Rainy Day Sisters (30 page)

“Juliet gave me the idea,” Lucy said, “of maybe exhibiting some of my paintings here, to sell. You could take a percentage of the profits, and it might brighten up the place a bit, to have artwork on the walls. . . .”

Abby's expression, normally so pinched and serious, lightened as she smiled. “I love that idea.” She glanced round at the rickety chairs and the peeling Formica. “I've been wanting to spruce this place up, to tell you the truth. It looks like I'm going to be here for a while.”

“Is Mary . . . ?”

“She's okay,” Abby said, her glance on Noah, who was now scooting around on all fours and making tractor noises. “But she can't be on her feet all day the way she used to. She needs me here.”

“Well, I'm glad you're staying,” Lucy said, and Abby gave her a shy smile.

“What about you? Are you staying, then?”

Lucy took a deep breath. “I think so,” she said. Admitting that much still made her stomach flip, the way it did when you drove over a hill too fast. “I think so,” she said again.

The last week in November Lucy decided to be ambitious and cook everyone Thanksgiving dinner. “Proper American Thanksgiving,” she told Juliet. “I'm talking about green bean casserole and stuffing and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes with marshmallow fluff.”

Juliet made a face. “That last one sounds revolting.”

“It's delicious,” Lucy assured her. “I'll have to find canned pumpkin somewhere for the pie. . . .”

“You could,” Juliet suggested, “use a real pumpkin.”

Lucy shook her head firmly. “That is so not what Thanksgiving is about.”

“Have you had many Thanksgiving dinners?” Juliet asked. “With the turkey and the marshmallow and the rest of it?”

“No,” she admitted. “You know Mum. She saw Thanksgiving as another sign of patriarchal oppression.” Juliet rolled her eyes and Lucy smiled. “But I've seen enough holiday movies and Norman Rockwell paintings to know what it's supposed to be like.”

She spent the next several days searching the Internet for recipes, and waiting for the delivery of canned pumpkin and marshmallow fluff from an online store that sold American products at astronomical prices. She practiced folding napkins into the shape of turkeys—more or less—and bought all the real pumpkins at the supermarket in Whitehaven for a festive centerpiece.

And then there was the matter of the guest list. “I thought I'd invite Rachel and her family,” Lucy told Juliet, “and Peter and his father. . . .” Juliet tensed a bit at this, but didn't object. “And the Kincaids.”

“You mean Alex?” Juliet said.

“We're meant to be friends,” Lucy replied. “And if that's what we're meant to be, then that's how I'm going to act.”

“Are you sure this isn't just a way to win him back?” Juliet asked bluntly. “The way to a man's heart and all that?”

“No, it isn't,” Lucy replied after a moment, and knew she meant it. “I've learned my lesson there, at least. I'm done trying to insinuate myself into other people's lives, or to convince them they really need me. This is just about being friends and celebrating a holiday. It's as simple as that.”

Except it wasn't so simple, Lucy realized as she rushed around the kitchen on the Sunday after the official Thanksgiving Day, trying to make sure everything was ready at the same time. Juliet had offered to help, but Lucy wanted to prove to her—and everyone else—that she could do it on her own. She just hoped she actually could.

At least the napkins looked cute.

By five o'clock everyone had assembled in the dining room and Lucy had most of the dishes on the table, including the promised green bean casserole and marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes. She was saving the turkey for last, wanting to bring it to everyone just like in a movie or a painting, everything golden and gleaming and perfect.

And it was almost like that, except she tipped the platter a little as she set it on the table, and turkey grease dripped onto the once-pristine white tablecloth and splattered onto Peter, so he jumped up and brushed ineffectually at his trousers.

“Sorry!” Lucy exclaimed, and Peter just smiled and sat down again.

A little turkey grease hardly mattered, not when she was sitting at a table with friends and family—Rachel and her family, Peter and his father—Peter had tenderly tucked a napkin into his father's shirt, which had almost made Lucy choke up—Alex and his daughters, and Juliet. People she cared about. People who cared about her.

This was her home, Lucy knew then, without a doubt. Her home and where her heart was, no matter what did or didn't happen with Alex. Of course she was staying here.

“Lucy?” Juliet's amused voice broke into her thoughts.

“Yes?” She smiled at her sister, and Juliet nodded towards the turkey.

“Aren't you going to carve?”

