The Secrets Sisters Keep

by Abby Drake

  “I thought you were napping,” Amanda said.

  Babe shook her head. “Too much going on in my head.”

  Amanda sneered. “Tell me about it.”

  Babe went outside in search of fresh air again, in search of good feelings that surely would stir from watching the party come together—tables being set, chairs being arranged, flowers and champagne and crisp linens being staged. She was going to have a good time if it killed her.

  Making her way across the manicured grass, she decided to welcome Wes and the boys back from their adventure. Hopefully, Edward would be with them. She said hello to several of the staff and set-up crew and headed toward the boathouse. That’s when she spotted a young man in black walking with a young woman with a shock of red hair—Carleen-like hair, or at least the way Carleen’s hair had looked when they’d been young.

  Babe stopped, caught her breath. The girl had a slim back and long legs and a cute little strut. Good grief, she could be Carleen twenty years ago.

  She must have been imagining things.

  Still, Babe watched the couple link arms and bump comfortably against each other as they walked, their light laughter drifting over the lawn, their carefree youth reminding Babe of her own, of when she’d loved Ray and he’d loved her back.

  Ray.

  She smiled. She sighed.

  She wondered what had happened to him. There had been a well-worn path to his house . . . off to the right . . . a few yards from the boathouse. Her eyes slowly pivoted toward that direction. Surely the path was gone by now, crowded by weeds and time and memories that were best left alone. Still, she took one careful step, then another, her gaze searching, her heart softly beating.

  Suddenly, there it was.

  The entrance was narrower than she remembered, more secretive, more alluring. It was framed with clusters of tiny white wildflowers that seemed to invite her in, seemed eager to beckon her to Ray’s house, to his smile, his arms, and his love.

  She looked around.

  The young man and the Carleen clone rushed into the boathouse; Babe could not see the canoe on the lake. She glanced back to the path. Did she dare? Why not? It wasn’t as if Ray still lived on the other side. Yes, why not? She put one foot forward, followed by another, and then, good grief, another, and soon Babe was swallowed up by the trees and cattails that ran along the shore and hid her from onlookers who might see her sneak off to the place where she’d met him that summer day.

  Babe had been exploring, looking for her own world of pretend far from her sisters and the noise and the people of Uncle Edward’s world. She’d found the path, her private escape. She’d matted down cattails, made a soft seat by the water. Obscured on either side by the high walls of grasses, she’d sat down, dangled her young legs into the lake, and watched the featherweight water bugs skim the silent surface. In the quiet, Babe had daydreamed that her true love would appear beside her, his reflection in the water, the way she had read in a fairy tale. Of course, it hadn’t been possible; of course, it had only been make-believe.

  And suddenly, there was the image. It was a boy, older than she was, a handsome boy, with dark hair and blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and freckles that dotted his creamy skin. She blinked. The reflection didn’t dissolve. Babe squealed. She jumped up, slipped on the cattails, and fell into the lake.

  When she came up for air she dog-paddled like crazy but didn’t dare get to the shore. She had on a white cotton shirt and pants, after all, and it would be soaked and all her girl parts would be showing clear through.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Ray Williams. From over there.” He pointed somewhere, but Babe didn’t pay much attention. She was too busy trying to make her feet locate the bottom of the lake.

  “Do you need any help?”

  She shook her head. If only she knew how to swim! If only Uncle Edward hadn’t told them about the lake monster, she might have taken lessons.

  Suddenly her arms tired. Babe slipped below the surface.

  Finally, she touched the bottom.

  But she was running out of air.

  She felt pressure on her chest and an odd, floaty sensation inside her head.

  Then an arm grasped her waist and pulled her up with one swift, unfaltering motion until the surface broke through and she could breathe again.

  Ahhh.

  Her hero propelled her to the shoreline and up into the cattails and took off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around her because she was shivering. And then he held her close against him and stroked her hair and she coughed and he rubbed her back and said she’d be all right.

