Summer with My Sisters (13 page)

“O
h my God!”

Poppy opened the front door of the house on Willow Way to find her friend Allie Swift, Luis Vuitton travel bags in hand, standing on the porch.

“Is that a hello?” Allie asked.

“Yes, yes, it is. Come in!”

Allie was petite, barely five foot two inches tall, with short spiky hair dyed platinum, large chunky glasses, and an inevitable assortment of unique jewelry she collected from emerging designers, some of who were now well-known.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Poppy said, leading her friend down the hall to the kitchen.

“I can easily book into a hotel if it’s inconvenient for me to stay with you all.”

“Not at all! Do you see the size of this place? But why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Allie dropped her bags just inside the kitchen door. “I should have,” she said, “but I guess I thought I’d take advantage of the element of surprise. Now that I’m here, you can’t put me off.”

“Why would I put you off?” Poppy asked.

“Poppy, do you remember our conversation the other day? You called me to bemoan the meaninglessness of your life.”

Poppy felt a flush of embarrassment. “But I told you I was just in a mood. I’d had a bad dream the night before.”

“That’s called putting me off. I was worried about you. I didn’t—I don’t—believe that you’re perfectly fine and thriving in your new role as mater of the Higgins clan. So I took it upon myself to butt in and offer my friendship at close quarters.”

Poppy smiled. “And I’m so glad you did butt in, Allie, really. I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Good. Now, where’s my room and where’s the wine? And oh, my, God who is that?”

Poppy turned to see Grimace sitting in the exact middle of the kitchen table. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. “That’s Violet’s cat,” she explained. “His name is Grimace.”

“I can see why. He’s glowering, which is not exactly the same as grimacing, but . . .”

“He’s actually quite friendly,” Poppy said, “once you get to know him. Well, not exactly friendly, but he tolerates people pretty well.”

“If you say so . . .”

Poppy grabbed Allie’s travel bags. “Come on, let’s get you settled. Dinner’s at six thirty and you’ll finally get to meet my sisters.”

“And what will they think of me, I wonder,” Allie said, following Poppy out of the kitchen.

 

“What was Poppy like in Boston?”

The Higgins girls and Allie were at the kitchen table, having a meal that Allie had largely prepared—classic French-inspired meatloaf, roasted red potatoes with rosemary, string beans, and biscuits (Allie had whipped those up from scratch). Daisy and Violet were regarding Allie as if she were some sort of celebrity. Poppy had noted that people often did, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was Allie’s culinary skills. Violet would probably say it was her aura.

“Daisy,” Poppy said, “what sort of question is that?”

“A perfectly normal one,” her sister replied. “I have no idea what you did with your free time when you lived in Boston. I mean, who did you hang out with? Where did you go at night? Were you wild and crazy?”

“You could have asked me any of those questions.”

Daisy grinned. “But you might not have answered.”

Allie cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “Poppy was a model tenant. She always paid the rent on time and never threw loud parties. And she left the apartment spic and span and as neat as a pin when she left to move back here.”

“Oh,” Daisy said. “That’s all?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Poppy said. “I know you were hoping that for the past few years I’d been living a life of shameful debauchery.”

“Have you really been to Stonehenge?” Violet asked Allie. “And to Newgrange?”

“Yes,” Allie said. “I really have been. And you really do feel connected to the past in places like that. To the people who built them and worshipped there, or whatever it was they did, exactly. At least, I felt connected.”

“I can’t wait to go to Stonehenge and Newgrange and all the other ancient sites we know about!” Violet said excitedly. “Maybe I’ll even locate a lost site myself someday!”

Daisy reached for another biscuit. “I can’t wait to go to California,” she said. “It’s pathetic. I haven’t been anywhere!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Daisy. Dad and Mom took us plenty of places. New York. Boston. Colonial Williamsburg. Quebec.”

“All on the East Coast,” Daisy pointed out. “I want to go west.”

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to travel,” Allie assured her.

“This is excellent, Poppy,” Violet said, reaching for her third slice of meatloaf.

Poppy smiled. “Thanks, but I can’t really take the credit. Allie did most of the work. Like, ninety-nine percent of it.”

“Make sure you give Poppy the recipe,” Daisy said. “Her repertoire is kind of limited.”

“Bigger than yours!”

“I can make mac ’n’ cheese from a box,” Daisy explained to Allie. “And when Dad . . . When I was doing a lot of the cooking around here I did mostly cold stuff, like salads.”

