“Yeah, and a lot can happen in twenty minutes, Phoebe,” Renata retorted, but she was smiling.
This new version of Renata didn’t sit well with Phoebe. She preferred the arguing and bickering between them. It was comfortable. The norm.
“Look. I don’t think anything of him, okay? He’s a nice guy who helped me out at the gas station and who happened to be coming my way. And we didn’t even talk enough to know that until we both stopped at the same place. Now drop it.”
Ren’s perfectly-shaped eyebrows rose in response. Good grief, the woman looked amazing right now. Her hair was thick and shiny, the tips of it brushing her jawline. It had grown so fast in the last few months, mostly due to prenatal vitamins and the pregnancy hormones coursing through Ren’s veins. Her eyes were bright and her skin, rosy and smooth. Pregnancy suited Renata Gustafson Dixon Larsen, Phoebe knew. She’d seen her sister look this way four other times before. But it was more than that these days. And Phoebe didn’t think it was all about Tim—although Ren’s new husband doted on her like she was the Queen of England. No, something inside her sister was shifting, changing, or just revealing itself for the first time. Had this version of Ren been there all along?
“You know, Phebes, he really is a great guy. I can vouch for him. And so can Victor. Maybe you should at least think about thinking of him.” Juliette spoke quietly, not quite hesitantly, her statement almost more of a request.
“I agree. The two of you together? You know, that would be amazing. He’s so cool. And his music. Have you heard any of it?” Gia gushed, sounding more like a fangirl than a personal friend of the man’s.
“I haven’t heard his music, but I have a feeling it’s not really my cup of tea. And I also have a feeling that he and I might disagree on a lot of things. Things that would probably prevent us from…being amazing together.” Phoebe took another sip of coffee. “So. If we are done with all that, can we please get on with the G-FOURce?” She looked pointedly at her little sister.
“Fine. But you really should give his music a listen,” Gia acquiesced. “I think you might be surprised. In a good way.” She moved closer to the rest of them as they all stood and gathered around the coffee table, even Renata.
As the youngest sister, it was Gia’s job to officially open the meeting. “Welcome Empress Juliette, Empress Renata, and Empress Phoebe.” She pressed her hands together in a prayer-like manner and nodded her head to each sister accordingly.
“Welcome, Empress Georgia.” The other three spoke just as somberly, nodding back at her.
They clasped hands, then, forming a circle, they began the G-FOURce pledge, a time-honored tradition that had somehow survived adolescence into adulthood.
Let the words of our mouths
Be necessary, kind, and true.
Let the secrets we share
Be kept safe amongst us few.
Let the decisions that we make
Be brave, noble, and wise
Oogie-boogie-doggy-loogie
Wiggly-jiggly-fries!
G-FOURce unite!
They didn’t collapse into giggles the way they used to, but none of them was quite grown up enough to give it up. The pledge was like an unbroken cord weaving through their lives, binding them together.
Everyone made it back to their seats and Renata pulled out her thick black planner. “So my due date is officially November 7th, which is less than a month away. Does that give us enough time to plan anything?”
“Who’s ‘us,’ Rennie? You’re just here to approve the theme. We’re the ones planning the shower for you,” Phoebe teased.
“I know, I know. I just feel bad that we’re on such a short time frame.”
“Actually,” Juliette picked up the open wall calendar she’d laid on the coffee table earlier. “What about having it after Charise is born? I’m just thinking if everyone knew there’d be a baby to fuss over, that we’d get a lot more people there, don’t you agree? And since you’ve had pre-birth showers before, it’s not like you’d be missing out on that experience. You already have the basic necessities, too, so—”
“You don’t have to convince me, Juliette,” Renata interrupted, holding her coffee cup aloft in agreement. She’d refused to give up her caffeine during any one of her pregnancies, and this time was no different. “I think it’s a fantastic idea. Between getting married, and having a honeymoon, and trying to prep for a new baby, all while I feel a little like a beached whale, the thought of trying to squeeze one more thing in right now makes me want to go to bed for a week.” She rubbed a hand over her rather large belly. “Oh!”
