The Secrets Sisters Keep

by Abby Drake

  He didn’t speak; she didn’t speak. Then he cleared his throat. “You’re right,” he said.

  An ache burned in her heart.

  “I have been seeing someone,” her husband continued. “She is a prostitute. I have been fucking a prostitute because I could not fuck my wife, who has not wanted me to fuck her for almost a year.”

  A year? Had it been that long since they’d made love? Since they’d fucked, as the Princeton man so indelicately put it? Then Amanda realized he’d said the back-waxer was a prostitute. A hooker—not a lover?

  “Well,” she said. “Shame on you.”

  His scent moved closer. His hand rested on her shoulder. She stiffened.

  “Yes,” he said. “Shame on me. The fact that I’d tried talking to you on more than one occasion isn’t an excuse. It’s merely an explanation.”

  “Oh, come on, Jonathan. When did you try talking to me?”

  “At Christmas. Right here in this room. I gave you the sapphire necklace.”

  “We couldn’t afford it. It maxed out our Cartier account.”

  “I didn’t know that. I was trying to find a way to please you. You seem to like things that sparkle or have designer labels better than you like me. But you said, ‘Take it back. It’s gauche.’ ”

  Outside, the shadow of a woman crossed the driveway, suitcase in hand. It must have been Babe, Amanda knew. She might not have seen her in nearly twenty years, but she’d seen all her movies. She’d gone at night when Jonathan was out of town, taking a yellow cab rather than using their in-town car service, because she hadn’t wanted the world to know what she was doing. She was, after all, still immensely pissed that Babe had left them high and dry, had run off to “start anew,” as if she’d been the only one left hurting. Amanda had never known what to say to Babe after the abortion. She’d always been so afraid that she would be judged by the things her sisters had done. Still, as time passed, Amanda was proud of what Babe had achieved. Of course, she hadn’t told her. Any more than she’d ever conversed with her husband about things that really mattered. “The necklace wasn’t gauche. It was beautiful. But we couldn’t afford it.”

  He squatted beside her, turned her face toward his. “Amanda-Belle?” he asked, not knowing that her childhood nickname always reduced her to Jell-O, always made her feel vulnerable again, the second child not as smart as the first, not as clever as the third, not as beautiful or as talented as the fourth. “Can we talk about this? Can you forgive me? Can we be a family again?”

  This time, she was the one without words.

  He reached down, took her hand. “How bad is the debt?”

  “Bad. A quarter of a million. How often have you seen Bibiana?”

  “Three times. Including last night.”

  The burning moved down to her stomach. The nausea rose again, as it had after the trout. But Amanda was too numb to excuse herself. Then again, it would serve Jonathan right if she threw up on him.

  “Amanda, I’m trying to be honest. I am so sorry I’ve hurt you. But you’ve hurt me, too, by shutting me out.”

  She supposed that was true. But she’d been so disappointed, so angry at him for . . . for what? He’d been a good husband as husbands went. He’d been a great father. Why had it mattered that he hadn’t made millions?

  He moved in front of her, blocking her view. “We’ll find a way to get out of debt. I hope Edward’s not sick. But we can figure this out without his money. You and me, Amanda. Together. The way we got through it when your parents died.”

  She blinked. Two huge tears plopped onto her Dior. Two more followed. Then a whole freaking river.

  Thank God Henry had snuck him a plate heaped with barbecue and potato salad and a huge hunk of cake, which Edward devoured first. It was his cake, after all. His birthday cake! He ate it first because he was seventy-five, loaded with cancer, for all he knew, so he could do as he pleased! No more pretending to count calories or watch his cholesterol or feel compelled to eat raw veggies and fruit. Bleccch. No more needing a brisk constitutional every morning in order to yield a good crop of healthy poop; no more abstaining from his favored bourbon for the sake of his naughty, swollen liver.

  Oh, yes, Edward mused, as he swiped frosting from his chin and dove into the tender, sauce-saturated meat, having a diagnosis certainly made life more livable.

