Five Sisters (A Romantic Suspense Novel)

by Leen Elle

"Does that mean . . . ?"

  "It doesn't mean anything."

  "Well I have to report back to the girls with something."

  "Emy and I are . . ." Brook began unsurely, picking up another hat and spinning it around his finger, "We're . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Well . . . Well, I'm awfully fond of her, if you hadn't noticed."

  "Is that so?"

  "I, er . . ." Brook stammered, "I like her. I like her a lot. I, er . . . Well . . . I hold her in very high regards."

  "High regards?"

  "And I think she likes me too . . . Well, I, er . . . I should hope so. Because, we are . . . We're courting and I . . . And I should think Emy would be fond of me if she agreed it would be alright for me to call on her, shouldn't you think so?"

  "I should, I should," Ethan agreed, now smiling, "That wasn't so hard to admit now, was it? You could have just come out and said it, but your route worked just as well, I think," he patted Brook on the back with a chuckle, "I'm sure Mary and her sisters will be very glad to hear the news."

  "You think so?" Brook questioned, the uncertainty now cleanly apparent in his voice, "Because I was worried they wouldn't be so happy with it. Not that they don't like me, but I just . . . Well, Emy's always been their 'sweet Emmeline' and I was afraid they wouldn't think I deserved her or that she was too pure for me or that I was just some . . . some evil varmint that wasn't worthy of their dear sister."

  Ethan raised an eyebrow, "You've thought about this way too much, my friend. They certainly don't think you're too terrible. And as long as Emy's happy, they shouldn't mind it."

  "You think so?"

  "'Course," he paused, "And do you know what else I think?"

  "What's that?"

  Ethan grabbed the hat off Brook's head and grinned, "I think this would be perfect for Mary!"

  *****

  As soon as Emy found a pretty new painting for Brook, one she was quite sure he would like, she and Nora decided they really didn't need to shop anymore. Instead they entered the candyshop and, only a minute later, exited with two bags of chocolates and fruity hard candies. With these goodies in hand, they headed down the lane and savored the pieces on their tongues, gazing at the different stores they passed.

  Before long, they'd unknowingly walked down towards the harbor, where hundreds of ships were bobbing up and down in the deep, navy waters. The ocean spray splashed upon the docks and there were groups of sailors all around: some relaxing upon their ships with a pint at hand, some carrying crates and barrels of smelly fish, and some walking down the docks toward the city with their hands stuffed in their pockets for warmth. One of those men walking inward was shorter than the rest and his hair was made of limp, flaxen curls. Instantly, he caught Nora's eye and she froze in place. It couldn't be. Or could it?

  He was of the right height, the correct stature, he wore the usual shabby clothing, and his shoulders were held low. Nora was on her tip toes now, trying to get a better view; her heart beating out of her chest.

  But then, as he came closer, she realized he wasn't wearing any glasses. And his skin was far too clear. It wasn't Sawyer. It couldn't be.

  "Is something wrong, Nora?" Emy asked from up ahead, only just realizing that her sister had stopped walking and was standing several meters behind her.

  "No, no, nothing," Nora said, forcing a smile, and rushed forward to join Emy as they continued down the lane.

  *****

  Unable to guide Nathaniel's wheelchair through the shops without smashing people's feet or running into things, Gail soon decided that they ought to stay outside instead. They headed down the lane lazily, the wheelchair making two long, skinny tracks through the snow.

  Nathaniel was wearing his new, thick winter coat and cap. When they'd left the house that morning he'd adored them both, thinking himself quite dashing, but as they day wore onward his opinion of the garments dropped immensely. This was the first time he'd worn both for a such a long time. Although he still found the coat's dark gray wool very handsome indeed, and he had no objections to the cap's subdued crimson plaid, they weren't quite so comfortable as he'd hoped. But of course, living in pajamas all his life, Nathaniel's opinions of comfort were far more difficult to attain than the average person's. The back of his neck and his bared wrists soon became red as they scratched against the wool and the cap, not fitting quite so well as it should have, kept falling down upon his eyes. Needless to say, he soon found himself cursing the names of both.

  "My God," he said bitterly, for what seemed like the millionth time that day, "This is ridiculous! Why in the world did I give Maureen so much money to spend on this horrid coat?" he scratched his wrists and then reached back a hand to lift the rough fabric off his neck. Just as he shifted his body position, however, his vision was shielded as the cap fell down once more, "And this goddam cap! I swear I'll rip the thing to shreds if it falls off my head again!" He grabbed it off his head and threw it into the street, scratching his ginger brown locks, which were sticking up in all directions from being hidden under a hat for so long and were now being covered in snowflakes. He frowned, "My head's not even that cold anyway!"

  "It can't be that bad," Gail said, running into the street to retrieve the cap. She held it out for him but he refused.

  "It is that bad, I assure you," he said, nodding his head with confidence.

  "Oh, you exaggerate too much," sniffed Gail, slapping the cap upon her own head. She jumped in front of Nathaniel with a grin, "What do you think?"

  "I've always thought it was an attractive cap," he said sensibly, "But it just won't stay on."

