The Secrets Sisters Keep (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

“W
ell?” David Goldsmith quizzed Ellie, who stood by Martina, overseeing the removal of the entrée chafing dishes. The guests seemed to have had their fill of barbecue; it was time for desserts—birthday cake, ice cream, brownies, more all-American food for this odd-American group. “Where is he?”

Ellie smiled, as if she had no idea to whom David was referring. But he carried a half-smoked stogie in one hand, and his seersucker had started to wilt. It was only two o’clock, but it was apparent this party would not last into the night the way Edward’s parties had once done.

The guests were older, after all. Wiser. More sensible.

Ellie felt older, too, from keeping up appearances.

She spotted Amanda chatting with the costume designer and her cronies. At least Amanda seemed content.

Carleen was nowhere to be seen; neither was Babe. Hopefully they were not somewhere together, scratching at each other’s eyes.

“You don’t know where he is, do you?” the former playwright asked.

Ellie shook her head. “I haven’t got a clue. He left yesterday morning.” Relief washed over her. Saying the words out loud—to someone other than the family—seemed somehow cathartic.

“Good for him,” David responded. “When I turn seventy-five, I hope I have the balls to disappear, too.”

With his wrinkled face and his saggy jacket, he looked older than Edward. She had a fleeting thought about how quickly Edward would age once the cancer really took hold. “It would be nice to tell someone you’re going, though,” she said quietly. “It isn’t right to deliberately cause your family worry.”

He puffed on his cigar. “He didn’t leave a note?”

“Nothing. Henry and I figured out he took his iPod and his binoculars and
Oliver Twist
.”

“Henry. Ah, yes, that little man.”

“Excuse me?”

David puffed again and chuckled. “Before you blame Edward, you might be wise to do a background check on Henry. You might learn this isn’t the first time one of his lovers has disappeared.”

Two pastry chefs arrived, carrying a three-layer sheet cake decorated like Times Square—not the one with Toys “R” Us and the Virgin Megastore but the old Broadway district, with marquees for the Shubert and the Biltmore and the Booth; for
Cabaret,
The Odd Couple,
and Edward’s
Central Park
. Mini LED lights blinked and flashed and cast a happy glow; guests from every table rose from their chairs and wove around one another for a closer look. If Edward had been present, he would have blown out the single candle that stood atop One Times Square, home of the New Year’s Eve ball. In view of Edward’s absence, Ellie quickly extinguished the flame.

A tenor in the crowd began to sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Perhaps he didn’t realize the birthday boy wasn’t there. Still, almost everyone joined in halfway through the stanza, including David Goldsmith, as if he hadn’t just presented a frightening thought.

Henry?

Had Henry done something to Edward?

The singing abated, and Ellie said everyone should please return to their tables, that the waitstaff would cut the cake and deliver generous pieces. As David turned to leave, she grabbed his shoulder.

“What did you mean?” she asked. “Henry is harmless and quiet. You must have him confused with someone else.”

David bent to the ground, where he tamped out his Havana. “All these years,” he said. “Did you think we no longer came here because Edward didn’t want us? Or because of that unfortunate incident with your sister Carleen?”

Ellie didn’t know what to say. Of course she’d thought the parties had ended because of Carleen. Because Uncle Edward had left the theater because of the fire and the trial and the scandal.

“No, child. Edward stopped entertaining because of Henry. None of us wanted to be around the little twit. He had such a disagreeable side. He enjoyed butting into other people’s business. Like the way he intervened when your mother wanted to leave your father. Oh, I see I’ve said too much.”

Ellie felt herself pale. She stared at David, her eyes unblinking. As far as she knew, Henry had not known her parents. What on earth did David mean? But just as she started to ask for details, a
whip-whip
of helicopter blades sliced through the air.

Voices gasped.

Necks swiveled toward the sky.

Hands elevated to visor the sun.

“It must be Edward!” someone cried. “He’s here at last!”

Thank God,
Ellie thought, dabbing her brow with Babe’s scarf.
Thank God.

