The Secrets Sisters Keep (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

A
t three minutes before noon, a dark green, vintage Jaguar delivered the first guests: David and Myrna Goldsmith, who, like Edward, once had been young but now were not.

Ellie stationed herself at the front door with her game face and her clipboard that held a list of names of everyone who’d been invited. She did not expect to recognize them all, so Edward had prepared her a line: “Hello, thank you so much for coming! Uncle Edward will be so pleased that you’ve come all this way.” The remark would suit everyone, because most of the guests were from Manhattan and most were over sixty, seventy, and more, and traveling twenty-eight miles for a party had been a commitment.

It was nice, however, that Ellie could easily identify the first arrivals. She checked their names off on the list, set down the clipboard, then went outside to the top step. “David! Myrna!” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much for coming!”

Heather’s boyfriend had volunteered to valet park the vehicles, for which Ellie had been both surprised and appreciative. He scooted around her now and jumped into the driver’s seat that David Goldsmith had vacated. Thankfully, the boy did not look as if he might make off with the car, and he didn’t tattoo the driveway with rubber as he wheeled away.

Ellie directed the Goldsmiths past the arborvitae and the burgundy roses, then toward the peonies and through the gate that led to the backyard. “Uncle Edward will be so pleased that you’ve come all this way.”

“I know he said no gifts.” David patted the pocket of his seersucker jacket, which looked like a Ralph Lauren. “But I’ve brought Havanas. I was hoping Edward would join me in a smoke before the party gets under way.”

Oh, great,
Ellie thought. The first guests, and already she would have to lie. “Actually,” she said, shielding her eyes against the sun that seemed to grow brighter in the summer sky, “Edward isn’t in the garden yet.”

“Oh?” David and Myrna Goldsmith asked in unison.

Realistically, Ellie knew the Goldsmiths would not have any cause to think something was wrong or that Edward was gone. Still, Ellie knew David had once been a celebrated playwright for several of Edward’s productions and was therefore a smart man who knew her uncle quite well. When Edward had packed up and left Broadway, David had tried negotiating numerous futile tricks to change his mind.

“Actually,” Ellie said carefully, “we think Edward is planning to stage a grand entrance later, so please enjoy yourselves until then.” She smiled, as if she were part of a glorious scheme. To seal the deal, she winked.

God, had she really winked?

The Goldsmiths studied her briefly, then chuckled simultaneously. David put his hand at his wife’s elbow and guided her toward the champagne.

So far, so sort-of-good,
Ellie thought as she returned to the driveway at the front of the house.
Only one hundred and ninety-eight people left to greet.

And then a Rolls pulled in, followed by a stretch Mercedes. Ellie took a deep breath and made ready to lie again.

C
arleen needed to find a way to make this right. She needed to find a way to prove to Ellie she was not the old Carleen, that she had grown, she had changed, and, above all, she could be trusted. She was a mother of two! She was a wife! A freaking algebra teacher! What made Ellie think she would stoop so low as to prowl through her box of junk jewelry?

Because she caught you,
Carleen reminded herself.

It didn’t matter that Carleen hadn’t intended on lifting a brooch or a bracelet or two. Seeing was believing, and Ellie certainly knew what she’d seen.

And what was this business about Edward being missing? Did they blame her for that? Why was he gone? Because of her? Had he kept tabs on her all these years so that one day he could lure her back, then thrust her into the claws of her unforgiving sisters?

Obviously, it was time for Carleen to come clean with them.

Trudging along the lake road from the house toward her first destination, she reminded herself that the outcome of this weekend shouldn’t matter. She and Brian were fine. They didn’t need her family and they didn’t need Edward’s money. They didn’t need her to do this to make their life right.

But she did.

As she slipped out of her sandals that were not made for walking, Carleen tried not to think about the party sounds wafting behind her: the music, the laughter, the people having fun. She tried not to feel the loneliness those sounds once evoked.

Long ago,
fun
had seemed like the answer to her loneliness, to the fact that she’d never felt she’d fit in. Not before the fire, when competing for attention was mandatory; not after the fire, when she was alone in a world where most people honored their fathers and mothers, not caused their deaths.

One night in Boston, the fun stopped. It was during her first semester in college, her first weeks since being banished from the family and all things familiar. During the night, Carleen woke up sick. Her belly and her head ached with distress; her heart compressed in pain. She blamed the cheap wine she’d consumed at a frat party. She reached across the mattress for the boy she’d brought home. John. Jahn. Not that his name mattered, because he had left.

She climbed from her bed and crawled to the window, clutching her midsection. Outside, snowflakes danced in the streetlamp; the ground was blanketed by two or three inches, maybe more.

Another pain stabbed her. Carleen knew she needed a doctor. She couldn’t call her landlady because the woman was probably drunk. It was after midnight, after all, and this was Back Bay, where the only thing more predictable than the narrow streets and brick brownstones and too few parking spaces were the Irish pubs on every corner.