“Putting a meal on the table is an act of love,” Allie said. “It doesn’t matter what the meal consists of.”

Violet shook her head. “Unless it’s a beefsteak mushroom. That’s a type of morel. They’re poisonous.”

“Violet knows about these things,” Poppy told Allie.

“Ah, I see.”

“Not that I would ever poison someone,” Violet explained. “ ‘Do no harm’ is my motto.”

“Easier said than done. What if you think you’re doing no harm but you actually are?” Daisy asked. “What if you really believed the mushrooms you put in the pasta were harmless but they wound up killing your dinner guest?”

Poppy sighed. “Daisy, do you always have to be so . . . so . . .”

“Yes,” Daisy said with a grin. “I do.”

 

Later that night, after dinner, Poppy and Allie were alone in the sunroom, drinking wine and occasionally munching on the box of excellent chocolates Allie had brought as a hostess gift. She had also brought with her two bottles of expensive champagne and a silk scarf for Poppy from the latest major exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

“Your sisters are lovely,” Allie said, from the depths of the chair into which she had sunk. “So smart, too.”

Poppy laughed. “I think Daisy would argue that she’s decidedly unlovely. And I might agree with her. But Violet is truly a flower child. If I didn’t know better I’d say that my parents found her nestled under a rosebush in the garden, left there by sprites.”

“She does have an otherworldly quality about her.”

“Do you think I should be worried? Do you think she’s . . .”

“Normal?” Allie said. “Yes, I think she’s perfectly normal, but then again I’ve only just met her. And I’m not her sister.”

“I might be her sister, but I hardly know her at all. She was only just nine when I moved to Boston. And when I was in college. . .” Poppy shrugged. “What with keeping my grades up and maintaining a social life and working part-time at the dress shop in town, I never paid much attention to her. Is that horrible?”

Allie shook her head. “No, of course not. And now you have the opportunity to make up for those lost years, so to speak.”

“True. Still, I wish the opportunity hadn’t arisen in the way it did.”

“I know. I
am
sorry. But so far you seem to be handling your new role with calm and dignity and grace.”

Poppy laughed. “Oh, Allie, what a liar you are!”

Allie shrugged “I thought I’d give it a try. A little flattery can be helpful.”

There followed a moment of comfortable silence. It was one of the things Poppy treasured about her friendship with Allie, their being so comfortable with one another.

“The poppy is the flower of ‘forgetful ease,’” Poppy said after a time. “I think that phrase is from a poem, but I can’t quite remember which one. It’s the flower of ‘blissful slumber.’ That’s also probably from a poem buried deep in my memory. The poppy is an opiate. A balm for the soul.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . .”

Poppy shrugged. “Just thinking aloud.”

“ ‘Hail, lovely blossom! . . . Soul-soothing plant!’
That’s
from Charlotte Smith’s poem entitled ‘Ode to the Poppy.’”

“Impressive. See, the point I’m making is that the poppy is a drug. And that’s the way I feel sometimes. Often. Let’s be real, ever since I graduated from college. Drugged. Like I’m sleeping my way through my life. I need to wake up, Allie, before it’s too late. But I have no idea how to wake up.”

“All journeys start with one step.”

Poppy frowned. “What if you don’t know in which direction to walk?”

“I know,” Allie said, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You could start a blog. You could create a persona, like Ree Drummond did with The Pioneer Woman. All the elements are in place to attract people to your story. Illustrious parents, both gone before their time, three daughters orphaned, oldest girl called upon to sacrifice, or let’s say
postpone,
the life she’d been building in Boston to come home to care for her sisters. You could document your struggles, celebrate the triumphs, make light of the failures, share the surprises both good and bad. The exercise might help you to see your way forward.”

“No,” Poppy said emphatically. “I can’t exploit my parents’ death. Anyway, I wasn’t exactly building anything in Boston. Except a friendship with you.”

“Thanks, and I’m not suggesting you exploit your tragic loss and you know it. I’m just suggesting that you be creative about the situation in which you find yourself. Turn it into something—something really worthwhile. Possibility exists everywhere. You just have to be creative enough to find it.”

“What if it turns out I don’t have a creative bone in my body?” Poppy asked grimly.

“What if it turns out you do? Banish pessimism, Poppy!”

“Pessimistic Poppy. Catchy, no?”

“No.”