“Is she kicking?” Gia asked, pushing up off the floor again. “Let me feel her!” She hurried over and put her long hands on either side of Ren’s stomach. “Ma petite fille, are you in there?” she cooed.
Renata rolled her eyes, but smiled sweetly. “She’s in there, believe me. Oh!” She stiffened again. “Ouch, little one. That hurts.” She pressed a hand to her ribcage. “Feels like she’s kicking me in the lung.”
Gia’s eyes widened. “Is that possible?”
Renata swept a hand over Gia’s long copper curls, tucking a few behind the girl’s ear. “She won’t puncture my lung, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Phoebe watched the exchange with a growing sense of discomfort. She longed to race across the room and rest her cheek, her ear, against Ren’s stomach, to whisper sweet nothings to that little girl who would soon be welcomed into a household of brothers, and embraced by this family of sisters. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not just because it was Ren, either.
Without realizing what she was doing, she slid her hand over her own flat stomach, her fingers spreading out as though to cup as much of her abdomen as possible. She closed her eyes and imagined the fluttering and shifting, the hiccups, the fullness of a baby in her womb.
“Phebes? You okay?” It was Juliette, her voice soft, murmuring from the other end of the couch.
Phoebe’s eyes snapped open, and she jerked her hand from her stomach, clenching it into a fist around the fabric of her skirt on her lap. “I’m fine.”
Jules watched her for a few moments, her expression, as usual, open and inviting and clearly concerned. Phoebe glanced over at Renata, who was watching the two of them over the top of Gia’s head. Gia was still gently prodding Ren’s belly, and laughing when Baby Charise kicked back.
“I’m fine, really. I’ve probably had too much coffee today. Need to get some real food in my belly.”
“Ouch. Stop poking, Gia.” Renata’s tone was rather sharp.
“Sorry,” Gia said apologetically. She rose to her feet. “Granny G sent over some leftovers with me if you’re hungry, Phebes. It’s in the fridge.”
Phoebe wasn’t hungry at all, but she was glad for the excuse to duck out of the room for a moment. Fortunately, the Tupperware in the fridge held Granny G’s mashed potatoes, something Phoebe knew would go down easy and stay put. She leaned against the counter while she warmed a bowl in the microwave, purposely standing where she couldn’t see or be seen by her sisters. But she listened to their comfortable chatter, wishing, not for the first time, that she didn’t have to try so hard to be the person they thought she was.
Not that she wasn’t that person. She was. In fact, this version of her was the easiest role to play. The sexy sister, the sexy photographer, the sexy artist, the sexy single lady…. The list went on and on, all roles she knew well, and actually liked pretty well, too. It was the sexy part that got old sometimes, and today it seemed to weigh heavily on her. When was the last time she’d left her house in sweats and flip-flops? Ha! Had she ever left the house in sweats and flip-flops for that matter?
Her image always came first. The facade. The front. The cover. Because the truth was that people did judge a book by its cover, and if she could keep people distracted enough by her cover, maybe they’d never look beyond that.
The microwave beeped and
Phoebe pulled the steaming dish of potatoes out, stirred in a dollop of butter and some salt, and headed back into the living room to join her sisters. She intentionally added a little extra movement to her hips, liking the way the hem of her skirt swished against her ankles.
~ ~ ~
“Wait. I thought you said she wasn’t being paroled until next summer.” Renata’s voice was tight, but Phoebe was a little taken aback to see the grimace that seemed to be an attempt at a smile on Ren’s face. “I mean, I’m glad she’s getting an early hearing, for her sake, but….” Her voice trailed off.
