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

by Cecilia Lyra

  “You don’t know the kind of man he is,” Cassie is saying. “The kind of father he was.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But I knew Bertie. And I plan on respecting her wishes.” A pause. “I’m sorry you’re upset. I really am.” His tone is sincere, but unwavering.

  I feel a pang in my chest. I’m grateful Kiki and Ben are oblivious to the drama. And, incidentally, I’m beginning to understand why so many parents rely on a TV.

  “He scared us constantly, he cursed and yelled and broke things around the house. He made me watch, too. Do you want to know why? He once told me, when I was still a child. It’s so he wouldn’t hit her. That was his explanation. He smashed a vase so he wouldn’t smash her head. Except sometimes he did, too. If she tried to stop him, he’d smack her to the ground. My mom was a tiny thing. You’ve met my father, you’ve seen his size.”

  I feel something cut inside me. Cassie isn’t saying anything I don’t already know, but it’s different, somehow, hearing her condense Dad’s behavior like that. Maybe it’s because we’re adults now. Maybe it’s the way she’s saying it: there’s no inflection in her voice, no emotion. It’s disturbing.

  I wonder, not for the first time, why Dad was so different with Sophie and me. Why were we spared his temper? Is it because he spent less time with us? Could it be that his feelings for Sophie turned him into a loving man when he was around us? Or is it something else, something darker and more complex about his nature as a person?

  I know Craig is talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I eye Kiki and Ben nervously. I don’t want them listening in on this. But they’re smiling gleefully at the TV.

  “That’s because she’s a better person that I am,” Cassie says. “Do you want to know what Nana used to say? That she isn’t meant for this world. That she is an angel walking among humans. It’s true. She forgives him because she’s too good.”

  I decide to come out of hiding.

  The Sky Princess takes in the scene before her. The front door to the knight’s house is still open. The Fire Princess is standing in front of him, her height so imposing that she’s nearly his size. Her arms are crossed, and her left eyebrow is curved upward, the classic defiant stare of the Fire Princess. Her bright mane is covering part of her face; she is like a lioness staring down its prey.

  My imagination is playing tricks on me: I see Craig’s face light up when I walk into the room. I really am a dreamer. Maybe I should ask Mandy to recommend a spiritual cleanse to free me of delusional thoughts.

  “Take us to see him, Craig,” I say. I do my best to look at him without longing.

  “I will, Jul.” Craig nods. There it is again: the jolt of energy that comes when he says my name. I need to snap out of it. I need to stop equating pity with love. “We’ll go tomorrow, the three of us,” he continues, looking at Cassie and me.

  “No.” Cassie’s tone is firm, resolute. “We’re going now. And you’re not letting him know we’re coming.”

  “What if he isn’t at the hotel?” Craig asks.

  “I’ll take my chances.” Cassie gestures commandingly towards the door.

  Fifty-Five

  Cassie

  Monday, July 23rd

  We’ve been driving for ten minutes. The kids are with us, which could be a problem. Conversations with my father tend to get heated—the last thing I want to do is scare two innocent children. But their presence can’t be helped, I suppose. It’s not like we could’ve left them at the house by themselves.

  “When did he get here?” I glance at Craig, who is driving.

  Julie claimed to prefer the backseat to be close to Kiki and Ben, but unless Craig is a total dimwit, he’s figured out that she knows about him and Elle. I’m still shocked that the two of them are an item—I was certain Craig was enamored of Julie. It makes me wonder what else I’m wrong about. Hopefully not Daniel.

  “I’ll take you to him, but that’s it,” Craig says. “I’m not getting involved in this.”

  “You’re already involved,” I say.

  He doesn’t disagree—how could he? He doesn’t answer my question, either.

  We spend the rest of the ride in silence. Julie is telling the kids a story. I’m not paying attention to the details, but Ben and Kiki seem engrossed in the tale.

  We pull up to the Southampton Inn on Hill Street, a small Tudor-style construction with a pretty garden at the entrance.