  And that was how Naomi Dalton had met her true love.

  Babe laughed again at the sweet sadness of it all, of the relationship that followed, of the sorrow of the end.

  She stopped then, knowing it wasn’t wise to continue. She took a deep, nostalgic breath, turned around, and headed out of her daydreams, back to Uncle Edward’s, and the world as it had become.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was only six o’clock and Ellie had already had enough of her sister Amanda. What was that business about Jonathan and a Brazilian? Oh, Ellie thought, washing her hands at the copper kitchen sink, she would be much happier once this weekend and its players had come and gone.

  “I can stay and help you with supper,” Martina said. “Everything is ready, but I can help you serve.”

  Ellie shook her head. She wanted something to do, a purpose that would help her keep upright and focused and stop her from screaming. “You need to go home. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  Martina nodded. She took off her apron and folded it neatly. “Your sister didn’t recognize me.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Sí.”

  Ellie sighed. “Don’t tell me. Amanda doesn’t think you speak English.”

  “She never did. It was bad enough when we were kids. Now it’s plain rude.”

  “Yes, Amanda can be rude. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize for her. I was the daughter of Edward’s housekeeper. In Amanda’s mind, I am Latino, ergo, I shall always be inferior.”

  Ellie remembered the long-ago altercation when Amanda had suggested that Martina go “back to the island where she belonged.” Ellie had told Edward, who had erupted. She had never seen him so angry. He stomped through the house until he found Amanda. He shouted that he did not allow such small-minded behavior under his roof, and that if Amanda did not apologize immediately, she would not be allowed to return to Kamp Kasteel. Ever. Amanda had been about twelve, still young enough for him to take her by the hand and march her back to the kitchen, where Martina waited for her mother to finish work for the day. After Amanda emitted a weak “I am sorry, Martina,” she lifted her chin and pranced, self-righteously, from the room.

  Ellie had been so embarrassed, so ashamed of her sister. Edward had assured her that someday Amanda would regret her actions. Until recently, Ellie hadn’t known what had become of Martina—or the huge success Martina now enjoyed. Uncle Edward had greeted her warmly, and Ellie had realized he had hired her not only because her catering business was now one of the most sought-after in Manhattan but also to teach Amanda a long-deserved lesson. He’d winked at Ellie and said Martina would be “their little secret” until he was willing to divulge it. He liked having secrets, God help them all.

  “If you’re here by eight,” Ellie said, “you’ll have plenty of time.” Martina was only going to tend to the family; her staff would wait on everyone else.

  “I’ll be here at seven forty-five,” Martina replied as she went to the door.

  Ellie waved, then turned to the refrigerator and removed the platters of chilled chicken salad, sliced cheeses and apples, and two smoked brook trouts, Edward’s “catch of the day” a few days ago that Martina had expertly preserved. Ellie set it all on the poured concrete countertop (the poured concrete had been Henry’s idea, along with the small, gleaming river rocks that had been embedded), ne
xt to a green salad and thin slices of marinated beef tenderloin with roasted red pepper strips and garlic cloves.

  It all looked so divine, as Amanda would say. It was too bad that sometimes a family gathering had a way of reducing one’s appetite.

  Ellie counted the bundles of utensils to suit those who would be in attendance: Amanda (not Jonathan), Chandler, Chase, Heather, the boyfriend (whose name Ellie had already forgotten); Babe and Wes; Ellie; Henry (apparently, not Uncle Edward). Nine. That was all. Why was there so much commotion if that was all?

  Then she realized she hadn’t yet heard Chandler and Chase return with Babe’s husband. Good Lord, Ellie hoped they hadn’t disappeared, too. Perhaps there really was a Lake Kasteel monster after all.

  Then again, three less would mean only six for supper. Surely six would be more manageable. Especially when at least one of them was not hungry.

  Babe waved to Wes and the boys as she emerged from the path and they emerged from the boathouse at the same time.

  “Any luck?” she shouted.