  How he had enjoyed his alone time on Squirrel Island! He’d finally had a chance to see things from the perspective of his neighbors way back when, as he’d peered through his binoculars, trying to imagine the party-in-progress, playing the role of the uninvited. No matter the outcome, Edward felt certain he had done the right thing to let the girls be alone (surrounded by two hundred!) to finally sort through the past, to absolve one another, to rediscover themselves, before his cancer took over and he wasn’t there—or wasn’t able—to help them reconnect.

  As for himself, he’d had a walloping good time with the beans and the Mozart and dear Oliver Twist! How he relished the memories of those solitary hours as he now plumped the down pillows that Henry had tucked around him before dashing to the kitchen because the hired help had finished and Ellie had escaped.

  Ellie, Edward thought as he turned from the pillows and inserted another forkful of meat into his mouth. He couldn’t believe that she’d gone out. To the mall, according to Henry. And she’d driven! So, this weekend had yielded some good after all.

  It was unfortunate, however, that Henry had told her about the cancer. Edward had wanted to keep that a secret until long after he’d sold this mausoleum and moved to London, until Ellie had regained enough confidence to be content on her own, until his body was shriveled and his breath came in short pants. (Short pants, he thought—Ha! That’s funny! Perhaps they should be called Little Lord Fauntleroy Breaths!) Anyway, he’d wanted to keep his cancer a secret until no one—not even Ellie—could change his mind about having treatment. He wasn’t sure why he’d turned down the protocol. Maybe he’d simply grown tired of life and dying seemed much more exotic.

  As for the other girls, Amanda, as usual, was angry about something that no doubt was connected to money. The poor thing still hadn’t learned that the only difference between the haves and the have-nots was the kind of coffee they drank. Maxwell House? Starbucks? Gevalia? Who cared? No, she still hadn’t learned that what truly mattered wasn’t the brand but having someone who loved you sharing a cup. Even if the guy was Ivy League.

  Babe had a husband, though he was washed up, a fossil of a man desperate for the days that had come and gone when he apparently hadn’t been looking. Edward had seen Wes McCall’s type a thousand or more times: flat, one-dimensional characters, trying to convince others—and themselves—that they were still young and virile, even while crawling into their beds at night, their bodies and spirits broken and withered, but too stubborn to let go.

  He didn’t like the man.

  Hopefully, Babe would come to her senses this weekend. She was such a loving girl—the one most like her mother. The good news was that Ray Williams had come around. Maybe happiness was still achievable for Babe. Edward hoped he’d never have to tell them that he’d known about the baby, that he’d overheard the hullabaloo the day Babe had learned she was pregnant because when all four girls had hurriedly convened in Babe’s tiny room, he had eavesdropped. They were in his charge, after all. He needed to know what was going on.

  What he’d learned that afternoon, however, had nearly killed him. Had Mazie known, she would have gladly helped by pulling the trigger, if his brother didn’t do it first.

  Without hesitation, Edward had power-walked to the Williamses’ place.

  “My niece is in trouble because of your boy.” He’d accosted Duke Williams on the back porch. “Make it right, Williams. The boy must take responsibility. Babe says she loves him, that they love each other. I know they’re just kids, but you must make this right.” The coward had responded by skipping town. Then Babe had had the abortion and the fire had happened and then . . .
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  He swallowed the last piece of barbecue now and pushed away his plate. Duke Williams had been a cad. But the man was dead and Edward wouldn’t rattle his grave. His son, Ray, was too good a guy—who knew how that had happened.

  Besides, Edward had other fish to fry. Most notably, Carleen.

  After all, he now knew what he had feared throughout the years, the real reason he’d kept tabs on Carleen, and why he hadn’t invited her home until now, until the Angel of Death was knock-knocking on his palace door. He’d been right all along: Carleen knew the truth. And Edward must decide what to do about that, now that his days on this crappy-ass planet were finally coming to a close.

  He took a big swallow of tea and wished it wasn’t so bitter.

