The Secrets Sisters Keep (18 page)

She tapped her pocket to be sure she had her cell phone. Before going to the kitchen, she’d step outside and make a call. She missed Brian and the girls more than she’d ever thought she would; their normalcy was now blissfully inviting. Besides, the time had come to leave. Carleen decided that if she waited around and told her sisters the truth, it would solve nothing. It would only heighten the family-in-chaos and end up hurting them more.

Chapter Thirty-three

B
abe could not sit and eat supper with Wes and her family and pretend everything was the same as it had been last night.

After failing to calm Amanda down, she’d gone outside alone to sit on the dock. Sunset on the lake had always been a favorite time for her, when she would sit there and watch the salmon-colored ribbons cloak the water like a soft evening quilt. She’d spent a lot of time on that dock during the three years after the abortion and her parents’ deaths, looking for comfort any way, anywhere she could find it. Maybe, too, she’d been looking for Ray, though his house had been rented and his family had not returned.

“Hey, sister,” Carleen called quietly now. “I came to say good-bye.”

Babe looked up at Carleen, who glowed in the rose-amber evening light. “Good-bye?”

“I’ve decided it’s in everyone’s best interest if I leave early in the morning. I don’t want to cause a scene—I know, how unusual for me—but I thought I should at least tell one person I’ve gone. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’d pulled one of Uncle Edward’s stunts and was cloistered on Squirrel Island, hoping for attention.”

“Is that what he was doing? Hoping for attention?”

Carleen shrugged. “Aren’t we all?”

Babe dangled her feet into the water and made wide ripple circles with her toes. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Carleen laughed. “I’m sure you’d be the only one. Except maybe Ellie.”

“Ellie’s such a good person.”

“I know. She has all the admirable genetics.” Carleen sat down next to Babe. “Are you going to leave your husband for Ray Williams?”

“No. I’m going to get out of my marriage. It was a ruse, anyway. Wes seems like a nice guy, but . . .”

“But he’s too old for you?”

“For starters, yes. But did you know he found Edward and didn’t tell anyone? That was so wrong.”

“Yeah, that was kind of strange.”

“He did it for himself. To get on Edward’s good side.”

“Well,” Carleen said, “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, kid.”

“Do any of us ever know?”

“Ha! No, probably not.”

Babe kicked her feet again. “You won’t stay until after breakfast? For Edward’s family picture?”

“I didn’t bring anything white.”

“You are a bad girl, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. Or maybe I somehow knew I still wouldn’t fit in.”

“Carleen, that’s not true. You have as much right to be in the picture as I do. Go into town. I’m sure Uncle Edward would let you use his credit card.”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

“Not your share of his fortune?”

“If that’s what I wanted, I would have come a long time ago.” She stood up, leaned down, kissed the top of Babe’s head. “I called for a cab,” she said. “The driver will pick me up just after dawn. I’d leave tonight, but there are no more buses from New York to Amherst until tomorrow. Do me a favor, before you tell anyone, give me a head start?”

Babe bit her lip; surprising tears rose in her eyes. She scrambled to her feet and hugged Carleen. “I wish you’d stay.”

Carleen tightened the pink ribbon around her ponytail. She shook her head. “Sorry, kid. I’ll se ya’ at the movies.” With that she moved lightly up the hill toward the house, toward the life that had nothing to do with them.

And Babe felt a hollow ache deep in her heart, the kind she felt when someone died.

S
upper was disjointed, to say the least. Attendance at the table was comprised of Amanda’s three children plus Shotgun-turned-Jarred, Amanda’s husband, Babe’s husband, and Henry, who’d emerged from the bedroom with the quiet announcement that Edward was
resting comfortably,
as if he’d had a complicated surgical procedure.

Amanda, Babe, and Carleen were in their respective rooms: Babe had claimed she was tired, Carleen had a headache, and Amanda was, well, Amanda.

Ellie passed the coleslaw. “So,” she said with as much steadiness as she could muster, “Heather? Boys? Do you have something white you can wear tomorrow?”

“We didn’t get the memo,” Chandler said.

“I have white shorts and a shirt with a silver glitter star on the front.” Heather cut off her brother. “I’m sure my mother’s right, though. It’s probably not appropriate.”

