The Secrets Sisters Keep

by Abby Drake

  Like him, she cried.

  Then she viewed the rest of them: Ellie, Amanda, Carleen. Amanda’s husband was behind the sisters, and Amanda’s boys and her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend and . . . Wes.

  Oh, right. Wes.

  “Uncle Edward,” Babe managed to say, “it’s good to see you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  He grinned and nodded and pulled away, dabbing his eyes, then hers. “Fit as a fiddler on the roof,” he said, dredging up a joke from his Broadway days. “Too bad the photographer won’t be here until tomorrow! This would be a lovely shot right now!”

  No! Babe wanted to scream. No, no, not with Wes! But, of course, she couldn’t say it yet, not with everyone standing there.

  “Let’s go inside,” Ellie said. “Henry has set up sherry in the drawing room.”

  They moved en masse into the living room, which Edward always insisted on calling the drawing room because he thought it made the house sound important. He said drawing room was the proper term because his bedroom—which, in its day, had been reserved for the king—was directly off the room, just as it had been in sixteenth-century England. When Babe was a little girl, Edward had told her the drawing room was a magical place where people went to draw, so she’d often dragged Mrs. Minerva there with crayons and a big pad from the table in her room. When Babe was eight or nine, Amanda had told her that wasn’t what it meant, that drawing room meant it was a place for people to withdraw from other things like cocktails or dinner or relatives they didn’t like. She might as well have said there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny. In fact, Amanda had told Babe those things, too, long before it had been necessary or even nice.

  They filed into the drawing room now, Edward and Babe in the lead. Somewhere between the backyard and there, Wes had materialized on her other side, cupping her elbow, acting like her protector, because he didn’t know the role had been recast.

  The small man who Babe guessed was Henry stood next to the sideboard sporting a tiny grin. “It’s nice to see everyone together.”

  “It’s nice to be here,” Wes said first, as if he belonged in Edward’s house or perhaps intended to take over.

  Edward plucked the first glass for himself. “I understand there was quite an aerial show at the party, my boy,” he said to Babe’s husband. “A bit of publicity?”

  Wes removed his sunglasses, an act Babe knew he performed when trying to seem sincere. An act, she thought. His whole life was an act! Why hadn’t she seen it before now?

  “We were harassed at the airport,” Wes said. He said harassed with the emphasis on har- and not on -assed, unlike the way most people in America pronounced it.

  Babe took a glass and a hearty swallow.

  “Sometimes the paparazzi are so inconvenient,” Wes droned. “I’m sorry if it disrupted anyone.” He turned toward the others, as if in apology.

  Babe took another drink and looked around the room at the brocade-covered English sofas and the heavy dark wood chairs with faded burgundy cushions and thick arms. Nothing looked as large as it once had, as exciting, as magical. It merely looked worn out and tired. She decided she would tell Wes her decision after dinner.

  “Well, my boy,” Edward guffawed and patted Wes on the back, “of course it disrupted everyone! That was your intent, was it not?” Edward didn’t have to explain how he knew Wes had orchestrated the show. Everyone knew Edward had been a master at manipulating the press. With a contented smile, Edward turned from him to Jonathan. “And how are things in the world of architecture?”

  Babe suppressed a laugh; she’d never seen Wes speechless. She meandered toward the far end of the room as if suddenly captivated by the thick-framed portraits of men no one had known but whose coloring and style matched the wainscoting.

  Amanda smirked. Even a moron would have picked up on Edward’s mockery of Babe’s once-pretty-boy husband, who, well, look at that, had finally graced them with the removal of his sunglasses. She had to admit, he did have gorgeous eyes. As for the rest, no matter what she wanted Babe or Ray to think, she wished Wes would stay the hell away from her boys. Something about him was too aggressive and too phony. Oh, God, she thought, I hope he’s not a child molester, someone who looks for vulnerable boys and . . . well . . .

  Could one tell by scrutinizing?