  Ellie was happy, but she was glad to be home, though not for reasons she might have expected. The boys had white shirts and pants that would please Edward; even Heather had found a more demure shirt that should not provoke a scene with her mother.

  More than those things, Ellie was infused with a sense that she’d traversed the Himalayas, reached the Arctic Circle, gone to outer space and back. She had driven without incident, without panic attack, to Tarrytown and back again with a car full of teenagers who’d been counting on her. Well, all right, she admitted as she pranced into her room with a celebratory cup of hot chocolate and the Oliver Twist that she’d plucked from the kitchen counter where Edward had dropped it, maybe the kids hadn’t been counting on her. It wasn’t as if three of the four of them couldn’t have driven if she’d stopped breathing, or had felt like she’d stop breathing, somewhere along Route 448.

  But none of that had happened, because Ellie had done it! The oddest part was, she thought, as she set her cup on the bureau, slipped out of her dress, stepped into her nightgown, and headed into the bathroom to wash up for the night, it hadn’t been hard! Aside from those first moments of angst with her unpersonable nephew, Ellie had had a great time!

  How long had it been since she’d been into town? There were so many changes to the landscape! There were strip malls and boutiques and a couple of parks. Even a once-questionable neighborhood had been transformed into a trendy arts district with galleries and coffee shops and outdoor cafés!

  She had been so mesmerized by the scenery that she’d forgotten she was driving, which, in her case, had proved a good thing.

  Cleansing her face, Ellie decided to tell Edward tomorrow. They’d never openly discussed her issues, as Amanda apparently called them, any more than they’d talked about his relationship with Henry or, now, the cancer, if there indeed was cancer. But Ellie was certain that Edward knew (after all these years, how could he not?) that she’d become, yes, a recluse. She hoped he would be thrilled for her driving success and not resent this new independence.

  She finished in the bathroom and returned to the bureau for her bedtime hot chocolate. That’s when Ellie noticed the pink ribbon on top of her jewelry box. And the small note next to it.

  The handwriting was filled with feminine loops and circles: it was Carleen’s. Ellie had always admired her sister’s bold script, always had seen it as a mark of self-assurance.

  Slowly, she picked up the note. She drew in a breath and read:

  You said you have nothing of Mother’s. This was her pink ribbon. She’d used it to tie up old letters. I found it that day in the attic. C.

  Ellie picked up the ribbon. She studied the grosgrain as if it held answers in its tight pink weave, as if it held memories, as if it held Mother. Then she closed her fingers tightly around it. She didn’t dare start to cry. She knew she should go to Carleen. Thank her for the ribbon. Thank her for the gesture. But the ribbon felt cool and good in her hand. And her thanks could wait until morning.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Morning sunlight swathed the water of Lake Kasteel like a finely crocheted blanket, the kind Edward’s mother had labored over even after her fingers had been knotted by arthritis and her vision had been blurred by years.

  He wandered down the lawn toward the dock, puffing a cigar he’d found on the hall table. He’d bet that his pal, Goldsmith, had left it for him. David had been a friend for many years, so many that he’d known Edward’s crocheting mother and his plumbing supply-selling brother, and, of course, his plumbing supply-selling-brother’s wife. They’d known a lot about each other way back when: David had also known about Edward’s one and only love.

  Sitting on the dock, swinging his feet into the water, he remembered London and remembered her.

  He’d called her Pia, after the quirky little actress who’d been so enchanting on Broadway in the sixties but who had taken a peculiar turn or two after that. Edward’s Pia had had that same playful energy, that same impish beauty, and she’d stolen his heart the first day they’d met. It was not until several years later that they ran off to London, unhindered by media mongers (it was the early seventies, so gossip still moved slowly) or by her husband, whom they’d left back home in the States. Pia had joined him ostensibly for the shopping; he supposedly was scouting new acting talent. But they’d really gone for something else: alone time at the Chesterfield Mayfair, private, secluded, discreet.

  For five days and four nights they existed on raspberry jam and clotted cream, sweet English scones, strong tea. And love.

