A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  Ex-friend. I’ll have a word with her later.

  He takes a big step backward. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “Miscues, that’s all. Nothing to be pissed about. Oh, there’s the intercom. Would you please buzz Carol in?”

  She comes strutting upstairs wearing a suit that has seen better days and a ridiculous grin. “Congratulations! Game well played.”

  The only thing more irritating than her dated wardrobe is her disingenuous chatter. “Let’s step over to the dining room table. May I see the paperwork, please?” It doesn’t take long to absorb. “Pen?”

  “But don’t you want to go over—”

  “I’m not new to real estate deals. Order the inspections. We can close whenever. I assume the Bairds will qualify for the financing they’ll need. As soon as I know that’s the case, I’ll take care of moving my possessions. Anything else?”

  “I guess not. But, to be honest, I’ve never had a client who was so self-assured.”

  My patience is going, going . . . “Your job is to make sure everything is copacetic, yes? I hired you because I believed you were competent, so unless you’re telling me you’re not, let’s get on with it.”

  I sign the offer and send her on her way. I could still change my mind, but I won’t. Indecision is no one’s friend. Forward momentum, that’s always been my goal. Nothing past tense is worth hanging on to.

  I’d almost forgotten about Charlie, who’s still sitting in the living room, waiting for a check. “Holy shit,” he says. “Why were you so short with that woman?”

  “Was I?”

  “You were brutal.”

  “Nah, not even close. Curt, maybe.”

  “But why?” he asks.

  “Some people rub me the wrong way.”

  “I vow to always rub you the right way. Oh, and don’t take that literally.”

  I reward him with a smile. Start toward the office to retrieve my checkbook. Remember it’s no longer here. Go in search of my purse instead. Hand him a hundred in cash and dismiss him, quite likely for the last time.

  Also quite likely for the last time, I carry a cup of coffee out onto the deck, sip it as I listen to familiar sounds—the bark of my neighbor’s dog, car engines fighting the steep grade, jets in and out of SFO. I won’t miss any of that. What I will miss, something of great value to me, is the absolute privacy I’ve enjoyed, living here alone. Cassandra might have been right. Maybe I was crazy to get married again. Time will tell.

  I finish my coffee, wash the mug by hand, unload the dishwasher, and put everything away, the way I would were I simply enjoying the city for the day. Then I close the window, lock the doors, and turn on the alarm system, all as if I’m just leaving on another trip instead of going home. How long will it take for Tahoe to truly replace San Francisco as “home”?

  five

  I T’S SUNDAY, SO TRAFFIC heading toward the Sierra Nevada is light. I get to Mel’s a little before one, which might be good except she’s not here. It’s Graham who answers the door. “Come on in. They’ll be home from church soon.” He steps back to let me by.

  As always, no love between us, it’s awkward being here with Graham. I paint on my socialite fund-raiser face in favor of playing the shrew and follow him into the kitchen. “I was about to have some iced tea,” he says. “Sit. Can I get you something?”

  “Tea would great. No sweetener, please.”

  “Of course not.”

  I ignore the slightly disparaging tone and watch him pour two glasses from a big pitcher stamped with a smiling solar face. “Is that really sun tea?”

  “Beats me.” He hands me a glass, sits across the table, and stares out the window at his golden retrievers playing in the backyard.

  I wait, but when it becomes obvious that’s all he’s got to say, I break the silence. “So, how are things?”

  Such a simple question generally nets an equally uncomplicated answer like “pretty good, thanks.” Or, in the case of someone like Graham, who has probably uttered one hundred (mostly unkind) words, max, to me over the last ten years, a plain old “okay.” Unreasonably, I sense a lot more coming.

  He clears his throat. “Things are incredibly fucked-up right now, Tara. But thanks for asking.”

  How am I supposed to respond to that? “Sorry to hear it. Anything I can do?”

  “Nope. I’m afraid all the money in the world can’t fix some things.”