  Her boys didn’t look any different. Chandler sipped sherry as if he were of age, as if he enjoyed it, though Amanda detected a row of sweat beads shining on his upper lip. Chase was drinking ginger ale out of a sherry glass and was preoccupied with a spider that marched along the baseboard.

  No, she thought, it didn’t look as if either boy had been molested by the Hollywood-has-been.

  Draining her glass, she moved back to Edward’s man, who poured her another although she had not made eye contact. Perhaps in another life he had been not a chorus boy but a valet.

  She wondered if Ellie was right, that he had something to hide.

  Like the rest of us.

  Sipping again, she strolled to a tall window whose tiny panes were framed by leaded glass. She wondered if Edward would choose this evening—tonight!—after dinner to tell them he was going to divvy up his fortune, or if he would wait until after the picture-taking tomorrow.

  Could she hold out until then?

  Could she survive one more night pretending everything was fine?

  Staring out the window, past the arborvitae and the peonies and the rest of the damn flowers, Amanda wondered why she still clung to the hope that Edward was going to bail her out, when he’d already said he would not.

  Ellie watched Uncle Edward, who was deep in conversation with her brother-in-law. Edward didn’t look like a man with cancer who had refused treatment. His cheeks were rosy and his spirits were, well, spirited, and he didn’t look as if he only had a short time—what . . . weeks? months?—to live.

  He was exasperating, but that was nothing new. Had he really disappeared in order to get the girls back together without him in the way? Yes, she could believe that, now knowing that he was sick. The staging of the noose, however, had been worthy of reproach, yet, yet . . . for now, Edward was alive, so staying angry at him simply wasn’t possible.

  Turning away, Ellie moved to Babe, who was sitting in one of the massive chairs that Edward had refused to let Ellie discard when she’d tried sprucing up the place. She sat down next to Babe and smiled.

  “You’ve seen Ray again.”

  Babe nodded in reply.

  Ellie toyed with her glass. “He never asked about you. I always thought that was so sad. You both had been so young.”

  “He never knew about the baby. He thought I didn’t want to see him anymore. Neither of us knew his parents kept us apart.”

  “I figured that. Once, I almost brought it up after a lake association meeting. But I decided there was no point in digging up the past. He’d been married and had a son by then. And your life had taken off in such a fabulous direction.”

  Babe smiled. “If you’re going to try and talk me out of what I’m going to do, forget it. I appreciate the effort, but my mind’s made up.”

  Ellie lifted her eyebrows.

  “I’m going to be with Ray, Ellie. I’m going to divorce Wes. He’s fine for Hollywood, but he’s no good in the real world.”

  “Oh, honey, are you sure? You have your career; you’ve been in California so many years. You only saw Ray today—”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

  Ellie had to give Babe credit for knowing what she wanted, that she did not hem and haw the way Ellie might have done. “Well,” she said, patting her sister’s knee. “I’ll support your decision, no matter what.” She stood again, having remembered that she’d resolved to stop giving advice.

  Carleen declined both sherry and ginger ale, wishing she’d found enough composure to have asked Ray for that ride to the bus station. But even now, she was still trying to regain her bearings after Edward’s remark about the ribbon: “I hope you haven�
�t worn this to taunt me. I’ve often wondered how much you knew.”

  With those few words, he had confirmed the secret. Shouldn’t that be enough? Did her sisters really need to know the rest?

  Sometimes Carleen thought the fire had given them a good excuse to strip her from their lives. They’d never liked her: could she blame them? She’d done so little back then that was likable.

  No matter what, Carleen knew she had, at least, accomplished a few things this weekend: she’d seen them all and they’d seen her; they’d seen that she had straightened out her life; they knew she had a family, a career, some respect. She supposed that was more than she could have hoped for.

  As a bonus, thanks to her, Babe and Ray had met again. It looked as if they were getting more than closure.