She could call an ambulance. But to get to a phone she would need to make her way down the carved mahogany staircase that had been majestic in the 1890s but now seemed steep and foreboding.

That’s when Carleen realized how alone she really was. She knew all she could do was wait to see if the pain would pass. Wait to see if she would live or die. There was no other choice.

She sank onto the window seat, staring into the night. “Make something of yourself,” Uncle Edward had said. In that moment, on that window seat, Carleen understood that her future was up to her.

She kicked a small stone away from her footstep now. As difficult as that lesson had been, it had been her turning point. She’d made it through that horrid night and had been able to get to a clinic in the morning.

“You have the flu,” the doctor had said. An ordinary flu.

To her, it was not ordinary.

The following week she moved into a boardinghouse for women—a place she would have laughed at before. But it had security and a housemother and someone to be there if needed. No smoking, no drinking, no drugging allowed. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d succeeded.

And now, as Carleen took another step, she knew it was time for amends. She hoped Ray was home. It would be better to see him before he showed up at the party and shocked the hell out of Babe.

***

B
y twelve twenty, dozens of people combed the backyard of Kamp Kasteel, telling tales, reliving good times, sipping Dom as if it were midnight and they still were players on a big, SRO stage.
Kamp Kasteel
. Babe smiled at the name the girls had once given their home away from home, their exclusive playground.

Happily for her, Wes was garnering more attention than she was. Then again, he was putting himself in that position, shaking hands, introducing himself as Edward’s nephew-by-marriage, showing his sparkling teeth, poised (posed!) with his champagne glass, schmoozing Hollywood schmooze at which he was so adept.

“Nothing’s the same,” she could hear him say, and his listeners agreed, perhaps because they were of a similar generation. “We shoot in Canada today. Or New Zealand. Imagine that. It costs less to ship essentials than to hire stateside.” He adjusted his sunglasses frequently for emphasis. “Those of us who made our money in the eighties and nineties are grateful we don’t have to jump through those exhausting hoops.” He spoke with authority, as if it had been his choice to shrink his career.

Babe took a step back, closer to the roses, though she would have altered her direction if she’d seen Amanda standing there.

“I suppose your husband will sign autographs next.”

“Amanda,” Babe said, “I don’t know why you don’t like me, but we’re adults now. Can’t you let it go?”

Amanda kept her eyes on Babe’s husband and snorted. “Don’t take it personally, kiddo. I don’t like most people these days.”

Babe didn’t know how to respond. “Well,” she said, after a few seconds. “It isn’t very becoming.” If Babe hadn’t let Carleen scare her off, surely she would not let Amanda. “Not to mention you’re not setting a very good example for your children. How would you feel if one day they behaved like this toward one another?”

Amanda folded her arms in a haughty stance. That’s when Babe noticed how thin the woman was, perhaps more from worry than dieting. Amanda had always been such a worrier.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Babe suddenly asked.

With a flick of her head, Amanda sized up her sister. “Who can eat with this turmoil?”

Babe laughed. “It’s a party, Amanda-Belle. It is supposed to be fun, not tumultuous.”

One eyebrow cocked. “Aren’t you worried about dear Uncle Edward? Apparently your husband’s recent expedition with my sons has yielded nothing.”

“I agree with Ellie. Edward will find his way home when he’s ready.”

Amanda scanned the crowd. “In the meantime, Carleen seems to have gone into hiding. Let’s hope she stays where she is and saves us from mortification.”

“Apparently Edward doesn’t think she is mortifying.”

“He must be losing his marbles. It would be just like Ellie not to tell us. That way, she could control his estate.”

A whoop of delight rose from the arena where Wes was entertaining. “Okay,” he said (too loudly) to a woman. “One more glass of champagne, and you can try to dunk me.”

The woman whooped again as if he’d agreed to seduce her, which, of course, she did not know was not possible, at least not in the traditional way.

“Amanda,” Babe said, turning back to her sister. “Why on earth would you care whether or not Ellie controls the estate? I’ve always had the impression Jonathan does very well.”

Amanda rotated her chin in an upward direction. “It’s not the money, Babe. It’s the principle.”

“Ellie has more principles than the rest of us put together.”

“Don’t count on it. It’s usually the ones you least expect to betray you who will.”

Babe got the impression Amanda was referring to someone other than Ellie. “Well,” she said, “I don’t need Edward’s money. Did you know I’m planning to start my own fragrance line?”

Amanda laughed.

For a moment, Babe thought Amanda must have been laughing at something she’d overheard one of the guests say. The announcement of a fragrance line wasn’t grounds for laughter, was it? Then Babe remembered that Amanda had rarely been supportive of anything any of her sisters had done or had wanted to do.

