by Gina Ardito
In front of me, holding onto a cart overflowing with family staples: juice boxes, cereal, milk, fruits and vegetables, Emily Handler turned. “Paige, how are you? How’s Nia?”
“We’re good,” I replied automatically. Most people here saw us as one entity so we generally answered as such. “How are you?”
“Busy.” She jerked her head toward the four kids who ranged in age from fifteen to two years, loitering around her cart. “I’m glad to hear your sister’s not hurt. Sam said the accident was minor. And she certainly looked okay when she came in to see him a while ago. But you never know with those kinds of impacts. You can be fine one minute, the next you’re stuck in a hospital bed in traction.” She whirled back to the parcel of children. “Lucas, put down that gum. Melissa, will you please watch your brother for me? For five minutes?”
With Emily distracted by her youngest son’s attempt to swipe all the candy from the impulse shelves, I had a moment to digest what she’d just disclosed. Nia? An accident? And what did snide ol’ Sam have to do with it? Why hadn’t Nia called me?
Chills rippled over my skin. What had happened since this morning? More important, how soon could I pay for my groceries and get out of here? I glanced at my cart. Just a few items. Maybe Emily would let me jump her in the line? Then again, I’d still have to race home and put the frozen stuff away before it all defrosted.
Should I just leave all this crap? Head straight to Nia’s house and find out exactly what happened and why she didn’t call me? After all, what were a few diet entrees, compared to my sister’s well-being? On the other hand, how bad could this supposed accident have been? She’d gone to see Sam afterward.
Sam. Again.
What if I nearly killed myself getting to Nia’s house and found her canoodling on the sofa with Sam? Ewww. My stomach churned.
One thing was for sure. I wasn’t going anywhere near Nia’s house until I’d made a phone call to make sure she was alone first. If Sam was there, I’d need a ring of garlic to wear around my neck.
Emily turned to me again, and I pasted a serene expression on my face. For a few more minutes, we made small talk, but what we discussed barely registered with me. Too many questions swirled in an eddy inside my skull. After I’d paid for my groceries, I sat in the driver’s seat of my car, turned on the engine, and dialed Nia’s house before pulling out of the parking lot. My hands-free device immediately forwarded the phone call through my radio speakers.
After three rings, her answering machine clicked on. “Hi, this is Nia. At the beep, speak.”
I resisted the urge to bark, my usual greeting when I heard the recorded demand. In all fairness, since my message asked for the caller’s name and number, Nia always replied, “Nia. Two,” which signified her status as the younger twin—by a whole eight minutes.
Right now, though, levity wasn’t an option. “Nia, what’s going on? I just ran into Emily Handler at the supermarket. She said you’d been in an accident. What happened? Do you need anything? Are you hurt? Call me. I’ll be at the house, but I can be at your place in twenty minutes if you need me.”
I disconnected, headed toward home, and got as far as the next intersection before I reconsidered. Emily’s voice echoed in my head. You can be fine one minute, the next you’re stuck in a hospital bed in traction.
What if Nia was unable to answer the phone because she was hurt? Contrary to what some people thought, twins don’t have a stronger psychic link than other close siblings. If Nia stubbed her toe in the middle of the night, I didn’t suddenly bolt out of bed with sympathy pain.
What if, right now, Nia was lying on the floor waiting for help that would never arrive? I couldn’t take that chance, regardless of my defrosting groceries. Who cared about twenty bucks’ worth of frozen food when my sister might be unconscious or immobile?
The traffic light at Main and Maple flipped from red to green, and I popped a quick U-ie in the center of the intersection.
Whoop! Whoop! I’d barely straightened the wheels when red and blue lights excoriated my windshield, accompanied by the quick blasts of a police siren. As I slowed toward the curb, I slammed my hands on my leather-wrapped steering wheel. Without turning around, I knew who’d pulled me over because that was the way my luck ran today. Sure enough, when I dared a glance in the rearview mirror, Sam Dillon stepped out of the cruiser and swaggered toward the driver’s door of my sporty SUV.
The minute I rolled down the window, his posture relaxed, and he exhaled a heavy sigh. “Paige. I should have known. Do you have some kind of death wish?”
“What’s the problem, Sam?” I unclipped my seatbelt and glared out the window at Dudley DoRight. “I made a legal U-turn.”
He had the nerve to quirk an eyebrow at me. “A U-turn in a major intersection with no regard for the possibility of oncoming traffic. Since when is that legal?”
