Kristin Hannah's Family Matters 4-Book Bundle: Angel Falls, Between Sisters, The Things We Do for Love, Magic Hour

by Hannah, Kristin

  He knelt there.

  “Hey, Di.” He squeezed his eyes shut, battling a wave of guilt.

  “I’m home. What now?”

  No answer came to him on the summer breeze, no scent of Red wafted his way. And yet, he knew. She was glad he’d come back.

  He opened his eyes again, stared at the silver caps of the current. “I can’t go to the house.” The thought of it made him almost ill. Three years ago, he’d walked out of their home on Bainbridge Island and never looked back. Her clothes were still in the closet. Her toothbrush was still by the sink.

  No way he could go there. His only hope—if there was any hope at all—lay in baby steps. He didn’t have to move toward his old life; he simply had to stop running from it.

  “I could get a job in Hayden,” he said after a long silence.

  Staying in town would be difficult, he knew. So many people remembered what he’d done. He’d have to endure the looks … the gossip.

  “I could try it.”

  With that, he found that he could breathe again.

  He spent another hour there, kneeling in the grass, remembering. Then, finally, he climbed to his feet and walked back to town.

  There were a few people milling around the streets, and more than one face peered frowningly up at him, but no one approached him. He saw when he was recognized, saw the way old friends lurched at the sight of him, drew back. He kept his head down, kept moving. He was about to give up on the whole damn idea of finding a job here when he came to the end of town. He stood across the street from Riverfront Park, staring at a collection of cars, all lined up on a patch of gravel behind a sagging chain-link fence. A metal Quonset hut advertised Smitty’s, The Best Auto Shop in Hayden.

  On the chain-link fence was a sign: Help Wanted. Experience requested, but who am I kidding?

  Joe crossed the street and headed toward the entrance.

  A dog started barking. He noticed the Beware of Dog sign. Seconds later, a miniature white poodle came tearing around the corner.

  “Madonna, stop that damn yapping.” An old man stepped out from the shadowed darkness of the Quonset hut. He wore oil-stained overalls and a Mariners baseball cap. A long white beard hid the lower half of his face. “Don’t mind the dog. What can I do ya for?”

  “I saw your help-wanted sign.”

  “No kiddin’.” The old man slapped his thigh. “That thing’s been up there since Jeremy Forman went off to college. Hell, that’s been pret near on two years now. I—” He paused, stepped forward, frowning slowly. “Joe Wyatt?”

  He tensed. “Hey, Smitty.”

  Smitty blew out a heavy breath. “I’ll be damned.”

  “I’m back. And I need a job. But if it’d cost you customers to hire me, I understand. No hard feelings.”

  “You want a job wrenching? But you’re a doctor—”

  “That life is over.”

  Smitty stared at him a long time, then said, “You remember my son, Phil?”

  “He was a lot older than me, but yeah. He used to drive that red Camaro.”

  “Vietnam ruined him. Guilt, I think. He did stuff over there.… Anyway, I’ve seen a man run before. It isn’t good. Of course I’ll hire you, Joe. The cabin still comes with the job. You want it?”

  “Yes.”

  Smitty nodded, then led the way through the Quonset hut and out the other end. The backyard was big and well maintained. Flowers grew in riotous clumps along the walkway. There, a thicket of towering evergreens stood clustered behind the small log cabin. Moss furred the roof; the front porch sagged precariously.

  “You were a teenager the last time you lived here. I couldn’t keep track of all the girls you dated.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah,” Smitty sighed. “Helga still keeps it spick-’n’-span clean. She’ll be glad to have you back.”

  Joe followed Smitty to the cabin.

  Inside, it was as clean as always. A red-striped woolen blanket covered an old leather sofa and a rocking chair sat next to the river-rock fireplace. The yellow Formica-clad kitchen appeared well stocked for appliances and pots and pans, and a single bedroom boasted a queen-size four-poster bed.

  Joe reached out and shook Smitty’s bear-claw hand. “Thank you, Smitty,” he said, surprised at how deep his gratitude ran. His throat felt tight.