  “Give me a minute,” Craig says.

  “What for?” I ask.

  “The night manager is a friend of mine. She can keep an eye on Kiki and Ben, so they don’t have to come up with us.”

  “Fine.”

  I peek at Julie, but she doesn’t meet my eye. She’s lost in her story—and so are the kids.

  I follow Craig into the lobby. It’s a charming space, artfully decorated with antiques. The night manager turns out to be a sweet-looking woman with pale lips and bangs falling into her eyes. She happily agrees to look after his kids.

  We make our way up the stairs to the second floor. Craig leads us to room 201. He stops at the door and eyes me as if to say, I’m done here. Fine by me.

  I rap my knuckles against the door.

  “Who is it?”

  It’s him. I’m sure of it. I used to be an expert on his voice—its rhythm and intonation. A skill that allowed me to anticipate a shift in his temper, to prepare for his rage. Right now he’s in a good mood. That won’t last.

  His face falls when he opens the door.

  “Girls?” His eyes dart frantically between Julie and me. Then they move over to Craig. His face is a series of question marks. We look alike, my father and me: red hair, freckles dotting our round-shaped faces, long-limbed. I never liked that. Now that I’m looking at him up close, I see the signs of aging: the lines around his mouth are pronounced, his skin is thinning, his neck is sagging. But he’s still a fit, imposing man.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  I push past him, not bothering to be invited. He doesn’t protest.

  “Your grandmother, she wanted me to be here,” he continues, as if a question has been asked. He’s still standing by the door, holding it open. Craig and Julie are outside, looking uncomfortable. The suite is gorgeous: spacious and luxurious.

  “You’re not welcome here,” I tell him.

  “Oh?” Two letters. Barely a word. And yet I hear it, the shift. The drop in his tone. The challenge in his pitch. He’s annoyed now. “You own the Hamptons now?”

  This is the father I know. From the corner of my eye, I see Julie stiffen.

  I gesture for Julie and Craig to come inside. My father closes the door behind them.

  “If you’re thinking of challenging the will, you’ll lose,” I say. “The house is ours.”

  A beat. He narrows his eyes at me. “Is that why you think I’m here?”

  “I have no idea why you’re here.”

  “I’m here for you.” The words sound rehearsed.

  I scoff. “When have you ever been there for me?”

  A pause. I watch him swallow, then rub his temples. He hates being questioned. He always has. He’s just moved over from annoyance to frustration.

  “Cassie, let’s not start with the drama.” The edge in his voice is sharper.

  “Your gaslighting won’t work,” I say. “I see you for what you are. A spoiled man-child who bullied my mom for years. I read Nana’s letter to you.” I don’t explain that the letter I read is the one he hasn’t gotten yet. “She was delusional to think that Julie and I needed you here.”

  The upside of finding Nana’s letter to my father: I learned that she saw him—the real him—after all. In her letter, she urges him to step up, to finally be the father Julie and I deserve. She all but calls him a lousy parent. I think back with astonishment to the number of times Nana counseled me to be patient, reminded me that he was doing his best. I thought she was blind, that the generational gap we shared meant that she was incapable of understandin
g the gravity of his behavior. But, no—she was just being loyal to her son. And protecting me, too. She felt that I needed a father—any father—and that accepting mine would be better than rebelling against him. She tolerated his behavior—she thought she was powerless to stop it—but she didn’t condone it.

  “Cassie, I’m not in the mood for one of your self-righteous lectures.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. I recognize another escalation coming. Sure enough, he twists his jaw in a disgusted half-smile and adds, “You’re right about your grandmother’s will being bullshit. The house should’ve gone to me. I’m her son, whether you like it or not.”

  “And yet she still didn’t leave you the house.” I feel my cheeks burning. “Because she knew the kind of man you were. The kind of man who hurt his wife. I can only imagine how disappointed she must’ve been in you.”

  He swallows. “I never touched your mother.”

