The Space Between Sisters

by Mary McNear

  “Sam, what about Cassie?” she asked. She was still tutoring her on the front porch of Birch Tree Bait whenever they both had a free afternoon. “Her twirling has improved so much. But we’re still working on her routine and her performance is next week.”

  Sam looked uncomfortable. “I think, right now, it might be better if you gave Cassie some space.”

  She nodded, miserably. So that would be gone, too. Those pleasant afternoons sitting on the porch swing, watching Cassie twirl, a little, and listening to her talk, a lot.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate the time you’ve spent with her. She’s loved it. She talks about you all the time. But . . . she’s confused about you, too. She’s confused about us.”

  Poppy looked at him questioningly.

  Sam sighed. “She talked to Alicia about you this last week. And she told her . . . she told her she wants you to move in with us. I’m not clear exactly what she thinks your role would be. I don’t know whether she thinks you’d be a sister to her or whether you and me would . . . give her a sister.” He looked suddenly embarrassed.

  That sounds good, Poppy thought. And it did. The part about giving Cassie a sister.

  “Can you understand the position I’m in here, Poppy?” Sam asked her now. And all the humor was gone from his eyes. “I don’t want Cassie to hope for something that’s not going to happen. She’ll be disappointed when you two stop spending time together, but hopefully, it will save her from more disappointment down the road.”

  “But . . . I promised her I’d go to her performance,” she said softly.

  “I know you did. She wants you to sit in the front row with her mom and me. I think you can see, though, that that would be . . . inappropriate.”

  Inappropriate. There was another word Poppy hated. It belonged to the province of guidance counselors, school principals, and people who taught workplace seminars. And now, apparently, it belonged to the idea of her coming to Cassie’s twirling performance. She’d already been negligent, God forbid she add inappropriate to the list. Sam stood up. This was her cue to stand up, too. She did.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded. He watched as she tried to wipe the last traces of tears off her face. He felt bad, she saw. And she was sorry for him now.

  He opened the door to his office and she saw him hesitate, wondering how to say good-bye to her. Should he shake her hand? Give her a hug? Kiss her on the cheek? In the end, he settled for a kiss on the cheek. It was a nice guy’s kiss, she decided. A nice guy’s way of saying, I don’t hate you. I just don’t want you in my life anymore. And in the end, it was that kiss that hurt the most of all.

  The following week, Poppy drove down Butternut’s Main Street. The charm of its striped awnings, brightly painted wooden benches, and window boxes filled with flowers was lost on her. She was a woman on a mission. She checked her watch as she turned into the Butternut Community Center parking lot. Today, timing was everything. And, as planned, she was exactly five minutes late for the baton twirling performance. If she’d timed it right, and she thought she had, she could slip into a seat in back, unseen, before Cassie went on stage. This was important, because while Cassie had invited her, Sam had uninvited her during the meeting in his office. But she’d be damned if she was going to miss her star pupil’s—her only pupil’s—performance. She parked and hurried over to the building, but as she pushed open the lobby doors, she saw a woman sitting at a card table locking up a cash box.

  “Hi, I’m here for the show,” Poppy said, breathlessly.

  “Oh, it’s already started,” the woman said, officiously. She was older, and wore her glasses on a chain around her neck, and she had blue hair, though it was not, Poppy noted, blue in a fun way.

  “I can still go in, though, can’t I?” Poppy said, reaching for her wallet. “I’m happy to pay,” she added, noting that the hand-lettered sign on the table suggested a five-dollar donation.

  “I’m not sure I can let you in now,” the woman said. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to disturb the performers. Or the audience, for that matter.”

  Poppy stared at her, nonplused. Was she serious? This wasn’t a Broadway play, this was a bunch of kids twirling batons.

  “Look, I’ll just slip right in,” Poppy said, giving the woman her most charming smile. “Really, they won’t even know I’m there,” she added, pulling a five out of her wallet and putting it on the table.

