Meghann over her short, clear-polished nails. “It was a week ago today, wasn't it? When your client's husband tried to shoot you.”

Meghann's left foot started to tap. The plush gray carpet swallowed the sound. “Yes. The funny thing is, the publicity has gotten me clients. It seems women
want
a lawyer who makes a man that crazy.” She tried to smile.

“I told you you needed to deal with it.”

“Yes, you did. Remind me to put a gold star next to your name on the door.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“No. Every time I close my eyes, I see it all again. The gunshot whizzing past my ear . . . the way he dropped the gun afterward and sank to his knees . . . May rushing to him, holding him, telling him everything would be all right, that she'd stand behind him . . . the police taking him away in handcuffs. Today, I relived it in court.” She looked up. “That was lovely, by the way.”

“It's not your fault. He's the one to blame.”

“I know that. I also know that I handled their divorce badly. I've lost my ability to really
feel
for people.” She sighed. “I don't know . . . if I can do this job anymore. Today I completely screwed a client. My partner has asked me—ordered me, really—to take a vacation.”

“That might not be a bad idea. It wouldn't hurt you to develop a real life.”

“Will I feel better in London or Rome . . . alone?”

“Why don't you call Claire? You could go stay at her resort for a while. Maybe try to relax. Get to know her.”

“That's a funny thing about visiting relatives. You need an invitation.”

“Are you saying Claire wouldn't want you to visit?”

“Of course I'm saying that. We can't talk for more than five minutes without getting into an argument.”

“You could visit your mother.”

“I'd rather contract the West Nile virus.”

“How about Elizabeth?”

“She and Jack are in Europe, celebrating their anniversary. I don't think they'd appreciate a guest.”

“So, what you're saying is, you have nowhere to go and no one to visit.”

“All I said was, Where would I go?” It had been a mistake to come here. Harriet was making her feel worse. “Look, Harriet,” her voice was softer than usual, and cracked. “I'm falling apart. It's like I'm losing myself. All I want from you is a drug to take the edge off. You know me, I'll be fine in a day or two.”

“The Queen of Denial.”

“When something works for me, I stick with it.”

“Only denial isn't working anymore, is it? That's why your eyelid is spasming, your hands are shaking, and you can't sleep. You're breaking apart.”

“I won't break. Trust me.”

“Meghann, you're one of the smartest women I've ever known. Maybe too smart. You've handled a lot of trauma in your life and succeeded. But you can't keep running away from your own past. Someday you're going to have to settle the tab with Claire.”

“A client's husband tries to blow my brains out, and you manage to make my breakdown about my family. Are you sure you're really a doctor?”

“All I have to do is mention Claire and the walls go up. Why is that?”

“Because this isn't about Claire, damn it.”

“Sooner or later, Meg, it's always about family. The past has an irritating way of becoming the present.”

“I once had a fortune cookie that said the same thing.”

“You're deflecting again.”

“No. I'm rejecting.” Meghann got to her feet. “Does this mean you won't write me a prescription for a muscle relaxant?”

“It wouldn't help your tic.”

“Fine. I'll get an eye patch.”

Harriet slowly stood up. Across the desk, they faced each other. “Why won't you let me help you?”

Meghann swallowed hard. She'd asked herself the same question a hundred times.

“What do you want?” Harriet asked finally.

“I don't know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, if you know the answer, why ask the question?”

“You want to stop feeling so alone.”

A shudder passed through Meghann, left her chilled. “I've always been alone. I'm used to it.”

“No. Not always.”

Meghann's thoughts spooled back to those years, so long ago now, when she and Claire had been inseparable, the best of friends. Then, Meg had known how to love.

Enough.
This was getting Meg nowhere.

Harriet was wrong. This wasn't about the past. So Meg felt guilty about the way she'd abandoned her sister, and she'd been hurt when Claire rejected her and chose Sam. So what? That water had flowed under the bridge for twenty-six years. She wasn't likely to drown in it now. “Well, I'm alone now, aren't I? And I sure as hell better figure out how to get my shit together. Thanks for the help with that, by the way.” She grabbed her purse off the floor and headed for the door. “Send tonight's bill to my secretary. Charge whatever you want. Good-bye, Harriet.” She said good-bye instead of good night because she didn't intend to come back.

