The Sunset Sisters: An utterly gripping and emotional page-turner (The Sisterhood Series)

by Cecilia Lyra

  “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Thanks?” It came out as more of a question than a statement.

  “She’s super jealous of your mom,” Cassie said. “She thinks she’s still having an affair with my—with our, father.”

  I couldn’t picture Katherine being jealous of my mom. Katherine was Daddy’s wife. She had him all the time. It was Sophie who should be jealous—and I was pretty sure she was.

  Sophie had warned me not to tell Cassie that she and Daddy were a couple. If Katherine is stupid enough to believe that all he does when he comes over is see you, then that’s her problem.

  “Your mom is really pretty,” I said. A lie: Nana’s house had several pictures of Katherine—I didn’t think she was pretty at all. But that seemed like a mean thing to say, especially when my own mom was so beautiful.

  “Thanks,” Cassie said, and I could tell by her voice that she was putting her guard up again. That she was going back in her shell.

  I’m absolutely certain that what I said next changed the course of our lives. And I only said it because I was desperate to bond with Cassie. I had just learned the wonders of having a grandmother. I wanted a sister, too.

  And so I told her my mom’s secret. A secret that was not mine to share.

  “Your mom’s right,” I said. “Sophie and our dad? They’re a couple.”

  Cassie suppressed a gasp. She met my gaze and began asking me all sorts of questions. I answered each of them honestly, without knowing whether or not she’d share her newfound information with her mother.

  Of all of the questions she asked, this was the strangest one: Did our dad love my mom?

  “Of course he does,” I said. “He adores her.”

  Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve lied. I was used to lying—I had been taught how to from an early age. Maybe Cassie and I wouldn’t have grown close.

  But at least Katherine would still be alive.

  Thirteen

  Cassie

  Tuesday, July 3rd

  Despite her new look, Julie hasn’t changed. She’s still a people-pleaser who tries too hard.

  It’s Tuesday, day six of our mandatory vacation—an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Julie seems intent on bonding through food. She offers it all: fruit salad, homemade potato chips, yogurt. Elaborate seafood dishes. Beer—at this, I gag. I keep saying no. I’m not an idiot: I know what she’s trying to do. Growing up, meals were sacred in this house. It’s a huge part of how we bonded. But we’re not girls anymore. And she isn’t Nana.

  Except now she’s offering me pasta—with wine. My favorite combination in the world. And I’m hungry. I say yes, but I don’t offer to help. I can’t cook, anyway.

  I step outside, plop on the hammock and take out my phone. Technically, I’m on break, but I can’t seem to shake off my habit of checking emails at least a couple of times a day. I scroll down my inbox: the only work email I have is from Alice Dewar. I’m used to getting emails from Alice: she and her husband, Nick, are one of the few couples I treat via Skype. I scan her message. She wants to let me know that they’ll need to reschedule their mid-August session because they’ll still be at the Sag Harbor house with the rest of the Dewar clan—I know this is painful for Alice. I hadn’t realized that Alice and Nick were summering so close to me—I hope I don’t run into them. It’s always awkward, running into patients. I write back, assuring her that I’ll keep her regular appointment slot, starting in September.

  It’s a beautiful day—cerulean sky with puffy clouds, a slight breeze. I wish Daniel were here. I miss him. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I scan the picturesque setting in front of me. I’m going to note five things. Describe them slowly to myself. A grounding technique, one that helps me stay present. My eyes land on the front door, but then they quickly travel upwards, to the wind chimes that are hanging above me. I blink rapidly and narrow my gaze. It can’t be—can it?

  I glance inside the house to see if Julie is watching me. Thankfully, she’s facing the stove. I get up from the hammock and take a step closer to examine the colorful, handcrafted chimes: driftwood and seashells. I remember when they made it, Julie and Nana. It was one of the first things they did together.

  That summer comes rushing back to me.

