My Sister's Voice (11 page)

Read My Sister's Voice Online

Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: My Sister's Voice
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Maybe Monica should turn around and go back to the room, let Tina have the hunk all to herself. But it wasn’t Tina’s book, so Monica kept walking to the table. She’d make it short, answer the questions, then leave the potential lovebirds alone. Just as she rounded the corner, she saw him. He looked up, and their eyes locked. He was staring at her so intently she had to tell herself to keep moving. She smiled, although she felt slightly sick. He was very good-looking, all right; dreamy was an apt description. He had thick waves of dark hair, a strong face, and green eyes that surely drew as many compliments as her ice blue ones. He stood as she approached, and held out his hand. Monica didn’t dare look at Tina, whose laughter had abruptly stopped.
“Hi, I’m Monica,” she said as their hands touched. He smiled as he gripped her hand in his, but shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was meeting her. Monica felt her face flush; she wasn’t that famous.
“I’m Mike,” he said.
“Sit down,” Tina said, pulling out a chair. It was only then that Monica realized they hadn’t let go of each other’s hands. Monica pulled away first, and he waited for her to take her seat before taking his own.
“This is so weird,” he said, gazing at her. Monica laughed, and glanced at Tina. Tina laughed too, but whereas Monica’s was nervous, hers was hollow.
“I take it you’re a fan?” Monica asked.
“A fan?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“Of the book,” Monica said quickly. “I didn’t mean me.”
“Oh yes, the book,” Mike said. “That’s totally why this is so weird.” He continued to smile, but no more words fell from his lips.
“Who wants a drink?” Tina said.
“A glass of Chardonnay would be great,” Monica said. Mike reached for his wallet.
“I’ll get it,” Tina said. “You two can start the interview—get it over with—while I get the drinks, then we can just—relax and enjoy.”
Don’t be desperate,
Monica wanted to say. But who was she to judge? A motivational speaker who carried around a bottle of sleeping pills because just having them on hand calmed her down, that’s who she was.
“What would you like, Mike?” Tina said. She gave a little hoot at the rhyme as she waited.
“Uh—Chardonnay for me too,” he said.
“Really,” Tina said. “I pegged you as a Pilsner Urquell guy.” She winked. “I’m a martini girl.” Mike smiled and held out his hands.
“I’m open,” he said. “Surprise me.” Tina laughed and rocked up on her toes.
“I like the sound of that,” she said. “Be right back.” Monica gazed out at the pool. The sun was just starting to set, the lights barely glowing but visible. Potted plants and shrubs completed the outdoor Eden. It was romantic, and he was gorgeous—she had to face it, he was gorgeous. That’s why her heart was tripping, why the thought of being alone with him made her giddy.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Philadelphia,” he said. She frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No—I just—assumed you were from a Boston paper.”
“Oh. Right. That makes sense.”
“What paper are you from?”
“Um. It’s more of a local artists’ co-op,” he said.
“Oh. Cool.”
“Yeah. We have some of Philly’s most talented people in the co-op, if I do say so myself.”
“Are you a writer too?”
“I’m a sculptor, actually.”
“Really?” Monica said. Dreamy and artistic. She’d better not have more than one glass of wine. “What’s your medium?”
“I’ve worked with everything over the years, but right now I’m dabbling in steel.” Dabbling in steel. Very sexy. Luckily, she didn’t say this.
“I’m impressed,” she said instead. “Maybe I should be interviewing you.”
“Believe me,” he said. “I’d much rather hear about you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He laid it on the table and smoothed it out. Most reporters had little notebooks with them, or even tape recorders. He was different. Monica felt herself relax.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why are you interviewing me? I’m not from Philadelphia.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “But—um—your work has caught the eye of several members of our co-op—and, uh—well, to tell you the truth, we needed a little filler in our next newsletter.”
“Oh,” Monica said. “I see.” This would be much better than a stuffy interview with a real newspaper. A co-op of artists wanting to interview her. How cool.
“Do you have a pen?” Mike asked. Tina came back with the drinks, and Monica admonished herself for being disappointed as she handed Mike a pen.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Mike said suddenly. Tina’s head jerked in Monica’s direction.
“Were you singing while I was gone?” she asked.
“No,” Monica said.
“No,” Mike said. “It’s just—great to hear you talk.”
“Huh,” Tina said. She looked at Monica and said, “It
is
nice to hear you talk. I mean, it’s not like I have to listen to you yak all day long.” She moved her hand in a talking-puppet position, opening and closing her fingers to signify the “yak, yak, yak” portion of her statement. Then she gave a laugh as if trying to underscore it was a joke. Finally, Tina picked up her martini and took a long sip. Monica picked up her wine and did the same.
“So,” Mike said. “Let’s just go through these questions, shall we?” Monica nodded. “Okay. First question. Where are you from?”
“Boston,” Monica said.
“Right,” Mike said. He wrote something on the piece of paper.
“Do you have a big family?”
“No. Just me and my parents as far as immediate family goes.” Mike started to write, then hesitated. He looked at Monica. She felt her heart constrict. He looked—pained.
“No brothers,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Or—a sister?”
“Nope,” Monica said. “Just me.”
“I have three sisters,” Tina said. “My poor father.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” Monica asked Mike.
“Me? Yeah. I have two brothers. One older, one younger.”
“Stuck in the middle with you,” Tina sang. When no one commented or joined in, she stopped. Then her tongue darted out and slowly licked the rim of her glass.
“Okay. Two parents. No sister.” Mike looked at Monica before reading the next question. He cleared his throat again.
“I saw on your Web site that you have a dog,” he said.
“Snookie,” Monica said. “My puggle.” The pained look was back on Mike’s face.