  “Right. She just fell a lot.” I shake my head. “You do know I work with couples for a living, right? I spend all day learning about people’s marriages. If any of the men I treat acted like you, I’d tell his wife to leave him.”

  “Your mother wanted to be with me.”

  “You think I don’t remember you telling her that she was unlovable? That no one else would want her? You said all those things even though you didn’t want her. You only wanted her money.”

  I don’t realize what I’ve said until I see his reaction: the way he clenches his jaw, squares his shoulder. His eyes burn with rage. I’ve done what my mother used to do before he went off on one of his tirades: I’ve played the money card. Playing the money card is unforgivable. It makes him feel emasculated, weak.

  “That’s enough,” he says, seething.

  I decide to press on. “We all know it’s true. You could yell and you could smash things, but you couldn’t pay for our lifestyle. She controlled the money, which meant that she controlled you.”

  “You watch your mouth, Cassie!” His voice is louder now, his tone menacing. He takes a step towards me. I can tell that he means it to be intimidating. He’s a tall guy. I get my height from him as well.

  Blood swooshes in my ears. I force myself to stay put, to keep my eyes on his. I don’t want him to know he still scares me. “You couldn’t stand the hold she had over you, and so you did the only thing you know how to do: you terrorized her. You drove her to drink and pop pills. She self-destructed because of you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” His neck veins are jumping up like pieces of rope.

  “Oh, but I do. I watched your fights. I iced her bruises. I put up with you coming into my room and telling me she was killing your spirit, as if that made it OK for you to hurt her. You thanked me for not telling her that Sophie was still in the picture, remember?”

  “So that’s what this is about,” he says, snidely. His forehead creases. “You feel guilty because you know you could’ve told her about Sophie. You could’ve stopped her from finding out the way she did.”

  His words slap me on the face. How dare he? “I was a child,” I say, through gritted teeth. And then, because I can no longer keep this bottled up inside me: “Do you have any idea what living like that did to me? How messed up I am because of you? All my life I’ve had to carry this darkness inside me. It touches everything I do. It consumes me.” I stop when I sense my eyes burning. I can’t cry. A part of me wishes he could see the years I spent hurting myself. I was attached to pain, to agony. It’s all I knew.

  “Enough with the goddam victim drama, Cassie.” He’s huffing now, his face red. “Or you’ll end up like your mother.”

  “Stop yelling!” Julie’s voice cuts between us.

  We both stare at her as if we’ve just remembered she’s there. Craig is looking at her, too, his face heavy with concern. She should leave. This is too much for her, watching me go up against our father. Julie loves him. I don’t know why, but she does. He spent years keeping her a secret. He made her countless promises he never kept. When he was at their house, he spent more time with her mom than with her. And yet she still loves him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” She’s looking at our father. Her voice is a whisper.

  “I wanted to, ma petite.” He clears his throat. I watch him release air through his mouth. I can tell he’s making an effort to sound calmer, to become the dad Julie knows him to be: loving and gentle.

  I feel a tug in my mind, a memory: my mom, my father, and I driving to church on Sunday mornings. More often than not, they argued on the way there, but as soon as we parked the car, he’d take a deep breath, check his reflection in the rearview mirror, and soften his facial features into his public persona: genial, charming. He literally needed to see a different man in the mirror before becoming the person our friends and neighbors knew and loved. He enjoyed being admired by others as a nice guy. A family man. Successful, polite, friendly—so that’s the show he put on.

  That’s when I see it: to my father, people are mirrors. The reflection he saw when he faced my mom and me wasn’t to his liking. But now, watching him look at Julie, I see that what she reflects back at him is the man he wants to be.