“Oh. Um.” That was something she'd never done before. With a deep breath Lucy picked up the carving knife and fork. She began, tentatively, to saw with the knife and didn't even break through the glossy brown skin.

“You've got to commit,” Rachel said with a laugh. “It's dead already. You're not going to hurt it.”

“Okay, okay,” Lucy said with an answering laugh. “I get it.”

Commit. She could do that. She took the first uneven hacked-off slice and put it on Rachel's plate. “Satisfied?”

“I wouldn't recommend you try for a job at a carvery, but yes. It looks delicious.”

The evening passed in a blur of good food and conversation; at least, mostly good food. The green bean casserole was burned on the bottom and the gravy was lumpy, but everyone pronounced the meal a success, and Bella and Poppy both gave Lucy a thumbs-up after trying pumpkin pie for the first time.

By nine o'clock everyone was feeling sleepy and satisfied, lolling back in their chairs as Juliet filled glasses with port.

“An English tradition,” she told Lucy. “We can't have an entirely American Thanksgiving.”

“The English celebrate Thanksgiving?” Lucy teased, and Juliet smiled back.

“We rejoice at being free of you bolshy lot,” Rachel chimed in.

Lucy brandished papers and pencils. “And to cap off the evening, a pub quiz! Minus the pub, of course. And all the questions have to do with Thanksgiving.”

Rachel took her paper and pencil with alacrity, and then frowned as she read out some of the questions. “Thanksgiving came to be a national holiday thanks to which woman?” She looked up at Lucy. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“Take a guess.”

“Umm . . . Martha Washington? Betsy Ross?”

“Sarah Hale, editor of
Godey's Lady's Book
,” Lucy answered. “That was a hard one. The others are easier.”

Everyone grumbled good-naturedly as they tried to answer the questions, and Lucy began to clear the table. The sink was overflowing with greasy pots and pans, and dirty dishes littered nearly every available surface of the kitchen. Cleaning up was going to take all night.

“Would you like help with the washing up?”

Lucy turned around, her heart lurching in spite of her brain's intentions to stay normal and friendly with Alex. He was already rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and just the sight of his strong brown forearms with their light sprinkling of hair made her feel a little weak.

“Umm, sure. You don't want to complete the quiz?”

“I left the girls to it.” He moved over to the sink, taking the pots and pans out so he could fill it with hot water. “It looks like a tornado hit in here.”

“That's how I cook.”

“That's how you live,” Alex answered, his smile taking the sting from the words. “You blow into people's lives like a whirlwind.”

“Or a tornado.”

“Right.”

They stared at each other, the moment spinning out until Lucy wondered what it was turning into, if anything. Then the water started frothing up with bubbles and Alex turned off the taps, effectively breaking the moment, if there had ever been one.

Blindly Lucy reached for some dirty plates. She handed them to Alex one by one and he rinsed them off before stacking them in the dishwasher. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, but Lucy could feel the tension winding tighter and tighter inside her. She felt as if she might burst with it, with the need to say something.

“I'm staying in Hartley-by-the-Sea,” she blurted.

Alex stared at her, a plate nearly slipping from his hand. “Pardon?”

“I'm staying,” Lucy repeated. “Not at the school, obviously, since Nancy Crawford will want her job back. But I realized I don't have much in Boston to return for, and I like the life I've made for myself here. Juliet's offered to let me live with her, and so . . .” She shrugged, spreading her hands. “I'm staying. I thought you should know. Not,” she amended hurriedly, “that it changes anything, you know, between us.”

“No,” Alex agreed, and put the plate he was holding into the dishwasher. “No, of course not.”

Not exactly the response she'd been hoping for, but the one she'd expected. Sort of. “Well, then.” She gave him a cheery smile. “We'll be neighbors. Or rather, fellow villagers, which sounds kind of medieval.”

“Fellow villagers,” Alex repeated. He slotted another plate into the dishwasher without looking at her. “Yes.”

He didn't sound very pleased. Lucy wondered if she should have told him. But he would have found out eventually, and anyway, she thought with sudden savagery, screw Alex Kincaid. He'd have to get used to seeing her about the village, that was all. This was her home too now.

She grabbed the turkey platter and shoved it towards him. She'd meant to hand it to him to rinse, but the platter tipped forward and cold, congealed turkey juices splattered all over Alex's front. The situation was made even worse when Alex reflexively caught the platter and brought it to his chest. He was, Lucy thought with a swallowed bubble of near-hysterical laughter, more covered in grease than when he'd climbed the pole at the Crab Fair.

