The Second Sister (27 page)

It was a good feeling. But also a lonely one.

Everyone walking down the street, stopping to buy bratwurst, or to get their picture taken with a live reindeer brought in for the occasion and decked out in a red halter and jingle bells, or to
ooh
and
aah
over the prizewinning, incredibly lifelike ice sculpture of a mother polar bear with twin cubs gamboling at her feet, was walking with someone else, traveling in herds: families with little children or elderly parents, groups of friends, couples holding hands. It seemed like I was the last lone person on the face of the earth, the only person alive who was not connected to some other person by birth, or love, or both. I was an orphan.

It was a strange thing, and terrible to admit, but after my parents died I didn't miss them that much. I know how awful that makes me sound, but . . . I'd been away from home for so long, almost never seeing them or talking to them—even when I did call, my father refused to speak to me—and I was so busy living my life, trying to latch on to that brass ring that would fill the constant void and somehow redeem me, that weeks could pass without my ever thinking about them.

And then they died.

I came home for a few days, did my duty, attended the funeral, comforted Alice and helped her get organized, arranged for part of my paycheck to be direct deposited into her account every two weeks, signed the necessary papers, and left. The whole thing had taken less than a week. And then everything went on like it always had. I didn't miss hearing from them because I'd never heard from them much to begin with. Before long, the weeks that passed without a thought of them stretched to months and then to never. Almost never.

With Alice, of course, it was different. I talked to her almost every day, but I wasn't . . . engaged. Not really. She would talk and I would listen, sort of. More often than not I was either half-asleep or working on the computer during our conversations, giving her what attention I felt was owed, paying her bills, doing my duty. Because I knew I owed her that. Because I felt like . . .

It didn't matter. Nothing I knew, or felt, or feel could change what had been. I'd spent twenty years trying to accept that truth, or at least not dwell on it.

Now there was no one whom I belonged to and no one who belonged to me. Not even here, in the only place on the face of the earth where people recognize my face and know me by name.

I missed Alice. Really missed her. And not just the old Alice, the Alice golden child who I chased across lawns and through woods in a pair of too-big pink rubber boots, the sister I could never catch up to. I also missed the Alice I left behind, who woke me in the night and droned on and on about things and people and places I had worked so hard to separate myself from. I missed the slow and steady, pedantic and plodding sister who never gave up and who summoned home her selfish second sister in the only way left to her, issuing the invitation I could not refuse and did not deserve. I missed the Alice who disappeared under the water on a hot day in August and emerged more mortal, more simple and simultaneously more complex, wiped free of memory and malice, the one who couldn't understand why I wanted to forget, who could not grasp that there are moments and acts that completely sever the life that was from the life that is, moments beyond redemption, and homes you can never return to.

I missed Alice. I missed everyone.

Chapter 36

I
t was only four o'clock, but the light was already fading from the sky.

In another hour it would be dark, and when the assembled onlookers finished singing “O Tannenbaum,” mumbling through the verses, but jumping in and singing lustily along with the chorus, and the mayor pushed the button to illuminate the thirty-foot-tall Christmas tree, making the five score strings of lights glow white-gold in the darkness, everyone would gasp and then applaud, as though they'd never seen an electric lightbulb before.

But you can't really blame them. On a cold December night when the setting of the sun causes the temperature to drop twenty degrees in as many minutes and turns your fingers into ice pops even through your gloves, there really is something miraculous, and hugely comforting, about the existence of electricity.

The police had closed five blocks along Bayshore to traffic the night before, giving the ice sculptors a spot to work on their creations through the night and leaving plenty of room for pedestrians to admire the completed sculptures the next day. The sidewalk concession booths had been set up by local merchants.

Before making my way to the tree lighting, I bought a snow cone from Heller's Ice Cream Haven, not because I really wanted one, but because I felt a little sorry for Mr. Heller. Though he'd tried to get into the spirit of the occasion, putting out a chalkboard sandwich board that said “Embrace the Cold!” on one side and “Snow Cones! The Original Ice Sculpture!” on the other, and offered holiday-inspired flavors like Pink Peppermint and Spicy Cinnamon, his was the only food booth without a line.

“Thanks,” he said as I handed him a five-dollar bill, his voice a little despondent. “I tried to think up something different, but in this kind of weather people want something hot. Maybe next year I'll give hot fudge sundaes a try.”

