The Secrets Sisters Keep (3 page)

Then the sponge in Ellie’s belly twisted again. She pressed her hand up against it and said a silent prayer that the sister who’d arrived indeed
was
Amanda, not Carleen.

Chapter Five

I
nstead of sleeping, Amanda stared at the ceiling. She’d changed from her linen into a Dior cotton robe that was as white and soft as if it had been washed hundreds of times though it still looked brand-new. She wondered if Jonathan’s slut knew enough (had enough money!) to buy quality, and if Jonathan noticed or cared.

Turning onto her side, Amanda gazed at the wall that had been papered with a lavender foil stripe in the eighties and now was painted pea green. Last fall, Ellie had convinced Edward to have the entire house redone, and the decorator had gone wild with shades of vegetable purées. Not that it mattered, Amanda thought. It wasn’t as if anyone important went there anymore.

She wondered how many more visits she would have to endure while pretending her own family was perfect. She wondered if Jonathan would ask for a divorce before Edward died; if so, would Amanda be penniless?

She flipped to her other side.

She wasn’t sure if the state of her husband or the state of her finances—or the combination!—was keeping her from a nap. How could she not be worried about both?

For one thing, it might not be long before Jonathan discovered that their checkbook was in ruins.

For another, if she and Jonathan divorced, the kids would be in college, fiscally secure, but what about her? Would she be beholden to Uncle Edward, her existence left up to his whims, her reputation and her pocketbook bankrupt? Would she be destined to move into the pea green room at the lake the way Ellie resided in a room that now resembled a butternut squash?

She could sell her furs, but she already had, feigning a naturalist conscience. She could sell her jewels, but she couldn’t remember which ones she’d already pawned and replaced with counterfeit copies. She could try to arrange another equity line on the brownstone, but the bank had said last time was the last time.

Living on Park Avenue had, after all, come with engraved expectations. The charity luncheons and teas and balls included a surreptitious price of wearing proper attire and toting a checkbook. A
big
checkbook.

The truth was, Amanda was nearly insolvent, though hopefully no one had guessed. She’d done such a remarkable job of juggling one credit card against another.

As long as she stayed married, there would be cash flow, however meager, from Jonathan’s job. But if he’d fallen in love . . .

The cream-colored drapes fluttered as if they, too, had caught a chill, the same kind of chill Amanda had felt when she’d seen the business card trapped in the pocket lining of Jonathan’s Armani.
Bibiana
, the fancy, swirling type read.
Personal Waxing.
Amanda had frowned and turned the card over. Bibiana had signed
Bibi
on the back, then had written her phone number and added a heart with an arrow through it.

A freaking heart! What the hell was that about?

Two days had passed before Amanda had been able to access her husband’s BlackBerry, where, in his words, he stored his life. The contact page had been easy to find. Of course, he had included Bibiana’s Web site and home addresses, because even
Ivy-league, schmivy-league
alumni sometimes could be plain stupid.

Back-waxer to Broadway Stars!
the Web site had proclaimed in the same swirly, twirly type as on the bimbo’s business card. Amanda had never heard Uncle Edward mention that back-waxing was a priority onstage. But she did know that Jonathan barely had chest hair, let alone any on his back. And though they’d been married for so long that they rarely examined one another’s follicles, Amanda would have sworn his pubic hairs were exactly as they’d always been: springy and intact.

She’d done a mental scan of his existing underarms and outer arms and his calves that had stayed muscled since his soccer-playing days. Nothing was different, nothing was . . . gone. Which left only one reason for Jonathan to need a back-waxer in his life.

Amanda gripped her stomach now as if she was going to vomit. She closed her eyes according to the teachings of her yogi and tried to force herself to visualize happy things: St. Barths in April, the Hamptons in August. But even those images could not erase the scene she had witnessed three nights earlier when she’d stalked her own husband to an apartment block in Queens, then watched from an alley—a dark, filthy alley!—for more than two hours until he’d casually exited, straightened his hair, rearranged his Brooks Brothers tie, and checked to be certain he had properly zipped up his fly.

