The Space Between Sisters

by Mary McNear

  Dedication

  For Susie, Alex, and Amanda.

  Sisters extraordinaire.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . * About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Praise

  Also by Mary Mcnear

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  When they turned onto Butternut Lake Drive that night, Poppy rolled down her window. She watched as the car’s headlights glided over birch, pine, and spruce trees, and, after a bend in the road, she saw a deer standing, motionless and alert, in a clearing. Soon after that, a little cloud of white moths fluttered across the windshield. She could smell, too, something she could never quite define—some mixture of the air, the trees, and the lake. Butternut Lake. This place is beautiful, even in the dark, she thought. She hadn’t been up here for almost thirteen years, but she still felt as though she knew it by heart.

  “What did you say your sister’s name is?” Everett asked, fiddling with the radio.

  “Win. Her name is Win,” she said. She twisted around in the front passenger seat and reached into the backseat where her cat, Sasquatch, was riding in his pet carrier. She unlatched the door of the carrier and slipped a hand inside. “Poor thing,” she said, softly, stroking his fur. “You’ve been cooped up for too long.”

  “Win?” Everett repeated, glancing over at her. “That’s an unusual name.”

  “Short for Winona,” Poppy explained, feeling the gentle vibration of Sasquatch’s purr for a moment before easing her hand out of the carrier and latching the door shut again.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a lake somewhere?” Everett asked, taking the car into a steep turn. “Or is ‘Butternut Lake Drive’ a misnomer?”

  “No, there is a lake, through those trees,” Poppy said, pointing to their left. “But you can’t see it. There’s no moon tonight.”

  “No kidding,” Everett said. “The only thing that’s missing is the fog.”

  “The fog?”

  Everett nodded, steering into another turn. “If there were fog, it’d be exactly like a scene out of a horror movie. You know the one. A college coed and her boyfriend are driving down a desolate country road at night, and the fog is closing in around them, and then, suddenly, somebody appears on the road, right in front of their car, and—”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Poppy said. “We are not in that movie. I’m not a college coed—and that phrase, by the way, is totally outdated—” And you’re not my boyfriend, she almost said. “Besides, this is not a desolate country road,” she continued. “Trust me. Butternut Lake is a very well populated summer community. There are tons of cabins in these woods.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Four and a half hours ago, I didn’t even know Butternut Lake existed.”

  “Well, now you know,” Poppy said flippantly. And then she felt guilty. She hadn’t been very good company on this drive. Everett, after all, was doing her a favor. “I haven’t been much of a tour guide, have I?” she asked him now.

  “It’s fine.” He shrugged.

  “The town of Butternut, Minnesota, which we drove through ten minutes ago,” she began, in her best imitation of a tour guide’s voice, “has a population of twelve hundred. It has numerous local businesses, including Pearl’s, a world-class coffee shop, Johnson’s Hardware, where my grandfather indulged his inner carpenter, and the Butternut Variety Store, where my sister and I once accumulated the largest collection of glass animals east of the Mississippi. Butternut Lake, approximately twelve miles in length, is one of the deepest, cleanest lakes in Minnesota and is a popular vacation destination for people from the Twin Cities, who come here to fish, canoe, kayak, water ski, and, sometimes, just to wiggle their toes in the water. Any questions?” she asked brightly.

  “Yeah,” Everett asked, gesturing at a seemingly deserted stretch of road. “Where are all those tourists now?”

  “They’re here. Look, there’s a driveway,” Poppy said. “And there’s a cabin at the end of it, too. You can see its lights through the trees.”

  “All right,” Everett said. “But if my car breaks down, I’m not knocking on that door. I’ve seen that movie, too. We spend the night there, and when we wake up in the morning, we discover that our kidneys have been harvested.”

  “Ugh,” Poppy said, wincing. “I had no idea you were so dark, Everett.”

  “No?” he said, with a trace of a smile. “It’s amazing how much you can learn about someone on a two-hundred-and-forty-mile drive.”

  “That’s true,” Poppy mused. “So, what have you learned about me?” she asked. She wasn’t being flirtatious. She was just curious.

  “I’ve learned . . .” He looked over at her, speculatively. “I’ve learned that you think corn nuts are revolting.”

  “That’s because they are revolting.”

  “Corn nuts,” Everett said, concentrating on another turn, “are the ultimate road trip food.”

  “Not even close,” Poppy said. “Because that would obviously be Red Vines.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Everett said. “I mean, they have, like, zero nutritional value, unless you count whatever’s in the red dye, and—”

  “Oh, my God, look,” Poppy said, excitedly, of the driveway they were passing. Beside it a large sign with a wintery pinecone painted on it spelled out WHITE PINES.

  “What’s that?” Everett asked.