“My agent is trying to convince me to add a clothing line,” Babe added, not caring that it was a lie. “And handbags. They are so popular today.”

“In that case, you might want to help out Carleen. Have you seen that quilted thing she’s toting around?”

“Maybe she can’t afford to buy her clothes. We really don’t know much about her life, do we?” Babe couldn’t believe that her irritation with Amanda had resulted in her defending Carleen.

Amanda elevated an eyebrow. “We know she’s returned to the scene of many of her crimes, Poughkeepsie notwithstanding. By the way, do you know your old boyfriend is on the guest list? Ray Williams? Wasn’t that his name?”

Babe slow-motioned her gaze from Amanda back toward Wes. But he had moved his performance to the girl with the ribbons, who now seemed as enrapt as the rest.

“Excuse me,” Babe said, then walked away, Amanda’s smugness casting a dark shadow behind her.

Chapter Twenty-one

O
kay, so it was mean. But Amanda was sick to death of this weekend and of trying to put on the show of all shows. Besides, seeing Ray’s name on the clipboard had been too juicy not to share, first with Carleen, then with Babe.

That would teach them both to think Amanda wasn’t on top of the real things that mattered.

She stayed by the roses now, trying to determine where, and with whom, her time would be best spent.

From here she could see her boys, both working to get the golden Statue of Liberty to flinch. She could intervene but did not have the interest.

Heather and
the boyfriend
were not in sight. Hopefully they were not fornicating in clear view of the crowd assembled under the tent. Just because the two lovebirds had showered and changed did not mean they were fit for society, even Edward’s.

Amanda’s gaze trailed down the hill toward the dock and the boathouse. Jonathan still had not made his way back in the stolen rowboat. Maybe he and Edward had both gone over the falls and Amanda would stand to inherit.

A third (a quarter?) of Edward’s estate.

The two-million-dollar life insurance policy the firm had on Jonathan.

A trace of a smile flitted over her lips. Did she dare wish for such a glorious outcome to this asinine weekend? Resolution to her debt, a new fiscal future free from a cad of a husband?

If Jonathan died, would she be obligated to notify the back-waxer?

“Amanda, darling, whatever are you doing over there in the bushes?” The woman who called out looked vaguely familiar. She wore a great deal of what looked like peacock feathers, including a few in her shock of white hair. Her thin lips were painted too red and her rouge (yes, rouge, not blush) seemed to have been extracted from the same pot. She sat in a cluster of wide-eyed ladies. “Come tell us if it’s true that Carleen was invited.” She patted the eggshell-colored, padded fabric that covered the plastic folding chair and was supposed to look like upholstery. “She worked for my sister in Boston, you know. Mostly stitching ready-to-wear.”

That’s when Amanda realized the woman was Nola, the costume designer who’d been known for her gossip as well as her getups. Amanda hadn’t known (or cared) that Nola had a sister in Boston where Carleen had apparently worked. No doubt Edward secured her the job.

And now the ladies-in-waiting wanted to dish about the decadent sister.

Why the hell not?
Amanda trotted to the champagne table and snatched a bottle. Chitchat would be more fun than pondering her mess of a life.

Besides, she thought, as an added attraction she could ice the gossip cake with a tidbit about Babe’s old boyfriend who might make an appearance—wouldn’t that be a hoot?

B
abe had no idea what to do, where to hide, and if, in fact, hiding was what she wanted to do.

Ray.

She stole her way to the path that led to his house because it was safe, or at least it always had been. She supposed, on a subconscious level, that she hoped he’d once again step into her reflection and into her heart.

You are not a teenager,
she reminded herself as she slipped through the overgrowth, further from the party.
And you are married. Your life is not here.

That, of course, was from her sensible-self sitting on her right shoulder, whispering in her right ear. On her left side, however, was her emotional-self, who now said,
But wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel love again?

And then she found her special place. She sat on the ground, not caring if it ruined her dress.

When she’d first gone to Hollywood, thoughts of Ray had been the catalyst for each performance: maybe he would hear she had a part in a movie, maybe he would see it, maybe he would realize he was still in love with her and had to be with her. Maybe he would go to California and rescue Babe from herself.

One film, then another, and another. Her star rose high; surely he’d learned what she was doing. But he didn’t come. After several films, several years, she tucked his memory away. She married, divorced, married again. She was nominated for an Oscar. Still, he didn’t come.

Looking into the water, Babe started to cry. Slowly, at first, the way she’d cried for so long after the baby, after Ray. She sat there, a grown woman, an international film star, her dress getting soiled, her cheeks streaking mascara, not knowing what to do next, yet knowing the fairy tale had ended long ago and Ray’s reflection would not appear again.

C
arleen sat on the steps that led to the back porch at Ray Williams’s house. She pulled up her knees and gathered her long skirt around her ankles. There had been no answer when she’d knocked on the screen door, but the inside door was open, so someone must have been around. Waiting was better than going back to Edward’s house, back to the party, where she wasn’t wanted.