  “There are a lot of people in this town who care about you, Joe. You seem to have forgotten that.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Still, I’d be happier if no one knew I was here, for a while, anyway. I don’t … feel comfortable around people anymore.”

  “It’s a long road back from something like that, I guess.”

  “A very long road.”

  After Smitty left, Joe burrowed through his backpack for one of the framed photographs that he’d taken from his sister’s house. He stared down at Diana’s smiling face. “It’s a start,” he said to her.

  Meghann woke up disoriented. In the first place, the room was dark. Second, it was quiet. No honking horns and sirens and the beep-beep-beep of trucks in reverse gear. At first she thought a radio was on, in a room down the hall. Then she realized that the noise was birdsong. Birdsong, for God’s sake.

  Claire’s house.

  She sat up in bed. The beautifully decorated guest room was oddly comforting. Everywhere were handmade trinkets—proof of time spent on the little things—as well as Ali’s artwork. Framed photographs cluttered every surface. In another time and place, Meghann might have laughed at the crudely painted macaroni-coated egg carton that acted as a jewelry box. Here, in her sister’s house, it made her smile. When she looked at it, she pictured Ali, with her pudgy little fingers, gluing and placing and painting. And Claire, clapping with pride when the project was done; then proudly displaying it. All the things their own mama wouldn’t have had time for.

  There was a knock at the door, then a hesitantly called out “Meg?”

  She glanced at the bedside clock.

  Ten fifteen.

  Oh, man. She rubbed her eyes, which felt like a sandpit from lack of sleep. As usual, she’d tossed and turned all night. “I’m up,” she said, throwing the covers back.

  “Breakfast is on the table,” Claire said through the closed door. “I’m going to go clean the swimming pool. We’ll leave at about eleven, if that’s still okay?”

  It took Meghann a second to remember. She’d promised to join Claire and her friends in town. Wedding-dress shopping in Hayden with grown women who called themselves the Bluesers.

  Meghann groaned. “I’ll be ready.”

  “See you then.”

  Meghann listened to the footsteps as Claire walked away. How long could she keep up this charade of I’m your sister, I support your wedding? Sooner or later, her head would pop off, or—worse—her mouth would open and her opinion would explode, bomblike: You can’t marry him. You don’t know him. Be smart.

  None of these opinions would sit well.

  And yet, because Meghann couldn’t return to work, had no friends to call, and no true vacation plans, she found herself preparing to plan her sister’s wedding. Honestly, who could possibly be worse for the job?

  She couldn’t even remember the last wedding she’d attended. Oh, yes she could.

  Hers.

  Of course, it hadn’t been the wedding that sent them on the wrong road; it was the pairing up that had done it.

  She got out of bed and went to the door. Opening it a crack, she peeked out. Everything was quiet. She hurried down the hallway to the small second-floor bathroom. An unopened traveler’s toothbrush lay on the side of the sink, no doubt a quick repossession from the “resort’s” mini store. She brushed her teeth, then took a quick, very hot shower.

  Thirty minutes later, she was ready to go, re-dressed in yesterday’s clothes—a white Dolce & Gabbana blouse, a pair of low-rise Marc Jacobs jeans, and a wide brown belt with a silver circle buckle.

  She quickly picked up the bathroom, made her bed, and l
eft the house.

  Outside, the sun shone brightly on the well-tended yard. It was late June, a glorious time of year in the Northwest. So much was in bloom. There was color everywhere in the yard, all of it backed and bordered by glossy green bushes and a thicket of trees. At the far end, looking almost close enough to touch, the granite triangle of Formidable Peak pushed up toward a high layer of clouds.

  Meghann tossed her purse onto the passenger seat of her Porsche and got inside. The engine growled to life. She drove toward the resort slowly, careful not to stir up too much dust on the gravel road. It was a short distance, maybe five hundred yards between the house and the registration office, but her high-heeled sandals couldn’t handle the loose stone.

  Finally, she pulled up in front of the registration building and parked. Choosing a careful path through the dewy grass, she went into the building.

  It was empty.

  She went to the desk and found the Hayden phone book, then flipped to Wedding Consultants. There was one listing. Royal Event Planning. In fine print it read: Pretend you’ll only get married once.