  "Yes, but how do you think it looks on me?"

  "I think it looks lovely."

  Although he didn't say it with the sweet, charming voice most men would have used when complimenting a lady (In fact, he said it as though he were rather bored) Gail liked it far more his way than any other. She beamed with delight and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. Nathaniel let her do it, but narrowed his eyebrows when she'd finished.

  "For Christ's sake, Gail," he said, rubbing his cheek disdainfully, "Why do you have to be so goddam romantic?"

  Gail only smiled and continued to push his wheelchair down the lane.

  *****

  Even though Mary and Sara had already found gifts for all their loved ones, they found plenty to do to enjoy themselves. Women rarely refuse a day of shopping.

  They looked through all sorts of shops and boutiques, trying on different jewelry and hats, spraying perfume on their wrists to sample, searching for the best fabrics to make a new gown with, and smelling all the different soaps and candles.

  For the majority of the day, Sara was rather quiet and listened as Mary rattled on and on about Ethan and the wedding, Emy and Brook, what they would be doing for the rest of the holidays, and whichever other various topics rose in her mind. She noticed that Sara was being awfully silent, of course, but she found nothing in it for Sara hadn't spoken much at all since arriving in Brighton. Sara's only comfort now was John's enormous library, where she found an endless supply of books to occupy her time and her thoughts. It was far more appealing to sit with a novel than to attempt a pleasant conversation when her mind was rarely able to focus on the topic at hand.

  "Why look, Sara!" Mary suddenly said with a bounce, dropping the hairpin she'd been admiring and pointing out the window, "It's a bookstore! We're sure to find something there to bring your spirits up!"

  Sara followed her out the door with a sigh, though her heart lifted at the sight of the little shop.

  As soon as they entered and Sara could breathe in that lovely scent of withering pages and old leather binding, she found herself unconsciously grinning and instantly lost herself within the maze of shelves and customers and books. She left Mary standing at the door, who was wrinkling her nose in distaste and claiming, "This smell is completely unbearable!" As she walked further in she continued wafting the air and saying to no one in particular, "Why, they really ought to cle
an this place out a bit. I can barely breathe!"

  But Sara didn't hear a word her sister said; if she had she surely would have contradicted her and stood up for the heavenly scent of old books. By this point she was deep into the back of the store, her fingers running over the spines of the books as she murmured their titles to herself so silently she could scarcely be heard, "Sense & Sensibility, Wuthering Heights, Macbeth, Les Miserables, Anna Karenina." All the classics spread out before her and although she'd read nearly all of them before, she bit her lip in the temptation to read them all again.

  It was a disorganized bookstore, to be sure, Sara soon found, for the books were not set up according to their author or their title. Instead, they were simply thrown on the shelves with no apparent order whatsoever. She took a thick, navy blue novel off its shelf, flipping through the pages with her head lowered, and began to walk around the corner when she accidentally tripped over her own foot. In an effort to regain her balance, she reached towards the wall but her clumsy feet knocked over another small stack of books as she did so.

  Luckily, no one had been around to watch the accident, so Sara quickly kneeled down upon the floor and began to pick up all the scattered books and set them back up in their little pile. As she worked, she, once again, began to read through their titles, though this time most were unfamiliar to her. Their names carried no significance and neither did their authors, so she began to work faster and tried her best not to linger on these mysterious new novels. But just as she set the last book in its place on top, she let her eye drift to its cover and instantly she was frozen in her place.

  "Sara!" came Mary's voice as she rounded the corner. She found her sister on her knees with a book in her hands, "We really ought to be going. It's nearly three o'clock, you know."

  "Right," Sara whispered, still staring at the book, "Right."

  She began to run her finger over the title, slowly. Great Expectations. Tears were forming in her eyes now and she bit her lip. Charles Dickens was Charlie Wilkie's favorite author. He'd always said it was ridiculous that Sara had only read Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol. "You really ought to read A Tale of Two Cities," he'd said, "And, of course, my personal favorite- Great Expectations." Sara had promised him she would and now here it was before her. She had to buy it. It wasn't a choice, it was a necessity. For Charlie.

  She'd been trying to forget him ever since they'd first arrived at the Lindsey's home but it was impossible. His name raced to her thoughts at every spare moment she had and these moments were abundant in a calm, country town like Brighton. She only wished she'd hear from him- a telegram, a letter, anything. He'd promised they could stay friends if she liked. If only he'd write to her, as he said he would. "Know that I do not wish to damage your spirits or your heart," he'd written, "and that I am sure you shall find a more suitable man in time." But how could she be expected to find a man more "suitable" than Charlie? It was impossible, for he was, in essence, the most suitable man for her. She was sure she'd never find a man more worthy of her heart than Charlie.

  "Sara, come on," Mary said, tapping her sister on the shoulder, "We'll be late!"

  With a somber nod, Sara rose from the floor. As they headed up front she dropped a few coins onto the front desk, far more than she ought to have paid. And as Mary ran out the door and into the winter flurries, Sara followed with the book still at hand. She carried it inside her coat to protect its leather binding from the snow; its pages pressed again her heart.

