“Like Monica,” Charlie clarified.
“Yes, unfortunately, like Monica. A Western passport and the money, power, and political clout behind it may shield you from becoming a target. Just be alert, and let me know immediately if something happens.”
Nervously, Charlie had agreed. Since the call she had been on high alert, wary of every shadowy man in the entrance to the metro stations, scanning the crowds of people on the street for anyone who might be following her.
For her part, Waverly seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her stay. She bought trinkets for her staff, declared repeatedly that she was delighted to be close to the baby, and gave every indication that she was simply doing what she’d said she’d do when she first arrived—enjoying a holiday in Budapest with her sister. But Charlie knew her too well. Several times she caught Waverly studying her growing belly with a pinched look of worry. There were no phone calls from Andrew. In fact, Waverly didn’t mention him at all, a troubling sign, glaring in its omission. And then there was the stack of pudding cups taking up most of the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. Waverly ate them at night after Charlie went to bed. Charlie found the rinsed and empty containers in the recycle bin each morning. But Waverly said nothing about it, and neither did Charlie. Each kept her own secrets and pretended all was well.
On Monday when Charlie returned to work, she gave Waverly a map, a guidebook, and her office number and left her to her own devices. When she arrived home from work that afternoon, Waverly was just taking a pan of some delicious baked good out of the oven. Charlie had smelled it all the way from the elevator. Waverly was also talking in a low tone on her cell phone. When Charlie walked through the door, she quickly hung up with a reluctant murmur.
“Was that Andrew?” Charlie asked, shrugging out of her cropped leather jacket and hanging it by the door.
“Yes,” Waverly said. She didn’t elaborate.
“Everything okay?” Charlie pressed a little, trying to gauge her sister’s reaction.
“Of course. He’s decided to head up to his cabin in the next couple of weeks to do some fishing and . . . contemplate his life choices,” Waverly said with a measured tone. “Are you hungry?” she asked brightly, changing the subject. “I made cheese scones. They’re still warm.”
Charlie decided not to push. She would have to figure out another way to gain information about what exactly was going on with her sister and brother-in-law. “I’m always hungry,” she said, eyeing the delectable-looking scones.
A hefty side benefit of having Waverly as a guest was her cooking. Since her arrival Waverly had been whipping up delicious meals every night, proving that there were definite perks to having a celebrity chef as a sister.
“I’ll get you a plate.” Waverly waved Charlie into the living room. “But don’t get too cozy. I decided not to cook tonight. We’re going out.” She came into the living room a moment later with a glass of milk and a piping-hot cheddar scone on a plate, a pat of butter melting temptingly down the sides.
Charlie accepted it gratefully, breaking off the end and savoring it. This was what she had been missing, living alone so many years. It was what she had mourned when Aunt Mae died, the little acts of kindness, those shiny copper pennies doled out one by one by someone who loved her. It was why she had hoped the baby might mend the cracks in their sisterly bond and bring them back together. She needed to care for someone other than herself. She needed someone to care for her.
Charlie put her feet up on the arm of the couch, stifling a groan as she devoured the scone. She was beginning to feel the aches and pains that so many pregnant women complained of—a twinge in the lower back, swollen feet from the added weight of the baby. She was still small for being six months along, with a perfectly rounded tummy that stuck out like half a melon, but she felt the presence of the baby keenly. He—Charlie still thought of it as he, although the doctor had pronounced himself almost certain it was a girl—was active, especially at night, somersaulting and kicking energetically. Sometimes Charlie would awaken with the motion and lie in the darkness as the baby performed gymnastics in her belly. More and more she found herself talking to him throughout the day, brief comments about some news article she read on the BBC or an opinion on a matter from work. She was comforted by his presence, silent though he was. She liked to think he was listening to her.
While Charlie polished off the scone, Waverly prowled around the living room, finally stopping to peruse the heavily laden bookshelves.
“You don’t have one book here I want to read,” she observed with a frown. “Not a single romance or a fluffy British chick lit novel.”
