Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “Then what . . . ?”

  A man strode down the corridor from the opposite direction, raindrops shining in his hair and darkening the shoulders of his jacket—a young man with bright black eyes and a wide smile.

  “Trey!” Jo stumbled over a chair and launched across the room.

  He opened his arms, lifting her half off her feet. A moment’s sunshine lightened my heart. Jo could protest all she wanted that she and Trey weren’t meant to be together for always. But he was here now, when she needed him. That had to count for something.

  He turned his head, catching her mouth in a kiss.

  Jo broke free, her cheek fiery red. “I didn’t mean . . . I was so surprised . . . What are you doing here?”

  Trey grinned, looking awfully pleased with himself. “I brought some people with me.” He stepped aside, revealing the girl behind him.

  “Beth,” I whispered.

  “Beth! Oh, Bethie!” Jo flew at her, laughing and crying.

  And . . .

  “Amy!”

  In a short black skirt and tall black boots, toting a giant carryall. “Meg!” she cried. “Daddy! Jokies!”

  Thrusting my flowers at John, I ran forward, wrapping my arms around the girls. We squeezed one another tight, a sister sandwich. “But how did you get here?”

  “I picked them up at the airport,” Trey said.

  “John bought my ticket. He told me to come.” Beth hugged me, then John, then Jo again. “Thank you.”

  “But your show,” Jo said. “Your duet.”

  “Colt said he could do a solo.”

  “For how long?” Jo asked.

  Beth’s thin face flushed. “I have to go back Christmas Day.”

  “Our Mouse is old enough be guided by her own judgment,” our father said, hugging her close.

  She looked at him anxiously. “You don’t mind?”

  He kissed her forehead. “Your mother will be happy to see you.”

  Beth beamed.

  I looked over Amy’s head at John. “You bought her plane ticket?”

  He nodded, slightly smug.

  I wanted to kiss him. “But how . . . But why . . .”

  “I knew your father hadn’t said much to the girls, and you’d never ask them to come home. So I called them.”

  “It was a bitch traveling so close to Christmas,” Amy said. “I had to fly into JFK.”

  “How did you even get a seat on a plane?” Jo asked.

  “Trey used his miles.” John met my gaze, smiling. “Bumped her up to first class.”

  My heart swelled, too big for my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Good job, Trey.” Jo threw her arms around Beth. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”

  Good job, John. Somehow he’d known what I wanted, when I couldn’t even admit it to myself. He’d given me my sisters. I blinked back happy tears, feeling as if the sun had come out. Whatever happens, we have each other.

  “March family?” the nurse liaison called. “The surgeon will see you now.”

  An icicle trickled down my spine. John took my hand as we all turned, our father’s face set like stone.

  “All of you?” the nurse asked.

  Trey put his arm around Beth. “We can wait here.”

  “No,” Amy protested.

  “Yes,” Jo said at the same time.

  The nurse looked at our silent father. Shrugged. “All right. This way.”

  We barely fit into the family consultation room. My father and I sat in two of the three chairs, leaving one empty for the surgeon.

  “Dr. Chatworth will be right with you.”

  The next ten minutes dragged by, almost as long as the five hours that had gone before. Amy’s face was white. Beth picked at her fingernails. The neurosurgeon came in, still wearing scrubs, and shook hands with our father. I tried to focus, but he spoke so rapidly, his words dissolving into meaningless clips and medical phrases. “Decompression of spinal canal . . . neural function . . . stable bony fusion . . .”

  I fixed my gaze painfully on his face, as if his expression, his tone of voice, could give me a clue to my mother’s condition.

  “. . . be significant postoperative discomfort,” he said. “But your mother should wake up feeling much better.” He paused. “Merry Christmas.”

  Like a present.

  Jo was grinning, Beth pink with happiness. “Thank God,” our father said.

  Shaken with relief, I turned my head into John’s shoulder.