  “Tippy Canoe and Tyler, too!” Wes called back and Babe forced a laugh, but the boys didn’t seem to be in good humor. In fact they—and Wes—looked wet. He swaggered toward her with the stride of a man who had paraded in front of too many cameras over too many years, as if he’d forgotten how Wesley Jamison McCall had walked when he’d been, say, seventeen, as Ray Williams had been when Babe had met him. Wes had swaggered into her life at a vulnerable time, after husbands one then two were long gone, each only having wanted to be attached to her fame and her money. Wes liked the fact that, in many ways, she was his equal. He also liked that she was respectable arm candy, not so young that he could be called lecherous, old enough to understand that sex didn’t always matter. In short, she’d been around the block a couple of times and was no longer naïve.

  “That’s an old presidential campaign slogan,” Wes said now as he reached her. “For us, it simply means we capsized the damn canoe. Lost our paddles. Had to go ashore on an island and grab some pine boughs to paddle back. Christ, talk about embarrassing.”

  He gave her a hug, leaving behind a trace of gin. He must have packed a bottle when she hadn’t been looking. “As for your uncle Edward, I think he has rowed down to the Hudson and right about now he’s passing Forty-second Street and tipping his cap. Where were you? Hiding in the weeds?”

  It took Babe a second to realize he must have seen the direction from which she’d come. “I was looking for wildflowers,” she replied quickly. “The prettiest wildflowers always grew along the path.” She turned toward its entrance as if she expected the flowers would bow in confirmation.

  “Hmm,” Wes replied. “Seems to me there are enough goddamn flowers up at the house to open an arboretum.”

  Now and then Wes startled her by using a big word. More often than not, it was the wrong word. But, choosing her battles as Mother had instructed, Babe didn’t correct him.

  “How are the boys?” she asked, cupping her arm through Wes’s slightly damp forearm. “Are they snobs like Amanda?”

  “I think the younger one might have escaped her genetics. God. Where does that come from, anyway? Was your mother so . . . hoity-toity?”

  It wasn’t a big word, but it suited Amanda. Babe tried to recall if their mother had been like that. She’d been polished and proper, but she’d been the wife of a plumbing supply salesman who hadn’t done anything significant except have a mistress he’d entertained at the Algonquin.

  “And what’s the deal with Carleen? The boys told me she killed your parents. That she burned the house down when they were in it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  In that single, unexpected moment, grief covered her heart the way a dark cloud can suddenly block the sun on a grand summer day.

  Babe averted his eyes. “Tabloid trash,” she said, then tugged his arm. “See why I didn’t want to come home?”

  “But . . .”

  She pressed a finger to her lips. “Sssh. No more talk.” She led him toward the house, deciding she needed to treat the weekend as if it were a film and she was an actor playing a part. The denouement, of course, was as yet unpredictable, but guaranteed to be over by seven thirty-three Sunday night when the plane would lift up from the runway and ferry her back toward the West, toward the place that now was her home.

  Supper was genial, considering the absence of the host and Amanda’s husband and the unspoken, looming concerns about Carleen’s intentions and Edward’s whereabouts. Henry had complained of a headache and hadn’t come to the table.

  Throughout the chicken salad and cold trout, the conversation was more like a question and answer period in which Chase interrogated Wes about his cinematic successes (“How did you make that building blow up?” “When those cars flew off the bridge, was anyone in them?”). No one seemed to mind. Chandler seemed committed to not speak to anyone, which might have annoyed his sister, who was seated next to him, except she was too busy fondling her boyfriend, who was seated on the other side of her. Which left the three sisters—Ellie, Amanda, and Babe—lined up like wooden dolls in a carnival booth at one of Edward’s famous parties, waiting for someone to take a chance for charity on three balls for a dollar and see who could be knocked off the bench for a Kewpie doll, or whatever the prizes were today, perhaps one of those handheld video games that irritated Amanda because they gave children the ability to detach from others, the way Amanda supposed all of them at the table, except Chase and Wes, were trying to detach from one another right now.

