The Second Sister (29 page)

She clamped her hand to her heart, closed her eyes, and threw back her head, enraptured.

“ ‘This is the very ecstasy of love:/Whose violent property for-does itself/And leads the will to desperate undertakings/As oft as any passion under heaven/That does afflict our natures. . . .' ”

“
Romeo and Juliet
?”

“
Hamlet
.”

She popped her head up and opened her eyes and giggled.

“You think I've lost my mind, don't you?”

I did a little. But she was happy, so why say something to spoil it?

“Well,” she went on, “maybe I have. But I never, ever thought I'd fall in love. Heck, I never even
wanted
to fall in love! At least, that's what I told myself.”

Daphne's voice grew softer, as did the gleam in her eyes, softening but not dimming, the giddy girlishness of the moment before replaced by an expression that was reflective and mature but still slightly amazed.

“I didn't believe that there could be somebody out there who was really right for me—a man who was handsome and kind and decent and real, and a good listener. A man who cares about the things I care about, shares my interests. A man who loves kids and Shakespeare. And me. I mean, what are the chances of finding a guy like that? A million to one, right?”

“Two million.”

Daphne wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and nodded slowly, her gaze shifting to a distant spot somewhere past my shoulder.

“Two million,” she mused. “Like winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket. What are the chances? I know this is crazy. I hardly know him, even though it feels like I've known him forever. Maybe he'll change his mind about me. Maybe I'll never even see him again. And if I do—if he does come back and he doesn't change his mind and this thing turns out to be the real thing—it would change my whole life. And his . . . It's crazy. A chance in a million. Two million! But when the chance comes along, and you find that somebody who fits you so fine, like a hand in a glove, you'd be crazy not to take it.”

Her eyes shifted back to mine, as though she'd just remembered I was sitting there, and she grabbed my hand across the table. “Am I right?”

“You are,” I said, unable to keep the rasp from my voice. I squeezed her hand. “Absolutely right.”

 

After we finished the baking, made pizza for the kids, and cleaned up the kitchen, Daphne and I drove over to the library to get ready for the meeting. Rinda met us there, and Lloyd came along too. He started trying to help me set up the chairs, but Rinda put a stop to that.

“Lloyd, are you crazy!” she snapped. “Put that down and come help me with the food!”

He grinned, gave me a “What can I do?” look, and went to help his wife.

“Lucy,” Rinda called to me over her shoulder, “where are the napkins?”

“Celia's supposed to bring some from the discount store. Guess she's running late.”

Rinda grunted and went back to work, grumbling the whole time at poor Lloyd, who just smiled and kept putting cookies on platters.

“Can you believe he spent twenty years in the Marines?” Daphne whispered to me. I shook my head and we both laughed—quietly.

We planned to set up about forty folding chairs, but when Mrs. Lieshout came in, breathless and nervous and wheeling a podium, and said that they'd been getting calls about the meeting all day, we decided to set up fifteen more chairs, just in case. And sure enough, when seven o'clock rolled around, every one of those seats was occupied. We had to set up six more for latecomers.

Mrs. Lieshout ran the meeting well, kept things moving along in an orderly fashion, as I'd known she would. People posed intelligent questions, were highly motivated without being hysterical, and were eager to pitch in. After some discussion, they settled on a three-prong attack consisting of a petition drive with people volunteering to take shifts on the sidewalk near the market to collect signatures, a letter citing specific economic concerns to be drafted and signed by the local merchants and sent to the village council, and a phone tree to alert others to the issues and encourage them to show up when the question came before the council, sometime after the New Year.

Of course, I would be long gone by then, but that was all right. With Mrs. Lieshout firmly at the helm and with so many energetic volunteers at the ready, I was certain that the council would have to put a stop to the demolition and that Rinda would be able to keep her job and her house.

My work was done here.

Chapter 38

T
he meeting adjourned around eight-forty and still Celia hadn't shown up. I tried texting and phoning, but got no answer.

“Could she have been in an accident?” I asked Daphne as we were refolding all those folding chairs.

Daphne shook her head. “No. We'd have heard something. You said she was going to get together with a friend?” I nodded. “Maybe they were having fun and she lost track of the time. Or maybe she forgot the meeting was tonight. You know how flaky Celia can be.”

“Flaky, but not that flaky,” I said. “We talked about it just this morning. She was going to post more flyers for me, buy the napkins, and bring them to the meeting. She's been such a help all week and she's really worried about what will happen to Rinda if she loses her job. She wouldn't have forgotten. I know she wouldn't. Seriously, what if something happened? What if she met up with Pat and decided to move back in with him?”

Daphne placed another chair in the rack and stopped to consider this. “No. She wouldn't do that,” she said, but I could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't really sure about that.

In the end, there was nothing left to do but go home. We'd driven in Daphne's car, so she dropped me off. When we pulled into the driveway, the lights were on and Celia's car was parked near the garage.

“See?” Daphne said. “She probably dropped by the house after seeing her friend, got involved painting something or quilting something, and totally forgot about the meeting. She
is
that flaky!”

“Guess so,” I said with a smile, and then got out of the car.

When I went inside, the living room, dining room, and kitchen lights were all on, but Celia was nowhere to be seen. I went from room to room, shutting off the unneeded lights and feeling a little annoyed. I was happy to have Celia stay with me and I didn't want any rent, but electricity is expensive and I didn't appreciate her wasting it. I'd have to talk to her about that later.

I heard the sound of footsteps overhead and went upstairs.

“Celia!” I called as I reached the top of the staircase and started walking down the hall to my parents' old room. “Are you all right? You missed the meeting. And you really should have been there. It was great. We had over sixty people! Mr. and Mrs. Binder are going to head up a petition drive and . . .”

