Could it be that simple—deciding I wouldn’t take any more crap from anyone? That from now on I’d go after whatever I desired, live life on my terms? I wanted to believe it; then again, this strange assertiveness—if that was indeed what it was—could shrivel up and die by sunrise. For that reason exactly, I decided I’d cling to it, revel and bathe in it, hope some of it would seep into my skin and latch onto my bones. If only for one night, I wanted to believe I was an invincible gladiator who could do anything, be anything. Be someone.
As I walked home, I pulled my hands out of my pockets and straightened my back, looked a few people in the eye as I passed them, smiling and saying hello, making them notice me. A few streets up, the crowds thinned out and I walked on alone. Three men stepped out of a bar a dozen yards ahead, laughing and hollering, pushing and shoving each other.
When they turned in my direction, my breathing became patchy, my pulse throbbing. The memories of the mugging were still all too fresh, the bruises and lump on my head barely healed. Walking around after dark on my own made me a target, and while I could’ve crossed the road, turned or zipped up a side street, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Instead I pulled my shoulders back, refused to move off the sidewalk or bow my head, and raised my chin.
The men quieted, each of them stepping out of the way with a polite “hello” as I walked past, all of them unaware a river of sweat had seeped into the back of my jeans.
No more hiding, I told myself. No more being a doormat, no more complying with points of view I didn’t share to avoid conflict. There would be no more.
Later I lay in bed whispering to myself that I shouldn’t forget how powerful tonight had felt, and while my body succumbed to exhaustion, I begged the change deep within me to still be there come dawn.
* * *
Friday sped by, and on Saturday morning I was up by six, and bounded out of bed with energy I hadn’t felt in weeks. I searched for a change of heart, any indication I might bolt in the opposite direction to the one my life had taken two nights ago. Although my stomach fluttered with the anticipation of seeing Victoria again, my hands held steady, my heart stayed still.
I’d hoped my subconscious would formulate a plan over the last two nights, complete with detailed strategy and a clear endgame. But the only thing I felt sure of was that I’d go to Victoria’s, see how her life was up close before deciding my next move. Not having a clear plan made another shiver zip down my spine. Rebellion and impulsiveness was an addictive combination, although when I looked at the photograph of Dad, guilt and shame tried to take its place, and I pushed them away.
I spent the next hour in the bathroom, washing my hair another half a dozen times in an effort to get rid of the dye. The end result was a bleaker shade of brown—dull and lifeless as old leaves stuck to the ground after a late-winter storm. Having searched for online advice, I abandoned the idea of returning to the drugstore for a second kit. With my luck, I’d only make things worse. I pulled my hair into another ponytail. This would be the norm until I’d saved enough cash to get it taken care of. Maybe I’d ask Victoria which salon she went to and, in time, book an appointment there.
Although we’d never become twins—not even if her hairdresser, colorist and stylist all materialized into one ginormous fairy godmother—perhaps, just maybe, if I hung out with her a little longer, I’d continue to feel like less of a waste of space. It was undeniable. Being close to her on Thursday at Jake’s Cakes felt as if I might have absorbed some of her power, and I wondered if she’d woken up with a little less.
I made myself a coffee, forgoing the cream and sugar—Victoria took hers black. My jeans sat a little farther down my hips and at this rate I’d have to invest in my first belt. When I’d looked in the mirror after I’d washed my hair, I’d noticed my face appeared less puffy, too—my missing-in-action cheekbones Penelope had discovered at the drugstore were making more of a comeback, and I wondered what Dad would say if he saw me.
Regardless of all the distractions, his death weighed heavily both on my mind and in my heart, whenever I let it, which seemed to be less and less often. Years of handling my mother’s lack of affection had allowed me to develop a handy knack for compartmentalizing, and so I shoved my grief into a dark corner of my mind. I knew I’d have to take it out and deal with it at some point, but I also knew I wouldn’t function if I constantly thought about Dad, or what he’d say about my recent actions, and I couldn’t bear thinking about it.