Poppy sighed and reached for another chocolate. “You know,” she said, “not too long before my mother died I was complaining about my directionless life in much the same way I’m complaining to you. And she told me not to compare myself with her or my father. To anyone. But it’s so hard not to. It’s so hard not to look around and see all these people doing wonderful and important things and feel—inadequate. I used to think I was just one of those later bloomers, and it didn’t bother me too much. But now, with
both
Mom and Dad gone, well, everything seems more important, so much more urgent.”

“Poppy, none of us can entirely avoid comparing ourselves to others. How else would we estimate our place and our value in society? But at your age comparison is unfair. You’re untried as of yet. Largely untested. Give yourself time. Someday you just might achieve heights only dreamed of by your parents.”

Poppy yawned. “That might be true,” she said, “but right now I think that all I’m up to achieving is bed.”

Allie looked at her watch. “Yikes, how did it get so late? I’m too old for late nights.”

“Allie! You’re only forty!”

“And? The beauty of being an adult, as you should know by now, is the freedom to go to bed as early as you want.”

“And to spoil your appetite with cookies before dinner,” Poppy added, turning off the lamp by her chair.

“That, too.”

D
aisy stood outside The Clamshell. She was nervous. She had been thinking about what she was about to do for a while now. She didn’t have her sister Violet’s skills at discerning unspoken truths, but she just knew that something was troubling that girl Evie. And she thought that maybe she could help her in some way. If that was evidence of an overblown ego or of massive self-importance, so be it. Her curiosity was aroused and had to be satisfied.

But what possible excuse could she give for wanting to get to know Evie? She had thought and thought about it and finally, an idea had struck her, a decidedly weak idea, but it was better than none. A more creative person might be able to come up with a better plan for how she could go about befriending a virtual stranger, but Daisy was reluctant to involve anyone else in her—her scheme. Reluctant and a bit embarrassed. Anyone with a finely tuned sense of right behavior might think she was butting in where she wasn’t meant to be. Daisy had been accused of that before, like the time she had gone up to a woman in the Kittery outlets mall. The woman was dabbing her red and swollen eyes and sniffing loudly. “Are you okay?” Daisy asked. “Are you hurt? Can I do something?” The woman had summarily told Daisy to “mind her damned business” and stalked off. Only later did it occur to Daisy that the woman might only have been suffering from allergies.

You think I would have learned my lesson,
Daisy thought.
But I’m doomed to be a Good Samaritan.

Without further hesitation, Daisy opened the door to The Clamshell and took her place in line behind a couple in matching Kelly green pants and bright yellow polo shirts. When the cheerfully dressed couple had placed their order and moved aside to wait for it, Daisy stood face-to-face with Evie.

“It’s me again,” she said.

“You must really like the fried clams,” Evie replied with an awkward smile.

“I’m addicted to them.”
Just do it,
Daisy told herself. “Look,” she said, “I was kind of wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime. I know this sounds kind of pathetic, but I really don’t have any girlfriends—I have two sisters, but they don’t count—and I love my best friend, but he’s a guy, so . . .” Daisy shrugged and was very glad she wasn’t prone to blushing because she knew that her plan—such as it was—had failed. The look on Evie’s face was one of—well, it was one of downright suspicion, maybe mixed with a little fear, the kind you felt when you met someone who was clearly deranged.

“I don’t really have much time,” Evie said, looking down at the order pad on the counter before her. “I’m working a double shift today.”

“Oh,” Daisy said. “Right. Well, maybe some other day.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Evie looked up again, but her eyes wouldn’t quite meet Daisy’s. “So, do you want to place an order?”

Daisy didn’t feel at all hungry, but she thought that not to order something might make Evie think she was even more deranged than she already suspected. “Uh, sure,” she said. “The fried clams. And an order of fries.”

She stepped aside to let the person behind her order, and when her meal was ready she took the tray from the server behind the counter with Evie and left the restaurant quickly. Oh, well, she thought, settling at one of the picnic tables outside. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Still, she did feel like a bit of an idiot. Who in her right mind went up to a virtual stranger and confessed that she was lonely for a friend? Okay, it had been a ruse to cover the fact of her curiosity about Evie. Still, what would Poppy say if she knew? What would Joel say? Violet would probably want to cure her of her pathetic-ness (Daisy knew that wasn’t a word, but she liked it) with some herb or stone.

Well, it didn’t matter what anyone thought of her behavior because nobody was going to find out about her failed attempt to—to what? To rescue someone. Like she had failed to rescue that woman in the mall.

Like she had failed to rescue her father.