“I'm sorry,” she managed, and realized she didn't even sound all that sorry. She let out a little snort of laughter and then clapped her hands over her mouth as Alex, still holding the greasy platter, narrowed his eyes.

“Are you . . . laughing at me?”

“Maybe,” she said between her fingers. “A little.”

Carefully he placed the platter down on the counter. His shirt was stuck to his chest with grease. Lucy looked away, only to give a little gasp of surprise as she felt his hand on her shoulder, pulling her towards him.

And then, amazingly, he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back—of course she was—grease and all.

A few wonderful minutes later, Lucy heard the sound of a throat clearing and she broke apart from Alex to see Juliet standing in the doorway, giving them both a narrow look.

“We've finished the quiz.”

“Oh—” Lucy could not think what else to say. She pressed her fingers to her lips and felt how she was grinning. She felt as if she were glowing from the inside out.

Juliet turned to Alex, her expression severe. “I hope you're going to be sensible about this.”

Alex looked discomfited; he was the one used to giving stern looks, Lucy supposed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I won't have you hurting my sister. You'd better be serious about her.”

Alex looked even more taken aback, but he nodded. “I am serious, Juliet. That's why it took me so long to come around.”

“And you too, Lucy,” Juliet added, turning that schoolteacherish stare onto her. “Remember that there are two young girls involved—”

“I
know
, Juliet—”

“Does this mean you're staying, then?”

“Yes—”

Alex turned to her. “I thought you'd already decided.”

“I had,” Lucy said quickly. “I just hadn't told anyone yet.”

“Well, then.” Juliet nodded, her hands on her hips. “You'd better get in there and mark that ridiculous quiz.” The phone rang as she waved them towards the dining room. “I'll get that. You go on.”

Lucy walked into the dining room; she felt as if she were floating. Alex reached for her hand and squeezed.

“About the girls—,” he began, but Bella was already half-rising from her seat.

“You've got together!” she cried, exultant. “I can see it in your faces!”

Everyone turned to look at them, scanning their expressions. Now Lucy was both blushing and grinning like a loon, and she didn't even care.

“Together? Are you and Daddy going to get married?” Poppy asked, her hands clasped together.

“Don't rush them, Poppy,” Bella muttered. “For heaven's sake.”

“I think we'll take it one step at a time,” Alex said as he sat down at the table. “Now what about this quiz?”

Lucy was just starting to read the answers out when Juliet came back into the dining room. She stood in the doorway, silent, and Lucy hadn't even noticed her entrance until Peter rose from his chair, his forehead furrowed. “Juliet?”

Lucy turned, and saw how strange Juliet looked, all pinched and pale. Before she could ask if she was all right, Juliet spoke.

“The phone's for you, Lucy,” she said flatly. “It's Fiona.”

Juliet

JULIET DIDN'T WAIT FOR
Lucy to reply. She certainly didn't want to hear any of her conversation with Fiona. And she didn't think she could stay in this warm, lit room, with everyone smiling and laughing, for another minute. Abruptly she turned on her heel and left the dining room, left the house. She walked blindly down the front path and then stood in the middle of the pavement, the night dark all around her, the still air cold and damp. She breathed in and out and tried to slow her thundering heart.

Fiona. Her mother had called, after five years—no, a lifetime—of silence. And their entire conversation had consisted of three sentences.

“Hello, Tarn House,” Juliet had announced cheerfully, still smiling at having caught Alex and Lucy kissing.

“Juliet . . . ?”

Juliet hadn't recognized the husky yet feminine voice. It had never occurred to her that her mother would call her or reach out to her in any way.

“Yes . . . ,” she'd said, still in B&B mode.

Fiona had said, haltingly, “It's . . . it's Fiona. Is Lucy there?”

Juliet hadn't answered for a moment; she'd been so stunned to hear her mother's voice. And then to realize that the sum total of their conversation was Fiona asking for Lucy.

“I'll get her for you,” she said, and then hated herself for accommodating her mother in any way. For acting like Fiona's behavior was normal, acceptable. Yet she'd already put the phone down and was walking towards the dining room, and in any case she had no idea what she'd say to her mother if ever given the opportunity to speak.

Why?