The enormous metal insect dipped and bent toward them without attempting to alight. Then, from one of the aircraft’s open doors, a man in fatigues thrust a long-lensed camera and pointed it directly at the crowd.

Ellie followed the invisible line of sight that led straight to the photographer’s subject: Wes McCall.

So Edward had not returned, after all.

A
manda assumed her creditors had flown in to capture her, that the camera was an automatic weapon, and the man behind the trigger had her in his crosshairs. Who knew what collection agencies would resort to these days?

She supposed it would serve her right for wearing the cherry-colored sundress when she should have planned something less conspicuous.

But, alas, the shooter seemed more interested in Babe’s husband than in a run-of-the-mill deadbeat like her.

With a hasty excuse to the costume lady and her friends (whose interest had been diverted by the helicopter before Amanda had had the chance to snitch about Babe’s carnal teen years), Amanda clambered over to Ellie. “I suppose this is a standard Hollywood party occurrence,” she griped.

“I thought it was him, Amanda-Belle. I thought it was Uncle Edward.”

“I do believe the old coot has abandoned us. It looks, however, as if we’ll be featured in a celebrity rag.” As soon as she’d said it, she wondered if her creditors stooped to reading the rags. If so, they might see her picture and project that, as Edward Dalton’s niece, she had access to the means to pay them off.

Oh, no! They would expose her to the world! She never could show face on Park Avenue again!

She slapped her hands over her face as if she were Britney Spears or the late Michael Jackson. Peeking through her fingers, she saw the man in fatigues change equipment, then arm himself with a video camera, a big one, like television stations used.
The Insider. Celeb. Hot Gossip.

Argh!
She’d be on cable as well as in print! YouTube wouldn’t be far behind!

The cameraman took aim in one direction after another while the deafening metal beast dove in for a close-up.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

The cyclone from the blades whirled the paper tablecloths and the padded chair covers.

Ladies whooped and grabbed their hats and hemlines.

Men held on to their toupees.

Ellie waved and waved, as if she could shoo the thing away. “Wes must be behind this!” she shouted to Amanda. “He needs to stop them!” She stumbled through the wind and the flying paper debris until she reached the celebrity in question, who stood, calmly gazing around, his sunglasses perched in place, a tiny smile revealing hints of his trademark dimples.

Amanda charged after her sister, and her two sons charged after her, their cheeks flush with helicopter-excitement. “Stop them!” Ellie screeched at Wes. “They’re ruining the party!” The miniature Palace Theatre blew off the cake and landed at Ellie’s feet. She looked like Dorothy without ruby slippers.

“No control,” Wes hollered back, resting a condescending hand on Amanda’s half-naked back. “These boys do what they want.”

“Bullshit!” Amanda needed to end the intrusion before her picture showed up on the worldwide freaking web. “Get rid of them now! We’re worried sick about Edward! How dare you orchestrate a publicity stunt!”

“Mom, don’t . . . ,” Chandler said, but his mother quickly hushed him.

Wes removed his glasses and glared at Amanda-Belle.

“If you care anything about your wife and her family,” she ranted, “you’d know that the last thing we want is publicity. This is New York, not California. We are respectable people, not movie business trash. Edward would tell you as much if he was here . . . if he’s okay . . .” If she deferred to the feel-sorry-for-us-we’re-worried-about-Edward card, maybe the damn cameras would leave.

“Mom!” Chandler shouted, more loudly this time. “Stop. Uncle Edward is fine. We saw him.”

Even the blades of the helicopter seemed to hush with that remark. All eyes turned toward the boy.

“Shut up!” Chase, the younger one, screamed at his brother.

“What’s going on?” Amanda demanded.

“Shut up,” Chase repeated, this time through his teeth.

“He made us promise not to tell,” Chandler declared.

Chase put his hands over his ears and fled. Chandler started to follow, but Amanda stopped him in his Air Jordans. “
What’s going on?
” she repeated. “
Where is Edward?
”

Chandler turned back to his mother with a self-righteous look—gee, where had he learned that? “He’s on the island,” he yelled above the chopper blades. “But he said if we told anyone, he’d cut you out of his will. I’ve seen your bills, Mom. I know how desperate you are for money. But, please, this is so juvenile.”

