I walked down the hall, my mother’s voice trailing behind me as I passed the photos on the wall. Mom in a summer-stock production of A Little Night Music in upstate New York. Mom in The Importance of Being Earnest at a regional theater in Connecticut. Mom in Dragonfly Nights on Broadway. There were dozens of photos. Her wall of fame.
I stepped into the mudroom, relieved to be getting out of there. I wondered if the Duncan Arms, which was right here in town, had any rooms available. And then the door opened and in walked Mariel. For a second, I didn’t recognize her. Gone was the bohemian look of beaded tunic tops and woven handbags; she’d swapped those for a pair of skinny white jeans and a coral-colored top that looked stunning against her tan skin. Four-inch heels had replaced her flat leather sandals.
She’d also cut her hair, which for years she’d worn in one length, down past her shoulders. Now it was up to her chin, in layers, and blonder than it had ever been—platinum. But she could get away with it. She could get away with anything. She’d inherited the beauty gene. When she walked into a room, everyone—men and women—noticed her. And now there was one more thing to notice: that rock she was wearing. Even the plastic stones on the rings I’d worn as a kid during my princess stage weren’t as big as the diamond she was sporting.
I stood there feeling like a wilted flower in my wrinkled clothes, my hair frizzy from the July humidity, wondering how she could look fresh after traveling all day from the West Coast. For a second, we just eyed each other like a couple of feral dogs.
“So you’re here,” she said, a little scowl on her face as she pushed a Louis Vuitton suitcase into the room.
No more nylon zipper bag for her. She’d moved up in the world with Carter. I wondered who’d designed the clothes she was wearing. And the shoes. Jimmy Choo? Prada? I was sure Carter had paid for all of it. At thirty-five, Mariel had never supported herself. And now she’d moved her dependency from the Bank of Mom to the Bank of Carter. She’d never have to stand on her own two feet. “Actually, I’m leaving.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “What? You’re running out on Mom?”
I stepped toward the door. “She’s not dying. Not even close.”
“What are you talking about? She called me and said—”
“It was a lie. Go ask her. She’s in there making dinner.” I nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
“Why would she lie?”
“Why do you think? You’re getting married in two weeks to the guy you stole from me, remember? Mom wants us to reconcile so I’ll go to the wedding. Which I refuse to do.”
“I didn’t steal him,” Mariel said. “Carter wasn’t in love with you anymore. Why can’t you believe that?”
“He was in love with me until you stuck your big nose in the picture.”
She flinched, then touched the side of her nose. “It’s not big. And he started it.”
“See, this is why I can’t even talk to you. I told Mom she was wasting her time.”
“I tried to apologize. I called you, I texted you. I wrote you a letter. You sent it back to me with spelling corrections.”
“You never could spell.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“It was my point. He’s way too smart for you and someday he’ll figure it out. He’ll realize he’s bored, that he needs more than arm candy, and he’ll go on to someone else. Then the shoe will be on the other foot.” I glanced at her four-inch heels. “And don’t try to tell me you didn’t steal him. You’ve been stealing guys from me since you were in middle school.”
“What? That’s so not true.”
“Robbie Petler? Does that name sound familiar? He lived on Apple Ridge?”
“That kid? He just helped me with my homework.”
“As soon as he thought you were interested in him, he didn’t want to have anything more to do with me. He said you looked like a movie star. How could I compete with that?”
“Oh, get over it, Sara. If it did happen, it was ages ago.”
That didn’t matter. It was still relevant. “It proves your history of stealing boys from me.”
She cocked her hip. “Like you were so perfect. Throwing my Barbie into the pond? Cutting up my favorite jeans?”
I didn’t remember the jeans, although I had a vague recollection of the Barbie incident. “You could have gotten her out.”
“She landed next to a snapping turtle, Sara.”
“Well, you shoved my sneakers down the storm drain. And they were brand-new.”
“You stuck that rubber snake in my backpack. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Right,” I said. “But you got Carter.”
If she had a response to that, I didn’t wait around to hear it. I sidestepped her Louis Vuitton suitcase, opened the door, and walked out.
Chapter 2
Collision Course
I woke up the next morning in a four-poster bed on the second floor of the Duncan Arms, a fireplace and love seat across the room, vintage paper of pink cabbage roses on the walls. At the window, I pushed aside the drapes and raised the sash. The sweet scent of fresh-cut grass drifted through the screen, along with a chorus of birdsong. On the lawn, a man and a little girl were throwing a softball. It might have been a scene from thirty years ago; the man could have been my father, the girl me, and the field the one behind our house.
In the bathroom I washed my face, brushed my teeth, popped in my contacts, and dragged a hairbrush through my hair. Yikes. There were new grays sticking out on either side of my part. I tried moving the part, then tousled my hair with my fingers to hide it altogether. That looked a little better. Highlights and a cut would be in order when I got back to Chicago. How had my hair gotten down to my shoulders? And where had all those new grays come from?
I packed my suitcase and got ready to leave. I’d booked a flight back to Chicago at seven in the evening so I could drive upstate and look at a new resort. It might be a good option if I needed to plan an off-site meeting at a quiet place in New England. I rolled my suitcase out the door, the wheels screeching. Not all of us could afford a Louis Vuitton travel bag like Mariel’s. Some of us supported ourselves.
Why couldn’t I stop comparing my life to hers? I liked being self-sufficient. I was proud of it. Proud of the fact that I didn’t take advantage of Mom’s generosity. Besides, there was nothing wrong with my suitcase. So what if the color had been out of style for a decade? Asparagus green wasn’t all that bad.
A sign in the lobby said breakfast was being served in the Pub Room. A cup of coffee to go was all I needed, so I headed there. Inside, the tables were covered with red-and-white-checkered cloths. I walked past mahogany bead-board walls displaying paintings of foxhunting scenes and a pen-and-ink portrait of George Washington (had he slept here?). At the buffet, I grabbed a piece of orange-cranberry bread and a cup of coffee.
Five minutes later I’d checked out and was in the Jetta in the parking lot, sipping the coffee and devouring the bread, wishing I’d taken an extra piece. I was a sucker for pecans. My phone rang; Mom flashed across the screen. The image of my supposedly dying mother looking healthy as she cooked pasta whirled through my head, along with a picture of my soon-to-be-married sister, looking better than ever with her new hair and clothes. And that rock. I let my mother’s call go to voice mail.