Sweet Waters (22 page)

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Authors: Julie Carobini

BOOK: Sweet Waters
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“She and Holly are beginning to be good buds, so we need to tell Camille before Peg does it out of spite.”
She has a point. I wouldn't want Camille to find out from someone else—the way Mel did. But then again, Peg specifically said we should keep this to ourselves and she seemed to mean it. We would need to talk with Norma and Mikey, not to mention Burton and Glory—oh, it's getting complicated . . .
Fueled by a sudden desire to take things into her own hands, Mel charges the front steps as I struggle to keep up. She whips open the screen door, nearly smacking me in the head and twists the antique door handle. I'm on her heels when she suddenly stops and stares into my face.
“Don't try to stop me.”
I hold up, knowing that once she sets her mind, life gets complicated. Still, she knows better than to think I'll lie down like some compliant lap dog. The room's dark, yet the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg flow straight to my nostrils. No lights on in the kitchen. Instead, only a sliver of bouncing light, along with some faint laughter and music, comes from somewhere down the hall.
Mel drops her purse on a chair. “Camille?”
Together we follow the scent of thanksgiving down the hall. I'm right behind Mel. “Camille?”
Mel raps twice on Camille's bedroom door, which is ajar. “You in here, Cam?”
No answer.
A waft of smoke and perfume alarms me and I gesture to Mel to go ahead in to Camille's room. She does and hops backward, careening into my chest, but not before I get a glimpse—one sickening glimpse—at the source of her fright. Shane has just leapt from the rumpled bed, while Camille scrambles to yank up one sleeve of her cock-eyed blouse.
In a room lit only by candlelight—one wax draped and infused with cinnamon and nutmeg—Camille's annoyance shines. Her forehead scrunches so tight that her lines have had to introduce each other. “You weren't supposed to be home yet. What're you doing home?” She adjusts her clothing and glares at us. “And where's your manners? You didn't knock!”
Mel has composed herself and stands there in her standard way, a bored expression on her face and arms crossed firmly against her chest. “Actually, I did knock. And besides, your door was open.”
Shane's in the corner, watching the drama unfold with a little too much pleasure. I'm inches from his face before I can stop myself, my index finger poised to injure him should he try to leave. “You. You will leave this house and never even look at my sister again.”
Camille flies across the tiny room and tries to wedge herself between us. “You are so bossy, Tara. You can't just chase away my boyfriend like that!”
His taunting grin never leaves my face. “He's a sleaze.”
Camille gasps. “Don't say that . . . I love him!”
My heart clenches. I loved Trent too, but look where that got me. Shane winks at Camille and takes a step toward her. I thrust out my arm to divide them, my palms smacking up against the wall.
Camille tries to push my arm away. She whips a look at Mel. “Do something!”
Mel's bored expression falters. She thinks I'm over the top again, the “sergeant,” the name she often called me to her friends when we were teens. Why can't she just forget about her pride, that nasty need to prove me wrong?
Admit it,
Mel, I want to shout.
Shane's a loser only out for one thing and if he gets what he wants from Camille, he'll just leave her broken.
Is that what she really wants?
“Just go.” Mel's voice cuts through Camille's tears, and I drop my head forward. Defeated. Mel pushes me aside and gets in Shane's face. “Tara's right, Camille”—she never takes her eyes off surfer boy—“this one's a loser among losers.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Camille shed tears into her pillow until long after dark, the pitiful, uncomfortably familiar sound seeping beneath her door. I hate that she thinks my zeal for Shane's head on a platter has more to do with my own sad dating experience than with my desire to protect her. I've been trying to change my ways, to find a balance between the mothering older sister and the cool Eliza Carltonish dynamo who can make life happen as she calls it.
So far, I'm losing that battle.
Unable to let sleep claim me for the night, I hunker down on the couch, my computer on my lap, half-listening as Mel closes up the house, shutting windows and shades. She straightens the kitchen and steps into the living room, standing there until I pull my attention away from the screen and focus it on her.
“I've been hard on you.”
I don't even hesitate. “Yes, you have.”
Mel groans. “Don't make me want to take it back.”
“Eventually you will anyway.”
She crosses her arms tightly about her. “You're not off the hook with all this Daddy business, you know. You were right about Shane.” She lowers her gaze and wags her head from side to side. “Thank heaven. But we still need to have a conversation about this. And to figure out what we're going to do. Good night.”
She turns away and heads down the hall, and I linger on her words before allowing my attention to drift back to the computer on my lap. I log in to my soap account to see that Eliza apparently had quite the busy day on
Quartz Point.
In just one episode she used a rusty razor blade to chase away an intruder, fired two dishonest employees, carried out a lunchtime tryst with her long-time lover Maurice, and . . . hm . . . caused the breakup of her son and his fiancée.
Well, she must've had a good reason. No one would get in the way of someone's happiness just for sport. Right?
I read more of the synopsis. Huntington, Eliza's son, was about to marry Justina, who had once worked as the family's housekeeper. This did not go over well with Eliza. So she gave a call to the agency and had them send over Vicky the vixen, one blonde, bold, bombshell of a maid—and threw in a little extra to have her corner Huntington in the master bedroom closet. Unfortunately Justina witnessed the whole thing and got the wrong idea about her husband-to-be. Or the right idea, according to Eliza.