  She half expected the woman to follow her, but when she didn’t Poppy cracked the auditorium door open. The house lights were down, and the group before Cassie’s was still on. She choose an aisle seat in the empty back row, then slid down in it as far as she could, and adjusted the visor on her baseball cap until she was satisfied that she was as incognito as she could be in a town the size of Butternut. She searched the room until she found what she was looking for. Sam. There he was, fifth row center. On one side of him were the twins, and on the other side was a woman she assumed was Alicia. Poppy stared at her. There wasn’t a lot you could tell from the back of someone’s head, of course, but she sensed Alicia was attractive, with long, sleek, light brown hair, loosely knotted at the back of her neck, and a slender back and shoulders visible through a white cotton blouse.

  As the performance ended, and the audience applauded, Poppy saw Sam turn to Alicia and say something. She nodded, and smiled up at him, and Poppy was seized by a jealousy so intense it shocked her. She could feel it everywhere in her body. But mostly, she could feel it in her stomach. It was the raw, burning feeling you might get if you drank a too strong cup of coffee on an empty stomach. Or if you drank a can of paint thinner.

  Ridiculous, she thought to herself. Because that was what she was being. She had no right to be jealous. None whatsoever. Whatever Poppy and Sam had had, it was over now. And besides, Sam and Alicia were divorced. They weren’t in love with each other anymore, he’d said as much to Poppy the night she’d babysat. But they had been in love, a voice inside her said. And she realized why she was jealous. She was jealous of everything they’d shared together, the big moments, and the little ones. There was a lot of happiness there, Sam had said about their marriage the night they’d sat at his kitchen table. Well, Poppy wanted a piece of that happiness with Sam, wanted it so badly that for a moment she felt light-headed from wanting it. She closed her eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. There would be no fainting here today. If she was going to stalk Sam, and Cassie, too, she could at least do it with a modicum of dignity.

  Fortunately, it was time for the six- and seven-year-olds to perform, and as soon as Poppy saw Cassie come out on stage she had to smile. She looked adorable in her costume, a one-piece aquamarine number with tiny sequins sewn onto the bodice and skirt, and a pair of lace up white leather twirler shoes. Her hair and her makeup, Poppy saw with relief, were both blessedly subtle. Still, the overall effect must have more than satisfied Cassie’s desire for all things girlie, because she was so excited she could barely contain herself. Poppy watched as she found her parents and brothers in their row, and then beamed at them as she and her four fellow twirlers formed a circle, and waited for the musical cue to start their routine.

  Poppy knew this routine by heart. The last time Cassie had rehearsed it with her, she’d done it almost perfectly, and that had been over a week ago. She probably had it down cold by now. Just to be safe, though, Poppy crossed her fingers. The music, “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” started, and Poppy found herself keeping time with it. “There you go,” she murmured, as Cassie did a series of perfect figure eights. But the arm roll was coming up, and Cassie had had a little trouble with this. “Come on, you can do it,” she urged her, and when she did do it, again perfectly, it was all Poppy could do not to clap. Then, at last, came the chin roll, which Poppy could not have done better herself. “Good girl,” she whispered, and, as the routine ended, she wiped a single, hot tear off her cheek. “You did it, kid,” she said, and, knowing that the audience’s applause and th
e performer’s bowing would cover her exit, she slipped out of the auditorium and was halfway to her car before Cassie was even off the stage.

  CHAPTER 17

  On August 8, the Saturday of Mary Jane’s wedding, Win stood, slack-jawed, in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. “Oh, my God,” she said. “What was Mary Jane thinking?”

  Poppy didn’t answer. She was lying on Win’s bed, propped up by pillows, and holding Sasquatch in her arms. Win had asked her, repeatedly, not to bring this living, breathing ball of fur into her bedroom—she could practically see him shedding, even from where she stood, across the room—but Poppy had been so miserable the last few weeks that she’d decided to let it slide today.

  “I said, ‘What was Mary Jane thinking?’ Win repeated, loudly, turning to Poppy and gesturing at her dress.

  But Poppy only shrugged. “It looks fine,” she said, petting Sasquatch.