  “It’s a resort, and it means that we are now exactly three miles away from my grandparents’ cabin. I mean, my sister’s cabin,” she amended, feeling that familiar jab of resentment she felt whenever she was reminded of the fact that this beloved piece of family real estate had been passed down to Win, and only Win, three years ago. This resentment was part of the reason that Poppy had avoided coming to Butternut Lake since Win had moved here year-round a couple of years ago. But if there was any comfort to be found in Win being the one to own the cabin, it was in knowing that she would never sell it; it meant as much to her as it did to Poppy.

  Poppy and Win had spent all of their childhood summers here until Poppy was sixteen and Win was fifteen (they were thirteen months apart), and Poppy, who was just shy of thirty, could still remember every detail of the cabin. It stood on a small bluff, just above Butternut Lake, and its dark brown clapboard exterior was brightened by cheerful window boxes that overflowed with geraniums. And the homey touches continued inside: colorful rag rugs, knotted pine furniture, red-checked slipcovers on sofas and chairs. The living room, everyone’s favorite room, was as comfortable as an old shoe, with its fieldstone fireplace, and its old record player and collection of albums (some of which dated back to the 1950s). In one corner, there was a slightly wobbly card table for playing gin rummy, and on the shelf next to the table, a collection of hand-painted duck decoys. Mount
ed on the wall above the mantelpiece was the prized three-foot walleyed pike that had not gotten away from their grandfather. The living room windows looked out on a flagstone patio, their grandmother’s begonia garden, and a slope of mossy lawn leading down to the lake. And the kitchen . . . Poppy remembered it as though it existed in a perpetual summer morning: the lemon yellow cupboards, the row of shiny copper pans hanging on the wall, and the turquoise gas stove, a monument to 1950s chic.

  “Do you think you should give your sister a call now?” Everett asked, interrupting her reverie.

  “Why?”

  “To tell her that we’re almost there.”

  “Oh,” Poppy said, momentarily at a loss. And then she tossed her long blond hair. “No. I’m not going to tell her,” she said. “I thought we’d surprise her.”

  Everett stole a quick look at her. “But . . . she knows we’re coming, right?”

  “Not exactly,” Poppy said, feeling a first twinge of nervousness.

  Everett was quiet. Then he asked, “Does your sister like surprises?”

  “Not really,” Poppy said, and there it was again, that nervousness. She tamped it down, firmly, and said, “But what are sisters for if they can’t just . . . drop in on each other?”

  “‘Drop in’?” Everett said, after another pause. “It looks like you’ve got a lot of your stuff with you, though, Poppy. Isn’t it more like, ‘move in’?”

  Poppy ignored this question. Harder to ignore were her suitcases, wedged in the trunk of Everett’s car, or her boxes, stacked on the backseat beside Sasquatch’s pet carrier. And it wasn’t just a lot of her stuff, as Everett had pointed out. It was all of her stuff. Though, truth be told, that wasn’t saying much. It had taken her less than an hour to pack everything up. Traveling light was a recurring theme with Poppy, and a necessary one, too, since her peripatetic lifestyle was the norm.

  “Sisters don’t have to call ahead. They’re there for each other,” Poppy said now, though she was annoyed by the defensiveness she heard in her own voice.

  “But do you think your sister—Win—will be home right now? It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night.”

  “Oh, she’ll be home. If I know her, she’s probably . . . alphabetizing her spice rack,” Poppy said, “or color coding her sock drawer.” As soon as she said this, though, she felt disloyal. “Actually, she’s a sweetheart,” she said, turning to Everett. “And I don’t blame her, at all, for being a little . . . neurotic or controlling, or whatever she is. I told you about what happened to her, didn’t I?” And Poppy pictured Win as she’d been the last time she’d seen her, her dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and her girl next door approachableness only slightly tempered by the wistful expression on her face.

  “Yeah, you told me what happened to her,” Everett said. It was quiet in the car again as he negotiated another sharp turn, and as Poppy watched the car’s lights skim over an entrance to an old logging road. She smiled. She and Win had driven down that road as teenagers, looking for bears at dusk.

  “All right,” she said, after a few more minutes, “we’re getting close. After this next curve, it’s the first driveway on the left.” And, suddenly hungry, she added, “Here’s hoping Win’s got some leftovers from dinner.”

  “Yeah, and here’s hoping she’s in a good mood,” Everett added wryly.

  CHAPTER 2

  Win, it turned out, was in a good mood, or at least in what passed for a good mood in her life these days. After dinner—a sesame shrimp and noodles dish whose recipe she’d found in a cooking magazine’s “gourmet dinners for one” column—she’d emptied out her kitchen’s utensil drawers and begun rearranging their contents. Not that they needed rearranging; they’d been rearranged less than two weeks before. But Win found this particular organizing project so satisfying that tonight, after she’d washed the dishes and wiped down the countertops and swept the kitchen floor, she’d thought, Oh, what the hell, and dumped all four utensil drawers out onto the kitchen table and gotten started on them. Now, an hour later, with just one utensil—a cherry pitter—left, she was still so absorbed in this project that she didn’t even hear a car pull up outside.

