The Never Never Sisters (26 page)

I didn’t say anything, just kept walking downstairs. “Hey,” she said. “Stop.”

I turned around, level with her elbow. “What?”

“I’m so proud of you. For finally standing up to them.”

“Why are you even here, Sloane? I’m maddest at myself for letting a stranger shake
up my life.”

I didn’t wait to hear her response.

I spent about ten minutes in the bathroom trying to calm down before bracing myself
to go back upstairs. I didn’t feel normal when I reached the deck, though. I shook
with that impulse I trained my clients to fight against—the itch to be heard and speak
my mind. To wound because I was hurting.

I wasn’t even sure who was my prime target—although it seemed in that instant like
it had all started with Sloane. It almost didn’t matter. I hated the world.

But the lunch table was empty, and the little groups had dispersed into protective
little huddles. My mom and Cherie were on the other side of the boat, and I couldn’t
even see where Sloane and Giovanni were hiding. I felt it drain, the anger that had
been boiling one second earlier, that had seemed uncontainable. Where, I wondered,
does all that anger go?

“Are you okay?” Dave was in my recliner lounge, going over a document with a red pen.
He glanced up and exaggerated his voice. “What was
that
?”

“I’m fine.” I felt a rote muscle memory as I said it. “I’m fine. I’m fine. How many
times this summer have you heard me say I’m fine?”

“Not that many.”

“So then this is it?” I gestured around the top deck. “We all pretend that never happened
and go back to avoiding one another?”

“I had a little talk with Giovanni while you were downstairs. He and Sloane are going
to hang back for a bit after we dock. They’ll come fetch their things while we’re
at dinner.”

“Thank you for that. So Sloane will be at our apartment unsupervised?”

“Yeah. I mean they have to get their stuff.”

“Lock up the silver.” It hadn’t been fair to say, nor had I meant it, but it was what
emerged.

“Really? I don’t think they’d steal at this point.” But he looked worried. “You think
we need to monitor them?”

“No.”

“This is just eerie. Family boat day, silent picture version.” He ruffled my hair.
“You’re not done, huh? You want to go a few more rounds?”

“That’s not it; it’s just . . .”

He cocked his head.
What?

My mother—what was that? All huddled up with Cherie, not even coming over, barely
meeting my eye. Was that shame? Did she know I was onto her—the secrets and the mysteries
and the unknowns that I couldn’t be privy to but that affected me all the same?

I could start with her, march over there and insist that we continue the conversation,
but there was a great allure to staying put, sitting quietly with Dave, feeling the
sun on my face, slipping my own earbuds in and pretending to read my book. I wanted
to forget about all the questions. I wanted my regular life to resume.

“It’s just eerie.” I kept looking at Dave. Was it evident to him how unsettled I felt?
Did he suspect, as I did, that just over our shoulders was a long train of all the
unfinished conversations from this summer? That we were starting to drag them around
like chains?

If so, he didn’t press me on it. He returned to his papers, raising his uncapped red
pen over them like a dart, and I settled back down in my chair, earbuds in, book open,
until we docked.

Dave and I were the first off the boat—an easy win because everyone else was moving
like molasses to avoid us. Still, we sprinted to a cab as though someone were chasing
us.

At home, I threw on white pants and a passably clean top under which I stabbed some
deodorant. “Okay,” I shouted to wherever Dave was, “let’s go. Let’s get out of here!”

He was still in his boat clothes, typing on his work phone. “Can I shower? I was sweating
in the sun all day.”

“Hurry!”

I sat on the couch, tapping my foot for a while, and then wandered into the bathroom.
“Do you think I was unfair?”

Dave, lathered with soap, opened the glass shower door a crack. “What?”

“Today? To my mom and Sloane.”

“Oh.” He shut the door and stepped back into the shower. “Jesus.”

“What?” I perched on the toilet lid across from him. He shut off the spray and stepped
out of the shower, pressing his towel into his face before tying it around his waist
and combing his hair while looking in the mirror. He left the bathroom, and I heard
him pulling and closing his dresser drawers.

“Okay.” He appeared in the doorway, smoothing out a crease in his shirt. “I’m ready.”

I decided to ignore the “Jesus,” which for all I knew had been in response to a shaving
nick. “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“Not as long as they have wine.”

“They do.”

“Let’s get a whole bottle and talk about anything else other than this day.”

“That’s the goal,” he said.

Dave had ordered a car, and as we eased into the backseat, his work phone rang.

“Take it,” I said.

“Okay, but only to tell them I can’t talk tonight.”

“It’s fine.” We’d caught the stretch of perfectly timed green lights down Fifth Avenue,
and I looked out the window as I listened to Dave’s conversation. It felt so normal—no
whispering, no straining to hear, just a slightly impatient voice. He said nothing
about financial tips or shady insider advice. There was no whispered
Talk to me before you buy
.

“Sorry,” he said when he hung up. “New associate on the team. He doesn’t really have
a handle.”

“Oh.” I grabbed Dave’s hand as our car pulled in front of the Yarn. “Here?”

He smiled.

“So romantic. How’d you do it so last minute?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Secret sources.”