I took another sip of coffee and glanced at my phone. Two missed calls. One from Amy just after two—she’d yet to care about the time difference between Maine and California—the other from my mother, an hour ago. With utmost satisfaction I swiped and deleted, sending their voices to the virtual garbage. I had no desire to listen to their messages, never mind speak to them. They could both go to hell, and take their pathetic plans to blackmail Stan with them.
I now knew for certain taking his cash wouldn’t give me any kind of satisfaction—all he’d do was make more, maybe find a way to write the amount off as a tax break, calling it a “charitable contribution.” But somehow I needed to counterbalance his act of pushing me away—twice—and the more I thought about it, the more my befriending his daughter would be the perfect slow-burn revenge. Knowing—at least believing—he’d not sleep well at night because he couldn’t figure out what I was doing, or why, was a more tantalizing prospect by far.
When I was ready, when I’d ingratiated myself into her life, become friends, I’d tell her who I was and watch him hurt. He’d been so adamant about keeping my existence quiet, like my mother, terrified I’d tarnish his reputation. I smiled at the realization. Stan Gallinger, formidable businessman, Prince of Portland, was scared. I covered my mouth to keep the laughter in, before dropping my hand and letting the sound out, not caring who heard.
As much as I wanted to sit there and giggle all weekend, work had to get done, and so I went about checking my email for replies from all the prospects I’d contacted. One of them sounded promising. Stefanie Schneider, owner of a baby apparel store called Kind, wanted her site redone as quickly as possible. It was usually a good sign when someone said they were in a hurry.
“My budget is one thousand dollars maximum,” Stefanie said a few minutes into the conversation, after informing me kind meant child in German, and describing the work she wanted done, which included updating her entire e-commerce backend and payment system.
I needed cash, and not long ago I would’ve agreed to her measly terms, worked day and night to get it done on time and to spec—but that no longer fit with my decision to stop people from taking advantage. Doing so would only eat into my time for finding proper paying customers, time I didn’t have.
“My rate for the site you’re looking for would be three times more,” I said, my back stiffening.
“Three times?” Stefanie said, sounding as if I’d asked her for her firstborn kind. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s far too much.”
“I understand you might think so, but it’s what my time and experience are worth.”
She fell silent, no doubt hoping I’d change my mind if I talked first. Tough luck, I decided, she’d have a long wait. “Okay,” she said at last. “Let me think about it.”
“Sounds great. I’ll touch base with you soon.”
Around three, I decided to stop willing my empty inbox to fill itself with deals, and shut off my laptop. Lewis hadn’t called or stopped by to rearrange our dinner but there was no time to dwell. I put on my new makeup, my first attempt making me look like a toddler who’d broken into her mother’s bathroom. By the time I’d repaired the damage, it was already four thirty. I’d skipped lunch and my fridge was almost bare again, so I drank a glass of milk to stifle the grumbles, grabbed my things and headed downstairs, impressed by my self-control.
The feeling didn’t last. I stopped at my mailbox, which I’d ignored for days, and unlock
ed it. Inside was a single white envelope with a logo I knew by heart. The hospital. I didn’t dare open the letter and find out how much money I owed for my overnight stay, and now wished I hadn’t been quite so bold in my negotiations with Stefanie. I plucked the envelope from the box and stuffed it into my bag, deciding to ignore it for the night and focus on where I was going or, more specifically, who I was meeting.
Once again, the anticipation of seeing Victoria, of being invited inside her home, made my hair stand on end. I kept imagining Dad’s voice as I walked, asking me what I was doing, and a few times I almost turned around. My gut squeezed itself into a ball, churning the milk so hard, it must have become a lump of butter by the time I reached Victoria’s apartment.
I stood outside the building, not yet ready to venture inside, so I pulled out my Nikon and snapped a few photos of the facade, focusing on the large windows, the patterns of the redbrick walls. When I saw Victoria by one of the windows, I stepped back into an alcove and took picture after picture, zooming in on her face, her hands. The sound of the shutter steadied my nerves, and when I felt ready, I smoothed down my jacket, ran my fingers through my hair before crossing the street. I pressed the buzzer to Victoria E. Gallinger and Hugh F. Watters’s apartment, holding my breath.