“I just read what I like,” Charlie answered unapologetically around a mouthful of scone.
“Well, I wish you’d like something a little lighter and more fun. Oh, look.” Waverly brightened and pulled a book from the shelf. “Isn’t this the one you loved when we were kids, about the princess and the red knight?”
“Red Cross Knight,” Charlie corrected, taking a sip of milk. “St. George and the Dragon.”
“You wanted to be a knight when you grew up,” Waverly reminisced, smiling. “Do you remember? I wanted to be a movie star named Lilah Thorne and you wanted to be a knight.”
“Lilah Thorne sounds like a porn star,” Charlie said, “and yes, I do remember I wanted to be a knight. Some dreams die hard, I guess.” She licked the tip of her finger and concentrated on picking up every last crumb of the scone off her plate.
Now that she’d mustered her courage and decided to testify in the trials, she’d thought she might feel a little more like the Red Cross Knight—brave and noble. Instead, she just felt jumpy and scared. It didn’t feel very knightly, but she was mustering all the courage she had to face this dragon.
Waverly turned the book over in her hands. “Oh, this takes me back to when we were little. Remember Daddy always telling us we could be whatever we wanted? ‘The sky’s the limit for my girls.’ Do you remember him saying that?” She smiled fondly. “Do you think they’d be proud of us?” she asked after a moment.
“Who? Mom and Dad?” Charlie set her empty plate aside.
Waverly nodded. She leafed through a couple of the book’s pages. “If they saw us now, do you think they’d be proud?”
It was a deep question, the kind they hadn’t asked each other in a long time. Charlie tucked a pillow under her knees and thought for a moment. Years ago, before the debacle that ended her time in Africa, she would have answered with an unhesitating yes. She was following in her father’s footsteps, fulfilling his legacy. How could he not be proud of her? She pictured Robert Talbot—that strong-boned, good-humored face, the powerful rugby-player build, the laugh that boomed up from his broad chest. Oh, she missed him still.
“I hope so,” she answered truthfully. “I went to South Africa to find them. Did I ever tell you that’s why I went? I wanted to honor them, to honor how they lived and how they died. And I stayed because I found myself there, in the places they had been, in the things Dad loved. It just fit somehow. But when I left . . . I didn’t leave well. And I think that would make them sad. I think I’ve been running for a long time.” She stopped, surprised by her self-revelation.
Waverly paused, the book open in her hands, and looked at her sister. “Running from what?” she asked curiously.
“My own failure, I guess.” Charlie couldn’t meet her sister’s eyes. “Do you think they’d be proud of you?” She turned the question around, shifting the spotlight from her own discomfort.
Waverly pursed her lips. “I like to think so.” She paused. “It’s only half past five and our dinner reservation isn’t until seven thirty. I’m a bit hungry. Would you like a pudding cup?”
Charlie shrugged. “Sure, why not?” Something sweet sounded appealing. Waverly disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with two cups and two spoons. Chocolate for Charlie and French vanilla for herself. Charlie peeled the foil from the top and tasted a spoonful.
“Oh, wow, this takes me back to about 1997.” She took another spoonful. “Not too bad, actually.”
“And it’s good for the baby,” Waverly added, scooping up a large spoonful. “It’s chock-full of calcium.”
They ate their pudding cups in companionable silence. For a moment Charlie almost believed time had turned back twenty years and they were sitting together about to watch Dawson’s Creek or Roswell while Aunt Mae pulled a double shift at the factory. On those nights Waverly would cook dinner and they would watch their favorite shows, the ones Aunt Mae disapproved of. She liked old shows like Bonanza and Dallas.
Waverly took a spoonful of her pudding and savored it. “In a way I think everything I’ve done has been a tribute to Mother and Daddy,” she said, returning to their previous conversation. “An attempt to preserve the memory of our family, our childhood. I wanted to create a beautiful thing to celebrate the life we shared with them, however brief it was.”