I stopped in the doorway. An open suitcase, half filled with clothing, was lying on the bed. Celia stood in front of the chest of drawers with her back to me.

Oh, no. She
was
moving back in with Pat!

“Celia,” I said and came into the room. “Celia, don't. You can't go back to Pat. He's got a serious problem, and if you go back to him, it'll just make it easier for him to avoid dealing with it. Remember what Rinda said? How it takes some time before . . .”

Celia turned around to face me. Her eyes were red from crying.

“I'm not moving back in with Pat,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong in spite of her tears. “But I can't stay here anymore. Not now that I know what you're up to.”

“What I'm up to? What are you talking about?”

“About that,” she snapped and pointed to a photocopy of a drawing, a pen-and-ink architectural schematic.

“What is it?” I asked. Celia crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me. I picked up the sheet of paper and looked closer.

It was for some kind of town house development, eight total units contained in two buildings, three stories with garages on the bottom and patio decks on the upper floors. There were paths and a pool, and next to the pool, a clubhouse. The clubhouse windows were tall and wide with striped awnings and there was a porch with stocky stone columns, giving the building a sort of pseudo–Craftsman style, but the walls, the footprint of the building, were familiar. I looked down at the lower left corner and saw the words “Lakeview Village” written in block letters.

“Where did you get this?”

“My friend Krista works for an architecture firm. Peninsula Property Professionals is one of their big clients.” Celia raised one eyebrow in a sort of “gotcha” glance and then turned to the dresser and continued emptying it.

“Krista knew Alice, too, got a kitten from her a couple of years ago. And she knew that Alice was my friend. We met up for a drink and I was telling her all about how Pat threw me out, and how you guys helped me get my stuff, and that you were letting me live with you. And then she pulled
that
out of her purse.”

Celia dumped an armload of clothes into the suitcase and shut the lid, pressing down hard so she could close the zipper, then set the suitcase on the floor.

“You said that the developer was going to leave Alice's cottage the way it was. How could you lie to us like that?”

“I . . . I didn't lie to you. I didn't know anything about this. Mr. Glazier said that he wouldn't tear down the cottage or change the exterior walls, and he said, with the lot being so large, he'd probably have to build more than one house, but he never . . .”

I spread out my hands helplessly. The drawing fell, fluttering to the floor like a desiccated autumn leaf. “Celia, I didn't know anything about this.”

“Sure you didn't,” she scoffed. She walked to the door, carrying her suitcase, and then turned to face me. “How could you not know? You're always so on top of everything, always so in control. There is no way this could have slipped past you.

“You're such a hypocrite!” she cried, her eyes swimming with tears. “All the baloney you fed us about wanting to guard the character of the town and the lifestyle of the peninsula being more important than money! And about how you hated to sell the cottage, but you just had to, because it was your duty to go to Washington and help the president fix the country and save the world and—”

“Celia, that's not fair! I never said anything like that!”

“Maybe not,” she said petulantly, the tears spilling over and running down her cheeks, “but you made it sound like that. You said that even though you had to sell, you'd make sure that Alice's cottage, that her memory, would be protected. But you lied! Maybe the walls of the cottage will still be there, but it'll be crawling with cars and people and noise. They'll put in parking lots and take out the trees and block the view. But you won't care because you'll have pocketed your money and skipped town!”

She sniffled and swiped her hand across her eyes. Her voice was angry.

“On that first night after you cut your hand, Daphne had to talk us into coming over here and helping you with your quilt. She said we should give you a break because you were lonely and sad, and that different people show their grief in different ways. But Rinda said it was all an act. She said that if you'd really cared about Alice, you'd have come to see her a long time ago and that you'd only shown up because you knew there'd be money in it for you. Rinda was right. You never cared about Alice! You don't care about anybody!”

“That is not true.” I was trying to keep the edge from my voice, but it wasn't easy. Celia didn't know what she was talking about.

“I took care of Alice for
years
after our parents died. I took her on vacations and talked to her almost every single day. I made sure she was safe and that she had everything she needed. I deposited money into her account every month, even though it meant I couldn't afford to buy a home of my own. And even though it hurt when my parents left everything to Alice, the house and the car and absolutely everything, I didn't fight that. I could have, but I didn't.”

“Why would you?” Celia spat. “Alice was the one who was really hurt. She couldn't take care of herself all alone, but you could. You had everything you needed!”

“Not everything,” I said. “I needed my parents' love. I never had that, but Alice did. She had all of it.”

Celia made a face of disgust and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “So you took that out on Alice? You never came to visit her because you were mad at your parents?”

“No! It had nothing to do with Alice! I never came back here because I
hated
this place! Alice said I was remembering wrong, but she was the one who didn't remember. The accident wiped everything clean for her. She couldn't remember, but I
could
. And I do! No matter how hard I try not to. I'll never be free of those memories!”

I swallowed hard and shook my head from side to side. “You don't know what you're talking about, Celia. They weren't your parents and you weren't there. I never took
anything
out on Alice, never. I've spent the last twenty years of my life trying to make it up to . . .”

I stopped in midsentence, screwed my eyes shut, and lifted my hand to Celia's face. It wasn't her business. She didn't know. She couldn't understand. And I didn't have to explain myself to her. I wouldn't.

“Believe me or don't believe me,” I said evenly. “I don't care. But I'm telling you the truth. When Mr. Glazier told me about his plans for developing the property, I had no idea this was what he had in mind.”

“I don't believe you,” Celia said. “Not anymore. Neither will anyone else.”

She picked up her suitcase and walked down the hall and the stairs and out the door. I didn't try to stop her.