“I know. That was what her last letter said.” Juliette pulled the folded yellow legal-pad paper out of the envelope in her lap. Phoebe could see lines of neat penmanship filling what looked like two or three pages. “From what Angela says, this kind of thing rarely happens. Usually, it’s the other way around; things get pushed back time and time again. But I think it was nice of her to give us a heads up, don’t you?” Her voice held a hint of false brightness; Juliette was desperate for the rest of them to be as okay as she was with Angela Clinton coming back to town.
Not that Phoebe wasn’t okay with it. The girl had every right to want to come home after almost sixteen years of prison, but that didn’t mean Phoebe—or any of them, for that matter—had to welcome her with open arms.
The girl—because that’s what she’d been at the time—had killed their parents. She’d plowed into them in the middle of an intersection, going so fast there was no way she’d even slowed down for the red light. Drunker than a politician at a strip club, Angela had been headed to her high school graduation ceremony, late. The same destination to which Paul and Simone Gustafson had been going to see their eldest daughter, Juliette, graduate, too. None of the three in the accident had made it to the event, and only Angela had made it out alive.
And now, apparently, she had served her time for the double homicide, and was on her way home in just a few short months.
“From what she says here,” Juliette continued, running a finger down the lines of Angela’s writing, “it’s possible she’ll be back in Midtown as early as the beginning of May.” She lowered the letter to her lap and paused, not looking at anyone for a moment. When she finally spoke again, Phoebe was surprised at the words that came from Juliette’s mouth. “I’d like to get married before she gets here.”
Renata chimed in her agreement without hesitation. “I agree. This isn’t something you should have to face alone. I know you and Victor are already the real deal, but knowing you’ll have him to come home to at the end of the day will make facing whatever you have to with Angela a little easier.”
Phoebe knew Ren didn’t mean to be insensitive, but she wanted to shout out, “What about me? Who do I get to go home to at the end of the day? Who will hold me when our past catches up to us?” Gia still lived with Grandpa and Granny G, Ren had her Toolbelt Tim, and Jules was getting her champion, too.
Phoebe didn’t say a word, though. As far as her sisters knew, she was just fine on her own. It was exactly the way she wanted it. Why on earth would Renata think twice about Phoebe facing the future alone?
“So Victor and I have set our date for the first Saturday in April. The weather should be perfect for an outdoor wedding and it will give us time to take our honeymoon and still be here when Angela gets back to town.”
“Oh, I love weddings in the spring!” Gia chirped, obviously trying to focus on the bright side of the conversation. “Have you already booked a place? Steward’s Mansion? Or somewhere else?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Phoebe pushed a shoulder into the cerulean blue door of her home and shoved. She’d have to take a wood planer to it before the rainy season started. The old wood warped more and more each year, no matter how much she did to try to salvage it.
Phoebe’s whole home was actually salvaged; a refurbished packinghouse, one of the many buildings left over from the citrus groves that had been wiped out to make room for places like Midtown. She’d purchased the property with its ramshackle building using her portion of the life insurance left to her after her parents’ death. She then lived in her grandparents’ RV while she worked alongside construction crews and handymen who converted it into an artist’s dream house.
It had taken almost two years, but it had turned out exactly the way she wanted it. The open great room on the ground floor was a combination of living space and art studio, sporting huge windows that let the north light in. The building’s original office space had been converted into a guest room, but Phoebe now used it for a changing room for her clients. She’d mounted a bank of five lockers along one wall for personal belongings, had put in a hair and makeup vanity station, and had mirrored one whole wall. A small storage room next to it now housed costumes from a variety of cultures, eras, sizes, and colors, most of them made by Phoebe herself.
The kitchenette was open as well, and although Phoebe enjoyed cooking now and then, she rarely did much more than warm things up in the microwave or on a burner of the apartment-sized stove. She didn’t like the idea of residual food smells tainting her work, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually stuck something edible inside the oven. Currently, it was being used to store her collection of Gossamer, the issues with her work in them. Tucked away where no one would see them.