E
llie smelled like a pond and looked even worse. After going upstairs, she’d noticed the door to the green room was closed. Carleen surely wouldn’t have usurped Amanda’s space, so Ellie’s prayer had been answered.

With a grateful sigh, Ellie had grabbed clean clothes and gone straight to the shower, where she now stood, letting the hot spray singe her flesh, wondering what Edward, the sneaky old goat, had done this time and what would happen next. Surely he had disappeared on purpose, as she’d suggested to Henry. Surely he had carefully arranged it to teach his nieces some sort of lesson.

Yes, of course, that was the answer.

She lathered her hair and tried not to wonder, If that were the case, why hadn’t he told Henry his plans to trick them? Why had he risked upsetting Henry, too?

“Ellie,” Edward had said that morning as they’d sat in the breakfast room, his eyes scanning page one of the
New York Times,
which Kevin, the paperboy, had just delivered. Edward’s fingers had been tapping his poached egg at the top, the same way he’d been tapping every day for years. “We’re going to have a busy weekend. I trust the caterers and florists are prepared?”

“And the bands and the magicians and the fireworks technicians.”

He lifted a small finger. “Pyrotechnic specialists,” he corrected.

She smiled, wryly, she supposed, because sometimes Uncle Edward’s silliness grated on her nerves. Of course he knew the caterers and florists were prepared: he’d left her in charge, hadn’t he?

“And the rooms are all made up?” he asked, that time sipping his tea and flicking his gaze from the newspaper to Ellie with a slight hint of . . . what? Remorse? Regret for having been impulsive?

“Yes,” Ellie replied. “Amanda’s children will stay in the guest rooms on the third floor. Amanda, Babe, and”—she took a tiny breath—“Carleen will each have their old rooms. As you requested.”

He nodded, nibbled on the egg white, then dipped a triangular toast point into the sunny yolk. “And the girls all know to bring a white outfit for the family picture on Sunday?”

“Yes. Of course.” Ellie had wanted to ask again if he were sure about having the party, if he were sure it was a good idea to reunite them all under such public conditions. She’d wanted to point out that it was not too late to call it off, that paying cancellation fees might make more sense than going through with it. But except for that one flick of a gaze, Edward was in a jolly mood, and tomorrow was his birthday, after all.

“You still think I’m a fool,” he’d said abruptly.

She shook her head. “Whatever you want is fine.”

“Including your sister?”

It went without saying that he’d meant Carleen.

Ellie had stood up to clear the table. “Whatever you want,” she repeated, then went to her uncle and kissed his cheek. “Have a happy day. I’ll see you later. I have a lot to tend to.”

And that was the last time Ellie had seen Uncle Edward as he’d dunked another toast point, taken another sip of tea, and turned to page two.

Rinsing her hair now, soaping up her body, Ellie felt slow sadness seeping in. What if Edward wasn’t playing a game, what if something had really happened? Was it possible? He could have become ill . . . there could have been an accident . . . though why on earth was she spending time thinking about this now, when obviously the answer was not yet apparent, and she had so much to do? And so many people . . . Amanda, Babe . . . Carleen . . . ?

She closed her eyes and let her tears rain down her cheeks, her throat, and her saggy breasts as she privately called them, though they really were only, what? Thirty-five? Had she been twelve when she’d begun to sprout? Why did she barely recall being twelve? Or fourteen? She only remembered how she’d longed to travel to Egypt, to explore, to discover, to unlock ancient mysteries and reveal hidden truths. It had seemed so romantic to a young girl who’d spent so much time taking care of three younger sisters. Three younger sisters and then Uncle Edward.

Grabbing for a washcloth, Ellie wept. She wept for the childhood that was long past her now, for her unmet dreams of joy and love. Of the four sisters, only Ellie had wound up alone, alone with saggy breasts and thick legs and a spongy bottom and a big bucket of nothing that her life had become.