“And
I’m
sure it will be fine,” Ellie replied, not sure at all, but knowing that discussing clothing and pictures seemed easier than addressing the fact that her sisters were absent or wondering if Edward was pretending to have cancer or if Henry simply wanted them to think he did. “I have an idea, boys,” she quickly said. “Why don’t we go to the mall in Tarrytown? There must be at least one store where we can get you outfitted the way Uncle Edward wants.”

Then Ellie put down her fork and realized going to the mall would require driving. When was the last time she had driven?

She stared at the potato salad on her plate. Her heart began to gallop, her palms started to sweat. Then Amanda’s youngest was on his feet.

“Cool! Can we go now? Can we get fast food instead of this gross junk?”

Jonathan rubbed his neck. “Sorry, kids, but I didn’t come prepared for shopping.”

Ellie stood up. “Shopping’s on me!” she shouted, much more loudly than necessary. “White outfits coming up! My treat!” Her better judgment told her she was being crazy, that she couldn’t leave the grounds, let alone behind a wheel. Her other judgment said,
What the hell, you’re going to leave this place anyway, aren’t you? Why not start right now?

“Race you to the Range Rover!” Ellie shouted and launched herself from the table before she could change her mind.

“Have fun,” Jonathan called after the mad dash of bodies from the drawing room. “I’ll tell your mother you’ve gone AWOL.”

H
eather and Shotgun decided to go, too, which left the men, minus Edward, to discuss whatever men discussed when women and children weren’t around. Ellie considered asking Heather or her boyfriend to drive, but then she thought,
No
. . .
this is your chance to begin starting over.

Not that it was easy when she started the engine of the eighteen-year-old vehicle and engaged the transmission.
Here goes,
she thought, bracing herself as she backed down the driveway, wondering if her palpitations were visible to those whose lives she had taken into her unsteady hands, especially Chandler, who sat up front in the passenger seat gripping the dashboard as if he’d boarded a ride at Six Flags.

For some bizarre reason, his agitation calmed Ellie down.

“Something wrong?” she asked the boy as she shifted into first gear and turned onto the road that led to the center of Mount Kasteel. As she remembered, she could pick up the back road there and avoid the highway. No sense taking more chances than necessary.

“Mother once said you don’t drive.”

“Well, clearly
Mother
was incorrect.” She tried to smile as she spoke, not that he’d notice, with her eyes fixed on the asphalt and her knuckles a whiter shade of pale. She hoped he didn’t ask her to produce a driver’s license: she hadn’t had one since nineteen eighty-seven.

“Mother said you don’t drive because you’re a recluse. That you have issues.” He said it with the degree of snootiness Ellie would have expected from his mother.

“Shut up, Chandler,” Heather said from the backseat.

As much as Ellie wanted to
wipe that smirk off his face,
as Uncle Edward might have admonished, she tightened her grin and said, “It’s all right, Heather, we all have issues. But Chandler, for the record, I am not a recluse.”

He seemed to grapple with a response. Then, from the corner of her fixated eye, Ellie saw his smirk grow into a grin. “Really? When was the last time you came into Manhattan? Mother says you’re afraid of people. That’s why you won’t leave Uncle Edward. That’s why you stay at the lake. That you pretend it’s because he needs your help, but it’s really because you are scared.”

Ellie pursed her lips. “So that’s what she says about me. Well, that’s very interesting, because you wouldn’t believe the things I say about her.” Without conscious intention, she punched her foot down on the gas pedal and thrust the gearshift into second. The vehicle lurched, seat belts tightened, and, for once in Ellie’s life, she took real control.

“W
e’re finished,” Babe said to Wes when he finally went upstairs for the night. She had been lying on the bed without rehearsing her lines: she wanted them to come, unscripted, from her heart.

He laughed. “Very funny.” He tugged off his black T-shirt, revealing a belly rimmed by puckery skin that looked like rolled-up plastic wrap. Tossing the shirt onto the floor, he sagged onto the bed. “You can’t leave me now, darling. This will work. You’ll see.”

“No,” she said, “it won’t. You tried to exploit my family for the sake of publicity. You dragged me here under the ruse of getting to know my uncle and my sisters, when all you cared about was what was in it for you. And you took advantage of us by not telling us you’d found Edward, when you knew how worried everyone was.”

“I tried to get your sister to call the police.”