  Julie and Nana hit it off right away. They had a lot in common: an affinity for crafts, a talent for cooking, and a love of storytelling—Nana would tell us tales before bedtime and Julie would jump in, suggesting plot twists and new characters. There were other things, too. They both laughed a lot, loudly. They spoke in superlatives. They were utterly unselfconscious. Free spirits. Nana was thrilled to finally have an artistic, imaginative granddaughter.

  Except that’s not fair.

  The unsettling truth was that Nana didn’t stop loving me. She still showered me with attention and affection. Still prepared my favorite dishes—and baked as many cakes as I wanted. Still talked to me about the books I was reading (she was a reader, like me). Still played backgammon with me after dinner or on rainy days (a two-person game, which meant Julie couldn’t join). Still worked on thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles with me for hours (Julie declined Nana’s invitation to help us out).

  I had expected her love to be divided between Julie and me. Instead, it was doubled. And, for some twisted reason, that made me furious.

  Although, in retrospect, it might’ve been because I was already angry.

  Before coming to Montauk, my mom had asked me to befriend Julie. She wanted me to find out whether my father was still involved with Julie’s mother. Romantically involved—something I’d never considered myself. By then, I’d had a few conversations about Julie’s existence with Nana and my parents, and they all delivered the same speech: years ago, my father made a one-time mistake and from that mistake Julie had been born. But my mom suspected there was more to the story, that my father might still be seeing Sophie. Cheating on her.

  I disliked being asked to spy on my half-sister. That’s not what parents were supposed to do—I knew that because I read so many books about stable, happy families. Books about identical twins living in the Golden State. About friends who founded a babysitting business. These kids all had drama in their worlds, but it all stemmed from their own life events: puberty, first crushes, and tame competition among friends. It did not come from their parents.

  Julie assumed I didn’t give in to my mom’s request because it offended my morals.

  The truth: I didn’t give in because I was resentful.

  I wanted better parents. I deserved better parents.

  I made no effort to bond with Julie, an act of defiance against my mother’s selfishness. It wasn’t easy—I was curious about her, about this girl who was both my half-sister and a complete stranger. I kept my distance, silently sulking at the injustice of having irresponsible parents. I could tell that Julie was hurt by my behavior, but I had no intention of letting my guard down. Of letting her in.

  It’s been twenty-two years since that first summer.

  I force myself to look away from the wind chimes. I sink back into the hammock and open my book, an advance copy of Jane Harper’s latest novel, courtesy of my publisher. Noting things won’t help keep me present, not in this house. But losing myself in a story just might.

  About twenty minutes later, Julie walks out, holding two plates.

  “Should we eat outside?” she asks. “It’s so nice.”

  “Sure.” I do not want to sit at the dining table with her. It’s where we used to eat as young girls, the three of us in the corner of the twelve-seat table. I wonder, not for the first time, why Nana was so attached to having such a large table. It’s not like we had a big family.

  Julie brings out the pasta. I recognize the bowl: colorful, with pictures of green and red peppers and the names of different types of pasta in cursive—fusilli, penne, spaghetti. Nana used it all the time. I wonder if Julie would mind if I asked to keep it. Eventually, we’ll have to divide up Nana’s things. I shouldn’t get
ahead of myself—in order for that to happen, I’ll have to survive the next three weeks.

  I go inside the house to choose the wine: a 2007 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s hot, but I don’t care. Sun-dried tomatoes call for red wine. I stop short as I’m eyeing the goblets in Nana’s cabinet. The question seems inevitable. I pop back outside.

  “Two glasses?” I ask, standing in the doorway.

  “No, thanks,” she says. “I’m having beer.” Her tone is chirpy. Everything about her is chirpy.

  Beer with pasta. I probably look disgusted. I don’t care. I turn around to retrieve the bottle and glass. She waits for me to get back before taking a seat, a wide smile on her face. I do the same, sans smile. It’s the first time we’re eating together in over a decade.

  “What are you reading?” she asks.

  I flip the book over so she can read the title.

  “Is it good?” She seems unfazed by my curtness.

  I bring a forkful of spaghetti to my mouth, mostly to keep from answering her question. And then everything stops—sounds, thoughts. It all melts away.

  This is magic. Actual witchcraft.