“How about hot cocoa floats? Take the big foam cups you use for milk shakes, then fill them with hot chocolate and put in a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

“And maybe a candy cane stir stick?” His face lit up. “That's a great idea. Thanks, Lucy.”

I took my three dollars change and my snow cone and walked down the street toward town hall. The cinnamon snow cone was better than I'd thought it would be, but Mr. Heller was right. In this kind of weather, I would have preferred something warm. When I was out of sight of the ice cream shop, I dropped the cone into a nearby trash can.

Looking up, I saw the top of Peter's head sticking up above the crowd on the opposite side of the street and called out to him. He turned at the sound of my voice and I started walking toward him. There was no hint of a smile on his lips, no cocky, teasing grin in response to my greeting. His expression was totally neutral. I lowered my arm to my side, feeling suddenly foolish, the way you feel when you start yoo-hooing to a long-lost friend at a crowded party who ultimately turns out to be a stranger.

We met in the middle of the street, in a somewhat less crowded spot between two ice sculptures where somebody had decided to park three snowblowers.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I smiled and waited for him to smile back, but he just stood there, hands in his pockets, being Switzerland.

Finally, I asked, “Did you see the polar bears?”

“Yeah. Really something.”

I nodded. “Hey,” I said. “I'm sorry I haven't returned your calls. It's just been a really busy week. I've been working to organize support to help stop the sale and demolition of the Save-A-Bunch.”

“I know,” he said. “About fifteen people have stopped me to talk about it since I got here.”

“Yeah? That's great!” I couldn't keep myself from smiling. Already the word was spreading.

“Listen, we're having a meeting on Monday at the library. It'd be really great if you could stop by and say—”

He shook me off before I could even finish my sentence. “Can't.”

“Oh. Have you got another out-of-town trial?”

“No. Just can't make it.”

“You can't? On a Monday? Why not? I know how you feel about these kinds of issues and about preserving the places and traditions that make Nilson's Bay unique. Not to mention supporting small business. I mean, we've talked—”

“Lucy.” He held up one hand. “Stop right there.”

His expression went from neutral to stern. I did stop, but more because I was surprised by his response than because he told me to. He paused, frowned, shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, and then, after leaving me hanging for a good five seconds, looked up.

“Mrs. Lieshout tracked me down a few minutes ago. She wanted to give me her opinion about the market, which was fine. When she was done, she made a point of telling me that you were handing out flyers over by the ice-carved archway. I guess she figured I'd be looking for you. And a few minutes before that, when I was standing in line to buy my brat, Clint came out of the restaurant to resupply his kids, then came over to pat me on the shoulder and give me his sympathy, said that he'd heard you and I were taking a break.”

I felt my jaw clench. Clint! Hadn't I
told
him?

“And just before you waved to me, Mr. Coates flagged me down to ask about the town getting a dog park. But not before asking how we were and if you were still planning to move to Washington.”

“I know,” I said. “I've been dealing with the same kind of thing. But you know how things are around here. People see a single man and a single woman going to dinner or having a conversation on the street and they immediately assume that—”

“Exactly. They immediately assume that there's some kind of romantic involvement going on. Even,” he said, his gaze becoming suddenly steely and his language lawyerly, “after it has been made eminently clear that there is absolutely no possibility of such a thing occurring.”

My jaw dropped. “What? So you're not willing to get behind the effort to save the market just because I don't want to go out with you? You can't be serious,” I said, shaking my head with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. If that's how he felt, then Peter was not the guy I thought he was.

“First you lure me out to your ice shanty and try to jump me.
Then
you hold the market demolition over my head because I won't play ball.” I let out an incredulous gasp. “And people say
Washington
is the hotbed of dirty politics!”

“Hang on!” Peter barked, loudly enough so a small knot of passersby, fortunately no one I recognized, turned to look. I shot Peter a look and he lowered his voice.

“Just hang on right there, Lucy. That is
not
what I said!”

I leaned closer, furious, practically hissing at him, “You implied—”

“I implied nothing! And if for once in your life you'd shut up and quit assuming that you know everything about everybody, even what they're thinking, then I might have a chance to explain myself.”

He glared at me, daring me to interrupt or argue and thereby prove his point. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I clamped my lips together and crossed my arms over my chest.