  An hour later, we all crowded into her hospital room as my mother was admitted upstairs. Amy tripped in her eagerness to get to Mom’s side and was caught by a handsome orderly. “Careful,” he said.

  But I barely heard. I didn’t care. I saw our mother’s face as her bed was wheeled in from the hall, as her gaze traveled around the room, recognizing each face, and finally lit on the white roses in my hand. I saw her smile.

  Merry Christmas.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jo

  We couldn’t all spend the night at the hospital. “One overnight visitor per patient,” the nurse explained with a touch of regret. Even at Christmas. So, for the second night in a row, Beth slept in the recliner in our mother’s room.

  “It’s Christmas Eve. You’re not coming home at all?” I blurted, and then bit my tongue when Beth looked stricken. “Of course not,” I answered my own question. “You’re flying back to Branson tomorrow. You should spend as much time with Mom as you can.”

  So, while Meg went home to John and the twins, I went back to the farmhouse with Dad and Amy. Somebody had to feed the goats.

  The joy of being all together, the relief of our mother’s successful surgery, had buoyed us through the first night. But by the second day, we were reverting to our childhood selves. Poor Amy was used to being petted and spoiled and loved. And while I loved her—she was my sister—I found her primping, her chattering, her constant need to be the center of attention, a little irritating. I tried my best, but I was guiltily aware that we weren’t as close as sisters should be. Meg said I still hadn’t forgiven Amy for deleting my long-ago letter to Dad.

  Or maybe I hadn’t forgiven myself for almost killing her.

  When we got home from the hospital, Amy went to her old room to lie down, pleading jet lag. She was pale, I acknowledged. Or maybe she wanted to get out of helping with the farm chores.

  After the darkness of the starlit yard, the barn was warm and golden, the smells of straw and livestock hanging in the air. The goats bleated when they saw me, the pregnant lady goats sticking their heads over their pens, rubbing and butting like cats. Clover, the all-white matriarch of the herd, chewed on my hair as I scooped grain pellets into her trough. I twitched my braid away, rubbing between her horns.

  It struck me I was in a stable on Christmas Eve, where, according to legend, animals talked and love came down to earth. There was a message there somewhere. I should be nicer to Amy. Maybe when she got up we could put up the tree together.

  “Dad, do you know where the tree is?” I asked when I came in from the barn.

  He glanced up from his reading, a faint frown between his brows. “What tree?”

  “Our Christmas tree. The one we used when you deployed.”

  “I took it to the center,” my father said. “Many men and women don’t have a tree of their own.”

  I shouldn’t feel cheated. I should be proud of him, proud to be his daughter. But I felt as if he’d taken something away from us. Especially when he left the house not fifteen minutes later, responding to a call from a soldier.

  “It’s you and me, cat,” I told Weasley.

  He jumped up on the couch, purring. Maybe when I went back to New York, I should adopt a cat.

  Swallowing a yawn, I ope
ned my laptop. Tomorrow was Christmas. Now that Beth was home, I figured I was off the hook for the special Christmas story I’d promised her. But I hadn’t posted in a week. For the foreseeable future, my only income was the blog. I needed to write. I needed a topic. A subject that didn’t use Eric for inspiration.

  I missed him so much. His dark, curling lashes. The smell of his neck. His big, scarred, competent hands. I wondered what he was doing this Christmas Eve. Visiting his boys, he’d said. Seeing his ex-wife.

  Christmas cookies . . . Christmas dinner . . . Christmas gifts for cooks . . . Christmas gifts from your kitchen . . . Traditional Christmas recipes . . .

  This was not our traditional Christmas. Not without Mom. Not without Dad. And when the hell was Amy getting up?

  Christmas family favorites . . .

  There was an idea. My mother’s Christmas dinner could induce a food coma. Basically a repeat of Thanksgiving, with even more sides: roast turkey with corn bread and sausage stuffing, Coca Cola ham, macaroni and cheese, duchesse potatoes, and candied yams. Good Southern cooking, y’all. For dessert, red velvet cake and pecan pie.