Amanda turned what must have been a lovely shade of mortification, which must have blended nicely with her sundress. The guests emitted a collective gasp: imagine! Amanda Dalton Delaney desperate for money!

Wes laughed and turned back to the crowd. “He’s kidding,” he said. “The boy has a vivid imagination. A chip off his old uncle’s block!”

No one corrected the fact that Edward wasn’t Chandler’s uncle but his mother’s.

“You were kidding, right?” Wes asked, his eyes drilling into the boy’s. “We were on the island. We got pine boughs to use for paddles. But we did not see Edward, did we, son?”

“Right,” Chandler muttered. “We didn’t see him. I was kidding.” Then he sauntered off toward the lake, hopefully to drown himself in waterlogged shame.

Wes signaled up to the cameraman, who hollered something to the pilot, after which the chopper lifted up, up, and away, over the treetops and the lake, rippling the water in its wake. “Now!” Wes continued, turning back to the guests. “Let’s eat cake!”

“Thank you,” Ellie mouthed to Babe’s husband, but he had started to lead a small parade toward the dessert table. Ellie looked at Amanda and said, “Well, I suppose we should be grateful. In spite of the jugglers and the ribbon-wrapping girl, without Wes McCall, the party would have been dull.”

Amanda did not know how to answer.

Chapter Twenty-three

E
llie grabbed two Happy Birthday, cowboy-themed paper dessert plates (Uncle Edward’s selection) and meandered toward Amanda, who had taken refuge at the gazebo. As she walked, she overheard the guests twitter (not on the Internet, but the old-fashioned
psst-psst,
face-to-face kind). Well, why not, Ellie supposed. After all, in addition to the paparazzi, they’d been treated to a juicy tidbit about Amanda, compliments of Amanda’s own son.

She needed money?

Edward would cut her out of his will?

Gasp.

Gasp.

Twitter
some more.

The guests would be slow to leave now. They’d stick around for the last drop of Dom, for the last morsel of cake, because who knew what spectacle would unfold next?

“What do you think?” Ellie asked Amanda as she settled onto the wooden bench and set the cake slices between them. “Did they find Uncle Edward?”

“Probably. Wes doesn’t know my son. The last thing Chandler has is an imagination, vivid or otherwise.”

Ellie didn’t comment that Chandler took after his mother. “Is Jonathan back yet?”

“I have no idea.” Amanda picked up one of the plates and poked at the frosting with a plastic fork.

“Amanda,” Ellie sighed. “Is it true? Are you in financial trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Can I help? Can I offer you money?”

Amanda laughed. “Unless you have a secret stash, I doubt you have enough.”

“I have a few thousand put away.” She didn’t add it was the money Edward had given her for the honeymoon that never had been.

“Thanks. But a few thousand won’t do it.”

Ellie sighed again. First Jonathan’s infidelity, now this. She did not know what to say to her sister on either topic—Amanda had always been so stubborn, so staunchly independent about her private business. Ellie changed the subject. “Amanda-Belle, I need to ask you something. Did you ever hear anything negative about Edward’s Henry? David Goldsmith implied Henry was some sort of criminal. He also said Henry was the reason Mother and Father never divorced.”

Amanda frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Mother and Father. Did you ever sense they wanted a divorce?”

“Our
mother and father?”

“Well, yes.” Apparently it wasn’t the time to hold such a curious conversation with her sister, at least, not with
this
sister.

“I don’t know what you mean. They had a perfect marriage, didn’t they?”

Ellie blinked. She didn’t know if she’d ever wondered one way or the other.

“I, for one, have always tried to emulate what they had,” Amanda continued. “With Jonathan, you know? I always wanted a marriage like theirs. And I wanted the financial security.”

“We weren’t financially secure, Amanda. Thank goodness we had Uncle Edward.” By the bewildered look that crossed Amanda’s face, Ellie realized she might as well have said they’d been paupers. “Without Uncle Edward, our lives would have been very different. We wouldn’t have had college educations. Not to mention the house in Poughkeepsie.”

