“Exactly. They immediately assume that there’s some kind of romantic involvement going on. Even,” he said, his gaze becoming suddenly steely and his language lawyerly, “after it has been made eminently clear that there is absolutely no possibility of such a thing occurring.”
My jaw dropped. “What? So you’re not willing to get behind the effort to save the market just because I don’t want to go out with you? You can’t be serious,” I said, shaking my head with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. If that’s how he felt, then Peter was not the guy I thought he was.
“First you lure me out to your ice shanty and try to jump me. Then you hold the market demolition over my head because I won’t play ball.” I let out an incredulous gasp. “And people say Washington is the hotbed of dirty politics!”
“Hang on!” Peter barked, loudly enough so a small knot of passersby, fortunately no one I recognized, turned to look. I shot Peter a look and he lowered his voice.
“Just hang on right there, Lucy. That is not what I said!”
I leaned closer, furious, practically hissing at him, “You implied—”
“I implied nothing! And if for once in your life you’d shut up and quit assuming that you know everything about everybody, even what they’re thinking, then I might have a chance to explain myself.”
He glared at me, daring me to interrupt or argue and thereby prove his point. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I clamped my lips together and crossed my arms over my chest.
“This has nothing to do with you and me. Nothing. The reason I can’t attend the meeting on Monday, or any future meetings, is because I don’t think it would be right for me to take a position, or even appear to take a position, on this issue before it comes up for a decision before the council.”
“Are you done?” He nodded. “I see. So because you’re afraid that people will think you’re being influenced by your . . .” I was about to name a part of his anatomy but, angry as I was, decided to take the high road. “. . . girlfriend, you’ve decided not to support a grassroots effort to save a business that is key to maintaining the character and economic viability of this town.”
“No,” he said, in a maddeningly calm tone. “What I said is it doesn’t make things any easier if people were to assume that my feelings toward you might be influencing my vote. But even if that weren’t the case, I can’t take a position, one way or the other. Not right now.”
“Why not? That’s crazy! Peter, I know whose side you’re on here. Why not show your hand?”
“No!” he said. And then he growled. He actually growled! And pointed his finger at me. “This is what I’m talking about! The way you assume things, the way you constantly jump to conclusions. You do not know what I think about this issue or any other. Hell, Lucy! Half the time, you don’t even know what you think, let alone me!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lifted both his hands and looked away. “You know what . . . never mind. Forget I said that. It doesn’t matter.”
He hesitated for just a moment and scratched his forehead, the way he does when he’s thinking. I again asked him to explain that last statement, but he cut me off.
“Lucy. Listen to me. This is not about you or me or the two of us together or not together. I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”
“By not taking a position on important issues?”
I shook my head and dropped my arms to my sides. He was new at this. Maybe he didn’t understand the rules of the game.
“Peter, it is perfectly legal for you to adopt and express a position on a given issue ahead of an actual vote.”
“Gee, Luce. Thanks for clearing that up for me. Because, seeing as I went to law school and all, I wasn’t quite sure.”
“Hey! No need to get snarky! I’m trying to help.”
“Well, don’t! I don’t need that kind of help, okay? Lucy, I’m not talking about what is legal. I’m talking about what is right. I’m getting all kinds of opinions from people on both sides of this, which is great. That’s how democracy works. But until this thing comes up for a vote, I intend not only to appear neutral and open-minded; I intend to be neutral and open-minded. So please don’t stand there and try to lobby me, okay? I’m getting enough of that as it is.”
“Lobby you?” He nodded and I rolled my eyes. “Oh, give me a break. So you’re above politics? Is that it?”
“Politics is your line of work, Lucy. You’re good at it and I respect that. But I’m not a politician. I’m a public servant. I’m not perfect by a long shot. Nobody knows that better than you do, and I apologize for”—he pulled his hands out of his pockets, rubbed his neck, and then put them back in—“being so . . . aggressive in my attentions. But I happen to find you attractive and I can’t apologize for that. Not any more than I’m going to apologize for trying to do the right thing as best I know how.”
So he was a noble public servant while I was just a lowly, scheming politico?
It was not the first time I’d heard that line, generally from the kind of grandstanding politicians who put the “crave” in “craven.” Sometimes from members of the general public, people who immediately suspect the worst of anybody who gets involved in politics. I was used to that kind of accusation and I’d learned not to let it bother me.
But this was different. This was coming from Peter, who knew me better than that. Or so I’d thought. I guess I’d been wrong.
I’d never felt so discounted—or so judged—in all my life.
“Well, if that’s how you feel . . . I guess it’s a good thing that I didn’t return your phone calls. You know, I was just walking down the street a few minutes ago, looking at all the couples and the families. And I was just feeling so . . .”
Suddenly, inexplicably, my throat got tight and I felt tears form in my eyes. I looked away, over my right shoulder, and blinked a couple of times, embarrassed in case he should see me crying and think it was over him.
“So what?” he said, and took a step toward me, his voice suddenly softer. “What were you feeling?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, blinking quickly. “I get it now. I have to go. I’m supposed to meet some people at the tree lighting. See you around, Peter.”
