Chapter Three
The phone rang. Claire stopped packing. The screen displayed her sister’s Manhattan office telephone number.
“Hello, Fran? Oh God. Fran I don’t know—”
“Claire, what’s wrong?” Fran interrupted, irritation flaring in her tone. “Just spit it out.”
“Fran, it’s Mom and Dad.” Claire’s voice quavered. “Fran, they’re gone.”
Silence. “Gone? Where? For God’s sake, what’s wrong?” Her sister’s voice was steady and demanding.
Claire inhaled and sat on her bed. “Fran, they were killed today.” The words echoed in her head.
“Are you saying they’re dead? Mom and Dad are dead? I don’t understand. How? How, Claire?” Fran’s reserve dissolved for a moment.
“A collision. Right after church. Their attorney called. They…they didn’t suffer, he said.”
“I’m pouring myself a drink. Hold on. Why don’t you join me?”
“No, I’m packing. Catching a plane tomorrow morning.”
“Good thinking.” As usual, her sister, without missing a beat, sounded grounded and more than likely had a plan in place. And as usual, Claire’s only choice was to suck it up and fall in line.
* * *
Claire stopped at the Express Auto rental desk, picked up the keys for her reserved economy car, and was out the door. She wanted to bolt through the parking garage, frazzled from the several cups of coffee consumed during the layover in Chicago. What should have been a couple hours flight to North Carolina had stretched into several. Exhaustion and frustration made her misery more intense, returning home more painful.
She headed down the interstate from Columbus, anxious to get through the thirty-minute drive before her Mill Spring exit appeared. She removed the wrapper from a stick of gum, popping it into her mouth. Enough late-afternoon traffic kept her attention from wandering, and by the time she switched on the turn signal, her heartbeat competed with the radio for airtime. She turned up the volume of an old rock song and tried singing to ignore the thoughts that bounced back and forth. Finally she turned off onto her street and passed the fence corner of the neighbor’s land. Twenty fence posts later, she noticed a green Jeep in the neighbor’s driveway. Not one that remembered.
She stopped at the driveway outside her parent’s home. Everything looked exactly the same. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the driveway bordered by cut grass gleaming golden in the sun. Claire turned in and drove forward, keeping her eyes focused on the Victorian two-story house with gingerbread trim.
She turned off the engine and held the plastic keychain of the rental car. No one would come out. No one would be here to welcome her home. If she didn’t get out of the car soon, she’d suffocate. She opened the car door and swung around for her purse on the passenger seat.
A dog barked. She didn’t know whose, but the dog sounded near. She walked, one foot after another up the steps. Her eyes stung and she blinked. Baskets of red geraniums hung over the white porch railing. Two wicker rocking chairs sat unmoving. It was enough to make her heart break.
A manila envelope with her name printed on the outside leaned against the door. It was from Bob—the estate papers he’d said would be waiting. She tucked the envelope under her arm. The door was locked. Of course, it wouldn’t be open. She fished inside her purse for her keys and her eyes grew misty.
* * *
She sat up, startled, under a blanket of white documents. She’d fallen asleep reading the legal paperwork that had been filed, opening a probate estate case with the city courthouse. Everything was in order. Her parents had even typed up their own obituaries, which she read and reread, unable to believe they were so prepared for this moment.
Bob had provided a list of instructions for Fran and her to follow. Her parents had assigned each other as executor not expecting to…she chocked back a sob. Someone needed to be the executor. She supposed Fran would want that role. The list had names of who was to do what, and there were more open spaces marked “Family” than she was prepared to undertake, given her limited knowledge of estate planning.
She went over to her suitcase and pulled out a nightgown. She threw it on before she went back to looking through the file. Inside her parents’ home, she was too hot to concentrate. Claire waved the sheets of papers, trying to create a breeze. She’d forgotten how warm it could get at night. Insects crashed against the window. She tossed the stack of papers on top of the bed before padding across the floor.
She tugged at the closed window. She hunched her shoulder against the wooden frame. It was like lifting the side of the house.
To this day there were no air conditioners in the house. She didn’t imagine her mother had ever entertained the idea of central air or heat. Sweat trickled down her neck as she pushed, shoved, and banged on the wooden frame. The glass rattled and pieces of peeling paint fell away, but the window didn’t budge.
Clair wasn’t about to give up, not after spending the first eighteen years of her life in this small, pink and white room and fighting this particular window.
“All right.” She ground her heels into the smooth pine planks along the floor.
She squatted and repeated what her old horse trainer had always said. “Use your legs, girlie.”
Claire pounded her fist against the frame. Little by little the window followed a path upward. Finally she stood in front of the open window, enjoying the cool evening air. Claire wiped her arm across her forehead and moved to sit on the ledge, fanning herself with the hem of her nightgown.
Low and lilting, familiar notes drifted upward into the room. She couldn’t make out the tune but you couldn’t mistake that someone was whistling in the yard next door. She felt a tug at her chest and sat upright.