  She’d also stood up to Amanda and left her bemused (and disappointed?) when she realized Carleen hadn’t hung Edward, after all.

  Yes, Carleen had accomplished a few things, though she wasn’t sure if Ellie still thought she’d been trying to steal her jewelry. Leaning against the ornate walnut sideboard, Carleen wondered what purpose it would serve to tell them the rest.

  Edward knew that she knew. And that should be enough.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  At six o’clock Edward announced he would take supper in his room, that he’d see them at breakfast. He reminded his nieces to show up in white for the picture. Then he decided Amanda’s children should be in the photo as well.

  “Not the men, though,” he said. “Spouses aren’t allowed. They change so quickly in this day and age.” He disappeared into the king’s bedroom, and Henry quickly followed.

  Amanda’s hands went to her hips, where they often went these days. “For his information, my boys don’t have anything white. And I doubt that Heather does. I thought this was only for the sisters.”

  “I have a white shirt, Mother,” her daughter said.

  “I’m sure it’s not appropriate.” She turned back to the others. “How dare he change the rules on a moment’s notice? How dare he make us jump through hoops just because it is his birthday . . . just because he thinks he can?”

  “Mom,” Chase pleaded, “Uncle Edward will hear you.”

  “I don’t care if the pope can hear me,” which made no sense, of course, but neither did Amanda when she was on a tear.

  “Amanda-Belle,” Ellie said, “why don’t you come with me into the kitchen. I could use your help setting out leftovers for supper.”

  “Leftovers,” Amanda groaned. “How fitting. I, for one, have never doubted that’s how Edward has always treated us, as if we were doggie bags from our parents, his poor leftover nieces, who’d been shoved into his fridge.”

  The good news was that Amanda actually followed Ellie from the drawing room and left the rest of them in peace.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” Amanda surprised Ellie by saying once they had closed the kitchen door behind them. “Between Edward’s shenanigans, our lovely sister, Babe, and that other one—Carleen—I’ve had as much as I can stand.”

  Ellie opened the refrigerator and saw the foil-covered trays of meat stacked the way she had asked, the bowls of salad and beans neatly covered. Martina and her staff were certainly as efficient as their reputation indicated.

  Amanda propped herself against the counter with no apparent intention of helping. “Honestly, Ellie, don’t you find it absurd? The kissy-face about how happy Edward is to see the two of them? Where have they been all these years when we’re the ones who put up with his eccentricities and watched him get cranky and despicable?”

  “You’re right, sometimes his antics are despicable. But Edward hasn’t changed. His hair is gray now and he walks a little more slowly, but he really hasn’t changed.”

  “More’s the pity,” Amanda cackled, then yanked the silverware from the drawer and started lining up the knives as if each were a weapon. “Why are we really here, Ellie? I know something is going on that has little to do with a party and a photograph and Edward’s fake suicide. Or to bring us back together because ‘life is so short.’ ”

  Instead of laughing at her sister’s predictable agitation, Ellie realized that if she told Amanda about Edward’s cancer, maybe Amanda would calm down. She’d been like an irate wasp since she’d arrived, which was understandable, given Jonathan’s behavior and her financial predicament.

  “Amanda-Belle,” Ellie said as she set a tray of barbecue on the counter. “Uncle Edward is sick.”

  Amanda froze. “What do you mean, he’s sick? Yesterday you said he was fine.”

  “I thought he was, but he’s not.”

  “Well, he looks fine to me. He was fine enough to sleep on the ground last night, for God’s sake. He was fine enough to climb a tree and hang that moronic rope.”

  “He has cancer.”

  Amanda tipped her head and scowled a tiny scowl. “Cancer? Oh, puhleeeze. What’s he trying to pull off now?”

  Ellie supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by her sister’s reaction. “It’s true, Amanda-Belle. Edward has colon cancer.”

  Amanda snorted. “Did you see the test results? Did you talk to his doctor?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “How long does he have? A minute? A day?”

