Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “I miss you,” I whispered. “I miss you so much. What am I going to do without you?”

  When my phone rang, I jumped, my heart insisting it was a sign from Dad before my brain kicked in, reprimanding me for my wishful thinking. “Hello?” I said, my voice unsteady.

  “Hello? Eleanor Hardwicke?” The man’s deep voice wasn’t one I recognized.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “I’m Scott Burkett, your father’s attorney,” the man said, and when I didn’t respond, he added. “From Herbert, Regnell and Associates. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I replied. “Uh, how can I help you?”

  “I’m hoping it’s the other way around,” Mr. Burkett said carefully. “I’m calling about your father’s will. Did he mention I’m the executor?”

  “Yes,” I said, finally placing the name. “He mentioned it.”

  “Great. That’s great. Well, I was hoping you could come and see me.”

  I wasn’t sure I could face talking about my father in the past tense, hear about how he’d divided up his things. I didn’t care about his stuff. All I wanted was to have him back, put my arms around him and give him a hug, swap another set of crappy Christmas jokes.

  Mr. Burkett must have sensed my hesitation. “I understand how hard this can be—”

  “Do you really?”

  He let a beat go, then another. “I lost both my parents last year. It’s tough.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t worry, please. When could you come and see me?”

  It didn’t take long for me to decide. While talking about Dad might be upsetting, it was an opportunity to spend time with someone who’d known him, who’d had actual conversations with him, even if it had been only to discuss his affairs. “I’m free now.”

  Mr. Burkett gave me the details and we agreed I’d arrive within the hour. I stayed at the cemetery for another little while, growing colder by the minute, but not quite ready to leave as I promised Dad over and over I’d come see him again soon. By the time my ride-share arrived, my fingers and toes had gone numb, and I clambered into the back of the car, grateful the young female driver wasn’t in a chatty mood. I settled into my seat, wrapping my arms around my body in an attempt to get warm.

  I arrived at the offices of Herbert, Regnell and Associates twenty minutes later. The name made the firm sound glitzy, upscale and expensive, with heavy oak doors, marble floors and glass-paneled conference rooms. As it turned out, the place consisted of small, dank rooms with a frayed green carpet and desks that could’ve been relics from the seventies. The lone assistant might have been plucked from the decade, too, her bouffant hair and multicolored eye makeup a tribute to ABBA.

  “Take a seat, dear,” she croaked in a voice suggesting a long-standing love affair with nicotine, and gestured to the scratched plastic chairs lined up next to a sticky table covered in well-worn copies of US Weekly. As I sat down, I felt her gaze land on me, so I picked up a magazine and pretended to be interested in last year’s celebrity news.

  “Ms. Hardwicke.” Scott Burkett came out of the back office five minutes later, hand outstretched. He was a plump man, probably midfifties, with sun-kissed skin, a shiny bald head and huge brown eyes. After the customary introductions and an offer of a glass of water, which I declined, he invited me to follow him to his office, where he pulled out a chair for me.

  I sat down, glancing at his rickety desk piled high with precarious stacks of dusty papers, which threatened to topple over and bury us both. From the disheartened look in Mr. Burkett’s eyes, and the palm tree poster on the wall, I speculated he’d much prefer sitting on a beach or a sailing boat somewhere warm.

  “Your father was a good man, Ms. Hardwicke,” he said. “Very kindhearted.”

  “Yes, he was,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  “We played darts together for a while. Bruce always won.” He tapped the notepad in front of him with his index finger. “I’m not sure if he spoke to you about his financial situation?”

  I shifted in my chair. Why did talking about Dad’s money make me feel so uncomfortable and wretched, like a bloodsucking leech? I reminded myself Dad had appointed Mr. Burkett and that he’d called me, not the other way around. This was his job.

  “A little,” I said.

  “I’m afraid his illness took most of the money he had left. The life insurance lapsed and he couldn’t renew it because of the cancer.” He interlaced his fingers in front of him, looking even more desperate to be somewhere else. “Bruce remortgaged his apartment to pay for treatment, so the bank will take most of the money when it sells. Then there’s the funeral—”

  “Yes, I know. We chose everything together. I know how much it cost.”

  “You probably knew he prearranged for his things to be taken from his apartment and sold at auction, too?” Mr. Burkett said, and I nodded. “Estate sales don’t typically net much, nor did he have anything of notable value. He mentioned you’d already taken what you wanted?”

  I nodded again as I pictured the giant snow globe filled with trees and mountains, which Dad had brought back from one of his long-haul trips to Denver, and now sat on a shelf in my bedroom. He’d given me the photo albums he’d put together when I was a kid, too, the ones with pictures of us camping and fishing at the lake during the summer, while Amy and my mother had stayed in Portland or gone to New York for my sister’s acting lessons. The only other things I’d taken were his Manchester United soccer shirt and the World’s Best Truck Driver mug I’d given him for his birthday when I was nine, and he’d used daily since. My heart couldn’t withstand being surrounded by more of his things.

  “Yes. Dad gave me everything I need.”