  Amanda checked her watch. It was after nine thirty. Whew. Almost time to bid everyone a pleasant goodnight.

  “Lemon meringue pie?” Ellie finally offered.

  The males all said yes, the ladies said no, a weight-related injustice in life, Amanda mused. She got up and helped clear the dishes, a pottery collection that looked French or Italian, another change her elder sister had wrought in the household. A sudden thought jumped into Amanda’s mind: What if Edward left Ellie the mansion and he put all his money into a fund to keep the place going as long as Ellie lived? What if he died but Amanda still wound up broke?

  She grew faint and light-headed; she blamed the trout. Why had she eaten cold fish that had been hooked by Uncle Edward? Was it part of his plan? Was he going to poison them all, or only her, because of her fiscal irresponsibility?

  Suddenly queasy, she clutched the edge of the table. The pottery platter with remnants of the suspect-tainted trout slid from her hand and crashed to the floor. Without stopping to clean up the evidence-mess, Amanda raced from the dining room toward the powder room that was now under the wide staircase and had once been a hiding place for the four young girls. . . .

  She slammed the door behind her, lifted the lid of the toilet, then tossed her cookies, as her mother would have delicately called it.

  Oh, Amanda thought as she crumpled to the floor, she should not have eaten, she should not have pretended that everything was fine.

  It was cold on the floor. Her stomach felt better; she reached up and flushed, then examined the tiles that surrounded the bowl. Some type of polished stone, she deduced. Not ordinary marble or locally bred limestone but something exotic, more than likely European.

  Resting her head against the base of the pedestal sink, she wondered why she was pondering tile when her entire future was at stake.

  She thought of her husband. She did not like him right then. How could she? Could she ever have sex with him again, or see him naked, for that matter, knowing the back-waxer had seen him naked, too, had probably touched him there, had probably . . . oh, her stomach rolled again.

  To get her mind off Jonathan, she thought of her children, and of the fact that Chase was the only one she presently liked. Amanda had never minded admitting that sort of thing to herself—whom did it hurt? Even though Chase was not her style or her likeness, he was an enjoyable boy with a curious, unaffected personality that would take him far. He was not as book smart as his brother, but he wouldn’t n
eed to be. Chase had genuine charm, and if the bastards of the world didn’t get him, he would be fine.

  Chandler was an ass, just like she was. Amanda knew that. She also knew she didn’t much like herself right now, either, so it would figure she would not care for him.

  Heather made her shudder. She looked—had always looked—so much like Carleen that it was quite disconcerting. Yet if Heather ended up pregnant, she would probably not have an abortion but would expect her family to embrace her and help her raise (i.e., pay for) the baby the way Bill and Mazie Dalton would not have done for Babe had they known Babe had been pregnant, had Carleen not convinced Babe to have the abortion and not tell their parents because they would all get in trouble. Amanda knew that Carleen had told Babe’s secret to Ellie and Amanda so she wouldn’t have been the only one to be in trouble. Surely their parents wouldn’t blame all the sisters for a conspiracy to rob Babe of her innocence.

  Yes, Heather not only looked like Carleen but often acted like her as well, which was even more disconcerting.

  Amanda stared at the imported, polished stone floor and wondered if one day Heather would kill her parents the way Carleen had.

  “Amanda-Belle?” Ellie called from the other side of the door. “Are you all right in there?”

  Amanda hauled herself to her feet and looked at her pale, tired face in the mirror. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Everyone’s finished with supper and they’re going to their rooms. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  As if I could possibly need anything, Amanda thought with a nauseous laugh.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Did my daughter go down to the boathouse with that tattooed creep?” Amanda asked once she had vacated the powder room and joined Ellie in the kitchen.

  Ellie drew in a deep breath and counted to three. Sometimes dealing with her sister required a short pause. “He seems like a nice, boy, Amanda. His father is a professor at Harvard.”