I turned away and started walking, then jogging down the street, pushing my way through the throng. Behind me, I could hear Peter’s voice calling my name, but I kept my head down and my feet moving until the sound started to fade away and I didn’t have to hear, or to think, about him anymore.
Just keep walking, I said to myself. You know how to do this. You’ve done it before.
Chapter 37
By the day of the meeting, I was fine. I was over it.
The holidays are always a terrible time for single people—all that emphasis on family, kiddies dancing joyfully around the tree while Mama and Papa sneak a kiss under the mistletoe, all those sappy, sentimental movies on television, the equally sappy and sentimental carols crooned from every spot on the radio dial and every loudspeaker in every retail establishment—no wonder I’d been feeling emotional.
In previous years, I’d been working so hard that I’d been able to ignore most of the holiday hoopla until I’d hop on a plane to meet Alice at some nice, warm spot for a Christmas that had little to do with family dinners and nativity scenes and everything to do with lying poolside and working on my tan while simultaneously catching up on my e-mail. If not for Alice’s insistence on our presence at midnight mass in whatever church was nearest to our hotel on Christmas Eve and the next-morning ritual of stockings and gift giving, I might not even have known it was Christmas. That would have been fine with me. Christmas is an insidious, emotionally manipulative holiday. What with Alice’s death coinciding with the holidays, and the snow, and being back home for the first time in years, it was easy to see how I’d allowed myself to get sucked into it.
But now I was over that. Well and truly over it. I’m not saying that I suddenly turned into some unfeel
ing, insensitive pillar of salt. Nor was I doing a turnabout on my feelings about Nilson’s Bay; on the contrary, I recognized that my coming home was a good thing, that it had helped me find a certain amount of peace regarding Alice’s death, and even though I still hadn’t unraveled the mystery of Maeve and probably never would, I had gotten some insight into my sister’s life.
It was just that after a bit of reflection, I recognized the source of my melancholy and the season that had primed me to become emotionally vulnerable to Peter and his unkind and unfair commentary. Having recognized the problem, I was able to explain it rationally and prescribe myself an antidote, the medicine that never failed me: work.
And not just any work, though I did make some calls to the office in DC to see how things were coming along with the transition and I did check in with Jenna, but meaningful work that would help Rinda and others keep their jobs, would preserve an important though unrecognized historic building, and would protect the town from the economic and cultural ravages of a bunch of greedy people who didn’t care a rat’s rear end about Nilson’s Bay and the people who live here.
Peter’s sensibilities might be too delicate to fully engage on behalf of his constituents, but mine weren’t. I’ve never backed away from a fight. And this wasn’t just me fighting for the sake of it. Winning this fight would actually help my fellow man. If you can think of a better way to celebrate Christmas, the birth of the one who instructed us to love our neighbors as ourselves, then I’d like to know about it.
Our first big organizational meeting was set to take place that night. With the help and input of Mrs. Lieshout and the FOA—particularly Celia, since school had let out for the holiday and she had plenty of time, not to mention proximity since she was living with me—we had rewritten and reprinted the flyer, posted copies on every bulletin board in Nilson’s Bay and the surrounding towns, crafted a press release and sent it to various news outlets in the county, and made phone calls inviting people to the meeting. We were ready. If everyone who said they were coming actually showed up, we’d have upward of forty attending, a pretty impressive showing in a town this size.
I’d also spent a lot of time doing research on the investment company that was buying the store—they were hugely profitable—and what had happened to the small businesses in other localities after the company had opened similar stores. A lot of them hadn’t survived. I was boiling down that information and putting it into bullet points that could be handed to attendees and members of the press.
Though we didn’t yet officially exist as a group, it was decided that Mrs. Lieshout would facilitate the meeting. I was sure that by the end of the night, she would be elected as chair of the Nilson’s Bay Heritage Protection Committee and that the name, though still unofficial, would also be voted upon and adopted.
We’d done an amazing amount of work in a short time. Now we were just handling the final details of logistics and refreshments. Dinah had confirmed that she would bring three dozen of her fold-over fruit pies, Rinda was mixing and bringing a big batch of punch, and, with Daphne’s help, I would bake a few batches of You Like-A Me Bars. We decided to do the baking at her house. Celia was out running a few last-minute errands, but would join us at the library that evening.
“Welcome to the asylum!” Daphne said when she opened the door. “Can I take your coat?”
It was an appropriate greeting.
The television was blaring, even though no one was watching it. The whine of a blow-dryer and the wince-inducing squeal of badly played violin music came from the general direction of the bedrooms. Ophelia and Portia, with beach towels trailing from their shoulders like capes, were running through the living room, shouting and leaping and whacking each other with long cardboard tubes that had once held wrapping paper.
“ ‘I have no words!’” Ophelia cried. “ ‘My voice is in my sword!’ ”
She leapt onto a chintz ottoman and thrust the long cardboard cylinder at her sister’s shoulder. Portia then jumped onto the sofa, nearly knocking over a table lamp.