“She had reasons not to.”

“Babe,” he groaned. “Please. I’m tired from entertaining the masses today. And might I remind you that someone had to do it, seeing as how you disappeared? There is such an epidemic of that in this family.”

“I did not disappear. I was with my former lover.” She said that intentionally to hurt his feelings. She would not have done that before this afternoon, before his behavior had proved that his narcissism was greater than his compassion.

He turned onto his side and looked her straight in the eyes. He paused for a moment, as if assembling tears. “God knows, if I could make love to you, I would,” he murmured. “Still, I want you to be happy.”

She wondered if other women would believe the deliberate softening of Wes McCall’s eyes or the fake sincerity that knitted his words. He reached out to touch her. She got up off the bed.

“I mean it,” she said. “We’re through. It’s been fun, but it’s over.”

He closed his eyes. “Okay. Fine. You’re a brat, anyway. Just like your whiney sisters.”

She sucked in a deep breath and lifted her suitcase. Then she left the bedroom, descended the front staircase, and left
Kamp Kasteel,
heading toward the neighbor’s by way of the path. The full moon was rising, so there would be plenty of light.

Chapter Thirty-four

“W
e’re finished,” Amanda said to Jonathan as soon as he entered her bedroom, a strong scent of cigars and Edward’s favorite bourbon haloing his body.

“Excuse me?” he asked, because even in crisis, Jonathan was polite. Amanda had taught the boy from Vermont well.

“We’re done,” she said, swiveling in her chair, her gaze traveling out the window, where it was now growing dark and there was nothing to see. “
Kaput,
” she added, “as in divorce court.”

She sensed he must be loosening his tie and examining her for signs of a breakdown.

“Amanda,” he asked, “what are you talking about?”

Her eyes fell to her hands, which were perfectly folded in her lap, hardly creasing the Dior silk. “I know about your whore.”

“My what?”

“Your whore, Jonathan.” She kept her voice quiet, which surprised even her. It was almost as if now that she’d gotten this out, the rest of her problems—her damn debt and her place in society—no longer mattered. “I believe her name is Bibiana. Back-waxer to Broadway Stars.”

It would have been nice if Jonathan answered. It would have been nice if he tried to lie, to defend both his honor and hers by saying she was mistaken, that he loved her deeply and forever, that there was no other woman, never had been, never would be.

It would have been nice, but he stood there, mute.

Amanda sighed. “I suppose you’re going to say I brought it on myself, that I’d become so wrapped up in my charities and in the children that I no longer had time for you. I suppose you can think of a million ways to blame me, but you don’t even know the truth about my life. You don’t even know we are so far in debt that it is about to become very public and very humiliating. Not to mention that your little whore might be disappointed to learn her rich man is as dead broke as the men in her neighborhood in Queens.”

“Amanda,” he said, taking a step forward. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I am perfectly fine. Edward is telling people he’s going to die, and who knows, maybe he is. I should be delighted. My share of the estate should pay off our debts. But even if that happens, I’ve realized I’ll still have you, and you’ll still have your whore, and if nothing changes, nothing changes. So chances are it won’t be long before we’re back in the same hole, with no one left to bail us out.”

He didn’t speak; she didn’t speak. Then he cleared his throat. “You’re right,” he said.

An ache burned in her heart.

“I have been seeing someone,” her husband continued. “She is a prostitute. I have been fucking a prostitute because I could not fuck my wife, who has not wanted me to fuck her for almost a year.”

A year? Had it been that long since they’d made love? Since they’d
fucked,
as the Princeton man so indelicately put it? Then Amanda realized he’d said the back-waxer was a prostitute. A hooker—not a lover?

“Well,” she said. “Shame on you.”

His scent moved closer. His hand rested on her shoulder. She stiffened.

“Yes,” he said. “Shame on me. The fact that I’d tried talking to you on more than one occasion isn’t an excuse. It’s merely an explanation.”

“Oh, come on, Jonathan. When did you try talking to me?”

“At Christmas. Right here in this room. I gave you the sapphire necklace.”

“We couldn’t afford it. It maxed out our Cartier account.”