  Normally, I’d jump on the offensive, but something in his voice makes me pause. I study his face. Age has tempered his sharp handsome features, softened them with a few extra pounds and a network of crisscrossing channels. “Well, I don’t have all the money in the world, but even if I did, I wasn’t suggesting bailing you out of financial difficulty. But if I could refer you to someone or, I don’t know . . . offer an ear? The figurative kind, of course.”

  He actually rewards the small joke with a shallow grin. “Tara, you and I have labored relentlessly to build a history of mutual distrust. Altering our relationship now would seem . . . immoral.”

  I have to respect his command of the English language. Too bad we don’t like talking to each other. “Yeah, well, though few enough people believe this, I happen to have a strong sense of morality. . . .” Am I seriously defending that twice in one day? “So I won’t offer advice again, unless you ask for it.”

  He lowers his gaze, starts to say something, but hesitates, and I wonder if he might actually take me up on the offer. Instead, he says, “Do you ever wonder where we’d be if things had gone differently twenty years ago?”

  The question, out of the blue, takes me aback, and I struggle to find an answer. Punt, I guess. “It’s my policy not to look backward, Graham.”

  “So, no regrets?”

  “Regret is a luxury I refuse to indulge.”

  “Regret as luxury?”

  “Anything that slows you down is a luxury. Anything that forces you to linger.”

  His head tilts to one side. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Not necessarily. But I’ve only got so much time, so if I’m going to tarry, it won’t be with something painful.”

  He’s still processing this when the garage door opens. Melody pushes inside, laughing over her shoulder. Graham and I jerk our attention away from each other and redirect our focus in her direction, something she can’t help but notice. It gives her pause. Her eyes travel side to side, Graham’s face to mine.

  “You’re back,” she says simply as two of her daughters traipse in.

  Graham and I both stand. He picks up his tea. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on the Giants game and let you engage in woman talk.”

  I direct my woman talk toward the girls. “Hello, ladies. How was church?”

  “Holy,” jokes Suzette, setting a grocery bag down on the counter.

  “Boring,” adds Jessica. At just-turned-thirteen, she doubtless thinks everything is boring, though she’s probably right about church.

  Mel gives me an assessing once-over. “You look great. Tell me about Alaska while I fix us some lunch.”

  “Skipping,” says Suzette.

  “She’s diiiiiiieting,” taunts Jessica. “ ’Cause she’s so fat, you know.”

  “Join us at the table anyway, please.” Mel shoos the girls to go change while she starts working on an Asian chicken salad. “So, what were you and Graham talking about?”

  “Nothing much. Sun tea. Mutual distrust. He seemed . . . subdued.”

  “Think so? He has been distant, but that’s nothing new.”

  “I’m going to sit, if you don’t need help. I’ve been having knee problems.”

  She gestures for me to take a seat. “Bad problems?”

  “Not sure yet. I’ll find out when I see my doctor.”

  “Not too bad, I hope. I was going to ask if you wanted to hike Half Dome with me this fall.”

  “Half Dome? As in Yosemite?”
>
  “Yes. I’ve never done it, and thought it might be a good challenge.”

  “Melody, you don’t hike. And have you ever even been to Yosemite?”

  “No. Stupid, huh? I mean, it’s not so very far from here. And I have been taking some day hikes. Trying to exercise more, ward off middle-age flab.”

  My sister has shed a few pounds, and there’s something different about her demeanor, an unfamiliar air of confidence, evident in her posture. “Huh. Half Dome. You are full of surprises.”

  “I turn forty in October. I decided to celebrate with an adventure.”

  Wow. I never figured Melody for the midlife-crisis type, but if she is, she’s going about it all wrong. “How about an adventure in Paris? Or Sydney? Or Monte Carlo, for Christ’s sake. I mean, I love Yosemite, but jeez, Mel. If you’re going to start living at forty, start living big.”

  “Half Dome is pretty darn big, you know.”

  Melody, ambitious. Graham, polite. What is happening in this house? Only the kids seem semi-normal. A couple of them, anyway. The oldest is noticeably absent. “Where’s Kayla?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “If I did, would I have asked you?”

  She turns her back on the napa cabbage she’s been chopping, faces me, and drops her eyes level with mine. “Last I heard she was shacking up with Eli.”