“ ‘Yield thee, coward!’ ” Portia shouted and started thwacking her sister repeatedly over the head, her expression full of murderous glee that quickly turned to frustration.
“Mom!” she whined as Daphne hung up my jacket. “Ophelia won’t yield!”
“I don’t have to!” Ophelia countered. “Malcolm dies offstage!”
“But he still dies! Mom!”
Daphne hung my jacket up and slammed the closet door. “Girls! That’s enough! Go outside and play. Why are you so obsessed with Macbeth anyway, you little barbarians?”
“It’s got the best fight scenes,” Portia said, hopping down from the couch.
“It’s too violent,” Daphne said. “If you have to play Macbeth, then why not be the Weird Sisters instead? Suits you better.”
“But it’s just me and Portia,” Ophelia reasoned. “We’d need a third witch.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re lacking in that department,” Daphne said in a half mumble. “Viola! Come out here and play with your sisters. They need another witch!”
The scraping of the violin ceased, mercifully. Viola came into the room with her instrument at her side and a scowl on her face.
“Mom! I’m too old to play Macbeth. And I’ve got to practice.”
“And I’ve got to be able to hear myself think,” Daphne said, clicking off the television set. “Seriously, Viola, take them outside to play for an hour or so. I’ll pay you three dollars.”
Viola’s forehead creased as she considered the offer. “Four,” she said after a moment. “And I get to do the ‘fair is foul’ speech.”
“Five,” Daphne countered. “And you’ve got to check on the chickens while you’re out there.”
“Deal,” Viola said and turned to her siblings. “C’mon, weird sisters.”
The girls bundled up and went outside. I followed Daphne into the kitchen and started unloading recipe ingredients from the grocery bags I’d brought. Daphne made coffee. A moment later, Juliet popped in, her hair sleek and shining, wearing a sweater and wool skirt with cute brown riding boots.
“Gotta run, but do I look okay?” she asked.
“Fantastic! Good luck!” Daphne made a kiss noise at her. Juliet grinned and disappeared.
“What was that about?”
“Juliet has an interview. She’s applying for a summer internship at the state capitol this summer.”
“Yeah? That’s great!”
Daphne pressed the brew button on the coffee maker. “When The Sloth heard she might be going away, he got all pissed and gave her an ultimatum—him or Madison. She told him to have a nice summer.”
Daphne threw up her hands.
“Hallelujah! Thought she’d never get rid of that loser!”
“Good for her! It’s about time,” I said.
“Sure is. And I’ve got you to thank for it. Your talk at the high school really inspired her.”
Daphne opened the cupboard and pulled out two coffee mugs, humming to herself.
“You seem awfully happy today,” I said as I started unwrapping the sixteen sticks of butter that would be required to make four pans of bars—no wonder they taste so good. “Is this just because of Juliet? Or is something else going on?”
Daphne’s eyes danced. She pressed her lips together and blew up her cheeks like a squirrel hoarding nuts, as if she was bursting to share her news.
“So you remember the truck driver who kept stopping into the store to buy jerky and M&M’S?”
“Daphne, no! You made a deal with yourself, remember? No more giant panda! You can’t afford to get pregnant now, and even if you could, where would you put another baby? You’re out of bedrooms.”
“No! It’s not like that,” Daphne said, grinning as she filled the coffee mugs and handed one to me.
“His name is Myron. He’s from North Carolina, but spends most of his time on the road. Anyway, he came into the store last week and bought some jerky l
ike he always does, and we chatted a little bit like we always do, and then he asked me if he could take me out for a cup of coffee after work, and I said okay.”
Daphne pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down. I left the butter to soften and went to join her, sipping coffee as she continued her story.
“So,” she said in a hurried and breathless voice, leaning toward me, “we walked over to the doughnut place and got some coffee and talked, and then he asked me if I wanted to see his truck.”
“Let me guess. His truck has a sleeper cab.”
“It does,” she confirmed. “But I climbed in anyway because he’s really cute and nice and, by that time, I was feeling a little . . . well, you know.”
“Not good,” I said and blew on my coffee. Daphne went on with her story, ignoring my comment.
“So we get in the cab and he shows me the controls and how the radio and the refrigeration system works and then asks if I want to see the sleeper and I said okay—” I started to scold and she lifted her hand to stop me. “Hang on. Let me finish. Anyway, we climb in there. I just thought it would be a bed, but he customized it so there’s cabinets and a kitchenette and a sofa and even a shelf for books! And what do I see on his shelf?” she asked, her eyes sparkling in anticipation of my answer.
“No,” I said, thunking my coffee cup down on the kitchen table. “No way!”
Daphne bobbed her head excitedly. “Yes! Yes way! The Complete Works of William Shakespeare!”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true! He had the sonnets and everything! Well, the second I saw those books, I went into full-bore, hard-core panda mode. I grabbed him and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. And then do you know what happened?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “But I’d just as soon you didn’t share the details.”
She shook her head hard, like a dog just come in from the rain.
The Second Sister Page 28