That, Juliet supposed, was the question that had dominated her life, the question she was both desperate to ask and determined not to.
Why do you hate me? Why didn't you want me? Why?

And now she was out here in the cold night air with that question pounding through her head and Lucy inside, talking to her
mum
.

“Juliet.”

She stiffened as she heard Peter's voice, and then the steady tread of his feet until she knew he was standing right behind her. Felt his hand heavy and warm on her shoulder. He didn't speak, and Juliet closed her eyes, tried to will away the lump in her throat.

“It was my mother on the phone,” she finally squeezed out past that lump. She kept her eyes shut. “Fiona. She asked for Lucy. She's
never
asked for me.” And because that sounded so ridiculous and childish, she clarified, her voice little more than a whisper, “She's never loved or even liked me. Never even wanted me. She told me that, when I was twenty and I asked who my father was. ‘I never wanted you, Juliet.'” She stopped then, with a gasp, as if she'd been running uphill. And maybe she had been running uphill her whole life, wanting her mother to love her. “It shouldn't hurt,” she said after a moment, and her voice was thankfully steadier now. “It's been so long, and I've accepted it. It shouldn't hurt anymore.”

“But it does,” Peter said quietly, and she gave that little gasping sound again, dashing at her eyes.

“I don't want to cry.”

“Nothing wrong with a good cry.”

“Do you know how much I've cried these last few months? I could create another lake. Julietmere.”

She felt rather than saw his smile, and he squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe,” he said, “you're making up for lost time.”

She laughed shakily. “Maybe. I certainly never cried before Lucy came here.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“Oh, Peter.” It was hard to get words out again. “I wish I didn't care. I thought if I acted like I didn't care, I wouldn't. But it doesn't work that way.”

“No,” Peter agreed. “It generally doesn't.”

“It should, though, don't you think?”

He put his other hand on her shoulder, and then slowly turned her around. “Yes,” he said as he pulled her towards him, “it should.”

Juliet remained rigid for a moment, amazed that Peter was actually
hugging
her, and then overwhelmingly grateful because it felt so good. She pressed her cheek against his chest and breathed in the scent of him: sheep and wool and old-fashioned aftershave. She might have messed up her chance at having anything romantic with Peter, but she was glad to be his friend now.

After a long moment she reluctantly pulled away from him. “I should go inside. Clean up . . .” And talk to Lucy. Juliet didn't want to ask her what Fiona had wanted, but she knew she probably should.

“I'll come with you,” Peter said, and followed her back into the house.

Rachel and Alex were washing dishes in the kitchen, laughing and joking in a way Juliet certainly hadn't seen Alex do before. Lucy was good for him. Then she heard Lucy's voice from the utility room, a low, urgent murmur, and her stomach cramped.

Why had Fiona called after all this time? Juliet had the uneasy sense that their mother wanted something from Lucy, that the fragile relationship she and Lucy had built over the last three months was about to be tested.

She finished washing up with Rachel and Alex, and since Lucy was still on the phone, she saw them all off on her own.

“I hope everything's all right,” Alex said with a frown, and Juliet smiled tightly in return.

“I'm sure it is.” She gave Alex an awkward pat on the shoulder. “You'll see Lucy tomorrow at school, anyway.”

“Yes . . .” But he was still frowning, and Juliet could guess why. Alex wasn't the type to dive headfirst into a relationship, even if Lucy was. He'd want things between them sorted before he saw her at school, for his sake as well as his children's, not to mention his staff's. Speculation would be rife.

Eventually everyone headed home; Peter offered to stay, but Juliet could see how William was flagging and she shooed him away. Then she poured herself the last of the wine and sat at the kitchen table and waited.

Finally, an hour after she'd taken the call, Lucy emerged from the utility room, her face pale, the cordless phone clutched to her chest. Juliet nodded towards it.

“It must almost be out of charge.”

“Sorry.” Lucy put the phone back on the charger.

“Well?” she finally asked when Lucy remained standing in the kitchen doorway. “What did she want?”

“Juliet . . .” Lucy gazed at her, her eyes full of anguish, and Juliet stared back stonily.

“Tell me, then.”

“She has cancer.”

Juliet blinked. “And?” she said after a brief pause.

“And?”
Lucy shook her head slowly, and Juliet suppressed a stab of irritation. Clearly she was disappointing her sister with her lack of response. “And she's having surgery the day after tomorrow. It's breast cancer, and she's having a double mastectomy.”