“I didn’t know that. I was trying to find a way to please you. You seem to like things that sparkle or have designer labels better than you like me. But you said, ‘Take it back. It’s gauche.’ ”

Outside, the shadow of a woman crossed the driveway, suitcase in hand. It must have been Babe, Amanda knew. She might not have seen her in nearly twenty years, but she’d seen all her movies. She’d gone at night when Jonathan was out of town, taking a yellow cab rather than using their in-town car service, because she hadn’t wanted the world to know what she was doing. She was, after all, still immensely pissed that Babe had left them high and dry, had run off to “start anew,” as if she’d been the only one left hurting. Amanda had never known what to say to Babe after the abortion. She’d always been so afraid that she would be judged by the things her sisters had done. Still, as time passed, Amanda was proud of what Babe had achieved. Of course, she hadn’t told her. Any more than she’d ever conversed with her husband about things that really mattered. “The necklace wasn’t gauche. It was beautiful. But we couldn’t afford it.”

He squatted beside her, turned her face toward his. “Amanda-Belle?” he asked, not knowing that her childhood nickname always reduced her to Jell-O, always made her feel vulnerable again, the second child not as smart as the first, not as clever as the third, not as beautiful or as talented as the fourth. “Can we talk about this? Can you forgive me? Can we be a family again?”

This time, she was the one without words.

He reached down, took her hand. “How bad is the debt?”

“Bad. A quarter of a million. How often have you seen Bibiana?”

“Three times. Including last night.”

The burning moved down to her stomach. The nausea rose again, as it had after the trout. But Amanda was too numb to excuse herself. Then again, it would serve Jonathan right if she threw up on him.

“Amanda, I’m trying to be honest. I am so sorry I’ve hurt you. But you’ve hurt me, too, by shutting me out.”

She supposed that was true. But she’d been so disappointed, so angry at him for . . . for what? He’d been a good husband as husbands went. He’d been a great father. Why had it mattered that he hadn’t made millions?

He moved in front of her, blocking her view. “We’ll find a way to get out of debt. I hope Edward’s not sick. But we can figure this out without his money. You and me, Amanda. Together. The way we got through it when your parents died.”

She blinked. Two huge tears plopped onto her Dior. Two more followed. Then a whole freaking river.

T
hank God Henry had snuck him a plate heaped with barbecue and potato salad and a huge hunk of cake, which Edward devoured first. It was his cake, after all. His birthday cake! He ate it first because he was seventy-five, loaded with cancer, for all he knew, so he could do as he pleased! No more pretending to count calories or watch his cholesterol or feel compelled to eat raw veggies and fruit.
Bleccch.
No more needing a brisk constitutional every morning in order to yield a good crop of healthy poop; no more abstaining from his favored bourbon for the sake of his naughty, swollen liver.

Oh, yes, Edward mused, as he swiped frosting from his chin and dove into the tender, sauce-saturated meat, having a diagnosis certainly made life more livable.

How he had enjoyed his alone time on Squirrel Island! He’d finally had a chance to see things from the perspective of his neighbors way back when, as he’d peered through his binoculars, trying to imagine the party-in-progress, playing the role of the uninvited. No matter the outcome, Edward felt certain he had done the right thing to let the girls be alone (surrounded by two hundred!) to finally sort through the past, to absolve one another, to rediscover themselves, before his cancer took over and he wasn’t there—or wasn’t able—to help them reconnect.

As for himself, he’d had a walloping good time with the beans and the Mozart and dear
Oliver Twist
! How he relished the memories of those solitary hours as he now plumped the down pillows that Henry had tucked around him before dashing to the kitchen because the hired help had finished and Ellie had escaped.

Ellie,
Edward thought as he turned from the pillows and inserted another forkful of meat into his mouth. He couldn’t believe that she’d gone out.
To the mall,
according to Henry. And she’d driven! So, this weekend had yielded some good after all.

It was unfortunate, however, that Henry had told her about the cancer. Edward had wanted to keep that a secret until long after he’d sold this mausoleum and moved to London, until Ellie had regained enough confidence to be content on her own, until his body was shriveled and his breath came in short pants. (S
hort pants,
he thought—
Ha! That’s funny! Perhaps they should be called
Little Lord Fauntleroy Breaths!
) Anyway, he’d wanted to keep his cancer a secret until no one—not even Ellie—could change his mind about having treatment. He wasn’t sure why he’d turned down the protocol. Maybe he’d simply grown tired of life and dying seemed much more exotic.