  A memory slid into me like a knife—Eric’s stunned face as he looked down at the pie dish in my hands. “Jo. I love that you made pie . . . Nobody ever cooks for me.”

  I closed my eyes. I needed another memory.

  Okay. Not dinner. One year, my mother made this breakfast casserole, layers of egg-soaked bread and cheese, a cross between French toast and a soufflé that sat in the refrigerator overnight, ready to pop in the oven when we got home from church on Christmas morning. But after the service, my mother had learned that our neighbors, the Hummels, had lost all their food when their power was cut off for nonpayment of their electric bill. So our Christmas breakfast had gone to feed the Hummels. I’d never eaten that casserole, but I could still use the idea, right? Even the story. Very Christmassy. My father would approve. I could tweak the recipe later, swap prosciutto for the sausage, maybe, use Dijon instead of yellow mustard . . .

  But no matter how I labored over the story, the warmth felt forced. Fake. I wasn’t feeling the Christmas mood at all.

  The chime of the doorbell was a relief.

  Not Dad, I thought as I uncurled my legs from the couch. My father wouldn’t ring. I crossed the living room, registering movement at the top of the stairs. Amy, getting up.

  I tugged on the front door. “Trey! What are you doing here?”

  “I came to bring you this.” He held up a leopard-print scarf.

  I grinned. “Delivering presents early?”

  As I reached to take it, Trey put a hand on my waist, moving in with easy confidence. I felt the scrape of his man-child stubble, the whisper of moist heat as his lips parted over mine.

  I took a step back in confusion, aware of Amy trailing down the stairs. “That’s mine,” she said.

  “You left it in my car yesterday,” Trey said.

  “Thanks. I thought I lost it at the airport.” She looped it around her neck, her gaze cutting from Trey to me. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “He had to go out. He got a call from one of his clients.”

  Her face fell. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

  Her disappointment went straight to my heart, an echo of my own.

  “The holidays are tough,” I said gently, parroting the explanation he’d given me. Defending him, the way our mother would have. “Especially for people with mental or emotional challenges.”

  Amy sniffed. “You always did make excuses for him.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Since he’s not here, can I take you out for a drink?” Trey intervened smoothly. His hand was still on my waist.

  Amy’s gaze went from his hand to his face. “I owe you a beer, at least. I haven’t thanked you properly yet for my flight home.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Trey said.

  “I want to,” Amy said. “It meant a lot to me.”

  Trey hitched his shoulders, looking uncomfortable.

  Amy smiled, fluffing her blond hair with her fingers. “I should go up and get changed.” Even fresh out of bed, she looked fabulous, her black lace top clinging to her small breasts, her mouth a bold, rich red.

  I frowned at Trey as she ran back upstairs. Had he meant his invitation for both of us? Or just for me?

  Not that it mattered. We needed to talk. The sooner the better.

  “Let’s go,” I said, grabbing the hoodie I’d worn to the barn.

  A gleam appeared in his eyes. “You want to thank me properly, too?”

  I flushed, remembering that impulsive kiss at the hospital. “In your dreams, Laurence. Move it.”

  “You want to, ah . . .” He glanced after Amy. “Wait?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “My place? Granddad would love to see you.”

  I considered the idea. I liked old Mr. Laurence, and for some reason he’d always liked me. I wasn’t the sweet Southern debutante he hoped his grandson would marry one day. But in high school, when Trey and I were in and out of each other’s houses all the time, he’d always ask politely after my parents and then excuse himself to go upstairs, leaving us alone in the firelit library with a full decanter of bourbon. Back then, I’d thought Trey’s house was the perfect setting for long, deep talks, for my first taste of whiskey. My first kiss.

  “Or we could go to Alleygators,” I said.

  Trey’s brows rose.

  I grinned evilly. “Unless you’re chicken.” He never could resist a dare.

