The Second Sister (9 page)

So here I was sipping single malt and eating upscale pub grub made with really good Parmesan in Nilson's Bay, Wisconsin. Go figure. It wasn't until I left home and went out for Italian food with some friends at a small, now defunct restaurant in Georgetown that I realized Parmesan cheese didn't come out of green cans.

There was about a finger's worth of scotch left in the glass. I was staring into it, thinking about ordering another, deciding I shouldn't, when a man's voice said, “Mind if I sit here?”

“Go ahead,” I said automatically, but then stopped, my jaw going slack when I looked up and realized that the voice and the face that went with it belonged to Peter Swenson.

Chapter 13

N
ow that he was sitting there, I had to talk to him. I took a big swig of my drink, bigger than I normally would have, nearly draining the glass. The sooner I was done with it, the sooner I could excuse myself and leave.

“It was nice of you to come to the funeral,” I said, looking in his general direction without specifically making eye contact.

He ducked his head to acknowledge my words.

“I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk at the reception.”

Peter lifted his left eyebrow. “That right?” he said. “Because it looked to me like you were mortified to see me and going out of your way not to talk to me.”

So much for tossing back the rest of my drink as quickly as possible and getting out of there. Now I was going to have to sit there and talk just to prove him wrong.

Clint caught sight of Peter and came over to ask what he was drinking and if I wanted a refill. I ordered a second scotch. Peter asked for a Fat Tire and some pretzels.

“You got it, buddy. Oh, wait. Or am I supposed to call you Your Honor now?”

Peter made a face. Clint laughed and started pouring a beer from the tap.

“Pete's a big shot now,” he told me. “Got himself elected to da village council.”

“I heard,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Ha! You wouldn't say dat if you'd ever been to a council meeting,” Clint replied. “Buncha people gripin' and shoutin', throwin' insults. And that's just da councilors. Dose guys hate each other. Makes a hockey game look like a Sunday school picnic.”

Clint gave Peter a pitying look and put the beer down in front of him.

“Don't know why you'd sign up for dat kinda misery, buddy. Not like you don't have plenty to do already.” Clint looked toward me again. “Petey coaches hockey too. Da real little guys, age four to six.”

“Really? That must be fun.”

“They're cute kids,” Peter said, keeping his eyes on Clint. “Timmy Schrader scored two goals last week—for the other side.” He grinned and shook his head. “I enjoy it—the hockey part. As far as the council . . . well, somebody's got to do it.”

Clint made a sucking sound with his teeth. “Better you den me, buddy.”

Clint went off to tend to his other customers. Peter pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his e-mail. I shifted my eyes sideways, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to examine his features.

I'm not usually a fan of facial hair on men, but his beard wasn't a heavy one, more of a generous stubble. It looked good on him. His nose was different, displaying a small but definite bump, as though he might have broken it sometime in the past. Even that looked good on him, added to his . . . masculine aura, for lack of a better phrase. I feel kind of silly saying that, but there wasn't a better way to put it, and as I sat on my barstool, sipping a second scotch, it occurred to me that I hadn't spent time with a really manly man in quite a while. Peter was cut from a different cloth than the men I'd met since leaving Wisconsin.

He was handsome, too, always had been. That was why, when I was sixteen, I'd decided that Peter should be the boy who would rid me of my virginity. Well, that was part of the reason.

The fact that I was the only girl in my class without a steady boyfriend had led me to the conclusion that I was the last innocent left and that I was missing out on all the excitement. It helped that Denise Thorsen, who had been sitting next to me since first grade because our last names were closest in the alphabet, told me the same thing.

I know. It sounds stupid now. And let's face it, it was. But I thought and did a lot of stupid things at sixteen. Deciding that I needed to clear this awkward hurdle of adolescence as quickly as possible and making up my mind that Peter Swenson should do the deed wasn't even close to the stupidest of them.

