The Second Sister (17 page)

Chapter 25

T
hirteen stitches later, I was more or less as good as new—or at least on the road to that. Using my hand was a challenge for a while. Even by Thanksgiving I was still having enough trouble that Barney ended up cutting my turkey for me, which was a little embarrassing, but it was still a fun evening.

Once the turkey was reduced to a bony carcass and about the time it started to get dark, Peter's uncle Hugh slapped his hands against his thighs, looked at his wife, Eileen, and said, “Well, Mother, I guess we'd better be heading home.”

Barney decided he should do the same.

“I've got to get up at four-thirty, but I'll tell you what, Ellen—that meal was worth staying up past my bedtime for. Best turkey I ever had in my life. And that apple pie? Better than my mother used to make. Of course, if Mom were still with us, I'd have to deny that,” he said with a wink.

“Oh, I can't take too much credit,” Mrs. Swenson said. “You know where I got the apples to make that pie filling, don't you, Barney? From your farm.”

Barney beamed. “Did you, now?” He put on his coat, ready to follow Hugh and Eileen out the door. I started to get up from my chair, but Karin, Peter's sister, grabbed my arm and pulled me back down.

“Don't go yet, Lucy! You can't!”

Karin had graduated four years after Peter and me, but she was already married. She and her husband, Jeff, lived in Appleton and had two adorable children, Kylie and Harry, ages three and one. The babies had been as good as gold during dinner, but were now asleep in their grandparents' spare room. Karin sat next to me during dinner. I remembered her as being terribly shy when we were growing up, but clearly she'd gotten over it.

In the moments when Mrs. Swenson wasn't plying me with more food and when Uncle Hugh wasn't quizzing me on my opinions on everything from the flat tax to congressional term limits, Karin regaled me with stories of the trouble she and Peter had gotten into when they were kids, including one about how, when Peter was nine and she was five, they'd decided to go downtown for some ice cream—in their dad's car.

With Peter taking the wheel and Karin on the floor pressing the pedals according to his instructions, they'd come within six blocks of the ice cream parlor before taking out a tree and a fence. Mr. Swenson had made Peter reimburse him for the three hundred and fifty dollars he'd paid to repair the damage.

“How long did it take you to pay Dad back?” Karin asked, smiling sweetly at her big brother.

Mr. Swenson, who had eyebrows as big and bristly as two gray scrub brushes, looked up from his plate. “I think he still owes twenty-nine dollars and forty-six cents. When are you planning on paying me back, son?”

“The second I win a big case, Dad,” Peter said as he speared another piece of turkey from the platter and put it on his plate. “The very same day.”

“So I shouldn't put down a deposit on that big diesel RV I've had my eye on just yet?” Mr. Swenson asked, lifting his eyebrows.

“I wouldn't.”

They were a funny family, but affectionate toward one another and kind to me. Even though Uncle Hugh could get a little heated once he got rolling on politics, the arguments never became personal or crossed the line of civility. I kind of enjoyed sparring with Hugh. He had definite reasons for thinking the way he did, most of which I disagreed with 100 percent, but there was a clear logic behind his thought processes. I appreciated that, especially after being out of the political fray for so long.

In the middle of a heated debate about the Middle East that could easily have gotten out of hand, I grinned and said, “You know something, Hugh? I was worried that two months in Nilson's Bay might dull the edge on my partisan wrangling skills, but you're helping me stay in top form!”

Hugh threw back his head and laughed. Then we had more pie.

It was a much better Thanksgiving than I'd ever had growing up—that was certain. Most of our family holidays had ended in door slamming, shouting, or both. It was also better than all those Thanksgivings I'd spent eating at buffets in hotels or turkey sandwiches at my desk. Barney seemed to enjoy himself as well, and I was glad. I'd been worried that he might be feeling a little emotional in the face of this first holiday without Alice, but he seemed all right.

There was one moment when he looked across the table at me while Karin was in the middle of telling another story, his lined face very still and serious, but not sad, when I absolutely knew he was thinking what I was thinking: how much Alice would have loved this and what a shame it was that we'd never been able to share a Thanksgiving like this, all three of us.

Alice had been right. Nilson's Bay wasn't all bad. There were a lot of different ways to look at this town, all of them filtered through individual experience.

When I grew up, I couldn't wait to get away from Nilson's Bay. When Alice grew up, she couldn't bear to leave. After Peter finished law school, he couldn't wait to come back.

If I'd lived this kind of life, maybe I'd have felt the same way. If I'd had this kind of family, maybe my memories would be better.

 

Barney left, carrying foil-wrapped packages of leftovers. I said I should get my coat, but Karin was insistent.

“But you can't go! It's way too early. Mom and I need you to be on our team for Scrabble. We always play after Thanksgiving dinner; men versus women. Since I married Jeff, the guys have an unfair advantage. Two against three just isn't fair.”

“You play Scrabble? I love Scrabble!”

“Hang on a minute,” Peter said to his sister. “Talk about your unfair advantage.... This week I saw Lucy walking into the library returning a book the size of an encyclopedia. She's probably got a vocabulary that's just as big. I vote we flip coins to choose teams this year.”

He dug into his pocket for a quarter. “If it comes up heads, Lucy's on my team. And if it comes up tails, I'm on Lucy's team.”

“Uh-uh,” Karin said. “Lucy's on our team this year. And you, big brother, are goin' down.”

Mrs. Swenson, who continued to teach civics and all four levels of history at the high school, asked about the book I'd returned to the library. When I told her the title of
The Definitive Biography,
she made a face.

“I just couldn't get through that thing. I'd read three pages and fall asleep.”

“Me too.”

“What? Wait a minute . . .” Peter said, his voice an accusation. “I asked you about it and you said it was good.”