Dave and I hadn’t been to the Yarn since getting engaged. Securing a table required
waking up at five in the morning exactly one hundred twenty days before your desired
dining date and pressing
REDIAL
until you developed carpal tunnel. It wasn’t just the food; it was the service, as
though each couple were royalty. Last time, I—and every other female diner—left with
a box of homemade bonbons, a bouquet and an ivy wreath. An ivy wreath! As if we were
all mini twenty-first-century Caesars.

Thousands of New Yorkers had knelt on those wooden floors, shakily holding out oversized
rock-candy rings to their shiny-haired beloveds. The first time we were there, I’d
drunkenly asked the waiter what was up with the name, whether it was supposed to make
us all want to sit by the fire and knit sweaters and tell stories.

He had leaned forward with the manner of someone sharing an oral tradition round a
campsite. The owners had named it, he said, after the expression that getting married
was like throwing a ball of yarn into the woods and following it past the stumps and
brambles to its conclusion: a commitment to stay true to the path regardless of where
it leads. I’d leaned forward, the new diamond heavy and glinting as my left hand flourished
my champagne flute, my legs snaked around Dave’s. It was so very romantic, that thought
of the two of us, following the yarn, braving together whatever life might bring us.

“Good?” Dave smiled at me as we waited for the maître d’ to place us.

“It’s perfect.” And really, it should have been.

WE WERE SITTING
almost where we had sat three years before, at the end of a row of five tables in
front of the fireplace. The time before, we’d been at the middle table, a spot occupied
now by a couple whom I immediately labeled the young Turks for the way they were holding
each other’s hands across the table while leaning into each other with complete focus.
I could’ve dashed, naked and madly, back and forth through the dining room, screaming
about fish crackers, and neither would have looked up.

Dave flipped through the oversized blue leather menu. “You want to do the tasting
menu?”

“How many courses?”

“We could do three, five or eight. I’m up for anything.”

“Three.”

“Really?”

“I’m a little beat.”

“Whatever you want.”

As he ordered, the young Turks were ignoring the plates in front of them, still not
talking, just staring into each other’s eyes, entranced. After the waiter left, I
poked a finger in their direction. “Check out the frozen people.”

Dave watched them for a second. “They look stoned.”

“Maybe they’re on ecstasy.”

“Maybe they speak different languages and can’t understand each other, and finally
they just gave up.”

“Maybe someone superglued their hands together, and because they speak different languages,
they can’t figure out how to get unstuck.”

We laughed even though it didn’t really make sense.

The waiter brought over the amuse-bouche—a tiny little puff of foam in a votive-sized
glass that was explained as cauliflower carpaccio with a cappuccino reduction.

“Thank god,” I said, downing it like a twenty-one-year-old with her first legal shot
of tequila. “Not much of a lunch from the sultan’s crew.”

He swallowed the cauliflower. “Surprisingly good. I was nervous about the cappuccino
part.”

The waiter brought our wine and after a rather long-winded congratulatory explanation
about something we’d ordered or should order—I wasn’t paying attention—I downed my
glass. “Fruity.” In a flash, another tuxedoed gentleman refilled my glass.

“You think?” Dave cocked his head. “I taste oak.”

“I was kind of joking.” I drank half of my second glass; two big gulps.

Dave looked surprised. “You came to play.”

“I did.” By the time the cauliflower cappuccinos were cleared, I felt the looseness
of my tongue like a release. “Were you surprised by me? Today?”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t Jesus me again.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You did it in the shower when I asked you about today. You said, ‘Jesus.’ And then
didn’t answer.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“I just don’t want to bicker.”

“Then answer and we won’t.”

He looked at me head-on. “I guess so. I’ve never heard you talk like that to your
mother. But maybe it was good.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. Maybe a little independence for you is necessary.” He rested his shoulders
flat against his chair back as if bracing for my reaction, but I wasn’t mad.

“Have you thought that always?”

“She’s always been so front and center in your life.”

“I know.” I leaned toward him. “I feel like . . . I feel like I’m the one who didn’t
disappoint her, I’m the one who does whatever she wants and I’m still sloppy seconds.”

“That’s not true.”

“Prove it.” I finished my second glass, and the tuxedo guy poured a third.

He shrugged. “Your mom really loves you. You know that.” I did. “Did you ever find
out what the deal is with her and Sloane?”

“No, but I’m learning. I’m reading her journals from twenty years ago.”

“She gave them to you?”

“Not on purpose. She doesn’t know.”

“That’s . . . disrespectful, I guess.”

“Yes, but informative. They’re from the year Sloane left.” I finished the third glass,
and the guy refilled it.

“Wow. Well.” He shrugged and moved back in his chair to cross one leg over the other.
“I mean what could be in there that’s really incriminating, right?”

“Dave!” I waved my glass at him, and the liquid sloshed up to the rim. “It’s someone’s
innermost thoughts. It’s not okay to read someone else’s journal.”

“Yeah, but it’s like all about your family and her feelings, right? It’s not like
there were state secrets in there.”

“You think it’s okay?”

He uncrossed his leg and stared to the left for a second. “I’m trying not to bicker
with you, so even though this is the last thing I want to talk about, I am.”