  Where to put the cherry pitter, she wondered, picking it up and studying it critically. For the most part, she had a simple classification system. The more a utensil was used, the higher a drawer it went into. So a whisk, or a vegetable peeler, or a garlic press, for instance, went into the top drawer, while a fish scaler, or a canning funnel, or an olive stuffer went into the bottom drawer. Utensils that fell somewhere in between went into one of the two middle drawers. But the cherry pitter was a special case. Before tonight, it had been in the third drawer, with, among other things, a citrus zester, a nutmeg grinder, and a gravy separator, but now, with cherry season upon them, Win wondered if it should be promoted, at least temporarily, to the second drawer, where it would take its place alongside utensils like a cheese grater, a marinade brush, and a ladle.

  Yes, it should go in the second drawer, Win decided, but she hesitated for a moment and, in that moment, she heard car doors slamming outside. Startled, she glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a little after ten. The only person she knew who’d stop by at this hour was her friend Mary Jane, and even Mary Jane wouldn’t do this without calling her first. She knew how much Win hated surprises.

  She put the cherry pitter down and left the kitchen, feeling the little tremor of unease she imagined was familiar to any woman who lived alone in a rural area. But by the time she got to the front door, she could hear laughter and voices, and one of those voices was as intimately familiar to her as any voice on earth.

  “Poppy?” she said, swinging the door open before her sister could knock on it.

  “Win!” her sister said, pulling her into a hug. “I told you she’d be home,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the man who was with her. Win hugged Poppy back, a little distractedly.

  “I can’t believe you’re here. Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yes, everything’s okay,” Poppy said, letting go of her. “Well, I mean, it’s not perfect. More about that later,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “But I thought it was high time I visited you here. You’ve only asked me to come about a million times.”

  “I know I have,” Win said. But a little advance notice would have been nice, she thought.

  “Um, are you going to invite us in, or are we going to stand out here all night?” Poppy asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Oh, of course, come in,” Win said, gesturing them inside, but she was still flustered. “When did you decide to drive up?” she asked, closing the door and following them into the living room.

  “Oh, it was spur of the moment,” Poppy said.

  “But, Pops, I talked to you a couple days ago,” Win pointed out.

  “It was spur of the moment since then,” Poppy said. She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. “It is so good to be out of that car.” She sighed. “We only stopped once. I think we set a record or something. Everett is an excellent driver,” she added, glancing at her companion.

  “Are you going to introduce us?” Win asked.

  “Oh, my God,” Poppy said, slapping her forehead. “I am so rude. Everett, this is my sister, Win Robbins, and Win, this is Everett, Everett . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Everett West,” he finished for her, stepping forward and holding his hand out to Win.

  “Hi Everett,” she said, shaking his hand and giving Poppy a look that she hoped said, Who is this guy? But no explanation was forthcoming.

  Instead Poppy was taking in the living room as though she was seeing it for the first time.

  “Look at this place,” she said softly. “It’s exactly the same as I remember it.” She walked over to a bookshelf and took down a duck decoy, turning it over in her hands. “I’m so glad you didn’t change anything.”

  “Well, you know me, I’m not great with change,” Win said, shooting a glance at Everett. “
Um, Poppy, can I see you in the kitchen?” she asked, pointedly.

  “Okay. We’ll be right back, Everett,” Poppy said, following Win through the kitchen’s swinging door.

  But as soon as it shut behind them Win turned to her. “Pops, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” she said, mystified.

  “I mean, who’s the guy?”

  “That’s Everett. Everett West.”

  Win rolled her eyes. “No, I mean, are you dating him?”

  “What? No,” Poppy said. “He’s a friend. Well, an acquaintance, anyway. We both get our coffee at the same place every morning. You know, that little hole in the wall near my apartment? I took you there when you came to visit at Christmas.”

  “So, you hang out together there?” Win said, still trying to clarify their relationship.

  “Not hang out, exactly, but we’ve stood in line together a couple of times.”

  Win’s eyes widened. “And that’s the extent of your relationship?”

  “More or less.”

  “And other than his first name, and where he gets his coffee, do you know anything else about him?”

  “Well, those things and . . . oh, and he’s a techie,” Poppy said, proud to have remembered this much about him.

  But Win shook her head in disbelief. “Poppy, am I the only one seeing a problem here? You drive up with someone you barely know, and then you invite him into my cabin. I mean, for all you know, he’s a serial killer,” she hissed.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes,” Poppy said, “Everett is not a serial killer. He’s a web designer. And trust me, I have excellent radar when it comes to men. He is not dangerous. I would think even you could see that, Win.”

  And Win, irritated by the implication of Poppy’s “even you,” had to admit, to herself anyway, that Everett didn’t seem very dangerous. He reminded her, in fact, of a type that was popular now on television and in movies; the smart but accessible guy who worked in the lab on a police procedural, or the soft-spoken but humorous sidekick to the male lead in a romantic comedy. Geeky-cute, she decided. And there was something about his eyes, too, that was appealing, the way they drooped down, just a tiny bit, at the corners, making him look just a little bit sleepy.