  “It doesn’t look fine,” Win said, turning to stare into the mirror again. “It looks like what it is, which is a nightmare.” The dress in question was the bridesmaid’s dress that Win would be wearing to Bret and Mary Jane’s wedding at the White Pines Resort that evening. It was dark purple, or eggplant, as Win now thought of it, and it had an enormous bow on its right shoulder. The whole thing would have looked comical to her, if it didn’t look so hideously ugly.

  “That’s it. I’m not wearing it,” she said, turning her back to the mirror.

  “So don’t,” Poppy said, not even pretending to be interested.

  “Oh, right. Like I’m going to be the only one of six bridesmaids not wearing this dress,” Win said, and she shot Poppy an irritated look.

  Poppy, sensing the look, bestirred herself. “Look, Win, don’t worry about it. People expect bridesmaid’s dresses to be ugly. They’d be disappointed if they weren’t. And don’t say anything to Mary Jane about it, either,” she added. “She can’t help it. She probably didn’t know how to choose a dress. I mean, who went with her to do it?”

  “That . . . that would be me,” Win said sheepishly. And even Poppy had to smile.

  “What?” Win said, coming over to the bed and flopping down on it beside Poppy. “The day we went shopping for it in Duluth last winter it was twenty degrees below zero. We were probably suffering from brain freeze, or something. All I know is, at the time, it seemed like a good idea.” She wagged the bow playfully at Poppy. She was trying to get another smile out of her, but this time it didn’t work.

  “Pops,” she said, “come on. Cheer up. It can’t be that bad, can it?” But it was that bad, if Poppy’s demeanor was any indication. Win sighed. She’d tried, she thought, she really had. When Poppy had come back from Sam’s office in tears the day after the store had been burglarized, for instance, Win had assured her, repeatedly, that it was a mistake anybody could have made, even though Win knew she herself would never, in a million years, have made it. And not once, during the days that followed, had Win so much as hinted at the fact that now that Poppy had lost her job, it was once again up to Win to pay for gas and groceries and whatever other expenses arose in their lives.

  Win hadn’t stopped there, though; she’d used every weapon in her sisterly arsenal to make Poppy feel better. She might not be able to cure her sister’s broken heart, she’d reasoned, but she could at least make her forget about it for a while. To that end, she’d made her Rice Krispies Treats with M&M’s, bought her a stack of paperback mysteries at the drugstore, and forced her to watch a Real Housewives of Beverley Hills marathon with her.

  But Poppy refused to be consoled, or even, it turned out, to be distracted, and Win was starting to get a little impatient with her. “Pops,” she said now, trying out a new tone of firmness, “I know you’re sad, but for today, at least, you’re going to have to make an effort.”

  “You mean for the wedding?”

  “Yes,” Win said. Especially since I worked so hard to finagle an invitation for you.

  “I was going to talk to you about that,” Poppy said, rubbing Sasquatch under his chin, and eliciting a purr from him that was probably audible in the kitchen. “I was thinking, maybe, I’d stay here,” she said, stealing a look at Win.

  “Absolutely not,” Win said. “They’re only inviting sixty people, and you’re one of them.”

  “Look, I appreciate them inviting me, I really do,” Poppy said. “But I don’t want to leave Sasquatch alone for the whole night.” After the wedding, Win and Poppy, like most of the other guests, would be spending the night at the White Pines Resort. Win had booked a room with two queen beds and a lake view, and she was personally looking forward to spending the night in relative luxury, and waking up to the resort’s famous champagne breakfast the next morning.

  Now, she raised an accusatory eyebrow at Poppy. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do? You don’t want to leave Sasquatch alone for the night? Poppy, he’s a cat. I’m pretty sure he can take care of himself for twelve hours.”

  “Of course he can. But I’m worried about him. He hasn’t been himself lately.”

  “Poppy, he’s purring so much right now he’s practically making the bed vibrate,” Win pointed out.

  “Right now he’s okay. But lately . . . he’s been so lethargic.”

  Maybe he caught it from you, Win thought. But what she said, not unkindly, was, “He’s not lethargic, Pops, he’s old.”