“What do you want to talk about, Dave? Interest rates?”

“How about our next vacation? Finally making it out to Quogue? How about anything
that’s not what we’ve done all summer, which is devolve into fighting.”

He was right. “Mother of Mercy,” I said, and something about the way I said it made
him flush and point to the wine.

“Slow it down, babe.” He patted the middle of the table, right next to the lit candle.

“Why?”

“You’re acting off.”

To our right, we heard the squeak of a chair pushing out, and the man of the intertwined
couple—the international ones high on ecstasy but no longer superglued together—was
kneeling on the floor, blue velvet box in front of him. We stopped and watched as
his fiancée, hands pressed to her cheeks, mouth in a perfect bud, delicately extended
her hand for the ring. Eyes glistening, she nodded quickly. “Yes!”

“Guess they understand each other after all,” I said.

“I’m not perfect,” he said. “I don’t always do the right thing. And you’re right.
It was shitty to read the journals.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t like seeing you like this—all twisted up because of some ridiculous family
drama. You want to know what I think about the little scene today?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll apologize to Binnie—”

“I’m not going to apologize to her—”

“Just my opinion on what you should do tomorrow morning. Apologize to your mother
too, and they’ll both forgive you; Sloane will clear out of our apartment and our
lives, and we’ll take August and go out to the Quogue house and then we can get back
to normal. This summer has been a disaster, but we can still fix it, okay?”

“Sloane’s not a druggie loser,” I said.

He sighed, as though saying,
That’s what you got from what I said?

“Ugh.” I pressed my palm heels into my temples. He was right.
Just tell him
. “Dave?”

“What?”

“I’ve been worried you got suspended for insider trading.”

“Yes,” he said drily. “I believe you’ve mentioned that.”

“The big investigation that’s been in the news, specifically.” I saw, I was sure,
a jolt of connection in his eyes. “With Mission Bank. So this whole time, I’ve been
trying to learn about it.”

“How?” His voice sounded a little strangled, and when I didn’t answer quickly, he
said again, louder and clearer, “How?”

“Nothing drastic. Just by reading the papers, talking to someone.”

“Someone?”

“An investigator.” I swallowed.

“You had me followed?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I’ve just asked him to help me find out more about it.”

“Has he?” He lifted his hand and motioned for the check, causing a flurry of concern
from the waitstaff.

“He’s found squat. Zilch. I know you’re probably mad, but the reason I’m telling you
is not only to clear the air. It’s also because I realized that if you did something
like that? If you ever did, I could understand why you did it. I would hate it more
if you lied to me than if you did it and told me. You understand?”

“I understand the content of what you’re saying, yes.”

“And I don’t want to lie to you anymore. It’s getting in the way of everything.”

“Whoa.” He held up his hands. “Whoa.” The waiter appeared, swooshing down the quilted
envelope, and Dave scribbled with the pen and got up to go. He didn’t speak to me
on the way out of the restaurant. He didn’t say anything at all, and if I hadn’t jumped—fast—into
the cab that he hailed, he most definitely would have left without me.

“I’m sorry,” I said in the backseat, a couple of blocks from home, but Dave didn’t
respond. We stood silently in the empty elevator, walked single file down the hall.
As soon as he unlocked the door to our apartment, he went into the linen closet, getting
extra sheets to put on the bed that Sloane and Giovanni had carefully folded up.

I sat on our bed, too confused to do anything else. What if I’d been the one to get
suspended without knowing why? What if I’d come home to tell him and, instead of offering
blanket support, Dave had turned on me, picking fights and hiring a private investigator
and then announcing his mistrust at a romantic dinner I’d planned?

At this point, I was the only obstacle to going back to normal. And what did I want,
if not for things to go back to normal? The normal had been lovely. My lovely, lovely
life.

But even more than I wanted normalcy, I wanted to know the truth. Not just about Dave,
but the rest of it: the thirty-two years’ worth of secret facts that I’d been trapped
up against without knowing it.

I went into the closet and found my pink notebook.

Dear Me,

Hi, Rock Star! How was school today? What? It was fine. Yeah, I know that because
I was there too. Did you see me? Following you around all day? You know what? It wasn’t
that great—you had apple skin in your teeth and it probably got in there during lunch,
but you didn’t notice until after you got home, but better luck next time.

Love, hugs and kisses,

Paige

All the entries were like that.

Reading them felt like watching the early scenes of one of Dave’s horror movies, when
you know before the doomed character does that her murderer is right there inside
the house. Your instinct is to scream out to stop her from going into that room. Or
shake her—how is she missing the obvious? It’s dark; there’s creepy music; everyone
else has left.

Until you realize the character’s stupidity is the whole point of her existence—she
wouldn’t be in the movie otherwise. You resign yourself to her demise and wonder how
she’s lasted so long, given her industrial-strength sense of denial.

I don’t know anyone who identifies with those head-in-the-sand characters. Everybody
is so sure they’d see the writing on the wall, that they’d go into that room, aware
and fighting just like the heroine. No matter how much I wanted to be that person—sentient
and wise—I had to admit to myself that for a while now I’d been utterly clueless,
bumbling in the dark.