  Meghann couldn’t help smiling at that. A cynic with humor. Who better to help Meghann plan a wedding? She wrote down the number and put it in her purse.

  She found Claire in the campground’s rest room, plunging a backed-up toilet. At Meghann’s horrified expression, Claire laughed. “Go on outside, hotshot. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  Meghann backed out and stood on the edge of the grass.

  True to her word, Claire was out in no time. “I’ll wash up and we’ll go.” She looked at the Boxster. “You drove over here?” Laughing, she walked away.

  Meghann got in the car and started it up. The stereo immediately came on, too loud. “Hotel California.” She put the convertible top down and waited.

  Finally Claire reappeared, wearing a pair of jeans and a River’s Edge Resort T-shirt. She tossed her canvas handbag behind the seat and climbed in. “Now, this is going to town in style.”

  Meghann didn’t know if Claire intended that remark as a put-down or not, so she kept silent. Actually, that was her new mantra: Shut up and smile.

  “You sure slept late,” Claire said, turning down the music. “I thought you usually got to the office by seven.”

  “I had trouble sleeping last night.”

  “Please don’t worry about me, Meg. Please.”

  Meghann was trapped by that quiet please. She couldn’t let her sister think the insomnia was because of the wedding. “It’s not the wedding. I never sleep.”

  “Since when?”

  “I guess it started in college. Cramming all night for exams. You know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Meghann had been trying to protect Claire, to hide the fact that the insomnia had started when their family fell apart, but college had been the wrong tack. To Claire, it was another reminder of everything between them, one more instance of Meghann lording it over her sister. Over the years, Claire had made dozens of remarks about her brainiac older sister who started college early. It was a touchy subject. “From what I hear, motherhood causes a few all-nighters, too.”

  “You know something about babies. Mama said I was colicky. A real pain in the ass.”

  “Yeah, like Mama would know. You didn’t have colic. You had ear infections. When you were sick, you wailed like a banshee. I used to carry you, screaming, down to the Laundromat. If I sat on top of the dryer, holding you, you’d finally fall asleep. Mama always wondered what happened to all her quarters.”

  Meghann felt Claire’s gaze on her. She tried to think of something to say, a way to change the conversation, but she came up empty.

  Claire finally laughed, but the sound was brittle. “No wonder I don’t mind doing the laundry. Turn here.”

  They were on safe land once again, she and Claire; each standing on her separate shore.

  “This is it.” Claire pointed to an old Victorian house, painted Pepto-Bismol pink with lavender trim. A gravel walkway cut through a perfectly shorn lawn. On either side were bright red roses in full bloom. The white picket fence bore a hand-painted sign that read: Miss Abigail’s Drawers. Come on in.

  Meghann looked up at the ridiculously cute house. “We could zip down to Escada or Nordstrom.…”

  “Don’t be yourself, Meg.”

  “Okay.” She sighed. “I’ll be Tammy Faye. Or better yet, Small-Town Sally. Lead on. I’ll shut my mouth.”

  They walked up the rickety stairs and entered the store. There was merchandise everywhere—plastic flowers and seashell picture frames, and Christmas ornaments made of painted dough. The fireplace screen was alight with votive candles.

  “Hello!” Claire called out.

  There was an immediate response. A gaggle of women’s voices, then a herd of running footsteps.

  A large, older woman barreled around the corner, her gray sausage-curled hair bobbing like Cindy’s on The Brady Bunch. She wore a floral muumuu and white pom-pomed mule slippers. “Claire Cavenaugh. I’m so glad to finally be able to show you the second floor.”

  “Wedding dresses are on the second floor,” Claire said to Meghann. “Abby had given up on me.”

  Before Meghann could respond, two other women hurried into the room. One was short and wore a baggy, waistless dress and white tennis shoes. The other was tall, perhaps too thin, and dressed flawlessly in beige silk.

  Two of the Bluesers. Meg recognized the women but couldn’t have matched a name to a face for all the prize money in the world.

  Waistless dress, she learned, was Gina, and beige silk was Charlotte.