She didn’t have to wait long.

A young boy about twelve lumbered up the hill from a pontoon boat that was tied up at a pier next to a boathouse. He carried a blanket, a bottle of Gatorade, and what looked like a walkie-talkie. Beside him, a chocolate Lab pranced.

“May I help you?” the boy called.

It was nice to see he had manners. Carleen stood up and laughed at herself for thinking as Amanda would have.

A few hours back in Amanda’s aura was clearly not good for her brain!

“Are you Ray Williams’s boy?”

As he grew closer, Carleen realized she hadn’t needed to ask. He looked so much like the boy she remembered, with thick, black hair and Irish blue eyes and freckles scattered across his nose.

“Kevin Williams,” he said, though he did not set down his things and offer to shake hands. “Ray’s my dad.”

Carleen nodded. “You look like him. Is he home?”

“He’s working.”

“On a Saturday afternoon?”

“His office is here.”

“I knocked.”

“He probably didn’t hear you. He turns on his music sometimes.” The whole time they stood there, Kevin was sizing her up like a cop working a suspect. “Maybe I can help you. My dad’s busy this time of year.”

If she told him who she was, the kid would go inside and tell Ray, who would probably instruct him to lock all the windows and doors. Carleen smiled and said, “Thanks, but I really need to talk directly to him.”

A small scowl appeared. “Can I at least tell him your name?” Just then his walkie-talkie started to crackle. A gravelly, distant voice came through the speaker and asked, “Kevin?” The boy flicked his eyes from Carleen to the phone, back to Carleen, back to the phone. He fumbled a second, then flipped a switch. The static was cut off. “Look,” he said, “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

She decided he left her no choice. “I’m sorry to bother you. But please tell your father that Carleen is here.”

The boy eyed her another quick moment, then went onto the porch, the screen door slapping behind him, the dog left sitting, watching her.

She listened but couldn’t hear anything.

Looking back toward the lake, Carleen wondered why Edward had invited Ray. Had he wanted Babe and Ray to reunite? As far as Carleen knew, Edward had not known that Babe had been pregnant. The sisters had all known, not the adults. She’d been so careful when she’d brought Babe back to Edward’s after the procedure. She’d told him Babe had cramps—a word guaranteed to make Edward vanish, to not expect Babe for dinner, to not inquire about details of her condition. So Babe had stayed in her room. The sisters took turns bringing her tea and chicken noodle soup, though she wouldn’t eat, and she wouldn’t drink. For the first time in Carleen’s life, she’d been afraid. She did not fear her parents, or that they’d learn about the abortion. No. Carleen had been afraid that Babe would die and it would be her fault.

Which was the real reason why, three days later, she left for Poughkeepsie in search of her birth certificate so she could elope with Earl and run away from the rest.

But Edward had no way of knowing that Babe was not merely suffering from cramps. Did he?

Was Ray’s invitation to today’s party merely a coincidence?

“Carleen.”

She laughed and turned back to the porch. “I never need to use my last name. I just say ‘Carleen,’ and everyone seems to know who I am. Especially around here.” He looked pretty good for a guy who, as she remembered, was the same age as she was, three years older than Babe. His hair was still dark, though his freckles seemed muted. He wore jeans and a brown T-shirt that had a picture of a tree with a caption that read Every Day is Earth Day. He didn’t look dressed for a party.

“You look well,” Ray said.

“We thought we might see you next door.”

He smiled. “I could lie and say I’m too busy.”

“But?”

“But the truth is, I’ve only seen Edward a handful of times over the years. I didn’t think that warranted being part of his celebration.” He scratched the dog’s left ear, then the right.

“Babe is here.” She blurted it out so quickly that she startled herself.

“I wondered if she would be.”

“It’s her first time back.”

“And?”

“And I thought it might be nice if you saw each other again. I always felt there was unfinished business between the two of you. That maybe you needed closure or something.”

He folded his arms, concealing the line about Earth Day. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, Jesus, Carleen, we were kids back then.”

“Not really,” she said. “You weren’t kids, not really.”

He frowned. “Did she send you over?”

Carleen shook her head. “As far as I know, she doesn’t know you still live here.”

Looking past her, then down toward the lake, to the shore, then across the water, Ray said, “Come on, Carleen. She’s a big-time movie star. I’m sure I’m the last person she wants to see.”

“It was my fault,” Carleen suddenly said, as she lowered her voice, her eyes, her chin. “The abortion. It was my fault. I convinced her not to tell our parents. After I came over here and told your father that Babe was pregnant, well, I made all the arrangements.”

Ray narrowed his eyes. His hands grasped her arms. “What abortion, Carleen? What the hell do you mean, you told my father?”"