Why Peter? Because that cocky attitude of his gave me the idea that he must be more experienced than the other available candidates and I figured it would be less awkward if at least one of us knew what we were doing. Also because Denise bet me that I couldn't get him to do it. After that it was game on. I've always been competitive.

And, of course, he had the most beautiful brown eyes. That had not changed.

Peter slipped his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. I snapped my eyes front so he wouldn't catch me staring. Clint returned carrying pretzels, plus a little bowl of cashews roasted with rosemary and cracked pepper.

“Another of Roberta's new recipes. Try 'em,” Clint said proudly, setting the bowl between us before walking away.

Peter popped a few cashews into his mouth.

“Not bad. So,” he said, taking a swig of beer and then
thunking
his glass down on the bar. “Why were you avoiding me?”

“I wasn't avoiding you. It's just that there were so many people. By the time I could get away, you'd already left.” I laughed nervously. “I mean, not that I blame you. You must have been standing there forever, and I'm sure you had plenty of other things to—”

Peter interrupted me. “I don't mean today,” he said, frowning so his brows moved closer, creating a momentary crease between them. “Well, maybe that too. But you've been avoiding me for a lot longer than that. You barely spoke to me for the whole last two years of high school, ever since the day Alice got hurt. That's pretty hard to pull off when you only have forty-five people in your graduating class.”

Now that the fries were cold, the aroma of Parmesan cheese was overpowering and made me feel a little sick. I pushed them away.

“Look, I avoided a lot of people after that,” I said, after taking another sip of scotch. “Not just you. Once I knew that Alice was going to be okay, or as okay as she ever would be, I wanted to get out of here and never come back.”

“Well, you just about pulled it off,” he said with a slightly bitter edge. “I know how much Alice wanted you to come home. And I know how persistent she could be when she really wanted something—like a dog with a bone.”

Just about everybody in town knew Alice in some sense, but he was talking like they'd been closer than that, like he was intimately acquainted with Alice in all her stubborn, single-minded splendor. His description of her persistence once she'd made up her mind about something was spot on: “a dog with a bone.” That was Alice, all right.

“So, if she couldn't talk you into coming home after all these years,” Peter said, “I doubt she ever would have. Almost seems like Alice had to die just to get you to show up.”

My chest and cheeks went suddenly hot—from anger, not embarrassment. I had to fight back the urge to throw my drink in his face. Instead, I took another swallow, a big one, grabbed my purse, and jumped up from the barstool.

“I have to go.”

“Lucy! Wait!”

He reached out for my arm, but I pulled away. He grabbed my purse strap instead, jerking at it, accidentally making me stumble. I tripped over my own feet and ended up on the floor.

There was a gasp from some of the onlookers, then a little rumble of laughter when people realized I was okay, then a man's voice chuckling and saying it looked like somebody'd had one too many, then a woman's voice hissing, telling him to shut up and quit being so mean, that my sister had just died.

Now I was angry
and
embarrassed.

I crawled up onto my knees. Peter was at my side, trying to help me up, but once again, I jerked my arm from his grasp.

“Leave it!” I snapped. “I'm fine.”

“Luce, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I don't know why I did. I'm really sorry. Sit back down,” he said. “Please.”

I shook my head. “It's late and I'm tired. I'm going to walk back to the church, get my car, and go home.”

“You can't drive,” Peter said. “Not after two glasses of scotch. What do you weigh, about a hundred and thirty?”

I weigh one thirty-seven, but saw no reason to correct him.

“Your blood level is way over the legal limit. I know because about twenty percent of my law practice is defending DUIs. Seriously, Lucy. You can't drive. I won't let you.”

I picked up my purse again and placed it back on my shoulder.

“Fine,” I said. “I won't drive. I'll take a taxi. Clint, call me a cab, will you?”

Clint took his eyes off the foam of the beer he was drawing and stared at me. “A cab? In Nilson's Bay? Boy, you really have been gone a long time, haven't you?”

“Let me drive you home,” Peter said.

The look on my face must have told him that definitely wasn't happening. After what he'd said to me, I'd have walked the five miles to Barney's farm first.