“And it is,” I said. “People say it is. Reviewers and everything. But that doesn't mean I read it.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you're sneaky. Now I really
do
want you on my team.”

I laughed. “It's late. I really should be going.”

“Why?” Karin asked. “It's a holiday. You don't have to get up early tomorrow, do you?”

“Well . . . no,” I said, thinking how strange it was that, for the first time in years, this was entirely true. I didn't have to go anywhere or do anything the next day. I was on vacation.

“Karin's right,” Mrs. Swenson said, “we really could use another woman on our team. Stay. You can have another piece of pie. You didn't try the pecan yet.”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly,” I protested, then turned to look at Peter. “Could I?”

 

The Swensons, like so many people on the peninsula, were of Scandinavian descent. They played their own version of the traditional board game; Swedish Scrabble, they called it.

All the words played had to be English, no exceptions, but when it came to spelling, there was a lot of leeway. As long as the letters you put down were more or less correct phonetically, you could spell the word pretty much any way you wanted. If anyone protested, you simply said, “Oh, but that's the Swedish spelling.”

Most of the time, after some minutes of argument and rebuttal, the word was then allowed. Apparently, this rule had come about because Mr. Swenson's grandfather, Alrik, had been a first-generation Swedish immigrant who loved board games, but never completely mastered the idiosyncrasies of English spelling and grammar.

It was certainly one of the more interesting games of Scrabble I ever played. Definitely the most hilarious. In the end the women won, but only by six points. The men vowed revenge, and everybody said that, no matter what, I had to come back next Thanksgiving for a rematch. I said I'd seriously consider it. I meant it too.

After helping to put the game away, I said I really did need to get going. Mr. Swenson was starting to yawn.

Peter went to the closet to locate my coat and Mrs. Swenson scooted out to the kitchen to get the packet of leftovers she'd already made up for me. Karin gave me a big hug, and though I put out my hand to shake hands with Jeff and Mr. Swenson, they hugged me too.

Mrs. Swenson returned with the leftovers, asking if I was sure I didn't want to take one more piece of pie and saying that she hoped I'd come over again before I left for Washington. I promised I would.

Peter helped me on with my coat. “I'm just going to walk Lucy out to her car,” he said.

“You don't have to do that. I'll be fine.”

“Oh, let him, honey. It's so dark outside and you can't be too careful these days.” She opened the door.

“Thanks so much for having me, Mrs. Swenson.”

“You know, you're old enough to call me Ellen now.”

“I know, but I can't. No matter how old I get, you're always going to be my teacher. My favorite teacher, by the way, so it's really a sign of respect.”

“All right, I'll take it as that.” She gave me one more hug and I hugged her back.

I started down the steps. Peter offered his arm to make sure I didn't trip in the darkness and I took it. When I got to the bottom step I heard the door open again and Mrs. Swenson's voice calling my name.

“Lucy, I almost forgot to ask you . . . while you're in town, would you consider coming to speak to my civics class? I'm sure the kids would be so interested in hearing about your experiences with the campaign.”

I glanced at Peter. He pulled an apologetic face.

“Of course,” I said, smiling up at her. “I'd love to.”

 

So many of the Swensons' neighbors had been hosting Thanksgiving celebrations that I'd had to park three blocks away. Now the street was deserted and still, illuminated only by the porch lights from a few houses whose inhabitants were still awake. The air had gone from chilly to so frigid that it stung my cheeks. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, wishing I'd thought to bring gloves.

“Sorry about Mom's ambush,” Peter said as we walked to my car.

“You warned me ahead of time, so it wasn't really an ambush. Besides, I kind of owe her. She was the one who got me interested in government in the first place. If you think about it, talking to her students is kind of a way of paying that debt. Or maybe paying it forward. Either way.”

“You think there might be a young Lucy Toomey sitting in the front row of my mother's American government class?”

“Oh, I hope not. For everyone's sake. One Lucy Toomey is quite enough to unleash on this poor, unsuspecting world.”

Peter looked at me, his forehead creased into a frown. “You're just kidding, right?”

“Of course I am. That was just banter.”

“Was it? Because I can't always tell with you.”

“Professional hazard,” I said lightly. “That's what happens when you spend your life working in a profession where the objective is to utter a lot of words without saying very much.”

“I see.”

“Hey, Peter. Do you know of anybody in Nilson's Bay named Maeve?”

“Maeve? No.”

“Did Alice ever mention anyone by that name?”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly to the side, as if trying to recall such an incident.

“Can't say that she did,” he said after a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“No real reason. It's just that I found these quilts.... Never mind.” I shrugged. “I was just wondering.”

We arrived at the car.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'd have been fine on my own, but it was nice of you to walk me. Very gentlemanly.”

“Well, like Mom says, you can't be too careful these days. The mean streets of Nilson's Bay and all that.”

“Right. I read the police blotter in the paper this week; two incidences of theft! Somebody stole two bags of concrete from the back of a pickup truck and somebody else nabbed the garden gnomes from Mr. Teesdale's front lawn. It was a regular crime spree.”

“I was over at the courthouse yesterday. Turns out the concrete just fell out of the back of the truck.
But,
” he said with a pointed arc to his brows, “the garden gnome caper remains unsolved.”

“Good thing you're here to protect me.”

I laughed and clicked the key fob. The car beeped twice and the headlights flashed as the doors unlocked.

“Hey, Lucy,” Peter said. “I was wondering—how's your hand? Can you get it wet?”

“Well . . . no,” I said and gave him a bemused smile. “Not for another week or so. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you'd want to come ice fishing with me. If you catch something, your hands can end up getting a little wet. But another week should work out fine. We won't haul the ice shanty out for a few days. The ice isn't quite thick enough yet.”

“Ice fishing?” I asked skeptically.