  It’s the pasta Nana used to make for us as children. I indulge in another forkful. I’m vaguely aware of a low moaning sound coming from my throat. What’s in this? Basil. Chili. Something else, too. I obviously don’t know what—I use my oven as storage—but it’s delicious. From the corner of my eye, I can see Julie watching me.

  “Do you like it?” Julie looks pleased with herself.

  “Hmm,” I say, nodding. This time, I’m not trying to be rude. I just can’t stop eating.

  “It’s Nana’s recipe…” she says, her voice trailing off.

  A melodic sound interrupts us. It’s coming from my phone. Bella’s name is flashing on the screen. This is unusual. Bella and I text often (Daniel likes to tease that his sister and I are closer than they are), but she seldom calls.

  “I have to get this,” I say. I bring it all inside with me: phone, plate, glass of wine, and make my way up to Nana’s room.

  “Cass, thank God,” Bella says, after I pick up. “She was just here.”

  “Who?”

  “Tatiana.”

  A blast of cold air hits my core. I sit on Nana’s four-poster bed. The familiar creaking noise makes my heart beat faster. I’m not sure why. “What was she doing there?”

  “She’s crazy. She accused me of trying to take her children away from her. She just took off with them. I tried to stop her, but she’s their mother. I didn’t think there was anything I could do.”

  “Have you called Daniel?” He’s back in Boston already, but he’s headed over to Bella’s tomorrow to spend the Fourth with the kids. I worry about what this will do to his blood pressure.

  “Yeah, he’s stressed out of his mind. Jackson made the mistake of telling him Tatiana had crazy eyes.” She lets out a sigh. Bella’s husband, Jackson, is known for being hyperbolic. Hopefully Daniel remembers this. “Listen, he made me promise I wouldn’t say anything to you.”

  A sense of guilt claws up my throat. It’s a feeling I know well. One I dread because it’s broken me before. I’ve made a mess of things. The timing is no coincidence: last night, Daniel asked Tatiana for a divorce. This is her retaliation, taking the kids away from their aunt. It isn’t even subtle: she’s showing him she’ll take them away from him, too.

  The scary part is that she isn’t wrong: Angie isn’t Daniel’s daughter, biologically speaking. Daniel has consulted a lawyer: Tatiana could make a case for sole custody of their daughter. It would be harder with Sam, but still not impossible. Tatiana doesn’t have a job. She’s their primary caregiver.

  Do I want to be good or happy? The question my therapist asked me, years ago. I wouldn’t know how to answer it now.

  “I’ve made a mess of things,” I say. I can feel the tears coming.

  “Stop. This is not on you.”

  “I asked him to leave her.”

  “My brother is a grown man. He’s leaving her because he wants to.”

  “But the kids—”

  “They’ll be fine. Kids are resilient.”

  I’m not sure I agree. Growing up, I was considered to be just that: resilient. People used to compliment me all the time on being responsible, together. They had no idea what I was going through. Children are adept at hiding things. And resilient is a nice word for survivor.

  I don’t want Angie and Sam to be survivors, especially not because of me. But I also want to be in Daniel’s life—properly, officially—and that means being a part of his kids’ lives. At first, it terrified me, the idea of being a stepmother. But something inside me has shifted ever since Daniel had his not-quite heart attack. I’ve been picturing a life with him, and all that it entails, including his kids. I’ve begun thinking of us as a proper family. Tatiana will always be their mom (God help them), but I could be something to them, too. A loving adult. A cool stepmom.

  I hear one of Bella’s terriers barking in the background. “Listen, I have to go. But remember. Not a word of this to my brother.”

  “He’ll tell me himself?” I didn’t mean for it to sound like a question.

  “He might give you the watered-down version.” A sigh from Bella. “He’s afraid you’ll have second thoughts.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” It’s beyond ridiculous, actually.

  “It’s what he told me. He loves you, Cass.”

  “I love him, too.”

  We hang up. I immediately try Daniel’s cell. I’d never break my promise to Bella, but I need to hear his voice. It goes straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message.