“This has nothing to do with you and me. Nothing. The reason I can't attend the meeting on Monday, or any future meetings, is because I don't think it would be right for me to take a position, or even appear to take a position, on this issue before it comes up for a decision before the council.”

“Are you done?” He nodded. “I see. So because you're afraid that people will think you're being influenced by your . . .” I was about to name a part of his anatomy but, angry as I was, decided to take the high road. “. . . girlfriend, you've decided not to support a grassroots effort to save a business that is key to maintaining the character and economic viability of this town.”

“No,” he said, in a maddeningly calm tone. “What I said is it doesn't make things any easier if people were to assume that my feelings toward you might be influencing my vote. But even if that weren't the case, I can't take a position, one way or the other. Not right now.”

“Why not? That's crazy! Peter, I
know
whose side you're on here. Why not show your hand?”

“No!” he said. And then he growled. He actually growled! And pointed his finger at me. “This is what I'm talking about! The way you assume things, the way you constantly jump to conclusions. You do
not
know what I think about this issue or any other. Hell, Lucy! Half the time, you don't even know what you think, let alone me!”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He lifted both his hands and looked away. “You know what . . . never mind. Forget I said that. It doesn't matter.”

He hesitated for just a moment and scratched his forehead, the way he does when he's thinking. I again asked him to explain that last statement, but he cut me off.

“Lucy. Listen to me. This is not about you or me or the two of us together or not together. I'm just trying to do the right thing here.”

“By
not
taking a position on important issues?”

I shook my head and dropped my arms to my sides. He was new at this. Maybe he didn't understand the rules of the game.

“Peter, it is perfectly legal for you to adopt and express a position on a given issue ahead of an actual vote.”

“Gee, Luce. Thanks for clearing that up for me. Because, seeing as I went to law school and all, I wasn't quite sure.”

“Hey! No need to get snarky! I'm trying to help.”

“Well, don't! I don't need that kind of help, okay? Lucy, I'm not talking about what is legal. I'm talking about what is
right
. I'm getting all kinds of opinions from people on both sides of this, which is great. That's how democracy works. But until this thing comes up for a vote, I intend not only to appear neutral and open-minded; I intend to
be
neutral and open-minded. So please don't stand there and try to lobby me, okay? I'm getting enough of that as it is.”

“Lobby you?” He nodded and I rolled my eyes. “Oh, give me a break. So you're above politics? Is that it?”

“Politics is your line of work, Lucy. You're good at it and I respect that. But I'm not a politician. I'm a public servant. I'm not perfect by a long shot. Nobody knows that better than you do, and I apologize for”—he pulled his hands out of his pockets, rubbed his neck, and then put them back in—“being so . . . aggressive in my attentions. But I happen to find you attractive and I can't apologize for that. Not any more than I'm going to apologize for trying to do the right thing as best I know how.”

So he was a noble public servant while I was just a lowly, scheming politico?

It was not the first time I'd heard that line, generally from the kind of grandstanding politicians who put the “crave” in “craven.” Sometimes from members of the general public, people who immediately suspect the worst of anybody who gets involved in politics. I was used to that kind of accusation and I'd learned not to let it bother me.

But this was different. This was coming from Peter, who knew me better than that. Or so I'd thought. I guess I'd been wrong.

I'd never felt so discounted—or so judged—in all my life.

“Well, if that's how you feel . . . I guess it's a good thing that I
didn't
return your phone calls. You know, I was just walking down the street a few minutes ago, looking at all the couples and the families. And I was just feeling so . . .”

Suddenly, inexplicably, my throat got tight and I felt tears form in my eyes. I looked away, over my right shoulder, and blinked a couple of times, embarrassed in case he should see me crying and think it was over him.

“So what?” he said, and took a step toward me, his voice suddenly softer. “What were you feeling?”

“Doesn't matter,” I said, blinking quickly. “I get it now. I have to go. I'm supposed to meet some people at the tree lighting. See you around, Peter.”

I turned away and started walking, then jogging down the street, pushing my way through the throng. Behind me, I could hear Peter's voice calling my name, but I kept my head down and my feet moving until the sound started to fade away and I didn't have to hear, or to think, about him anymore.

Just keep walking,
I said to myself.
You know how to do this. You've done it before.