She glanced over her shoulder and through the window into the semi-darkness that made her neighbor’s yard a mystery. But no puzzle. She’d crawled, walked, and run inside that yard as often as she had her own and for longer than she remembered. She and Fran and Dustin. Fran didn’t hang out with them much if it meant getting dirty. She and Dustin had found plenty to keep them busy. Running through the pastures, swimming in the creeks and lakes, laying in the tall grass talking about the future.
They were friends until one day, when she and Dustin rambled through the backwoods, they’d climbed over one of the fences and their hands had touched. They had backed up a step, shy suddenly, and both aware of something dawning. For a while she bathed in Dustin’s admiration. He made her feel special, as if he could see inside her, deep inside where she kept her secrets.
No longer the mirror image of another girl. No longer the person who people mistook or stared at because she was a replica. No longer Fran’s twin.
Dustin’s expression had told her that he saw into her heart and soul. And she’d let him in, shared that special part of herself that otherwise she held back. They had exchanged one innocent kiss and Claire knew, without a doubt, he’d stolen her heart. To this very day, he’d not given it back.
Instead, he’d trampled over the only gift that was hers to give. He’d tossed aside her emotions without a word or explanation. Became Fran’s boyfriend and ignored her. It was worse than being an identical twin. She went from special to nonexistent, and so she had fled, rather than bleed from a wound that reopened each time she was near him.
She realized suddenly that with the lamp light coming from her nightstand, whoever was downstairs could see up into the room. At least, that’s what she remembered from when Fran and she were teenagers and trying to figure out if Dad was still awake. She’d chanced climbing the gnarled tree outside her window a few times to avoid having to make excuses to him.
Fran and Claire had shared this room since birth. Inside the bedroom their lives were displayed in awards, photographs, girlish keepsakes. They were the only children of Maggie and John Robertson.
And now their parents were gone.
She finished the thought, expecting to feel something beyond hollow. Tears still had
n’t come. She’d felt a peculiar calm after she’d spoken with Fran the day before, letting her know of their parents’ deaths. Instead of anxiety, all she perceived was the inability to draw an effortless breath. Torn and ragged. Each breath since yesterday had required some sort of extra effort.
Claire had arrived home when shadows were their longest and the sun was on the far side of the fields. There was utter silence in the house. She hadn’t been home since the winter holidays, a couple of years ago. How did the time slip by so fast? Her stomach churned and she stopped the line of thought. It was easier to focus upon her writing to slip past her problems. She’d never argue her coping skills amounted to an overabundance of avoidance.
She didn’t need to be reminded that the deadline to submit her latest article loomed. She pulled out her cell phone and noticed only one bar flashed in the corner. She shouldn’t be surprised. Out on the edge of town, the closest cell tower was more than ten miles away. She pressed speed dial number 7 and listened to Mike’s voice message. She waited for the beep.
“Hey, this is Claire. I’ve arrived. I’ll find web service and submit the piece early tomorrow.” She gnawed her lip, ignoring her imaginary personal critic who motioned enough said. “Email me if you have questions.” She scrunched up her face at sounding the least bit needy. The critic rolled condescending eyes.
She and her sister had left their small hometown for colleges on opposite coasts. Fran had never come back home after graduating high school and now worked on Wall Street. Her sister had spent her college breaks in highly sought after internships in New York, D.C., and Boston, whereas Claire had joined the Peace Corps and traveled around Europe and Asia.
Fran would be home soon. Her sister’s life was more complicated than hers and she understood the delay. Claire would complete the initial requirements, which of course weren’t much beyond settling the house. It would take Fran another day or so to reschedule her meetings. Nothing to get overwhelmed by, even if she felt lost. She grabbed the list of what she needed to get done. She wasn’t going to crumble.
There wasn’t a copy of her parents’ will and testament, but Bob had included a copy of her parents’ plans specifying no burial, just a simple cremation and their wish to have their ashes spread along the Appalachian Trail. The Robertsons had taken their children hiking each year during the early summer through high school and had taught the girls how to camp in the primitive sites along the trail. Claire loved the experience, although Fran complained from the moment they arrived in the trail parking lot to the moment she came home.
She wondered if Fran was coming in tomorrow. She phoned her sister instead of waiting to hear back. “Frannie, when are you coming?”
“For the love of God, don’t call me that. I’ve not got a confirmation just yet.” She paused. “What’s it like being back home?”
“Quiet.”
“Hah.” Her sister snorted. “The understatement of the year.”
“I take it back. I can hear the neighbor whistling. I don’t think it’s Mrs. Murray though.”
“Of course not. It’s probably…what’s his name?”
“Hmm—” The question made Claire wince. “What did you say?”
She recounted how competitive Fran could be, especially when they’d lived at home. The only thing that kept them on friendly terms was that their interests had varied wildly and neither inhabited each other’s world. Claire was firmly seated within the indie publishing industry, and Fran was a new partner in a brokerage house. Fran not only worked but lived in Manhattan with her boyfriend and business partner.
The twins had one thing in common besides their birth. They’d both put aside the rule of professional workplace etiquette and slept with their bosses. More than likely Fran saw her choice of bed partner as a good career move, or so she implied a year ago before making partner. Claire wasn’t about to invite a sisterly moment by admitting she’d done a version of the same thing.