She was at the door when Harriet's voice stopped her.

“Be careful, Meghann. Especially now. Don't let loneliness consume you.”

Meghann kept walking, right out the door and into the elevator and across the lobby.

Outside, she looked down at her watch.

9:40.

There was still plenty of time to go to the Athenian.

C
HAPTER
NINE

I
N THE PASSENGER SEAT OF AN EIGHTEEN-WHEELER, JOE SAT
slumped against the window. The truck's air conditioner had gone out about forty miles ago, and it was as hot as hell in the cab.

The driver, a long-hauler named Erv, hit the Jake Brakes and shifted gears. The truck groaned and shuddered and began to slow down. “There's the Hayden exit.”

Joe saw the familiar sign and didn't know how to feel. He hadn't been here in so long. . . .

Home.

No. It was where he'd grown up; home was something else—or, more accurately, some
one
else—and she wouldn't be waiting up for him to return.

The off-ramp looped over the freeway and flattened out onto a tree-lined road. On the left side was a small shingled gas station and a mini mart.

Erv pulled up in front of the pump and came to a creaking stop. The brakes wheezed loudly and fell silent. “The store there makes some mighty fine egg-salad samiches, if you're hungry.” Erv opened his door and got out.

Joe wedged the handle down and gave the door a good hard push. It creaked wearily open, and he stepped down onto the pavement of western Washington for the first time in three years. He broke out in a cold sweat—whether from the fever or his arrival home, he didn't know.

He looked at Erv, who was busy pumping gas. “Thanks for the ride.”

Erv nodded. “You don't talk much, but you were good company. The road can get lonely.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “It can.”

“You sure you don't want to go to Seattle? It's only an hour and a half away. There ain't much here.”

Joe looked down the long, tree-lined road. Though he could only make out the barest hint of town, his memories compensated. “You'd be surprised,” he said softly.

His sister was just down that road, waiting for him in spite of everything, hoping he'd knock on her door. If he did, if he found that courage, she'd pull him into her arms and hold him so tightly, he'd remember how it felt to be loved.

The thought galvanized him.

“Bye, Erv.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and started walking. In no time, he came to the small green sign that welcomed him to
Hayden, population 872. Home of Lori Adams, 1974 State Spelling Bee Champion.

The town where he'd been born, where he'd grown up and moved on from, hadn't changed at all. It looked precisely as he remembered, a pretty little collection of Western-themed buildings dozing peacefully beneath this warm June sun.

The buildings all had false fronts, and there were hitching posts stationed here and there along a wooden boardwalk. The stores were mostly the same—the Whitewater Diner and the Basket Case Florist Shoppe, then Mo's Fireside Tavern and the Stock 'Em Up grocery store. Every sign sparked some memory, every doorway had once welcomed him. He'd bagged groceries for old Bill Turman at the grocery store one summer and ordered his first legal beer at Mo's.

Once, he'd been welcomed everywhere in town.

Now . . . who knew?

He let out a long sigh, trying to understand how he felt at this moment. He'd dreaded and longed for this return for three years, but now that he'd actually come home, he felt curiously numb. Maybe it was the flu. Or the hunger. Certainly a homecoming ought to be sharper. Returning after so long an absence, after all that he had done.

He made a valiant effort to
feel
.

But nothing seized hold of him, and so he began to walk again, past the four-way stop sign that introduced the start of town, past the Loose Screw Hardware Shop and the family-owned bakery.

He felt people looking at him; it beat him down, those looks that turned into frowns of recognition. Whispers followed him, nipped at his heels.

Jesus, is that Joe Wyatt?

Did you see that, Myrtle? It was Joe Wyatt.

He's got some nerve—

How long has it been?

Every one made him hunch a little farther. He tucked his chin close to his chest, rammed his hands in his pockets, and kept moving.

On Azalea Street, he veered left, then, on Cascade he turned right.

Finally, he could breathe again. Here, only a few blocks from Main Street, the world was quiet again. Quaint wood-framed houses sat on impeccably trimmed lawns, one after another for a few blocks, and then the signs of inhabitation grew sparse.