Amanda blanched. “What?” she asked. “What?”

“Edward bought our house. Didn’t you know that?”

“The house Carleen burned down?”

She needn’t have added that. Ellie sighed again. “I overheard Mother and Father talking about it once. She said Father should let Edward buy it, that he really wanted to.”

“I never knew that.”

Ellie shrugged. “I don’t think it was a big deal. Uncle Edward had money; we didn’t.”

Amanda seemed to ponder that a moment.

“Enough about that,” Ellie said. “What about Henry? Did you know he knew Mother and Father?”

Amanda sniffed and dabbled with her cake. “I’ve paid little attention to the man. Wasn’t he a chorus boy or something? Maybe he befriended Mother because he wanted Edward. Maybe she told him she wanted to leave Father and he convinced her not to. Who cares. We all have secrets, don’t we?”

Well, the last part certainly was turning out to be true. And it seemed that if Henry was such an ogre, there would have been signs before now. He’d lived there for years, for God’s sake. The only time she’d heard him utter anything noteworthy was when Connecticut legalized gay marriage.

They’d been having breakfast in the morning room.

“Now we have no excuse,” Henry had said to Edward after he read the headline from the newspaper. Edward only chuckled; the issue wasn’t mentioned in Ellie’s presence again.

Nor had there been any talk about whether Henry’s former lovers had disappeared or not.

As for Mother, she’d been a housewife from Poughkeepsie. Had she even known any gay men other than the few Edward brought to Lake Kasteel for the holidays? That must have been when Mother met Henry. Still, it was surprising that if Henry had known Mazie, he’d never mentioned her.

But Amanda was right, everyone had secrets, even Ellie, who had once harbored an obsessive passion for the mysteries of King Tutankhamen and a neurotic envy of Cleopatra’s beauty and grace, excluding, of course, the curious unions the Queen of the Nile had enjoyed with her brothers.

“I suppose it’s a moot point about Mother and Father,” Ellie said. “For now, I want to concentrate on believing Chandler was right in saying they found Edward. At least it would mean he’s all right and Henry is not an ax murderer.”

“Hallelujah,” Amanda said with a sniff. Then she stood up. “In the meantime, I’ve had all I can take of the festivities. Will anyone notice if I slip away?”

“You, too?”

“Only to the bedroom. I have another migraine coming on.”

“Go ahead. I’m going to try and corner Wes. But Amanda-Belle?” Ellie’s sister looked back at her. She looked so much older than when she’d arrived yesterday. “I meant what I said about the money. Whatever I have is yours. If you need more, maybe I can help you get it from Edward.”

Amanda laughed. “I already asked him. Twice. His answer was no.” With that she left the gazebo and the slice of birthday cake behind.

F
rom her refuge on the path, Babe heard the helicopter. She assumed Edward was making the grand entrance they had anticipated. She assumed he’d be distressed that she wasn’t there. Still, she could not pull herself up off the ground. She couldn’t pretend to be merry now that Ray’s name had been mentioned. Now that she knew he was close by. Despite Hollywood kudos, she simply was not that good an actor.

So she couldn’t get up, and she couldn’t pretend. All she could do was think about . . . then. About them.

She’d gotten pregnant sometime at the end of June, maybe the first time they’d done it. By the third week of August, she’d realized the inevitable. The night before Ray was to leave Lake Kasteel for college, she knew she had to tell him. She knew they were too young to get married, but maybe she could keep their baby. It was 1988: the world was filled with single mothers.

She’d worn her white, lacey big shirt with her black leggings that Carleen had said made her look older than fifteen. Of course, Carleen hadn’t yet known that Babe would need the stretchy pants sooner than later: Babe hadn’t yet told her about her predicament. Like Ray, Carleen had been packing for college, and Babe hadn’t wanted to disturb her.

Ray had held Babe’s hand as they sat on the small man-made beach, listening to the crickets, hearing the soft plop as a frog or a fish or a duck jumped out of or into the water. They had not crammed themselves into the back of the Rambler. Summer was almost over; the sun was setting early; they could make love in the fresh air and no one would see them.