I read through it again, this time with more attention to the details, actively searching for some solid reason for Eliza's actions. In her defense, she did think Justina had quite possibly been behind the recent rash of thievery in the kitchen. Seems the silver had been disappearing, one piece at a time.
Not exactly solid evidence. I groan and rub my face with my hands. Before I can shut off the computer, a message pops onto the screen. It's from Mom.
Having a grand time, Tara. My weight has dropped considerably, so much that I wonder if you girls will recognize me when I return.
Question is, will she recognize
us?
I shake off my weariness and resume reading her message.
Yes, in answer to your question, your father and I took you and Mel to that church when you were young. I am surprised that it is still standing.
That's it. Weeks have gone by with little contact and that's all she wrote. Good job, Mom. Could you care any less? I hit
delete
and another message pops up.
And Tara? Please don't forget what I said to you on my wedding day. Love, Mom
p.s. International calling is not cheap! But I will look into it
domani.
(That's Italian for tomorrow.)
I lean forward and press two fingers to my temples. What did she say to me on her wedding day? The day was a blur and—other than that moment when she casually mentioned that she'd be leaving the country for a year and oh, would you keep an eye on the girls for me?—I remember little else.
Nowhere closer to sleep, I wander through the house following the same path Mel took earlier, double-checking doors, tugging on windows, eyeing the burners.
I almost hear Mel's voice accuse me.
Don't you trust me, Tara?
It's not that I don't trust Mel, or Camille for that matter. I'm just trying to do the right thing. To protect them, to . . .
Mel's imaginary voice slices through my thoughts.
“To be the hero?”
Is that what she thinks? That I suffer from an inferiority complex and need bolstering from my alter ego? Something like nausea sinks in my stomach. Maybe I shouldn't have dragged my sisters into my dream. Maybe Mel would have found happiness in New York if I hadn't put a guilt trip on her. As for Camille always being on the young side . . . did I have anything to do with that? Was I too protective? Too . . . controlling?
Shane may have been a jerk—scratch that, he
is
a two-timing fool—but I could've interrupted them less forcefully. Maybe Mel's pronouncement of my hero-complex (okay, so it was an imagined pronouncement) was the right one. I stop in the hall and lean against the wall, replaying the evening. Each scene flows across my mind in vivid color. Each expression of pain or hurt on my sisters' faces pierces me.
I never meant to cause my family pain, so the least I can do is apologize.
“WELL. THAT WENT OVER well.” Mel tosses the last bite of her bagel into her mouth. We both cringe when Camille slams the screen door behind her on the way out. “You didn't have to apologize, you know.”
I take in the early morning sun that's done absolutely nothing to lighten the mood. Sigh. “I'm not sorry for throwing the guy out, but I do feel bad about coming on so strong. I should've tried warning her again . . . left her a message or something. Or maybe I should have made us stay behind the door and wait for her to come into the hall.”
“She could've been pregnant by then.” Mel pushes back from the table and rolls her neck until it cracks twice. “Stop trying to control the situation.”
“I was apologizing!”
She holds up one palm. “Yes, you were. Maybe you don't realize this, but that's how you operate. You try to control how everyone thinks and reacts and, in this case, you didn't like Camille's reaction. So you apologized as if that would make everything all better.” She stands.
I laugh, not even caring it comes out snarky. “Okay, so now you're a psych major. If I were your professor, you'd have failed that little analysis.”
Mel's face softens. “I'm not saying that apologizing was the wrong choice, Tara. You just can't make people forgive you.”
“So either way, I'm the bad guy.”
She shrugs. “Pretty much. If it helps any, and I doubt that it will, I back you up on this one hundred percent. Camille needs to learn to be a better judge of character.” Her chair makes a deep, scraping sound as she pushes it back under the table. “I've got to get to Simka's, but I'll go find out where Camille's off to first. Don't worry yourself. She'll get over it.”
Alone in the kitchen, I glance out the window and down toward the sea, where a flock of herons glide freely beyond the rocky cliffs. My breathing slows as I watch them ride the air with such grace, such power despite their narrow, stick-like bodies. Sadly though, if I turn my head a half turn toward the right, I can find a glimpse of Beth's burned-out house. The pretty and the ugly, side by side. Isn't this the way life is?
I reach across the sink and jiggle the wooden window until it slides open. A nippy breeze flows in, raising goose bumps on my arms. And yet the smell of salt and sea and pine all woven together is worth every bit of chill. Despite the turmoil of the past few days, the smell alone is enough to help me remember the pretty things from my family's past and, for the moment, to forget about all the uglies.
My cell rings and with a sigh I leave the open window in search of my purse. I answer it on the fourth ring.
“Tara, it's Josh.”
A flutter runs through me, and not from the cold. “Hi.”
“I have to see you.”
“Um. Okay.” Not the sort of reaction he may have expected, but I'm not used to men
having
to see me. Unless they've got a late payment to make on their auto parts account, that is. Sure, Trent and I were together often, but it was more of a “You wanna do something tonight? I dunno, what do you wanna do?” kind of thing.

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