By the time he reached Rhododendron Lane, the street was almost completely deserted. He walked past Craven Farms, quiet this time of year before the fall harvest, and then turned into the driveway. Now the mailbox said
Trainor
. For years and years, it had read:
Wyatt
.

The house was a sprawling log-built A-frame that was set amid a perfectly landscaped yard. A mossy split-rail fence outlined the property. Flowers bloomed everywhere, bright and vibrant, and glossy green boxwoods had been shaped into a rounded hedge that paralleled the fencing. His father had built this house by hand, log by log. One of the last things Dad had said to them, as he lay in his hospital bed dying of a broken heart, was:
Take care of the house. Your mother loved it so . . .

Joe felt a sudden tightening in his throat, a sadness almost too sweet to bear. His sister had done as she'd been asked. She'd kept the house looking exactly as it always had. Mom and Dad would be pleased.

Something caught his eye. He looked up, caught a fluttering, incorporeal glimpse of a young woman on the porch, dressed in flowing white as she giggled and ran away. The image was shadowy and indistinct and heartbreaking.

Diana.

It was a memory; only that.

Halloween. Nineteen ninety-seven. They'd come here to take his niece trick-or-treating for the first time. In her Galadriel costume, Diana had looked about twenty-five years old.

Someday soon,
she'd whispered that night, clinging to his hand,
we'll take our own child trick-or-treating.
Only a few months later, they found out why they'd been unable to conceive. . . .

He stumbled, came to a stop at the bottom of the porch steps, and glanced back down the road, thinking,
Maybe I should turn around.

The memories here would ruin what little peace he'd been able to find. . . .

No.

He'd found no peace out there.

He climbed the steps, hearing the familiar creaking of the boards underfoot. After a long pause in which he found himself listening to the rapid hammering of his heart, he knocked on the door.

For a moment, there was no sound within; then the clattering of heavy-soled shoes and the called-out “Coming!”

The door swung open. Gina stood there, dressed in baggy black sweats and green rubber clogs, breathing hard. Her cheeks were bright pink, her chestnut brown hair a bird's nest of disarray. She took one look at him, mouthed
Oh
, then burst into tears. “Joey—”

She pulled him into her arms. For a moment, he was dazed, too confused to respond. He hadn't been touched in so long, it felt wrong somehow.

“Joey,” she said again, putting her face in the crook of his neck. He felt her warm tears on his skin and something inside of him gave way. He brought his arms around her and held on. The whole of his childhood came back to him then, drifted on the baking-bread smell of the house and the sweet citrusy scent of her shampoo. He remembered building her a stick fort by the fish pond long after he'd outgrown it himself, and baby-sitting her on Saturday mornings and walking her home from school. Though they were seven years apart in age, they'd always been a pair.

She drew back, sniffling, wiping her red-rimmed eyes. “I didn't think you'd really come back.” She patted her hair and made a face. “Oh, shit, I look like the undead. I was planting flowers in the backyard.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, meaning it.

“Pretend that Grandma Hester's ass hasn't moved onto my body.” She reached out for him, took hold of his hand, and dragged him into the sunlit living room.

“I should take a shower before I sit—”

“Forget it.” Gina sat down on a beautiful butter-yellow sofa and pulled him down beside her.

He felt uncomfortable suddenly, out of place. He could smell his own scent, feel the clammy dampness of his skin.

“You look sick.”

“I am. My head is pounding.”

Gina popped up and hurried from the room. All the while she was gone, she talked to him from another room. No doubt she was afraid he'd vanish again.

“—some water,” she called out, “and aspirin.”

He started to say something—he had no idea what—when he saw the photo on the mantel.

He got slowly to his feet and walked toward it.

The photograph was of five women crowded together; four of them wore matching pink dresses. They were all smiling broadly and holding up wineglasses, most of which, he noticed, were empty. Gina was front and center, the only woman in white. Diana was beside her, laughing.

“Hey, Di,” he whispered. “I'm home.”

“That's one of my favorite pictures,” Gina said, coming up behind him.

“At the end,” he said softly, “she talked about you guys. The Bluesers. She must have told me a hundred Lake Chelan stories.”