She finished her pudding and set the spoon in the empty container. “I didn’t see it that way for the longest time. I just did what felt right. But I think I’ve always been looking to recapture our childhood somehow.” She looked down at the empty pudding cup in her hands. “I think Simply Perfect has really always been about them, and about us before . . . before we lost everything. I still miss them,” she said softly. “And I like to think they’d be proud of what I’ve created in their honor.”
Charlie felt a lump rise in her throat. She tried to imagine what Robert and Margaret would think if they were able to peek into her living room and see their twins, grown to mature women now. The sisters had each made choices in the light of their loss. Those choices had led them far apart, but now it seemed that perhaps they were finding each other once again.
“How rustic,” Waverly declared a few hours later, surveying the traditional Hungarian restaurant with satisfaction. She and Charlie were sitting in uncomfortably large carved wooden chairs at a table made from a slice of tree trunk. The restaurant had white stucco walls and heavy wooden beams and was packed with diners. Waverly had reserved the last available table for the evening.
When the waiter brought their meals, she took a bite of hers. “This is absolutely delicious,” she said in surprise. She nibbled the forkful of grilled chicken breast topped with goose liver, mushrooms, and ewe’s cheese, analyzing the flavors. The cheese was unique, earthy and slightly tangy. She tried to think where she’d encountered the flavor before. It was reminiscent of a sheep cheese she’d tried last summer from an artisan cheesemaker in Vermont. Andrew had not cared for it, but Waverly had bought a chunk of it anyway and served it with a brandy fig jam.
“Mine is great too. Good choice of restaurant,” Charlie said, her mouth full of savory chicken paprikash.
“What is in this?” Waverly shut her eyes and tasted another forkful of her dinner, trying to separate the individual components. She had an uncanny ability to pinpoint flavors and ingredients and then replicate the dish. When they were in high school she’d managed to recreate the distinctive flavors of KFC’s secret fried chicken recipe, Aunt Mae’s favorite, and then made it for every Sunday dinner for an entire year.
“Can I try yours?” Waverly reached her fork over without waiting for her sister’s assent. She tasted the chicken paprikash and made a sound of approval. The classic Hungarian dish consisted of savory chunks of chicken swimming in a hearty paprika and sour cream sauce over homemade noodles. The sauce was rich and creamy, and the noodles had a pleasantly chewy texture. She savored the flavor for a moment. “Oh, this is decadent.” She helped herself to another bite and said, “Why isn’t Hungarian cooking more well known?”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. Most Hungarians know how to make these dishes. Any decent home cook can recreate them. Even I know how to make goulash.” She sat back, adjusting the band of her maternity jeans.
Waverly eyed her sister with a twinge of jealousy. Charlie looked as toned and fit as ever. She seemed to be sailing through pregnancy the way she sailed through life, with a pragmatism and ease that made Waverly feel high maintenance and fussy. Had she been sitting there six months pregnant she probably would have been as big as a balloon with cankles and acid reflux. But she still would have traded places with Charlie in a heartbeat.
With a sigh she turned her attention back to the food. She shouldn’t regret what she could not have. Better to celebrate the fulfillment of a long-held dream, even if the child was coming to her in a way she had never imagined.
“Someone should introduce the world to this food. It’s too good to be a secret.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she sat up straight, fork in hand, struck by the glimmer of a marvelous idea. “Oh,” she said, looking around the restaurant speculatively. She tapped her fork against her lips, eyes narrowing.
“How’s the show going?” Charlie asked, scooting her plate out of reach of Waverly’s fork.
“Hmm?” Waverly turned her attention back to her sister. “Oh, not that well, actually,” she said. “The network is feeling skittish. They’re afraid we may have peaked. We need to strengthen our viewership and prove that we’re still fresh, or it’s possible that Simply Perfect may be canceled.” The thought gave her a twinge of panic every time she pictured it.
Charlie paused, her loaded fork halfway to her mouth, and gaped at her twin. “Canceled? Are you serious? But what would you do?”
“I don’t know.” Waverly looked down at her meal and speared a chunk of goose liver. She didn’t want to contemplate what she would do. She just wanted to make sure it didn’t happen.