  My body is a balloon deflating. I smooth Nana’s bedspread with my hand—a watercolor pattern of reds, oranges, and pinks. I eye the plate of spaghetti and the full glass of wine, both sitting atop the carved wood dresser. Five minutes ago, I’d been in a celebratory mood. Daniel had talked to Tatiana. He was moving out. Our lives were about to begin. I was even eating with Julie, albeit silently. Now, I feel disgusted at my own selfishness. A darkness spreads inside my stomach like oil. My happiness is coming at the cost of others’. Tatiana. Sam. Angie. Even Daniel. They’d be better off without me. I deserve to be punished.

  Bella’s words ring in my ear. He’s afraid you’ll have second thoughts.

  I can imagine Daniel saying just that. Bella probably thought they’d bring me some measure of comfort, knowing he’s afraid of losing me. But now I’m afraid. I know Daniel. He’s passionate and sensitive and kind. He also has a tendency to project his feelings onto others—he does it often. I first noticed this as his therapist. But I’ve since noticed this as his girlfriend, too. This could be his way of voicing his own fears.

  What if he’s the one having second thoughts about being with me?

  Fourteen

  Julie

  Tuesday, July 3rd

  I try calling Dad again. I get his voicemail, full.

  This is unsurprising. I’ve been leaving him messages for days. There’s no point in texting. Dad calls when he wants to. It isn’t personal, it’s just who he is. He’s busy, he doesn’t like being a slave to his phone. Nana used to say that she’d learn more about him from her holistic therapist than from their sporadic phone calls. Still, I wish he’d pick up. I miss him—now more than ever. Probably because Montauk reminds me of Nana. Probably because of the wall Cassie has erected between us.

  I feel needy. I don’t like it, but I think it’s who I am. It doesn’t help that Patrick has been giving me the silent treatment for the last six days. It’s the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking to each other. I wonder how he’s faring without me. I try to picture him arriving home at the end of the day to an empty house, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets in search of his almonds, pouring his own Scotch, ordering takeout. There won’t be anyone to massage his neck—and Patrick needs his daily neck massages. I feel a tug of guilt for having left him by himself. Could Sophie be right? Could Patrick actua
lly leave me, all because I’m here, and not there?

  I stare at my half-eaten plate of pasta. I stopped eating after it became clear Cassie wasn’t coming down from Nana’s bedroom. Or perhaps I should be thinking of it as Cassie’s bedroom?

  Cassie hurrying into the house to pick up a phone call made me think of the rumor. I’d seen Sophie do that so many times, interrupt meals because Dad was calling. Being the other woman means settling for crumbs. Sophie used to admit as much when she was blue.

  Like I said, my mother is many things, but she’s seldom wrong.

  And she isn’t wrong about Cassie being the reason why I didn’t have a dad. Katherine had been trying to get pregnant for years—Dad worried they couldn’t. When Sophie announced she was pregnant, he was over the moon. He promised to leave Katherine, which thrilled Sophie. Except, two weeks later, Katherine broke news of her own: she was also expecting.

  Dad chose Katherine and Cassie over Sophie and me.

  Even before we met, I was envious of Cassie. I wanted her life: a stay-at-home mom, a full-time dad. I wanted to be official, to be seen. And, as Sophie often points out, Cassie had all these things—and she still wasn’t happy. Cassie is—and has always been— a critical person. That’s a nice way of saying that she’s a complainer. She has a habit of zeroing in on other people’s flaws, magnifying them. If they aren’t up to her standards—and they often aren’t—she rejects them. It’s probably a trait of highly intelligent people. Cassie was twelve when she diagnosed her mother as an alcoholic suffering from clinical depression. It never occurred to me to diagnose my own mother. I didn’t see the point in it—it’s not like I’d be able to trade her in for a better model.

  At the age of six, I finally worked up the courage to ask Sophie why Dad couldn’t tuck me in every night. She winked at me and said she was working on it. That spring, Dad arrived with his bags packed. “I’m moving in,” he announced. I was overjoyed. Here was my dad, all to myself.