“Fine.”

“Juliet . . .”

“What do you expect, Lucy? For me to fall to pieces? I don't have a relationship with her. You know that.”

“She's still our mother.”

“No,” Juliet said coolly. “She's your mother. She forfeited the right for me to call her that. I never did, actually. She wouldn't let me.”

Lucy flinched. “Even so . . .”

“No.” The single word came out like the crack of a gunshot, and Juliet half rose from her chair, filled with a sudden, surging fury before she took a deep breath, held on to her composure, and sat back down again. “No,” she said more calmly. “There is no ‘even so' in this situation.” Lucy didn't answer and she took a few steadying breaths before making herself ask, “So why did she call? Just to tell you?” Because Fiona obviously hadn't cared whether she knew.

“No, not just that. She wants me to come home. To be there with her, during the surgery.”

Come home.
Because Tarn House, and Hartley-by-the-Sea, weren't really home, no matter what Lucy had said. “And you're going?” Juliet asked. “Just like that?”

“I have to—”

“No, you don't. What about your job here? What about Alex?”

Lucy bit her lip. “He'll understand. And Maggie Bains is back. She can fill in for the rest of the term. It's only a few more weeks. I'll be back in January.”

“So you just drop everything the second Fiona crooks her finger?”

“She has
cancer
.”

“And when you've been in trouble, has she come running to you?” Juliet demanded.

“That . . . that shouldn't matter.”

“No? Why not?”

Lucy lifted her chin. “Because she needs me. For once.”

“Other people need you,” Juliet pointed out. “What about Bella and Poppy? They danced out of here and now you're going to disappear?”

“I'll explain to Alex tomorrow. And it's only for a few weeks. They'll understand, Juliet. I know they will.” Her eyes flashed with temper. “You're the one who has a problem with it.”

Yes, she did. Because it felt, reasonably or not, as if Lucy was choosing Fiona over her. “I thought,” she said coldly, “that you'd changed.”

“I thought you'd changed!”

They stared at each other, the chasm that had been bridged over these last few months opening wider than ever. “I suppose neither of us has changed as much as we thought,” Juliet finally said.

“Are you saying you wouldn't go, if she asked you?”

Juliet let out a hard laugh. “She would never ask me.”

“But if she did—”

“The point is,” Juliet cut across her, “she wouldn't. And she's only asking you because she knows you'll come running. You're like a puppy, Lucy, always eager to please and so easily hurt.
Honestly.
Don't you realize how she's using you? As soon as she's recovered, she'll be grandstanding again. She'll turn your act of service into something to be ridiculed. How My Daughter Tried to Win Back My Love. And you'll just take it,
again
—”

“Why are you being so mean?” Lucy cried. “Or can you not stand the thought that someone needs me? That I'm important to someone?”

“You think you're important to
Fiona
?”

“She needs me,” Lucy repeated stubbornly. “When has someone needed you, Juliet? When have you let yourself get close enough to someone for them to need you? You hide in your house, making breakfasts and beds for people you'll never see again. You've never really tried with anyone.”

Juliet jerked back. “I tried with you,” she said, and Lucy's face crumpled.

“
Juliet.
I don't want us to be like this.”

Juliet pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I don't, either.”

“Do you . . . do you not want me to come back?”

“No, I don't want you to
go
.” Juliet dropped her hands from her eyes. “Look, I realize I might be overreacting a little.”

“It's only a few weeks,” Lucy said. “I'll be back by the first of January.”

Juliet knew Lucy believed she'd be back; the trouble was, Juliet didn't. Poky Hartley-by-the-Sea with its wind and rain would seem very far away once Lucy was back in Boston, with her old friends, her old life. Maybe that jerk Thomas would get back in touch with her, ask her to babysit his kids. Maybe Fiona would have a change of heart and throw Lucy an art exhibition herself. Or maybe Lucy would just fall back into her old ways. It would be all too easy for her to say she'd changed her mind and stay in Boston instead. And if that was what happened, there wasn't a thing Juliet could do about it.

“Fine,” she said lifelessly. “Do what you have to do.”

“I don't want to part on bad terms—”

“I'm sorry, but I can't give you my blessing. Not for Fiona. But I understand why you feel you need to go.”

Lucy stared at her. “Then I guess I'll have to take that,” she said quietly.