“Well, then, why don't you just sit here and wait for a while, until you're sober enough to drive? I'll buy you a ginger ale or a cup of tea or something. We really have to talk anyway. Might as well do it now.”

I barked out a laugh. “I don't have to talk to you about anything! Not ever!”

The apologetic expression fled from Peter's face. His brown eyes bored into mine. “You're wrong about that, Lucy. I'm Alice's lawyer. I wrote her will.”

Chapter 14

B
arney speared bacon with a fork and lifted the pieces out of the frying pan and onto a paper towel, then picked up a spatula and flipped over the eggs.

“I don't understand it,” he said as he stared at the frying pan, waiting for the egg yolks to set. “Why would Alice do a thing like that? I know she loved animals, but you're her sister. More coffee?”

I held out my cup. He filled it to the brim and then put a plate with three eggs, six pieces of bacon, and a toaster waffle slathered with butter and syrup down on the table in front of me before returning to the stove to fix his own plate.

I closed my eyes. The sight of those runny eggs and that greasy bacon made me want to heave.

Why, oh why, had I ordered that third scotch? The third scotch that was responsible for my pounding head and sandpaper tongue and meant I'd had to let Peter drive me home?

Actually, I hadn't
let
him drive me home; he simply had. I didn't remember the details of the transaction, only that Peter had his arm hooked under mine, half dragging me down the sidewalk to his car, saying not to worry about my car, that it'd be fine parked at the church until tomorrow. I didn't remember the drive home either. Except for the part where I told him to pull over so I could . . .

So humiliating. I deserved to feel this awful. Three scotches. What could have driven me to do something so stupid?

Not a what. A who. My sister.

I shoved a piece of bacon into my mouth and chewed methodically, ignoring the lurching in my stomach, knowing I would feel better if I could just get this down. Barney, still looking perplexed, put his own plate on the table and took a seat.

“It doesn't make sense. Why would Alice want to leave the cottage to the pet rescue instead of her own flesh and blood?”

I coughed, trying to clear my throat and mind enough to formulate an answer. I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on porch planks, the squeak of Barney's back kitchen door opening, and Peter's voice.

“Alice
didn't
leave the cottage to the pet rescue,” Peter said. “She merely stipulated that Lucy had to fulfill certain requirements in order to inherit. Should Lucy fail to do so within a year, then the ownership of the house would revert to the pet rescue.”

What was it with this guy? Did he always just appear out of nowhere like that? It was irritating, but under the circumstances, I was almost grateful to let Peter do the talking.

Even when I'm at the top of my game, I don't like to have conversations before my second cup of coffee. Barney had a lot of questions, but my head hurt too much to go into details. If Peter wanted the job, he was welcome to it.

I sat there with one elbow on the table and my head resting in my hand, eating eggs and willing myself not to be nauseous. Barney took another coffee cup off one of the hooks suspended below the plate rack, filled it, and handed it to Peter.

“Want some breakfast? Won't take me five minutes to fry more eggs.”

Peter shook his head. “No, thanks. I already ate.”

Barney sat back down and resumed eating.

“What kind of stipulations?” he asked.

“It's really just one, and it's not that complicated. Lucy has to stay in Nilson's Bay, living in the cottage, for a period of eight weeks. They don't even have to be consecutive,” Peter said. “She could come for a week or two at a time. Alice did insist that Lucy be here for Christmas week, but, aside from that, she can show up anytime it suits her. Once she finishes those eight weeks, that's it. The cottage will belong to Lucy, free and clear. She can do what she wants with it.”

I reached for my coffee cup. Barney glanced in my direction.

“Well, that doesn't seem too bad. It's kind of an unusual request, but Alice always was—unusual, I mean.”

I turned my head, looking straight at my kindhearted cousin, a man much nicer and more soft-spoken than I.

“Crazy,” I corrected. “Alice was absolutely, certifiably, bat-belfry crazy. Not unusual. Crazy.”

I shoved another piece of bacon into my mouth and glared at Peter, talking with my mouth full.