  And just like that, I understand. I understand that my father was different with Julie because she validated his every emotion. Because she was grateful to have him. I was the opposite of grateful. No, I was worse than that: I was vociferously critical of him. I harbored an unapologetic contempt toward him—and he could tell. I felt cheated for not having a proper family, a sentiment that was exacerbated by the fact that my peers—teachers, classmates, neighbors—were under the impression that I did have just that. This dissonance was at the heart of my frustrations: if only people knew the pressure I was under. The magnitude of the secrets I was expected to keep: the depths of my mother’s drinking, my father’s temper, his ongoing infidelity. But they had no idea. I was very skilled at keeping it all under wraps, at leading a double life. It made me anxious and guarded and distrustful. But I did it.

  Is it any wonder I was critical?

  Being critical of my parents was an act of resistance. A way to remind myself that what went on in my house was not OK. That I deserved more. That it wasn’t my fault.

  Except it came with a price.

  If I hadn’t been critical, if I had played along and validated my father’s emotions, he might’ve loved me just as much as he loves Julie. He would be regarding both of us with affection right now. Not just her.

  “I really missed you,” Julie is still talking to our father. “I kept leaving you all those messages.”

  “I was going to call you back.”

  “When?” Her chin quivers.

  He moves closer to her. “Soon, ma petite. I was just about to.”

  She stares at him for several seconds. Her eyes are twitching, as if reacting to flashes of light that no one else can see. When she finally speaks, she’s no longer whispering. “You owe us an apology.”

  “What?” My father looks surprised.

  “Cassie’s right. She’s messed up because of you.” Julie’s voice is low and a little cracked. “We both are. It affected us, Daddy, having to keep your secret for all those years. We were just kids. It was too much pressure, thinking that one little slip could ruin everything.” She blinks back tears. “You owe us an apology.”

  Now it’s his turn to be silent, his eyes glued to hers. I know the magnitude of what she’s asking: our father doesn’t apologize. I don’t have a single memory of him saying I’m sorry. He sees it as a sign of weakness. But if anyone can get him to do it, it’s Julie.

  “This isn’t you, ma petite,” he says softly. It is not lost on me that he hasn’t apologized. “You’re not…bitter.”

  “I am.” She sniffles. “I’ve just kept it inside because I was too afraid to say anything. Just like I do with…” She pauses and shakes her head. I know she’s thinking of Patrick, drawing parallels between the two men in her life.

  My father turns t
o me. “Is this what you’ve been doing? Filling up her head with this nonsense?”

  I don’t get a chance to answer. I’m interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

  “Babe, you’ll never guess what I found!” a bubbly voice exclaims.

  I look up to see Elle, looking carefree in a white crochet dress, holding about half a dozen shopping bags.

  My father steps away from Julie.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you girls were coming over today,” she says, looking between Cassie and me. And then, to my father: “You should have told me, babe.”

  “Honey, now isn’t really the best time,” my father says. He’s further modulating his tone, trying to compose himself.

  Babe? Honey? There’s a ringing in my ears.

  “Excuse me,” I say, darting my gaze between my father and Elle. “You two are together?”

  “Oh my gosh, yes!” Elle singsongs. “I’m your dad’s girlfriend. I wanted to tell you the other day, but I knew he’d want to be there when we officially met.” She’s smiling from ear to ear, obviously unable to read the tension in the room. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long, but we had to keep putting it off. But now here we are!” She drops her bags and claps her hands like a seal. “Oh, the two girls that my boo raised, all by himself. Let me tell you, I would have killed to have a dad like yours.”

  My father’s face turns beet red. I don’t need to be told what’s going on. I see it. More performance on his part. More lies. This time, with Elle. I try to catch Julie’s eye, but she isn’t looking in my direction. She’s blinking rapidly, as if she’s just woken up from a confusing dream.

  “Elle, I don’t know what he’s told you,” I begin. “But my father terrorized my mother and me for years. He hurt her. She killed herself because of what he did. My advice to you is to run far, far away. Before he does to you what he did to her.” I stop when I see Elle’s mouth hanging open. And then I turn to my father. “And you? You’re dating someone young enough to be your daughter? Actually, let me amend that. You’re dating someone who even looks like your daughter.” I give him a once-over. “You’re pathetic.”