My Sister's Prayer (17 page)

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Or how about when we decided to set up a classroom for our Polly Pockets? You insisted on keeping attendance records. You made topic outlines.” Another peal of laughter. “You even handed out report cards!”

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound offended. “Can I help it if that was my idea of a good time?”

She tried to wind it down, wiping at her eyes as the last few chuckles bubbled from her throat. “It hurts to laugh, but I just can't help it,” she said, arms wrapped around her rib cage, holding it tight.

“Well, laugh all you want,” I replied, retrieving the hammer and a stud finder from a kitchen drawer. “You could use some structure in your life.”

She didn't respond, and as I found a stud, hammered in the nail, and hung the board up the wall, I realized my comment may have come out sounding harsh. When I was finished, I turned to look back at Nicole, but she didn't seem hurt, just contemplative.

“You're right about that,” she said. “Guess I'm as unstructured as they come.”

“Yeah, and I guess I do tend to go too far in the other direction.” I gave her a wink. “Maybe between the two of us we can strike the right balance.”

“Maybe,” she replied. After a beat, she added, “Just don't alphabetize my toiletries, okay?”

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly, a wonderful mix of chatting and reminiscing and just hanging out. I pinned back the curtain so she could keep me company from the bed while I made our dinner, and at one point she mused that she could probably start helping with the preparation once she recovered from today's activity.

“I couldn't stand there and do dishes,” she said, “but if I'm in the chair I could roll up to the table and chop vegetables.”

“That would be great,” I replied with a smile. “I've always wanted a sous chef.”

Once supper was ready, she ate better than expected, polishing off almost a full plate of spaghetti and a wide slice of garlic bread. Afterward, we finished unpacking her things, ending with a small but brand-new Louis Vuitton suitcase.

“Nana strikes again?” I asked, holding it up.

Nicole grinned. “I know, right? Wait until you see what's in there.”

I turned it on its side, unzipped the cover, and then began pulling out the contents one item at a time, astounded at the shopping choices Nana had made for her granddaughter. Two satin bed jackets with elaborate lace trim. A velvet robe, monogrammed in gold thread with Nicole's initials. Three pairs of old-lady slippers, all stiff, scratchy, and terribly expensive. She hadn't done as bad with two regular outfits, though I couldn't imagine Nicole wearing either. My sister was a jeans and T-shirts girl, but these were really nice tops and slacks. I recognized one as a Stella McCartney, a silk crepe de chine blouse that had surely cost a fortune. Too bad it was size 2, petite, or I would have gladly traded for it.

Once everything was folded and put away, I felt kind of bad that we'd made fun of our grandmother that way, especially considering how generous she'd been in buying these things. Maybe it had been
worth it as a team-building exercise, bonding us together in the face of a common enemy.

“What about your own things from your apartment in Norfolk?” I asked as I tucked the empty suitcase under the bed.

Nicole shrugged. “Nana sent one of the maids over there last week to get all my stuff and close it out. I didn't care. No reason to pay rent on a dump I'm not even using.”

“But where is everything?” I asked, ignoring the dump remark, though I'd seen the place and knew the term was accurate.

She shrugged. “The apartment came furnished, so I didn't have that much. Just one or two boxes, but I ended up throwing most of it away.” She looked pensive for a moment, and then she added sheepishly, “You know, anything of value got sold off a long time ago. Like, who needs a lamp when you can trade it for weed?”

A lump in my throat, I turned and busied myself with adding water to the flowers.

After such a pleasant afternoon and evening, getting Nicole ready for bed that night was a sobering experience. She was just so incredibly thin, so terribly injured. I actually had tears in my eyes while giving her a sponge bath. At least I managed to hide them, and I pulled myself together once she was dressed and tucked in. As I refilled her water glass and set it on the little table, she quickly drifted off to sleep, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.

Lowering myself into the wheelchair beside the bed, I watched her. One of her small arms poked out from between the sheets. I took her hand in my own and held it, surprised to find how cold it was despite the red flush on her cheeks.

All I could do was be here for her. And pray. Closing my eyes, I prayed for her health and her heart and her sobriety. I prayed for myself too, for patience and wisdom and the right words at the right times. Then I laid her hand back at her side, pulled the covers more tightly around her, and slowly headed up to bed.

The next morning, Miss Vida surprised me by knocking on the door and offering to stay with Nicole so I could go to church. And though at first I declined the offer, she was so persistent—and Nicole seemed willing enough—that I decided to take her up on it. It was a beautiful day, and I knew I'd love nothing more than to slip away for an hour or so and recharge my spiritual batteries.

By the time the service had ended, I was feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to jump back into the Nicole situation with vim and vigor. My church was only a ten-minute walk from home, and I was just starting back when I heard someone call my name. I turned around to see a man walking toward me from across the street.