  “What?”

  “She’s been at Tahoe since you left for your honeymoon.”

  “No one said a word to me!” Who the hell thought that would be all right? And why isn’t Mel upset? “You’re okay with this?”

  “Look, Tara. I’ve got enough stress in my life. I’ve decided not to let things I have no control over upset my spiritual harmony.”

  “Spiritual harmony? Next you’ll tell me you’ve taken up yoga.”

  “I have, actually, and maybe you should try it. Tapping into your inner power allows you to shed negativity from your life.”

  “Negativity like your daughter?”

  “Exactly. Kayla’s eighteen, technically an adult. I could try and influence her choices, but she doesn’t have to listen to me, and in fact she didn’t much listen to me before she turned eighteen. Anyway, I figure Eli is a fling, and it will fizzle once Kayla starts school next month.”

  The San Francisco Art Institute. Right. The college of her dreams. The one Graham and Mel can’t afford to send Kayla to, but I can, so I offered to cover the insane tuition as a Christmas gift. I had to pull major strings to get her accepted, considering her less-than-stellar grades. I take a couple of deep breaths and encourage my blood pressure to lower. This situation is temporary, unless . . . “She still plans to go, right?”

  Mel shrugs. “As far as I know. You’ll have to ask her.”

  Oh, I most definitely will, and I’ll make damn sure she doesn’t change her mind. I went out on a very expensive limb for that girl, going as far as asking for Finn’s help. He has a friend on the board, Larry Alexander, who’s working to funnel my tax-deductible contribution into a scholarship for Kayla. Larry’s a gold-standard connection, one I won’t have severed due to my overwrought niece’s infatuation with my stepson.

  Jessica comes running back into the kitchen, all dressed down in comfy shorts and a T-shirt. Graham and Suzette are right on her heels. At the interruption, it comes to me. Kayla’s question about Sophia. No wonder she wanted to know who she is.

  “Is lunch ready?” Jessica exhales. “Strangely, ‘Jesus healing lepers’ talk makes me hungry.”

  “Jess!” exclaims Mel.

  But we all smile, and the heat is off Melody, at least for now. Still, as she arranges plates on the table, the interaction between her and her husband is curious. Graham is unusually attentive and doesn’t aim a single barb in my direction. Mel doesn’t seem to care. Maybe she doesn’t even see it, but considering the chill factor in the past, his relative warmth is disconcerting. How could she not notice?

  Think I’ll stir the pot a little. “Hey, Graham. Did you know Mel’s planning to hike Half Dome for her fortieth?”

  He has to work very hard not to let Asian chicken salad fall out of his mouth.

  “What?”

  “Really?” says Jessica, grinning. “That’s so cool. Can we go camping, too?”

  “Oh, a family trip. Even better,” I tease.

  Melody shoots me an evil glare. “You can’t miss school to go camping, Jess. Anyway, I haven’t made any solid plans yet. Just considering.”

  “Yosemite is gorgeous in October. Perfect weather. No crowds to speak of, not even on weekends.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to work Graham up, which is absolutely the net effect of this exchange. Maybe I really do like him better when we’re trading insults. Old habits die hard.

  His expression is priceless. Half confusion. Half irritation. I expect a forward assault. Instead, he retreats. “Well, let me know when you make up your mind.” He returns to his lunch in silence.

  “Hey, before I go, I’ve got Alaska souvenirs for everyone. Be right back.”

  I left them in a bag by the door. Tees for the girls. A shot glass for Graham. And an unusual sweater for Melody. July is the wrong time of year in Sacramento to try on wool, but Mel goes to do exactly that while Suz and Jessica admire the sparkly killer whales on their shirts and Graham studies the logo on his glass.

  “Yukon Kate’s House of Ill-repute. Is this a personal recommendation?”

  The girls miss the joke. I go with it. “Absolutely. I was in charge of auditions.”

  He actually laughs, and now I’m creeped out. I believe his psychosis is showing. Timing it perfectly, Melody returns, looking slim and svelte in musk ox. Graham rewards her with a wolf whistle. “Those workouts are paying off.”