“Anybody who spent five minutes with Alice knew she was crazy. And any competent lawyer should have realized that Alice was incompetent to write a will. Especially after hearing the wing-nut requirements of that will! If you think I'm not going to fight this, Peter Swenson, you're just as crazy as my sister was. I'm going to hire a lawyer—a
good
one—and contest this thing in court! Ow.”

I clamped my hand against my forehead. Shouting made my headache worse.

“Get a lawyer if you want, Lucy. I'll even give you some names. But I'm telling you right now that you'll be wasting your money. Alice was legally competent. She held down a job, paid her bills, and managed her own affairs. Yes, the terms of her will are a little unusual, but that's not a legal basis for declaring it invalid. Plenty of smart people have weird wills. One of my clients, who had an IQ of one hundred and fifty-six and an estate worth more than three million, insisted that he be buried sitting on top of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Do you know what his family did about it?”

Barney, who had been listening far more intently than I, leaned forward and said, “What'd they do?”

“They buried the bike,” Peter deadpanned, and then looked at me. “Lucy. You're not going to be able to fight this. Alice's will is ironclad. I made sure of it.”

“It was bad enough the first time,” I said quietly, speaking more to myself than anyone else. “At least then I could tell myself that my parents cut me out of their will out of concern for Alice, to make sure that she'd always have a place to live and because they knew I'd be able to take care of myself. Logically, I understood it, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt. But I never contested the will, because I cared about Alice too. No matter what anybody else says or thinks, I cared about Alice. I did.”

I turned my head toward the wall and screwed my eyes shut, blocking out the light, refusing to cry, knowing that it would just make me hurt worse than I already did, addressing my words to Peter even though I couldn't see him.

“I don't care what Alice told you; it wasn't my fault that she got hurt.”

“What are you talking about?” I could hear the confusion in Peter's voice. “Alice never said anything . . .”

Barney was on his feet and at my side, patting me awkwardly on the shoulder.

“It was an accident. Alice never thought you were to blame. Nobody thought that.”

I opened my eyes and looked at my cousin, but said nothing, letting my stare be my contradiction. He knew my father.

Barney crouched down next to me, grunting a little as he lowered himself toward the floor, and grabbed both my hands. “Honey,” he said gently, “you're reading too much into this. Alice never blamed you. I know she didn't. Don't let an old grudge between you and your dad keep you from getting what's rightfully yours.

“The cottage isn't fancy, but it has the best view in Nilson's Bay. If you fixed it up a little, it'd be just great. And I'll even help you if you want. I'm not the best carpenter around, but I know how to handle the business end of a hammer and saw. You know something?” he said, face brightening as he considered the possibilities. “If you put a new window in the living room, a bigger one, you'd be able to see the lake from every room on the main floor. And you could add a deck to the back of the house, maybe get yourself one of those big grills. Better yet, dig a fire pit and put a grate on top. It'd sure be a good spot for a—”

I stopped him. I had to. I couldn't let him go on like that, getting his hopes up.

“Barney, I know you mean well, but . . . it's too late for me to come home even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. I have no good memories of this place.”

Barney frowned, dropped my hands, and hauled himself to his feet. He began collecting dirty plates and silverware.

“Then you're remembering wrong,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What?”

He turned to face me. “You're remembering wrong,” he repeated, enunciating each word, making sure I didn't miss a one.

“Lucy,” he said, “your dad was a card-carrying SOB. We all know that. But that doesn't mean that everybody in Nilson's Bay is. I'm not!” He dumped a stack of dishes into the sink and pointed to Peter, who was still sitting at the table, obviously uncomfortable to be listening in on such an intimate conversation, staring into the bottom of his coffee cup. “Peter isn't! In fact, there are some real nice folks around here. And you had some good times here, Lucy. Happy times. If you'd give it a chance, you might remember that.”

He spun around toward the sink and turned the faucet on full blast, his face mottled red, and started rinsing grease and syrup off plates.