Gina squeezed his shoulder. “We all miss her.”

“I know.”

“Did you find it out there . . . whatever you were looking for?”

He thought about that. “No,” he said at last. “But now that I'm here, I want to be gone again. Everywhere I look, I'll see her.”

“Tell me that wasn't true out there, too.”

He sighed. His sister was right. It didn't matter where he was. Diana filled his thoughts, his dreams. Finally, he turned around and looked down at his sister. “What now?”

“You're home. That counts for something.”

“I'm lost, Gigi. It's like I'm stuck in the ice. I can't move. I don't know how to start over.”

She touched his cheek. “Don't you see? You already have. You're here.”

He placed his hand over hers and stared down at her, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind, so he tried to smile instead. “Where's my beautiful niece? And my brother-in-law?”

“Bonnie's over at River's Edge, playing with Ali.”

Joe frowned, took a step back. “And Rex? He doesn't work on Sundays.”

“He left me, Joey. Divorced me.”

She didn't say,
While you were gone
, but she could have. His baby sister had needed him and he hadn't been there for her. He pulled her into his arms.

She burst into tears. He stroked her hair and whispered that he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere.

For the first time in three years, it was the truth.

Meghann's desk was clean for the first time in more than a decade. All her pending cases had been portioned out to the other attorneys. She'd promised Julie that she'd take at least three weeks of vacation, but already she was having second thoughts. What in the hell would she do with all the hours that made up an ordinary day?

Last night and the night before, she'd gone out for dinner and drinks with some lawyer friends. Unfortunately, it had become obvious that they were worried about her. No one mentioned the drama with the gun, and when Meg made a joke about her near-death experience, it fell flat. The two evenings had only served to make her feel more alone.

She thought about calling Harriet, then discarded the idea. She'd studiously avoided her therapist in the past few days, even going so far as to cancel her regular appointment. Their late-night session had been depressing and disturbing; frankly, Meghann was doing a good enough job at depressing herself. She didn't need to pay a professional to help her.

She retrieved her briefcase and handbag from the bottom desk drawer and headed for the door. She allowed herself a last look at the room that was more of a home to her than her condo and quietly closed the door.

As she walked down the wide marble hallway, she noticed that her colleagues were avoiding her. Success was a virus everyone longed to catch. Not so failure. The watercooler whispers had been rampant in the past weeks.
Dontess is losing it . . . cracking up . . . just shows you what happens when you have no life.

The comments were quietly made, of course, in hushed and hurried tones. She was a senior partner, after all, the second name on the door in a business where pecking order was everything. Still, for the first time in her career, they were questioning her, wondering if the Bitch of Belltown had lost her edge. She sensed the same curiosity from her lawyer friends.

At the closed door of Julia's corner office, she paused and knocked gently.

“Come in.”

Meghann opened the door and entered the bright, sunlit office. “Hey, Jules.”

Julie looked up from her paperwork. “Hey, Meg. You want to go out for a drink? Maybe celebrate your first vacation in a decade?”

“How about celebrating my decision to stick around?”

“Sorry, Charlie. I've taken a month a year for the last decade. Your only time off generally comes with novocaine.” She stood up. “You're tired, Meg, but you're too stubborn to admit it. What happened last week would mess with anyone's mind. Let yourself feel it. You need a rest. I recommend at least a month.”

“Have you ever
seen
me rest?”

“No. That makes my point, not yours, counselor. Where are you going to go?”

“Bangladesh, maybe. I hear the hotels are dirt cheap.”

“Funny. Why don't you use my condo in Hawaii? A week by the pool is just what the doctor ordered.”

“No, thanks. I can't drink anything that comes with an umbrella. I think I'll just watch Court TV or CNN. Listen for my voice on
Larry King Live
.”

“I won't change my mind, no matter how pathetic you seem. Now, go. Your vacation time can't start if you don't leave.”

“The O'Connor case—”

“Continuance.”

“Jill Summerville—”

“Settlement conference on Friday. I'm handling it personally, and I'll conduct the Lange deposition next Wednesday. Everything is handled, Meg. Go.”

“Where?” she asked quietly, hating the neediness in her voice.