  Mel ignores the remark completely and directs her comment toward me. “I never knew wool could be so soft. Almost makes me wish for winter.” Says the woman who wears a thick down powder suit to ski and still gripes about the snow.

  “I’m glad you like it.” I glance at my watch. “Better go. Still have a drive ahead. I’ll let you know what the doctor says about my knee and we can discuss October. Walk me to my car?”

  “Tara, it’s ninety-five degrees out there. I’ll melt in this sweater.”

  True enough. “Okay. I’ll text you.”

  Heat trails, in fact, shimmer off the asphalt. I start my car and crank up the air-conditioning, and while I wait for it to cool, I message Melody. Srsly. What’s going on with Graham and you? That was a compliment, you know.

  She must have been waiting, because the reply comes right away. Too little, too late. Fuck Graham .

  Did my sister just say “fuck”?

  For two decades, Melody has defined her life by her marriage. Her husband and children have meant absolutely everything, and stability was her prime objective. After the chaos of our childhood, I understood that.

  Even choosing a career as a technical writer instead of a journalist or novelist was all about playing it safe. Mel has always loved words, especially poetry. That is one of the few things we have in common. That and music, our childhood escape when our unstable mother was in one of her evil moods, brought us closer together.

  Early marriages put us on separate trajectories, but I’ve done my best to support her in whatever ways I could, with or without Graham’s blessing. I’ve also encouraged her to take chances, especially if they added excitement to her staid existence.

  Still, our annual ski trip has historically been the most audacious outing of her year. So, hiking Half Dome? Improbable. And the whole “fuck Graham” thing?

  Impossible.

  six

  T HERE ARE SEVERAL ROUTES from Sacramento into the Tahoe Basin. I choose the most direct between Mel’s and home, turning off the freeway in Truckee and heading south on Highway 267. Passing the Northstar ski resort, I can’t help but recall the last time I went this way, a few months ago.

  Melody was driving me to my scheduled knee surgery at Barton Memorial Hospital, and we�
�d been discussing Kayla’s illicit activities, including her marijuana habit. “Yes, I’ve smelled it on her before but have tried to ignore it,” Mel admitted. “I’m sure it’s just a phase, and besides, to tell you the truth, she’s easier to get along with when she’s a little buzzed.”

  That was so unlike my sister, or at least my concept of her, that I had to rethink what I knew about her and came to the conclusion that it’s impossible to know anyone completely. We all have our skeletons, and they don’t always rattle their bones loudly enough to draw outside attention. I’d really like to peek in Mel’s closet right now, just to see what’s jangling in there.

  She’s alluded to problems with Graham for a while, and considering his usual surly demeanor, I’ve always supposed the fault to be his. His recent spare-time activities—starting a band, weekend gigs, not to mention a solo trip to Las Vegas—indicated some sort of midlife adjustment, at least to my suspicious mind. But what if it’s Mel who’s reassessing? Trading the tried-and-true for risk taking? It’s hard to picture.

  The changes in her are enigmatic, really. On one hand, she started attending church regularly a few years ago, after refusing religion for most of her adult life. On the other, apparently she sanctions her daughter not only sleeping around but also moving into my stepson’s bedroom for the summer. Will the real Melody Ann Schumacher please raise your hand?

  As I’m dropping down the hill into Kings Beach, another part of my Kayla-centric conversation with my sister surfaces. I said I assumed, with or without marijuana, the girl had enough sense to use birth control. “She’s been on Depo-Provera for almost two years now,” said Mel. “One shot. Twelve weeks of protection.”

  Wonder when she last visited her doctor. A pregnancy now would be a most unwelcome development.

  Summer tourist traffic chokes the highways. It’s bumper-to-bumper, sightseer speed, frustration building with every mile. I tune into a mellow radio station, try to relax, and remind myself that only a few short months ago, I was still a visitor here, too. I’m sure I pissed off my fair share of locals, putting along and gawking at the lake view. It’s as stunning as ever—aquamarine closer to the rocky shoreline, emboldened to indigo out where the water grows mountain deep. But I’ve seen it before.