  She never saw the inside of Harrods, and he didn’t attend a single play, didn’t view a single actor or conduct even one interview.

  So be it!

  After the Mayfair, came sadness.

  She’d returned to her husband, as they’d known she would.

  He’d returned to Broadway, his heart in tiny pieces. He tried to put his feelings into writing, but it was pointless, so he finally gave up and began taking young men as lovers, chalking up his deep love for a woman as a bad joke played on him by Mother Nature. Edward Dalton had, after all, sensed he was gay—a homosexual—from the time he’d inadvertently walked into a backstage dressing room when he’d been around nine and spotted the male and female leads going at it, as they called it back then. He’d been more intrigued—excited, actually—by the man and his large, glistening parts than by the woman and her . . . well, he hadn’t really noticed much about her.

  He’d once revealed that experience to David Goldsmith, though they’d stopped talking about that sort of thing once David married Myrna and Edward was finally able to relax with his gayness. Gay men were, after all, much less complicated and so adoring. It helped salve the ache for his Pia.

  He’d always thought David was the only one who’d known the truth, but now there was Carleen.

  And now the time had come to tell his nieces what really had happened the day the house burned down and what had happened years before.

  It was time they knew. Before he was no longer around to tell them.

  He puffed another puff, watched the smoke snake to the heavens, and thought about the people he’d loved who were waiting for him up there.

  “She’s gone,” Amanda said to Ellie as they both left their rooms and were headed downstairs. “I found this under my door.”

  Ellie opened the small square of paper. The loops of the handwriting were once again familiar.

  I’m sorry about Earl, it read. I’m sorry about everything. It was signed with a C, the way Ellie’s note had been.

  “Yes,” Ellie said, “she’s gone.”

  They stood quietly for a moment, then Amanda said, “Thank God,” and Ellie did not have the strength to disagree. Besides, it was nine twenty-seven, and there were other issues to address.

  Brunch at nine thirty. Family picture at eleven.

  If Henry had told them once, he’d told them a dozen times. But, as Ellie left Amanda and went down to the kitchen to make sure Martina was ready to serve, she looked out the window and spotted her uncle sitting down by the water. He wore a white shirt and white walking shorts. A white beret was perched atop his head. He was very still.

  Ellie went to the back steps and hollered. When Edward didn’t answer, she gathe
red the hem of her requisite white skirt, kicked off her white canvas pumps, and trotted down the sloping yard.

  He was so dormant she thought he was dead.

  “Edward!” she shrieked from half annoyance, half fear. “Get up! You’re getting dirty!”

  It was another heart-stopping second before he turned to her and blinked.

  She sighed. “What are you doing? Stop scaring me.”

  His impish smile skated across his time-lined face. “I was conferring with my muses. Seeing into the great beyond.”

  She could have mentioned it was nine thirty and there would be plenty of time for great-beyond-seeing after the rest of the family left. But that was the old Ellie, and this one was different. This one was in charge of herself and no one else. Not anymore!

  So she simply said, “Well, get up. Like it or not, this still is your party and it’s time for brunch.” New Ellie or not, she was not in the mood for his twisted humor or his antics. “Of course,” she added, “it will be different than we expected. Carleen left during the night, and apparently, Babe’s husband did, too.”

  “Carleen’s gone?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Edward stood up and brushed the seat of his pants. “It’s me who’s sorry, Ellie. I’m sorry that my absence upset you and the girls. Especially you. I honestly thought you’d get along better without me as a referee. And I’m really, really sorry about that stupid stunt with the noose. I did it because I didn’t like the looks of Wes McCall. I’d been hoping he’d get in trouble for it. Questioned by the cops, or something humiliating that would get back at him for that baloney with the helicopter. I had a feeling he was behind that.”

  She could have asked about the cancer. She could have asked why he’d refused treatment. But he looked smaller, standing there in his white, his blue eyes a-twinkle, as Henry sometimes called it. “You upset Henry, too, by disappearing.”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t tell him. He hates having to keep a secret. But Henry will forgive me. It’s you girls I’m worried about.”