“Isn’t there some way to save it?” Charlie asked.
“Believe me, I’ve been wracking my brain for months trying to find a way to boost ratings, and I’d about given up. But I just had an idea that I think might actually work. Want to hear it?” Waverly sat up straight in her chair, excited by her new notion and its potential.
“Sure.” Charlie took a hefty slice of soft white Hungarian bread from the basket at their table and wiped her plate clean with it, sopping up the last of the creamy sauce.
Waverly leaned forward, a predatory gleam in her eye. The idea she was concocting was good. A fresh angle and a chance to snag a new segment of viewers while keeping her loyal fans too.
“We take Simply Perfect on the road here in central Europe. We do episodes with local cooks in their own homes. It’s still make-at-home recipes and home entertaining tips—the things that are signature Simply Perfect—but with an international flair.” She sat back triumphantly. “It’s Simply Perfect’s formula but with a fresh angle that could appeal to a whole new group of viewers.”
She pulled out her iPhone and started tapping out a text to Beau. This could really work. She could feel it, the stirring of excitement in her stomach, the possibility that it could be the answer they were seeking.
“We’ve already taped the spring episodes, but I think we should abandon them and go with something fresh,” she said aloud, although she was talking to herself. “We’ll need to bring the crew over and the equipment, although I wonder if we could rent some of it here.” She tapped furiously at the phone. “And my aprons. I’ll need at least a dozen of my aprons.” She looked up and frowned, calculating the numbers in her head. “No, make that twenty.” She glanced around the restaurant speculatively. “We’ll start here in Budapest. I like this restaurant. It’s very charming. I wonder if the owners would let us film a program in their own home kitchen. Then maybe we could do something in . . . What countries are nearby?” She tried to remember her geography, but it was hazy at best. Where was Ukraine? Was that close?
Charlie sat watching her sister’s machinations, munching a second slice of bread. “Romania, Bulgaria, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia,” she offered.
Waverly’s phone pinged a reply from Beau. She scanned his text, then typed a reply. This was going to be so good, she could feel it.
“What about Andrew?” Charlie asked, breaking into Waverly
’s stream of consciousness. “Won’t he be expecting you to come home soon?”
Waverly paused, her finger hovering over the phone. She went very still, not sure how to reply. She hadn’t wanted to broach the topic with Charlie and had avoided any mention of their troubles altogether. But Charlie wasn’t a fool. She knew something was wrong.
“Andrew and I are spending some time apart right now,” she said finally, evenly, her voice betraying no emotion. It felt like a stab to the heart to say those words.
Charlie’s eyes flew to her sister’s, a concerned look on her face. “Why?” she asked.
Waverly frowned, resenting the question that pried into her marriage difficulties. In one way it wasn’t any of Charlie’s business, but considering that she was at that very moment growing a child for Waverly and Andrew, in another way it was very much her concern.
“He’s . . . reassessing,” Waverly said in a measured tone, looking down at her phone.
“Reassessing what?” Charlie asked, folding her arms across her middle, over the baby, as though to brace them both for bad news.
“His priorities,” Waverly said flatly. She met Charlie’s eyes, her mouth pressed into a thin line. That was all she was going to say on the subject.
Charlie tilted her head, studying her twin for a long moment, but Waverly met her eyes with an obstinate silence. She could be Fort Knox when she wanted to be. Charlie sighed and shrugged, looking around for the waiter and letting the subject drop, at least for the moment.
“I’ll get the bill,” Waverly said, waving her hand to attract the waiter’s attention from across the room. “My treat.”
She was glad for the reprieve but sensed it wouldn’t be the end of it. At some point she was going to have to confess everything to her sister. So far Andrew’s stance seemed unchanging, but Waverly was still hopeful that he would come to see things differently before the baby arrived. If not, she had no idea what she would do.
CHAPTER 18
Get another light over here. We want to be able to see the food,” Beau bellowed to the Hungarian TV crew, who scrambled to obey the order.
Becoming the Talbot Sisters Page 17