  Poppy shook her head. “This is something else. He doesn’t eat that much anymore, and I think he might be losing weight.”

  “Well, next week you can take him to the vet. Today, you’re going to the wedding.”

  Poppy considered this. “Is there . . . is there any chance Sam will be there?” she asked, finally.

  “No,” Win said, flatly. “I’ve seen the guest list, and he’s not on it.” Poppy sighed, softly, and seemed to disappear back inside herself again. “Okay, look, I wasn’t going to tell you this,” Win said, hurrying on. “I wanted to surprise you when we got to the wedding. But you’ve left me with no choice. Bret’s cousin John is one of the groomsmen, and he’s our age, single, good-looking, and, it gets better . . . he’s in the Navy. All the other groomsmen are going to be wearing tuxedos, but he’s going to be wearing his uniform. I mean, come on, how hot is that?”

  Poppy shrugged, indifferently.

  “Oh, come on, Pops. Would it kill you to flirt with him?”

  “Why don’t you flirt with him?” Poppy asked. “If you think he’s so great.”

  “I . . . I haven’t actually met him before,” Win admitted, but now it was her turn to be irritated. Poppy knew she had feelings for Everett, didn’t she? It was true, of course, that Win hadn’t told her anything about the last time he’d spent the night, but that was only because Win didn’t know how to tell her. She couldn’t explain it to herself, let alone to another person. All she knew is that something had happened between them that night on the couch when he told her about Birdy, something that had left her feeling closer to him than she had felt to anyone in a long time. Partly, it had been a physical closeness, of course. But more than that, it had been an emotional closeness. A closeness Win had been craving, without knowing, until then, how much she had been craving it.

  But where did that leave her and Everett now? she wondered. Were they friends, or were they becoming more than friends? And then there was the thought that nagged at her, occasionally, when she remembered that he had, at first, been interested in Poppy. Was it possible that she was his consolation prize for not having her sister? Not consciously, maybe—he didn’t seem capable of making that kind of cold calculation—but unconsciously?

  When she looked for answers to these questions, though, she couldn’t find them. The morning after their night on the couch together there had been some initial awkwardness between them, and, further complicating matters, when Everett had said good-bye, he’d kissed her on the cheek. Was that him being polite, or something more? She hadn’t seen him since, and that had been a couple of weeks ago. He’d been visiting
his family in Nebraska, and after that, working on a deadline for a website design. Now, he was back up at his cousin’s cabin for the weekend, but she’d told him she’d be busy with the wedding. Still, they’d exchanged texts with each other. Not flirty texts, just . . . funny texts. Casual texts. Though casual was one thing Win had never been very good at when it came to matters of the heart.

  “Pops,” she said now, turning to her sister with determined cheerfulness. “What’s wrong with having a little fun with Bret’s cousin? I mean, it wouldn’t be a wedding if everyone went back to their own room at the end of the night, would it?”

  Poppy looked askance at her. “Is my very proper, very responsible younger sister suggesting that I have a one-night stand?” she asked.

  “Why not?” Win said, a little defensively. “If you like him, why not?”

  “Because Win,” she said, pointedly, “I’m already in love with someone.”

  “Sam?”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Poppy said. She looked hurt.

  “Poppy, I am surprised.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with Sam?”

  “Nothing. It’s not Sam. It’s . . . the two of you. You never even dated each other, Pops.”

  “What difference does it make? You don’t have to date someone to fall in love with them.”

  “That’s true,” Win acknowledged. But she had another theory about why Poppy was so upset. Now she thought about how best to phrase it. “Pops,” she said, carefully, “do you think you could be reacting this way, you know, taking this breakup so hard because . . . because it’s never happened to you before?”

  “You think this is about my ego?”

  “No,” Win said, quickly, and then, “Well, yeah, sort of. I do. I mean, let’s face it. Most people don’t get to be your age without having someone break up with them. You’re in a pretty unique position in that sense. And I think if you’d had more . . . practice with rejection, you might be better at handling it now.”