  “You’re on.” He opened the door with a sweeping gesture. “Right this way.”

  Amy would be pissed. It was pretty rotten, leaving her alone on Christmas Eve, I thought with a flash of guilt. But we hadn’t actually promised to take her with us. She’d said she was tired.

  And there were things I had to say to Trey I couldn’t possibly tell him with my little sister as an audience.

  * * *

  Graffiti and license plates covered the walls at Alleygators. Glowing strings of chili peppers festooned the bar, glinting off dingy bottles. Judging from the cobwebs, the Christmas lights stayed up all year. The regulars, on mismatched barstools, looked like they’d been there almost as long.

  Everyone, including the bartender, gave us the once-over as we walked in and then proceeded to ignore us. Trey and I found a sticky booth in the back, away from the pool tables. By unspoken agreement, we’d stuck to random, neutral subjects on the drive over. But once we fetched our beers from the bar, there was no ignoring the elephant in the room. I felt its weight on my chest.

  “Thanks for picking up Beth at the airport yesterday. I’m so glad she’s here.”

  Trey cocked an eyebrow. “My pleasure.”

  “And Amy, too,” I added. “It was really nice of you to help with her ticket.”

  “No problem.” He leaned forward. “I’d do anything for you. You know that, Jo.”

  “Er . . . Yes.” I took a deep breath and then the plunge. “The thing is . . . I kind of overreacted when I saw her. You.”

  His dark eyes fixed on my face. “You were happy. I was happy. It’s all good.”

  Help. Why did this have to be so awkward? “Right. The thing is . . .” Crap. I was repeating myself. I picked at my peeling beer label. “See, I can’t . . .”

  A swirl of cold disturbed the close air. I looked up. My sister Amy stood framed in the dark doorway, her hair glowing like a candle in the dim light.

  “Oh hell.”

  Trey turned. Started to get up.

  “Hang on,” I said. “I’ll talk to her.”

  He sat. Reluctantly, I thought.

  Amy had changed back into her skirt and boots and tossed a jacket over the black lace. She looked hot and lost and alone—a recipe for disaster in a dive like Alleygators. But my little sister see
med unaware of her danger. Or maybe she was enjoying it. She strolled forward, her boots clacking on the grimy floor. The regulars swiveled to watch. The pool players nudged one another. One of them said something, and the rest guffawed. In another minute, she’d be swarmed by burly patrons eager to offer her a drink, a joint, or a quickie in the restroom.

  I hurried to reach her before they did. “Amy, what are you doing here?”

  “You said you were going out for a drink. It’s not like there are a lot of bars open on Christmas Eve.” She looked pleased by her own resourcefulness.

  I wanted to shake her. “But how did you get here?”

  “Uber.”

  “In Bunyan?”

  She fluttered her fingers. “Uber is everywhere.”

  I didn’t have the heart to send her away. “Listen, Ames, I’m sorry we came out without you. It’s just . . . Trey and I are trying to talk.”

  “Fine. I’ll wait.” She drifted toward the jukebox, a fluffy yellow baby chick surrounded by alligators.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  She smiled just a little, her eyes unreadable. “Aren’t I always?”

  Amy took care of Amy. Always. And she must have developed some street smarts in Paris. “Don’t talk to anybody,” I warned.

  “Mm.” She turned her attention back to the jukebox, tiptoeing her fingers through the music selection.

  I dashed back to the booth. “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said to Trey, speaking rapidly. “You and I need to get things straight.”

  “What?” He was still watching Amy. So was every other man in the place, along with a few disgruntled women.

  I cleared my throat, determined to get through my speech and get my sister out of here. “We’re friends. Good friends. But that’s it. You can’t kiss me anymore, Trey.”

  I had his attention now. “You kissed me.”

  I winced. “Yeah. My bad.”

  “I waited for you, Jo,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I went to work for Granddad while you got this whole New York thing out of your system. When you came home this time, I figured you were finally ready to settle down. And instead—”