  “All right, then.” Mr. Burkett made a note with his pen and replaced the badly chewed cap. “Well, after all the deductions and fees and so forth, there will be little to share.”

  “I know.” I felt guilty about the tinge of disappointment bubbling inside me. I’d known there was no surprise inheritance waiting for me at a lawyer’s office, no hidden treasure beneath the floorboards or dusty Picassos forgotten in a closet. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  “Ah, yes, well, there’s another reason I asked you here.” Mr. Burkett’s voice wavered. Glassy beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he swiped a tissue from a nearby box to mop them away. “Uh, your sister’s attorney called.”

  “My sister?”

  “Yes—” he flipped through his notes “—she, uh, informed me Amy’s contesting your father’s will.” He shuffled in his seat. “She’s alleging Bruce wasn’t well enough to make decisions and that his physical state adversely influenced his mental capacity.”

  “But there was nothing wrong with his mind—”

  “I agree, and I’m confident we can prove it, too.” He grimaced and an apologetic look settled over his face. “But until we clear things up, the inheritance will be delayed.”

  “Or you could give everything to Amy.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Will it make them go away?” I said, knowing that the fail-safe Dad and I had put in place by appointing an executor hadn’t worked. Of course not. We’d been stupid to believe it would.

  “Who?” Mr. Burkett shook his head. “Make who go away?”

  “My sister and my mother. If I give Amy everything, will they leave me alone?”

  “Uh, I...I don’t know. But you don’t have to—”

  “No, but I want to.” The small room closed in on me, the stacks of paper becoming bigger and taller and increasingly threatening—ink-filled monsters preparing to flatten me. I needed to get outside, fill my lungs with fresh air before I suffocated. I stood up. “I’ll sign whatever you need. Send me the documents and give her the money.”

  Ignoring Mr. Burkett’s calls for m
e to come back, I hurried past the ancient receptionist, who might have fallen asleep, bounded down the stairs and ran out into the cold. Snow swirled in the gray skies, settling on the ground in a thin, slippery layer.

  My mother was lightning fast, I had to give her that. She’d probably called Amy as soon as she left my apartment, told her to contact Mr. Burkett and dig into Dad’s money, planning every last detail to maximize the pain and damage on my side in the hope I’d give in to blackmailing Stan, and my little sister had agreed. Except they’d miscalculated. Instead of hurting, I felt free. Conceding the money to Amy would make them think I was weak, and they’d won. Let them, I thought, because I knew it made me stronger.

  I felt my hate for my mother, Amy and the Gallingers grow, hardening my heart but straightening that elusive backbone. Alongside Dad, I’d always been the quiet one, the one who wouldn’t say boo to a fly let alone a goose, the person everybody overlooked and underestimated. Maybe we were the ones people needed to be extra careful of. We lived in the shadow of others, but didn’t that also mean we were the ones who snapped when everyone least expected it? And when we did, every single person in our vicinity got hurt.

  Including—especially—family.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AS SOON AS I got home, I retrieved Victoria’s ring from where I’d stuffed it into my bedside table, and unfolded the tissue without touching the metal at first, as if afraid it might brand me somehow. I held the ring in my palm, turned my hand left and right, letting the pretentious little show-off diamonds catch the light. How much was it worth? Enough to solve my financial issues for a while, yet I still didn’t want to part with it, not when it could fuel the hatred for both my families. Selling it was a cop-out. Keeping it when I desperately needed the money, another victory.

  I gently slid it onto the ring finger of my right hand, surprised when it didn’t stop at the knuckle as I thought it would, but continued to the base, as if custom-made. My fingers didn’t much resemble Victoria’s French-manicured digits, but I held them out all the same, admiring the jewelry, my lips curving into a smile. I wandered to the bathroom, slipped Victoria’s ring off my right hand and put it on my left. I gathered my hair behind my head, holding it in the loose ponytail Victoria had worn at Le Médaillon.

  As I observed myself in the mirror, I wondered how she’d felt when Hugh had proposed and where he’d asked her to be his wife. In front of family and friends in a public demonstration of his love for her? During an intimate dinner, the ring delivered by a waiter in a crystal flute of overpriced champagne? I shook my head. Too cliché. Victoria was the kind of woman who’d settle for nothing less than extraordinary, something she could brag about to her friends, listen to them oohing and aahing about how lucky she was. Once again I found myself asking how it would be to live like her. To be her.

  “Hi,” I said to my reflection. “I’m Victoria Elizabeth Gallinger.” When I heard the sound of my voice, I let my hair drop. We looked nothing alike, she and I, save perhaps for our eyebrows or maybe our pinky toes, although I suspected her feet were dainty and faultless, not boat-size and in desperate need of a pedicure. Her nose fit her symmetrical face whereas mine could’ve been a stuck-on potato. She had straight white teeth, too, not misaligned tombstones. My mother hadn’t seen the benefit of fitting me with braces as she had Amy—according to her, great teeth weren’t necessary if you didn’t have a flawless face to go with them, something I’d overheard her say to a friend on my thirteenth birthday.