“Maddee? Hi, it's me.”

The encounter was so out of context that it took me a moment to realize that this tall, handsome man coming my way was Dr. Austin Hill. Today he was resplendent in a dark tailored suit with a gray shirt and navy tie. I wasn't quite so done up, but at least I wasn't a disheveled mess this time. I'd worn one of my favorite dresses, a simple maroon sheath, with a gold cuff bracelet and a pair of black suede pumps. Self-consciously, I wet my lips and ran a hand over my hair.

“Dr. Hill,” I said when he reached me, trying not to sound as confused as I felt.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to throw you. I was just coming out of church when I spotted you and thought I'd say hello.”

“Church? Here?” I asked, gesturing to the glass-fronted, contemporary building behind me. The place was pretty big, but I couldn't imagine why I hadn't seen him inside.

“No, over there,” he replied, turning and pointing to a far more traditional church up the street, its twin Gothic Revival spires protruding into the brilliant blue sky. Well-dressed parishioners were filing out from the doors, some gathering in clusters on the sidewalk to chat.

“It's so good to see you.” The way his eyes lingered on mine, I almost believed him.

“Back atcha,” I blurted out, and then I immediately blushed, mortified.
Back atcha? Where had that come from?

“So, you go here?” he asked, ignoring my idiocy and gesturing toward my church building.

I nodded.

“Huh. Talk about ships passing in the night. We've probably crossed paths before and don't even remember it.”

Oh, I would remember,
I thought but didn't say. Nothing about this man was forgettable.

We shared what might have been an awkward silence except that it wasn't awkward. Our eyes locked and held for a long moment, and for some reason words didn't seem necessary.

“Anyway, now that we've run into each other,” he said, placing a hand on my arm, “may I take you to lunch?”

“No,” I said more quickly than I had intended. “I mean, I can't. Not today. I have to get back to Nicole. She moved in with me yesterday.”

“Oh. Sure. Another time, then.” He removed his hand and stepped back. “Mind if I call you?”

“Call me what?” I retorted, trying to be funny but once again just sounding like an idiot.

At least he had the decency to smile. “On the phone. For a date.”

“Ah,” I replied, feeling the heat burning at my cheeks. “Sure. That would be great.”

“Super.” With that, he turned to go.

So did I. Grinning broadly, I headed in the opposite direction. My heart pounded all the way home—but not from the exertion of walking.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Celeste

C
eleste worked with Sary in an exhausted fog for the next couple of days, trying to distract herself from thinking about Jonathan. He hadn't come back into the inn, although other soldiers had. Spenser hadn't returned either.

Besides giving her orders and telling her to translate instructions to Sary, Mr. Edwards didn't talk much with her. A couple of times he opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he would just shake his head and walk away.

Sary didn't talk much either, certainly not in English but also barely in French. When she did speak, Celeste had to concentrate on understanding her accent, which was so different from Maman's. But Sary didn't seem to have any trouble understanding Celeste.

Several times a day, Sary checked her herbs in the drying hut. Celeste was sure they didn't need that much attention and soon discerned that it was a place of comfort for the woman. Probably a chance to collect her thoughts, be alone, and escape the chaos and heat of the kitchen. Mr. Edwards had mentioned that Sary had been very particular about where the shed was placed. Clearly it was important to her.

All of their interactions had to do with cooking until Celeste's third night above the kitchen, curled up on the pallet on the floor. Grief overcame her as she thought about Berta. Her entire life she'd cared for her younger sister and brothers. True, Berta had been the most challenging sibling, questioning everything over and over, but Celeste had always looked out for her sister. Until now.

Celeste bowed her head, intending to beg for God's protection over her sister, but no prayer came. Instead, she turned toward the wall and choked down her sobs as best she could. Exhausted, alone, and desperate to know why Jonathan hadn't kept his promise, she gave in to her tears. A couple of times Sary flopped over on her pallet and cleared her throat. Celeste tucked her head under her blanket to hide her crying.

The next morning, Sary motioned toward the pitcher and basin.

“Merci,”
Celeste answered.

As she washed, Sary stood near the ladder but didn't descend the stairs. She asked in French if Celeste missed home.

“Oui.”

Sary nodded and climbed down the ladder. When Celeste joined her a few minutes later, the woman pointed to a piece of bread and jam. “For you,” she said in English. “Then see to the chickens.”

Celeste nodded. She'd fed the chickens the last few days and gathered the eggs. She enjoyed leaving the kitchen and going to the coop.

When she returned with the eggs, encouraged by Sary's kindness, she asked in French how long she'd been a cook.

“My entire life,” she said, explaining that her mother was a cook on a large plantation in the West Indies. “I wasn't fit for the big house, so my mother kept me by her side. I grew up in that kitchen. My sister served in the house, though.”