  CHAPTER 40

  Beside the Woodpile

  Christmas day at the Lindsey house was as happy as they come.

  Gail awoke first, as she always did, at the crack of dawn. She raced barefoot across the hardwood floors to the window of the room she shared with Nora and gazed out the window. Although she shouldn't have doubted it, for Brighton has been covered in snow for nearly two weeks straight, a grin spread across her face as she watched the little white snowflakes drift downwards, flurrying back and forth with the wind and landing effortlessly upon the ground and the trees and the hills.

  With a yelp of glee, she dashed across the room and bounced upon her sister's bed exclaiming, "It's Christmas, Nora! Get up! Get up!"

  Nora rolled over and covered her head with her pillow, groaning; she'd never wake so early on her own accord, even on Christmas. Nevertheless, it was terribly difficult to fall back asleep with Gail still flouncing around like a child. So she pushed the pillow away from her mouth, though only a few inches, and murmured, her voice muffled, "Not yet, Gaily. It can't even be five o'clock yet."

  "It's five thirty!" Gail assured, pulling at Nora's blankets.

  "Too early, too early," Nora whispered.

  "But it's Christmas!"

  "You can't open any presents until everyone's up and I'm certain that John and Mary and Sara won't be up until eight o'clock, at the earliest. Probably nine. Just go back to sleep and . . ."

  "Humph!" Gail frowned, hopping off the bed, "You're no fun in the mornings, you know. You'd have to be absolutely crazy to sit in bed while there are stockings and gifts and cookies all waiting just down the stairs!"

  But apparently there were a lot of crazy people living in the house, for as she ran around to each of the upstairs rooms and told each occupant that they ought to get up now, she was denied by every one. Even Emy, who would usually join her, being the second youngest girl in the family, said she was really very tired and, though sorry, would not be joining Gail.

  So the poor girl, horribly disgusted with her family's lack of holiday spirit at five thirty in the morning, headed downstairs alone. But her sadness didn't last long.

  She raced to the guest bedroom, her flimsy white nightdress dusting the floor, and jumped onto Nathaniel's bed with her knees bent beneath her. Her hair was a mess of knotted red hair and pieces of black cloth, for she'd allowed Mary to convince her that she ought to curl her hair for Christmas day. So she'd sat on a kitchen chair the night before with Mary behind her, pulling at her hair and twisting it around the bits of cloth.

  Gail tugged at Nathaniel's arm and said joyfully, "It's Christmas, Nathaniel! You have to get up!"

  Wearily, he cracked open an eye, stared at her for a moment, closed the eye, and whispered sleepily, "What in the world have you done to your hair?"

  "In a few hours it'll look lovely, just you wait and see. Mary's going to comb it out and I'll have a head full of beautiful curls once she's through."

  "Seems rather silly to do all that for a few curls."

  "Well you're a boy, you're supposed to say that. Now get up! It's Christmas, if you haven't forgotten."

  "What do you want me to do? I'm not getting dressed yet and I'm not going to take the effort to get in that wheelchair if no one else is up yet."

  "But Nathaniel . . ."

  "Wake me up when everyone else is downstairs."

  And with that, Nathaniel rolled over with a yawn and tried to go back to sleep.

  Gail was angry for a moment and considered pulling off his blankets and literally forcing him to get up, but she realized if she did he'd only complain and she'd still have no one to laugh with on this Christmas morning. She watched him sleep for a few minutes, so peaceful and silent. It was rare to catch him in such a moment. Unless he was ill, Nathaniel was scarcely ever peaceful or silent.

  She scooted forward on her bottom to lie beside him, her head nestled into that cozy place between his back, neck, and the pillow. And before she knew it, she was asleep as well.

  *****

  Gradually, different members of the house headed downstairs. Still wearing their pajamas and rubbing their eyes, they collapsed onto the sofas until finally, at around nine o'clock, Ethan and his parents, the five sisters, and Nathaniel were gathered in the parlor (Brook, it should be said, had left the afternoon before for his parents' house). Betsy, waddling around in her long, pink robe, rushed to get everyone a glass of tea or coffee and started up breakfast, placing the eggs and bacon on the stove and preparing some black p
udding. Her silvery hair was piled atop her head and for once, she insisted that no one be allowed in the kitchen but herself.

  John, wearing his silly red nightcap, sat beside Sara on the chaise while Ethan, Mary, and Nora took up the sofa. Emy was curled up on the armchair, Nathaniel sat on the floor with his back against the fireplace, and Gail was rolling herself around the room in his wheelchair, beaming.

  In the corner of the room, just beside Emy's winged armchair, was the Christmas tree, a towering evergreen with thick branches of long, green needles. The heavenly scent of pine sifted through the air, joining the smell of the lovely breakfast Betsy was still preparing. The strings of popcorn Gail had made joined cranberries and golden beads to encircle the tree, glass blown ornaments and sparkling spheres adorned the boughs, and upon nearly fifteen different branches there were waxy red candles alit with yellow-orange flames. But for the final touch, nearly gracing the ceiling, a bronze-colored star embedded with intricate designs sat upon the top.