She let me in, and I took the shiny, pumpkin-spice-aroma-filled elevator to the second floor.
Victoria stood in the open doorway, dressed in black leggings and a white button-down blouse that skimmed her miniscule waist and hips. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders like a chocolate waterfall, and her eyes lit up with an infectious smile.
“Eleanor. Good to see you. Did you have trouble finding us?” As her smile broadened, I shook my head, unable to formulate a coherent response, because it felt as if my tongue had glued itself to the roof of my mouth. “Come in, come in.” She gestured with a hand, ushering me inside. “Don’t be shy. Make yourself right at home.”
Stepping over the threshold was akin to crossing into another dimension. Victoria took me across the white marble floor, away from a long corridor off to the right, which I assumed led to the bedrooms and bathrooms, and into an open-plan living area. I almost gasped at the amount of space, the apartment’s high ceilings the first indication of its size. The huge glass windows at the front spanned the entire length of the place, seeming even bigger than from the outside. Yet somehow they’d pulled off making an airy, industrial-looking space both cozy and glamorous. Splashes of color—turquoise sofa, mustard cushions, red carpet—dotted the room, and the timber truss table with a shiny white stone finish gave the apartment an urban yet earthy feel.
Blown-up photographs adorned the walls, including one of Victoria and Hugh’s wedding day. I’d spotted the picture on social media, had studied their beaming faces gazing at one another. I’d thought it over-the-top when I’d first seen it, especially when I noticed it had received well over three hundred likes. Looking at it now, hung on their living room wall, it warmed a tiny piece of my heart, their happiness somehow burning away some of my envy.
“Thanks again for coming,” Victoria said. “I hope your friends didn’t mind?”
“My friends?”
“Yes. You said you’d have to rearrange things with them.”
“Oh.” The heat from being caught in a lie flooded my cheeks. “It’s fine.”
“Great, that’s great. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry or thirsty?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I was going to have a glass of wine. Do you want one?” When I shook my head again, she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make me drink alone. I’ll look like a sad loser.”
I laughed and held up my hands. “I doubt that, but...okay, then.”
“Excellent.” Victoria went to the fridge in the huge designer kitchen, where she pulled out a bottle of white wine with a name I couldn’t pronounce before retrieving two large glasses from a pantry bigger than my clothes closet. She set them on the island with a clink and filled them halfway, grabbed a remote, pressed a button, filling the air with the sound of soft jazz.
“Here you go,” she said as she walked over and handed me a glass. “Cheers.”
Within an hour, the website designs had been discussed, and the bottle of wine had all but disappeared. Victoria seemed completely sober, but my head spun to the point where I’d put off going to the bathroom for fear I’d collapse. Note to self: not eating all day and mixing milk with wine was not an experiment to be repeated.
“You’re really going to take my project on?” Victoria said with a sigh, flopping back onto the cushions and folding her long legs beneath her. “You can fit it into your schedule?”
“Of course,” I said, the excitement about having a proper contract again, the fact it was for my sister’s business and the booze all making me feel giddy. “I can’t wait to get started.”
“And you’re sure about the budget?” she said. “Five thousand doesn’t seem much.”
I bit my tongue so I didn’t laugh. I’d doubled my usual quote for a site this simple. Clearly five grand was nothing to her. She probably spent more on clothes each month.
“I’m happy to give you a break on the price,” I said.
“You’re amazing,” Victoria said. “I mean, I’ll have to clear it with Hugh, but I’d imagine he’ll be fine with it. He handles all of our personal finances and insurance and stuff. To be honest, I’d rather poke myself in the eye.” She let out another long, contented sigh. “Gosh, I’m so happy you got in touch with me. I feel you’ve got my back, you know? And I’m so pleased to be working with a woman. I spoke with a couple of developer guys and they were so full of themselves.”