Her pride and joy, however, what made the place her sanctuary, was not the studio, although she loved it to distraction with its wild disarray of creativity, but the loft bedroom at the top of a spiral staircase. A huge, hand-hewn mahogany four-poster bed was the focal point of the room, draped with a down comforter with a white-on-white damask duvet cover, and matching shams, throw pillows piled high. White faux sheepskin pelt area rugs lay scattered around on the dark wood floor, and delicate white sheers hung from the windows. Everything up there but the flooring and bed frame was varying shades of white, and although it wasn’t stark and sterile by any means, it was clean and rife with possibilities; a sparkling fresh canvas. The few people who had seen it were always a little shocked by the monochromatic decor, but the furniture and textiles used were whimsical and feminine, giving the room an almost cloud-like feel. Even her silk pajama sets were white, and Phoebe liked the image she created in her mind of an ebony-haired, red-lipped angel, sleeping on a cloud at the edge of Heaven, finding respite after a long day’s work.
She unbuckled her sandals and kicked them off just inside the front door, and then made her way across the open floor plan, and drew the blackout blinds on the windows. In the near dark, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom where she flung herself across her bed, relishing the feel of the fluffy comforter plumped up around her.
She was exhausted. She’d been exhausted for what seemed like weeks. No, months, if she was being honest with herself. Somewhere deep inside, she knew why; she just didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she just wanted to sleep. And if she couldn’t sleep, she’d lie there and try not to think. The desire to move as little as possible overrode any shame over how lazy she was becoming.
Phoebe wasn’t sick. And she didn’t think she was suffering from depression. Lethargy, maybe, but not depression, as far as she could tell. She wasn’t exactly sad…but she was weary. She felt like she’d been waiting for something, or someone, all her life, but there was no end in sight, and she was tired of waiting. Yet until she could figure out what she was waiting for, she had no idea how to go about finding it. Which meant more waiting.
Today’s G-FOURce had shaken her up; the conversations sat now like boulders on her chest. Ren had become increasingly uncomfortable throughout the afternoon, her late stage pregnancy making her more irritable and impatient than she usually was. Or rather, than she used to be. Lately, Renata had seemed so much more at peace with the world, with herself, and with them, rarely rising to the bait Phoebe habitually threw out to her. Surely, it had a lot to do with her new marriage and the much-awaited arrival of baby Charise in the next few weeks. But still, when Ren
didn’t get her hackles up, Phoebe ended up just looking antagonistic and plain old mean. Juliette was justifiably excited about her pending nuptials, but even Gia had been a little more squirrelly than usual, prodding at Ren’s stomach to get a reaction from Charise until Ren had grumpily called her ‘Pokemon’ and ordered her to sit across the room from her.
It was the discussion of Angela Clinton that had really unsettled Phoebe the most, though. The girl had changed the Gustafson girls’ lives forever on that fateful day more than fifteen years ago, and the thought of her coming back to Midtown after all this time made Phoebe’s stomach churn. If she never laid eyes on Angela Clinton again, it would be too soon.
Angela Clinton had started drinking hours before her and Juliette’s high school graduation ceremony. By the time she got behind the wheel of her car to get to the event, the girl was plastered. And late. She never saw the Buick Park Avenue pulling into the intersection in front of her, she stated in court. She did see the light turn red, but not soon enough to stop for it.
Angela had plowed her El Camino into the side of Paul and Simone Gustafson’s car, killing Simone almost instantly. Paul had died about an hour later, his hand clutched tightly in Grandpa G’s, who had made it to the hospital in time to say goodbye.
It had taken Angela several months to recover enough to stand trial, but when the time came, she stated she’d known what she was doing when she started drinking, and had gotten behind the wheel, also knowing she was too inebriated to drive. “My intention was to end my life that day,” she murmured, her voice trembling, but clear. “I never dreamed I’d end anyone else’s.” She took full responsibility for killing the two beloved parents, accepted her sentence without recourse, and made a brief, heartfelt statement to the Gustafson family members who were in the courtroom about how terribly sorry she was to have caused them so much suffering.
Phoebe and the Rock of Ages Page 5