As for the other girls, Amanda, as usual, was angry about something that no doubt was connected to money. The poor thing still hadn’t learned that the only difference between the haves and the have-nots was the kind of coffee they drank. Maxwell House? Starbucks? Gevalia? Who cared? No, she still hadn’t learned that what truly mattered wasn’t the brand but having someone who loved you sharing a cup. Even if the guy was Ivy League.

Babe had a husband, though he was washed up, a fossil of a man desperate for the days that had come and gone when he apparently hadn’t been looking. Edward had seen Wes McCall’s type a thousand or more times: flat, one-dimensional characters, trying to convince others—and themselves—that they were still young and virile, even while crawling into their beds at night, their bodies and spirits broken and withered, but too stubborn to let go.

He didn’t like the man.

Hopefully, Babe would come to her senses this weekend. She was such a loving girl—the one most like her mother. The good news was that Ray Williams had come around. Maybe happiness was still achievable for Babe. Edward hoped he’d never have to tell them that he’d known about the baby, that he’d overheard the hullabaloo the day Babe had learned she was pregnant because when all four girls had hurriedly convened in Babe’s tiny room, he had eavesdropped. They were in his charge, after all. He needed to know what was going on.

What he’d learned that afternoon, however, had nearly killed him. Had Mazie known, she would have gladly helped by pulling the trigger, if his brother didn’t do it first.

Without hesitation, Edward had power-walked to the Williamses’ place.

“My niece is in trouble because of your boy.” He’d accosted Duke Williams on the back porch. “Make it right, Williams. The boy must take responsibility. Babe says she loves him, that they love each other. I know they’re just kids, but you must make this right.” The coward had responded by skipping town. Then Babe had had the abortion and the fire had happened and then . . .

He swallowed the last piece of barbecue now and pushed away his plate. Duke Williams had been a cad. But the man was dead and Edward wouldn’t rattle his grave. His son, Ray, was too good a guy—who knew how that had happened.

Besides, Edward had other fish to fry. Most notably, Carleen.

After all, he now knew what he had feared throughout the years, the real reason he’d kept tabs on Carleen, and why he hadn’t invited her home until now, until the Angel of Death was knock-knocking on his palace door. He’d been right all along: Carleen knew the truth. And Edward must decide what to do about that, now that his days on this crappy-ass planet were finally coming to a close.

He took a big swallow of tea and wished it wasn’t so bitter.

E
llie was happy, but she was glad to be home, though not for reasons she might have expected. The boys had white shirts and pants that would please Edward; even Heather had found a more demure shirt that should not provoke a scene with her mother.

More than those things, Ellie was infused with a sense that she’d traversed the Himalayas, reached the Arctic Circle, gone to outer space and back. She had driven without incident, without panic attack, to Tarrytown and back again with a car full of teenagers who’d been counting on her. Well, all right, she admitted as she pranced into her room with a celebratory cup of hot chocolate and the
Oliver Twist
that she’d plucked from the kitchen counter where Edward had dropped it, maybe the kids hadn’t been counting on her. It wasn’t as if three of the four of them couldn’t have driven if she’d stopped breathing, or had felt like she’d stop breathing, somewhere along Route 448.

But none of that had happened, because Ellie had done it! The oddest part was, she thought, as she set her cup on the bureau, slipped out of her dress, stepped into her nightgown, and headed into the bathroom to wash up for the night, it hadn’t been hard! Aside from those first moments of angst with her unpersonable nephew, Ellie had had a great time!

How long had it been since she’d been into town? There were so many changes to the landscape! There were strip malls and boutiques and a couple of parks. Even a once-questionable neighborhood had been transformed into a trendy arts district with galleries and coffee shops and outdoor cafés!

She had been so mesmerized by the scenery that she’d forgotten she was driving, which, in her case, had proved a good thing.

Cleansing her face, Ellie decided to tell Edward tomorrow. They’d never openly discussed her
issues,
as Amanda apparently called them, any more than they’d talked about his relationship with Henry or, now, the cancer, if there indeed was cancer. But Ellie was certain that Edward knew (after all these years, how could he not?) that she’d become, yes, a recluse. She hoped he would be thrilled for her driving success and not resent this new independence.