“Trust me, I know the type.”
“Right?” Victoria winked at me. “We sisters have to stick together.”
As the front door opened, she missed my sharp intake of breath at her choice of words, and she jumped up as Hugh stepped inside.
He looked even better in person than he did in the photos; tall, slim, short brown hair and clean-shaven skin. He wore black jeans and a red polo shirt, a leather jacket slung casually over his arm. I knew he wasn’t only an attractive man, but a smart one, too, had graduated summa cum laude from Harvard. No wonder they’d gravitated toward each other. They were the perfect power couple, the image of her parents.
“Hey, you. How was your day?” Hugh walked over to Victoria, slipped a hand around her waist before softly kissing her. Had I imagined it, or had she flinched ever so slightly when he’d touched her?
“I’m good.” Victoria took a step back and bit her lip. “Uh, this is Eleanor.”
He turned to me, his head tilted to one side. Closing the gap between us with a single step, he held out a hand, his grip businesslike. “Nice to meet you, Eleanor.”
“Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Watters,” I said, enunciating every word.
“Yikes, call me Hugh, please. I’m not my father.”
Victoria sat down, and when Hugh did, too, this time I was sure she moved her leg away a fraction of an inch when his knee touched hers. “We’ve been discussing the website,” she said. “Eleanor’s ideas are amazing. You should see her designs. I know you’ll approve.”
“Fantastic,” Hugh said, looking at me. Were his eyes always so blue—bottomless, exotic pools, inviting you to jump in? “I take it the project’s a go?”
“Yes,” I said, unable to contain my excitement. “I’ll start as soon as I get home.”
“After I show you everything, Hugh,” Victoria said quickly. “The budget, too.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” he said with a frown as he looked at me. “Victoria’s a formidable businesswoman. Never once has she made a bad decision.”
“My husband’s the sweetest,” Victoria said, but her expression had shifted, lost some of its shine and luster. “Well, if there’s anything else you
need to discuss before we start, Eleanor, you have my cell. Call or text anytime, and I’ll make myself available.”
“All right.” I got up, acknowledging my cue to leave, not wanting to outstay my welcome. Not when my plan was to come back, hopefully more than once. I’d been unable to make it to the bathroom because of the effects of the wine, and that had meant no opportunity to snoop through their cabinets or take a peek at the rest of the apartment. We hadn’t talked about her family, either, or her upbringing. There was still so much I wanted to know about my half sister but it wouldn’t be today. Either I’d find a way to come back, or we’d meet somewhere else. I’d tell her I needed to discuss the designs face-to-face again and wanted to go over the layout with her. She was paying me so much money, I could afford to drag the development out a little.
“Bye, Hugh,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Nice to meet you.” His fingers wrapped around mine, his touch warm and manly, and as he took a step closer, the scent of his citrusy aftershave filled the space between us. “I’ll see you again soon.”
As Victoria accompanied me to the front door, she glanced over her shoulder, absentmindedly tapping her taut thighs with her fingertips. “Thanks again.”
“No problem,” I said, not quite ready to leave. “I’ll get a contract to you and get to work on the designs.”
“Great,” she said, her voice quiet, subdued, her enthusiasm all but gone. “Don’t forget to include your bank details so we can organize the down payment once I’ve confirmed everything with Hugh.”
“Fantastic. Thanks—” the door was already closing “—bye, Victoria.”
As I walked home, I kept wondering why Hugh’s presence had made her so on edge. She’d been jumpy when he’d phoned her at Jake’s Cakes, too. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but could things between them not be as picture-perfect as they seemed at first glance? While I’d never been one for gossip—I’d despised it when Amy had repeated rumors she’d known to be untruths, turning them into out-of-control wildfires she helped spread—I wanted to know what was going on in my half sister’s marriage. If Hugh and Victoria had secrets, especially ones I could use to my advantage, I’d make it my business to find out.
Sister Dear Page 17