  “Amanda, stop. This isn’t funny.”

  “Well, it is funny that he hasn’t mentioned it before now. When did he tell you, anyway?”

  “He didn’t tell me. Henry did.”

  “I see. Well, that explains it. Didn’t you say Henry can’t be trusted?”

  “No. I asked if you’d ever heard anything suspicious about him.”

  Amanda laughed. “Well, I have now. I think it’s rather suspicious that Uncle Edward suddenly has cancer. So did he want to have the party before he starts chemo? Before he loses what’s left of his hair, so his friends and family can remember him when he was still hale and hearty?” Her sarcasm was nearly palpable.

  Ellie took the potato salad from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “He isn’t going to have treatment. Apparently he doesn’t want any.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s his choice, Amanda-Belle.”

  Amanda folded her arms yet still made no gesture to help. “I can’t believe you’re buying this story.”

  “Henry seemed sincere.” Ellie felt her lower back tense. She felt her neck tighten.

  “Well,” Amanda huffed, “it’s bullshit. And it’s all the more reason I am not going to sit around making small talk and eating stupid leftovers and pretending everything is fine.” She waved at the food as if it were the enemy.

  “Amanda, stop it. I only told you because I hoped it would explain why he’d invited everyone. I think what he really wanted was for the four of us to reunite before he dies. I think he wanted us to have a chance to correct some things in our past. Like Babe and Ray, like Carleen, like, well, like you and Martina.”

  Amanda’s face scrunched up. “Who?”

  “Martina. The caterer.” Ellie dumped the baked beans in a pot and turned the stove burner to simmer. “She’s the daughter of Edward’s old housekeeper. You used to make fun of Martina.”

  Amanda laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. When we were kids, you thought she wasn’t as good as us because she was Spanish. You were mean to her, Amanda-Belle. Edward hated that.”

  Peeling back the foil from the top of the salad, Amanda looked inside, as if she might see something interesting. “I remember the day he made me apologize. It was ridiculous.”

  “No. He was trying to teach you a lesson.”

  “Is that why she was here this weekend? To teach me another one?”

  “Martina is a successful woman with a fabulous business. Maybe Edward wanted to show you it never pays to be judgmental.”

  Amanda pulled off the foil and shoved a serving spoon into the salad. “And now the supposed cancer has incited him to once again screw with our heads?”

  “I thin
k he’s trying to help.”

  “Help? Help??? Didn’t he think I might appreciate something other than settling an old score with a maid?”

  “Please, Amanda-Belle. He’s sick . . .”

  “Is he? Do we really know that’s true?” She leveled her eyes at her sister. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get to the bottom of this! Straight from the horse’s mouth!”

  At least she hadn’t called Edward a horse’s ass. Still, Ellie backed up in case there was a chance Amanda threw something, like the bowl of salad, or worse, the barbecue.

  “Amanda . . .”

  “No! This is such utter bullshit!” She twirled like a mini tornado, then stormed out of the kitchen.

  Ellie’s heart plummeted to the terrazzo floor because she suspected where her sister was headed next.

  “Mother, what are you doing?” Heather and the boyfriend were leaving the drawing room when Amanda had the misfortune of a head-on collision with her daughter.

  “Out of my way.”

  “Your face is red. You’re out of control.”

  Amanda should have known better than to issue an edict to a nineteen-year-old whose major in college was psychology, and who hadn’t agreed with her mother since turning twelve.

  “What’s going on?” That came from Jonathan, who had suddenly materialized in a David Copperfield moment.

  So now half of Amanda’s immediate family stood in her path between nonsense and reason.

  “Stay out of this,” Amanda said, her voice stern and level though her blood pressure was rising. “I am going to talk with my uncle.”

  “He has retired for the evening,” Jonathan said, as if she hadn’t been there when Edward had departed from the table with his hovering man-friend.

  “Well, he is about to un-retire himself. He and I are going to have a conversation. And no one is going to interfere.”