And now, if Edward was gone . . .

She wept some more, her denial washing away, layer by layer, circling the drain in a great sucking vortex. What was she going to do with her life if,
when
, Edward, her shield from the world—yes, she’d known all along that he’d been a shield—was nothing more than a few cupfuls of ashes sealed in a marble urn?

T
wenty minutes later, Ellie pushed herself into a cotton shirt and skirt that were pale aqua and matched her eyes. She brushed her wispy curls, which had once been light brown but were now woven with silver. She applied a light layer of pastel peach lipstick and decided she was as ready as she’d ever be: tears dried, mask of contentment back in place.

After checking with Martina (“No, your uncle
eees no
return
”), Ellie took a deep, get-ready-breath and guided her Birkenstocks to Amanda’s room.

“I have no idea where Edward is,” Ellie announced after Amanda ordered her in. Perching on the window seat that overlooked the driveway, Ellie realized that even as a child, Amanda had always needed an unobscured view, needed to feel in control of something, or at least to be on the lookout in case a shoe dropped. The driveway was quiet now, but it would soon enough be stacked with Mercedes and Jaguars and one or two shiny Bentleys.

“Well, this is absurd.” Amanda sat up, plumped a satin pillow, and dangled her legs from the edge of the four-poster bed. She looked worse than she had at Christmas. Two years younger than Ellie, she now appeared older, with pronounced lines at her eyes and mouth and no sign of Botox or even a peel. The lines were, perhaps, a product of marriage or maybe motherhood.

Ellie shrugged. “It’s his party. I guess he can disappear if he wants to.”

Of course that incensed Amanda, who bolted to her feet and started pacing, an asinine routine the woman had perfected. In the past few years, she’d added a vigorous wringing of her hands. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s invited two hundred people—
VIP
people, or at least they once were. Why would he disappear?”

Ellie could have commented, “Why has Uncle Edward ever done anything?” but decided it would be more positive to defend him. Positive for him, annoying as hell for Amanda. “He’s probably distressed over the excitement . . . you know, the anticipation. I’m sure he’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“Is that man with him?”

“Really, Amanda.
That man
has a name. And, no, Henry did not go with him. For what it’s worth, Henry is upset. He’s afraid something terrible has happened. An accident, maybe.”

Amanda stopped pacing. Good Lord, she seemed to brighten. “An accident? Does he think Edward is dead?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“You’re probably right.” Amanda dropped back onto the bed. “He’ll no doubt be back for dinner. Uncle Edward loves to eat.” Then she started to cry.

Ellie hadn’t expected Amanda to be distraught. Ambivalent, maybe, but not distraught. “Amanda-Belle,” she said, rising from the window seat and walking to comfort her. “He’s fine, really he is.” But as she put her arm on Amanda’s shoulder, her sister waved her away.

“It isn’t Edward,” she said with a delicate sniff. “It’s other things. It’s . . . oh, why does life get so complicated?”

Ellie had no idea what her sister was complaining about. Of all of them, surely Amanda had a good life. In some social circles, her life would be deemed the most successful. “If life wasn’t complicated, it wouldn’t be fun.”

Amanda sniffed again. “Well, mine isn’t much fun anymore.”

It was the first time Ellie had ever heard her sister imply that all was not as grand as it seemed. “Are the kids okay?”

Amanda nodded. “They’re fine. It’s Jonathan.” She inhaled, she exhaled. “Get me a tissue. Please.”

Ellie turned to the highboy and snatched several tissues from a fresh box that had been set out when the room had been “made up,” as Uncle Edward had called it.

Amanda sniffed again. “Swear to me you won’t tell another living soul what I’m about to tell you.”

Handing her the tissues, Ellie was about to swear when the sound of a horn beep-beeped outside. She looked down to the driveway, to a white stretch limo. The back door opened and Babe got out.