  Even the color and texture of Victoria’s and my hair were different. Hers thick and luscious. Mine thin and strawlike in every sense. The saying “blondes have more fun” held zero truth as far as I was concerned, and I’d always become suspicious whenever someone told me I was pretty or attractive—leaving me wondering what their motives were.

  I cocked my head from side to side, for once really examining my reflection rather than turning away from it. Maybe a change of style would help—it certainly couldn’t do any harm—but I couldn’t afford to go to a salon to have my hair done. One of those home-dye kits could suffice, I decided, although a wig might also be an option.

  “Hi, I’m Victoria Elizabeth Gallinger,” I repeated, batting my eyelashes.

  How difficult would it be to look like her? Walk and talk like her? Was it all genetics, or could I learn some of it, pick up her traits, habits and gestures if I got close enough?

  I pulled out my Nikon and flicked through the photographs of Victoria coming out of her spin class, recalled what she’d said at Le Médaillon about needing marketing for her business. I hadn’t found any details about her venture online, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t offer her my services. My gut clenched. Chances were she’d refuse, but what if she didn’t?

  “Then you’ll get to know her,” I said out loud, uttering the thoughts I’d been repeating in my head for days. “And you can find out everything about her.”

  I closed my eyes, didn’t want to look at myself. Those thoughts belonged in the head of a crazy person—a weirdo, a psycho. Same as thinking about dyeing my hair or wearing a wig to look like Victoria, or stealing her ring and slipping it on my finger instead of giving it back.

  “You’re not crazy,” I whispered. “You’re not.”

  But I was almost broke. Knowing someone who might need a website developed and not acting on it was foolish, careless even. Okay, so it was Victoria, but she didn’t know we were related. Disregarding this business opportunity—that was crazy. There was no harm in at least considering the option, playing around with it in my mind. I pulled out my phone, looked up her Facebook profile and hovered my finger over the message button. I’d draft a note, I decided, then sleep on it, wait awhile to send it. I began to type.

  Hi, Victoria,

  No, this was stupid. If I contacted her via social media, it had to be professional. I headed over to LinkedIn, searched for her profile and opened up a new message. My belly fluttered as I thought about her reading my note, going over my profile, checking out my credentials. It was daring, exciting, so far out of my comfort zone, the zone was a distant dot in a galaxy far, far away. If this was how it felt to be adventurous, I’d been missing out.

  Dear Ms. Gallinger,

  Yes, better. Far better.

  I offer professional, fresh and reasonably priced website designs for small to midsize companies. Might this be something of interest for your business? I’m based in Portland and could easily come to your offices to discuss my portfolio and options.

  Looking forward to hearing from you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eleanor Hardwicke

  I reread the words, crinkling my nose as I made changes, agonizing over sentence structure until satisfied everything was perfect. After I’d added the links to my website and Kyle Draper’s restaurants and bars as examples of what I could offer, I sat back in my chair and exhaled. I was good at my job, had a knack for layout and design.

  Still, the more I thought about it, the more I decided sending Victoria a message was a terrible idea. If she ignored me, I’d feel rejected. If she was interested, it meant speaking with her, potentially meeting face-to-face. And Stan would know. Was I ready for that?

  Screw the adventurous crap from five minutes ago. I couldn’t handle it. As much as I wanted to think I’d become a badass overnight, the best thing was to ignore it all—my so-called family and the Gallingers—and move on with my life. Sort out new contracts. Keep Kyle happy. Maybe take up a hobby—kickboxing or something else people did to vent their frustrations.

  My phone twinkled and buzzed with an incoming message.

  Are you busy?

  I smiled at Lewis’s note, baby bird wings flapping around in my stomach as I answered.

  No.

  Within a minute there was a knock on the door and I found him standing outside looking rugged, casual and oh-so-sexy in a pair of jeans and a green V-ne
ck sweater. My face broke into another smile. “You just sent me a text,” I said, noting how breathless and girlie I sounded, telling myself to stop it, stop it right now. “Do you need something?”

  “Laundry detergent?” Lewis grinned.

  “Oh, sure.” I forced my face back into a neutral expression. “Hold on, I’ll get it—”

  “I’m kidding. I picked up a bottle yesterday.”

  “Okay...” I said as he took a step closer, his eyes softening.

  “I want to ask you to dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  Lewis tilted his head to one side. “Yeah, you know. On a date.”

  “But...why?”

  He laughed gently, the sound adding to the warm fuzzies in my belly. “Is that a trick question?” When I didn’t answer and continued staring at him because I couldn’t think of how to respond, he said, “Because I like you, Eleanor. You’re...different.”

  I let out a snort. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  “It is, believe me. You’re smart and funny. You’re—” Lewis shrugged “—real. I hope we can get to know each other better, if that’s okay?”

  I started to laugh, quietly at first, but when a loud chuckle escaped, I covered my mouth with both hands. “I’m sorry,” I said when I could finally talk again. “I’m wondering if I’m having an out-of-body experience.”

  “Is that a no, then?” He was grinning now, too. “Honestly, I’m a bit confused.”