“I think his name was Dustin, right?” Fran gurgled with laughter.
“Was? Did it change? We lived next door to Dustin all our lives. Don’t try to make it seem like you don’t remember him. That’s just mean.” Claire wished she could stop the heat seeping up her neck and across her face.
“Water under the bridge. Speaking of men…how’s your love life?”
“Stuck in neutral.” She wasn’t up to sharing that she’d slept with her editor last Friday and had officially classified herself as a magnet for the wrong guy. If she told Fran, her sister would find some way to rehash that mistake over and over. The few secrets Claire had ventured to share in the past had been invariably repeated at inopportune moments in the wrong company. No, she learned early on—sharing was never caring in Fran’s book.
“Well, push it into overdrive. What are you waiting for? Prince Charming is not coming to your doorstep. Not in Seattle and certainly not in Mill Spring.”
“Really?” Claire couldn’t resist.
“Don’t get all pissy. I’m only saying what’s true. Besides, if you continue to act all holier than thou, I don’t think that even in the midst of a covey of sex-crazed bachelors, you’d net a single man.”
“I think you’d be surprised.”
“No, I’d be over-the-moon ecstatic.”
Claire seriously doubted that she could do anything that would overjoy Fran. But this was an old battle.
“I suppose. Call me when you book your flight.”
“Will do, Captain.”
If only Fran knew the truth. Claire silently cursed herself for going out for drinks last week and double-cursed herself for agreeing to catch a cab with Mike Campbell. One thing had led to another and eventually to his hand under her skirt. Claire didn’t have a boyfriend and had decided, Why not? Mike’s quick sense of humor and intelligent hazel eyes were appealing. She suspected he enjoyed the company of many women and that, in part, made him sexy, knowing other woman desired him.
She’d let down her guard, given in to an alcohol-induced illusion that only got worse when Mike tossed out his used condom, zipped up his pants, and calmly set the ground rules.
Just thinking about that moment caused a wave of nausea to brew. He’d had the audacity to try to cover his tracks back at the office.
“Look, Claire Bear, this was fun. But I think we should talk expectations. Do you know Ann?”
“Yes, she does poetry.” Claire had wanted him to just leave at that point.
She didn’t miss Mike’s raised eyebrow. “Yeah. Anyway, we’re sort of involved. A semiserious thing.”
Cords of disappointment had wrapped around her insides. It wasn’t just that he was involved; it was that he believed she’d be OK with situation. She detested actions that resulted in regret.
“I get it. She’s down the hall at work.”
“Yeah, exactly. We’re all in close quarters. If you’re interested, we can meet here at your place. Maybe Sunday afternoons.”
Oh, hell. Sex with the boss—a new low. In her fantasy stories, seducing the boss was hot, searing; clothes were torn and the sex was deliciously satisfying. Not a lukewarm proposition. If only she could backspace or Control X her way out of that memory.
On the upside, she was glad she’d been given a crude heads up. A couple of dates with Mike without knowing the score, and that situation could have been much worse.
“No one kisses and tells. Not cool.”
She had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him to put a fork in it.
Mike had reached forward as if to touch her hair, but she ducked. She had no desire ever to repeat that performance or sink lower down the maypole of expectations.
After hanging up from Fran and remembering that low point, the house felt even emptier. Plus, she could still hear Dustin’s whistle, reminding her of her biggest romantic failure. Everything seemed too much, especially being here and trying to take care of her parent’s wishes. Claire wrapped her arms around her stomach and rocked back and forth.
Righ
t now, she yearned for a strong shoulder. It would have been the right moment to have someone to share her sadness. Just to feel human arms around her, whispering support, and the warmth of another body. She exhaled slowly to the count of seven.
What she needed was a plan. A focal point to get through what was turning out to be a traumatic experience coming at her from different angles. She slammed her hand down on the window frame.
Instead of giving in to feeling worse, she’d rework her resume, send out more queries, and begin to get serious about writing. Fiction that would be taken seriously. The expiration date was stamped on her job. So far she had the goods in nonfiction and just needed to balance her resume with some longer fictional pieces, picked up for publication in respected journals. Her short stories had gotten noticed and won a couple of prestigious contests. Agents and editors scooped up writers with a track record.
She needed a change and was ready to make her move, get away from her mistake with Mike and that gray city. If only she could find the courage to write what she wanted. Claire wandered around the house and stopped in the den. She was surrounded by memories—family photographs on the walls, the bookshelves lined with books she’d grown up with and the desk where her father worked. She sat down on the sofa and spied the photograph books under the coffee table. A trip down Mill Spring memory lane would be excruciating, but she needed to revisit that road while her parents’ home was still intact. Hours later, dry-eyed, and filled with memories, she phoned her sister. Was she going to come or not?
“Howdy, did you decide when you’re flying out?”
“Not yet. Didn’t we just speak? I’ll check to see what’s available. I’m swamped, but what else is new? You must be at the house and bored.”
Claire broke from her thoughts. “I’m thinking of coming to the East Coast.” She blurted the news.
Secret Desire Page 3