“Sweet Naomi,” he whispered. “My Babe. I don’t want to go away without you.”

She wanted to say she could go with him, that they could get married and live in an apartment while he went to architectural school.

“The good thing,” he said quickly, “is I’ll have so much work to do, it will keep me distracted. I’ll need a good job if we want any kind of a future.”

“A future?” she’d whispered.

“I love you, Babe,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about us. By the time I’m done with college you’ll be out of high school. You’ll be nineteen. I’ll be twenty-two. I know we’ll be young, but maybe we can get married. Then later, after my career is established, we can buy a house. Have a couple of kids. Buy a station wagon and a dog.” He laughed. “I know it’s a long time from now, but if we’re patient, we can make it work. What do you think?”

In spite of the dusk, she saw his eyes twinkle. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was excitement about making plans. How could she spoil their last night together? So she replied, “Sure, that sounds swell.”

He let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her. “Not that you’ll want to wait for a guy like me.”

She looked up to the slate sky and said to the evening star, “I’ll wait, Ray. I’ll wait.”

The next day he was gone, and she told Carleen, and Carleen told their sisters and made the arrangements, and then Friday came and Babe hardly remembered anything except for the doctor saying she would have no more babies. And then it was Labor Day. And the house burned down. And the last thing she’d heard about Ray Williams was that his parents had moved to Virginia to be close to his school and they’d rented their house to a literary agent who’d had a breakdown and needed to get out of Manhattan.

The sun moved behind a thick cloud now. Babe felt a chill. She rubbed her arms; she closed her eyes; then she heard his voice.

“Babe? Is it really you?”

She nearly laughed out loud at how foolish she’d become, that she thought she could hear Ray’s voice, hear how it would sound today in his grown-up body.

“Babe?”

Opening her eyes, she looked into the water. The figure reflected was tall and straight and . . .
oh,
she thought.
Oh, no . . .

The figure bent down and tapped her shoulder. She closed her eyes again.

“Babe? It’s me. Ray Williams.”

Her tears spilled freely. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t tease me.”

“Are you okay?”

She blinked. She turned. She scanned his face, his mouth, his eyes. “My God,” she said. “It’s you.”

He stood up and jammed both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah,” he said. “And it’s you, too. Hey—I’ve seen some of your movies. You’re really good, you know?”

She summoned the strength to pull herself to her feet. She faced him, a foot, maybe two feet away. “Ray. You still live here.”

He looked at her without words.

“I can’t believe it,” she said.

They stayed in their positions without moving, without speaking.

Finally, he worked one hand through his hair. “I was taking the path over to Edward’s. Carleen came to see me.”

“My sister?”

“She told me, Babe. She told me about the abortion. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?” He took a step back.

“Carleen told you? Just now?”

He nodded and moved his hand across the crown of his head again.

“I tried to find you. Your parents moved.”

“They told me they wanted a change. Carleen said she told my father about the baby.”

The world shifted then, tipped on its axis, and went a bit out of focus.

“Carleen told your father?” she heard her voice whimper.

“She said before she made the . . . arrangements . . . for the abortion, she went to my father. He called her trash. He slammed the door. Then my parents went to Virginia. God, Babe, I’m so sorry.” He reached out and lightly touched her shoulder, his fingers warm against her skin.

“She never told me she’d told your father. She never told me he knew.”

“She was trying to see if there was a way for you . . . for us . . . but he was so stubborn. He told me you left town after the fire, that you’d sent him a letter saying you had a new boyfriend and didn’t want to see me again. Oh, God, I believed him. I am so sorry.” His blue eyes glistened with tears.

Babe knew that later she’d have to think about what Ray had just said, that Carleen had gone to his father, that she’d never told Babe he’d called her trash and slammed the door. Babe had not known Carleen had tried to help Babe and Ray. She’d only known that her sister arranged for the abortion and said it was better that way.

One tear, then another, spilled down Ray’s cheeks. Babe gently wiped them away. “We can’t change the past, Ray. No one’s to blame. We were careless and foolish, but we were kids. We’re not kids anymore.”

“I feel like a kid,” he said, “when I look at you.”