I stood up and crossed the kitchen, wondering if I should try to hug him. I handed him a dishrag instead.

“Do you know those are the most words I've ever heard you string together at one time?”

He grunted, took the dishrag from me, ran it under the water, and squirted it with green soap.

“Maybe that's because you haven't been around much. I can talk a blue streak if there's somebody around worth talking to.”

“Barney. I know you'd like me to stay, but I just can't. I've got to get myself to Washington. The president-elect needs me.”

I squeezed his shoulder, then took a wet plate and started wiping it dry.

“No, he doesn't,” Barney said in a low voice. “He told you to take some time off. A month, he said. You don't have to be in Washington until after the holidays.”

“What?” I put down the dish and the towel, put a hand on my hip, and turned to look at my cousin. “How do you know that? Were you eavesdropping on me?”

Barney's face turned red. He cast his eyes to the floor.

“I wasn't . . . I didn't mean to . . .” he mumbled, then lifted his head and looked me in the eye, his voice defensive. “I wasn't eavesdropping. I just happened to be walking past your bedroom door at the same time you picked up the phone in the bedroom. And then I just . . . hung around for a while.”

Now I had both hands on my hips.

“And you don't call that eavesdropping?”

He didn't answer the question.

“Eight weeks,” he said. “That's as long as you'd have to stay here to inherit the cottage. If you took your things over there today and stayed until January first . . .”

Barney walked to the other side of the kitchen and flipped through the pages of a wall calendar with advertisements from Swan Cleaners, Fratelli's Towing, and Dinah's Pie Shop.

“That'd be seven weeks right there. Seven! You'd only have to come up for one more week after that and the place would be yours. Just a week!” He turned and gave me a triumphant look.

“People in my world don't take weeklong vacations.”

“How about weekends? They take weekends, don't they?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “But not often. And I just don't—”

Barney leaned to his left, looking around me to address Peter.

“Could she do it on weekends?”

“Sure,” Peter said, “weekends work. As long as it adds up to eight weeks total, she can come and go as she likes.”

Barney stood up straight and grinned. “Did you hear that? You make up the last seven days by coming up for weekends, three weekends. Two if you decided to come on a national holiday—Fourth of July or something. Remember how nice the Fourth is in Nilson's Bay? We got the parade and the picnic. And then the fireworks show. Remember?”

I sighed and dropped my arms to my sides. How could I make him see?

“Barney, I know that you'd love it if I moved home, but—”

“That's never going to happen,” he interrupted, his grin fading to neutrality. “I know. But be practical, Lucy. That cottage has got to be worth a couple hundred thousand dollars. You don't want to walk away from that kind of money.”

Peter cleared his throat.

“Actually,” he said, “it's worth double that. I checked with a couple of the Realtors in town. The lowest estimate was four-fifteen.”

I gasped. “Four hundred and fifteen thousand? Dollars?”

Peter nodded, confirming that both the figure and the currency were correct.

“For the cottage? It's tiny! The kitchen hasn't been remodeled since 1972 and it only has one bathroom!”

“A bath and half,” Peter said, correcting me. “But that doesn't matter. Nobody cares about the house. The value is in the land, two acres of prime lakefront property. Whoever buys it will probably bulldoze it.”

Barney's face fell. “You mean they'd just tear it down?”

“Well,” Peter replied slowly, obviously reluctant to acquaint my cousin with the truth, “I suppose it's possible that someone might consider remodeling the existing structure or maybe adding on to it, but . . . not likely. Anybody investing that kind of money is going to want something much larger and more modern. They might even build two houses on the site. There's room enough to subdivide.”

He got up from his seat and carried his empty coffee cup to the sink.

“You could consider doing that yourself, Lucy. You'd get more money for two smaller lots than you would for one big one, around a half million. Assuming you stick around long enough to collect the deed, that is.”

Peter slipped one hand into the front pocket of his jeans and stood there staring at me, looking smug. Barney wrung out the wet dishrag and hung it over the edge of the sink.