  “Karen couldn’t make it today,” Gina said, eyeing Meghann suspiciously. “Willie had an orthodontist appointment and Dottie sat on her glasses.”

  “In other words,” Charlotte said, “an ordinary Karen day.”

  They all started talking at once.

  Meghann watched Claire fall in beside Charlotte and Abigail. They were talking about lace and beadwork and veils.

  All Meg could think was: The perfect accessory is a prenup. It made her feel decades older than these women, and distinctly apart.

  “So. Meghann. The last time I saw you, Alison was a newborn.” Gina stood beside a cast-iron statue of a crane. “Now you’re back for the wedding.”

  Claire’s friends had always been good at the not-so-subtle reminder than Meghann didn’t belong here. “Hello, Gina. It’s nice to see you again.”

  Gina looked at her. “I’m surprised you could get away from the office. I hear you’re the best divorce attorney in Seattle.”

  “I wouldn’t miss Claire’s wedding.”

  “I know a divorce attorney. She’s good at breaking up families.”

  “That’s what we do.”

  A look passed through Gina’s eyes. Her voice softened. “Do you ever put them back together?”

  “Not often.”

  Gina’s face seemed to fall; it crumpled like an old paper bag, and Meghann understood. “You’re going through a divorce.”

  Gina tried valiantly to smile. “Just finished it, actually. Tell me it’ll get better.”

  “It will,” Meg said softly. “But it may take a while. There are several support groups that might help you.” She started to reach into her purse.

  “I’ve got the Bluesers to cry with, but thank you. I appreciate the honesty. Now let’s go upstairs and find your sister the perfect wedding dress.”

  “In Hayden?”

  Gina laughed at that and led Meg upstairs. By the time they got there, Claire was already wearing the first dress. It had huge leg-of-mutton sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and a skirt that looked like an upside-down teacup. Meg sat down in an ornate white wicker chair. Gina stood behind her.

  “Oh, my. That’s lovely,” Abigail said, “and it’s thirty-three percent off.”

  Claire stood in front of a three-paneled full-length mirror, turning this way and that.

  “It’s very princesslike,” Charlotte said.


  Claire looked at Meg. “What do you think?”

  Meghann wasn’t sure what was expected of her. Honesty or support. She took another look at the dress and knew support was impossible. “Of course the dress is on sale. It’s hideous.”

  Claire climbed down from the platform and went in search of a different dress.

  At her exit, Charlotte and Abigail looked at Meghann. Neither woman was smiling.

  She’d been too honest—a common flaw—and now she was suspect. The outsider.

  She would not comment on the next dress. She absolutely would not.

  “What do you think?” Claire asked a few moments later.

  Meg squirmed in her chair. Was this a joke? The dress looked like something you’d wear to a formal hoedown. Maybe the Country Music Awards. The only thing missing was a beaded milking pan. The dress was ugly. Period. And cheap-looking, to boot.

  Claire studied herself in the mirror, again turning this way and that. Then she turned to look at Meghann. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “It’s the vomit backing up in my throat. I can’t talk.”

  Claire’s smile froze. “I take it that’s a negative.”

  “A cheap dress from the Bon Marché is a negative. That piece of lace-festooned shit is a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-you’ve-lost-your-mind thing.”

  “I think you’re being a bit harsh,” Abigail said, puffing up like a colorful blowfish.

  “It’s her wedding,” Meg said. “Not a tryout for Little House on the Prairie.”

  “My sister is always harsh,” Claire said quietly, walking back into the dressing room.

  Meghann sighed. She’d screwed up again, wielded her opinion like a blunt instrument to the back of the head. She hunkered down in her chair and clamped her mouth shut.

  The remainder of the afternoon was a mind-wrecking parade of cheap dresses. One after another, Claire zipped in, got opinions, and zipped out. She didn’t again ask for Meghann’s opinion, and Meghann knew better than to offer it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and rested her head against the wall.

  A jab in the rib cage woke her up. She blinked, leaned forward. Charlotte, Abigail, and Claire were walking away from her, talking animatedly until they disappeared into a room marked Hats and Veils.