“Do you have—uh—proof?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean—uh—do you have pictures of Snookie?”
“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “Did you say ‘proof’?”
“I might have,” Mike said. “I’m not a writer. I just—thought maybe you could show me a picture of your dog”—he glanced at the paper again—“or, uh, maybe call someone that has the dog—so I can—uh—hear him bark.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Monica looked around. “I’m being pranked, right?” She threw her head back and laughed. Tina kicked her under the table. Monica tried to get it together. “Call Snookie so you can hear him bark. That’s funny.” Mike laughed too. He held up the paper with a shrug.
“You’re right,” he said. “That’s ridiculous. Never mind. Um—are your parents both alive?”
“Yes,” Monica said.
“Are they, um—you know—healthy and—in their right minds?”
“Tina,” Monica said. “You’re setting me up.” Tina shook her head no. Monica slowly turned back to Mike and stared at him. “Are my parents in their right mind?” she said as if she were pondering the question. “I’m not sure. Should I call them up? Would you like to hear them bark?”
“Ha!” Tina said. “Ha-ha.”
“How do you feel about bats?” Mike said. His ears were turning red as he started reading the questions rapid-fire. “How old were you when you—oh God, I can’t ask that one—um—are you any good at Photoshop, have you ever stolen someone’s identity—”
“Enough,” Monica said, holding her hand up. “Just stop.” The laughter rolled out of her, he was keeping such a straight face. If Tina wasn’t behind this, then who was? Joe? No, Joe would never be that spontaneous.
“Do you have a birthmark on your, uh—well, it’s the hip area—uh—a half-moon—just a little to the left—” Monica’s laughter slammed shut. She flew out of her chair. It took everything she had not to touch the little birthmark, a half-moon, just above her pelvic bone. How did he know?
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, throwing the questions down and standing. “These aren’t my questions.”
“Have you been watching me?”
“Watching you? No. God no.”
“I should call the police.”
“Monica,” Tina said. “Calm down.”
“It’s not like that,” Mike said. “I swear to God it’s nothing like that. I would never. I’m not—these questions aren’t mine.”
“Whose are they?” He didn’t answer. “Answer me,” Monica said. “Were they written by a pervert or a fourth grader?”
“Neither. But believe me. If it were me, I’d be asking you about your writing process and—your visions as an artist—and I’d sure as hell want to know if it was your idea to play ‘Celebrate Good Times’—”
“You were there?” Monica asked. “You were at the workshop?”
“Just the tail end of it. And—I’d ask you if you had a boyfriend. I’d definitely ask you that.” Tina slunk in her chair, finished off her martini in one gulp.
“What did you think of it?” Monica demanded.
“What?” Mike said.
“My workshop.”
“Oh. Like I said—I just caught the tail end—”
“So what did you think of that?”
“I think you—you are very engaging—I just didn’t get all the disco stuff.”
“That’s not mine. The disco stuff is not mine.”
“I didn’t think so. See? It didn’t fit. You seem so genuine, even when you’re spouting—” Mike stopped himself.
“Spouting? Now I’m spouting?”
“Not—all the time—sometimes you were right on the mark—incredibly genuine, you know. You had me on the edge of my seat. Really.” Monica couldn’t believe this guy. He was backpedaling. Spouting. He said she was spouting. He saw through her! He knew she was full of shit, he saw right through her. Even worse, he was trying to spare her feelings. She hated that. She suddenly hated him. A lot. She hated him a lot.
Go,
she wanted to shout at Tina,
leave us alone
. Tina didn’t budge.
“How did you know about my birthmark?” Monica said.
“It’s not my question. You must have mentioned it—on your Web site, in another article, in the book—I don’t know.”
“How did you get that black eye?” Monica asked. It was faint, but he definitely had a black eye; there was enough of a hint of it.
“Monica,” Tina said.
“Did you startle someone else with your invasive questions and someone clocked you?” Monica asked.
“Actually,” Mike said, “it was a total misunderstanding. Unprovoked.”
“I doubt that,” Monica said.
“I don’t care,” Mike said. “Still the truth. Don’t you talk a lot about truth?” They stared at each other. God, he was gorgeous. Who hit him? She wanted to touch it, kiss it, lick it. She wanted to make him feel better. She wanted him to make her feel better. She wanted to push him in the pool, jump in after him, and plaster her wet body to his. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Oh God, could he tell what she was thinking? He was looking at her like he could tell what she was thinking. Was he smiling? He wasn’t smiling, was he?
“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “I have to go.” She glanced at Tina. “I’m sure my assistant would be happy to answer any more of your questions.” Tina sat up straight.
“Love to,” Tina said.
“Monica,” Mike said. “I’m so sorry.” There it was again, the squeezing of her heart. Who was this guy? Why did part of her want to kick Tina to the curb and stay up all night drinking wine and answering his bizarre questions? Then again, what if he was a sick pervert and she was siccing him on Tina?
“Don’t be too late,” Monica said. “We have an early start tomorrow.”
“No problem, boss,” Tina said.
“Don’t forget,” Monica said, pointing behind her. “I’m right up there.” Now, why did she say that? If he was a sick pervert, he now knew where she was staying.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Mike said. “I wish I could start over.”
“It’s fine,” Monica said. “I’m just tired.”
“Off to bed, then, boss,” Tina said. “I’ve got it from here.”
Back in her hotel room, Monica slipped into a tub of hot water and submerged herself until her lips were barely above the water. Oh, if they could see her now, great advisor, architect of her soul, wishing she could slip under the bubbles and drown. They would definitely want their money back. Baths were supposed to be calming. She was supposed to feel better. Instead, her fists were clenched, her heart was racing, and she was using every ounce of energy she had not to run to the curtains and see if Mike and Tina were still out there. Her hand trailed down to the tiny birthmark. Had she mentioned it in an interview?

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