“There was no oncoming traffic.”
“This time.” He shook his head like some disappointed parent. “Do you know Nia had an accident today no more than two blocks from here? What’s the problem, Paige? Can’t stand to see someone else get all the attention? Do you always have to one-up your sister? She has a little fender-bender, so you have to wind up in the emergency room? I have half a mind to slap the cuffs on you for first degree stupidity.”
“Don’t tax yourself, Marshall Dillon. You only have half a mind to begin with.” Okay, so insulting a cop wasn’t my smartest reaction. Even if he deserved it.
What made him think he could talk to me that way? Regardless of any emotional attachment he had to Nia, he had no clue about our sisterly relationship. Sure, as twins, we had indulged in some serious episodes of sibling rivalry over the years. But not since Mom had walked out on us twenty-some-odd years ago. Now, with Dad gone, we were all we had left. We treasured each other.
And Sam Dillon wanted to horn into our family. Well, I’m sorry but until he had a ring on my sister’s finger, he didn’t have a right to an opinion about me or Nia.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I said curtly, “but I’m on my way to Nia’s.” Because now I knew that he wasn’t there. I toyed with lying to him, telling him that Nia had called to say she desperately needed me. But not knowing the details of Nia’s condition precluded me from inserting my foot into my throat.
Luckily, my intended destination seemed to calm the savage beast. He backed away from my car. “Okay. But drive more carefully.”
“Yes, sir.” I rolled up my window and pulled out again, even using my directional, although the only other car in sight was Sam’s cruiser. I had to clench my thigh muscles to keep from hitting the gas with a stomp. I so wanted to spit gravel at him with some screeching tire action. Somehow, though, I managed to stifle the impulse and drive away with a sedate air.
Chapter 5
Paige
Nia lived in our grandparents’ former house in Snug Harbor, a gingerbread Victorian on the outskirts of town, painted in a clapboard gray with lavender trim. The feminine lines and dramatic turrets suited Nia’s personality. And of course, the detached carriage house in back was a perfect workspace for her glassblowing.
After Grandma passed away six years ago, her will left her home to both of us. Nia had immediately suggested we sell the house and split the proceeds equally. Living in Albany at the time, I’d told her to forget it. Aside from the fact that strangers living in her house would have had Grandma rising from the grave to seek revenge, I also understood that Nia needed her own place in Snug Harbor. She needed to get out of the broad shadow of our father’s wings. If she sold her inheritance and gave half the money to me, no way could she afford a decent place of her own in this resort town. She’d be much better off keeping a house we all knew had been well-maintained, which would also keep Grandma resting comfortably in the hereafter. It was Dad who’d suggested our childhood home go directly to me after his death, so that each of us would have our own residences in Snug Harbor. The compromise worked perfectly, with Nia in walki
ng distance of the beach and me near the marina.
I pulled into Nia’s empty driveway and noted the dark house. No car. No sign of life inside. Where could she be? The hospital? Oh, God, no. I turned off my engine and opened my door. The unmistakable thump-thump-thump of my sister’s bass-driven classic rock music nearly tossed me out of my SUV. Which meant Nia was in her studio, in creative mode.
Releasing a huge sigh of relief, I stepped out onto the gravel. Since her glass artwork required temperatures upwards of a thousand degrees, Nia wouldn’t risk working with the excessive heat if she was even slightly under the weather. She always said, “One wrong move, and I could be incinerated.” So whatever accident had befallen her, Nia was obviously unharmed. Thank God.
I took one last glance back over my shoulder and pressed the lock button on my key fob. The quick horn blast of my car alarm barely registered over the scratchy, raucous twang of some long-haired rock star’s guitar. Guns n Roses? Van Halen? I never could tell the diff. My tastes always ran toward fun, quirky stuff that I could dance to or sing along with. At the top of my lungs.
Fumbling to drop my keys back into my purse, I carefully trod my way to the carriage house. Whereas the original building had been clapboard like the house, Nia had updated for safety precautions years ago. Now the ceiling between the first and second floors had been removed to create a large, vaulted space with lots of ventilation. The hot wall—where the furnace and other equipment stood—was constructed of sheet metal and cement board corrugated panels to deal with the extreme temperatures.
My wedge sandals challenged the flexibility of my ankles on the uneven gravel. With every crunch, I teetered first right, then left while I headed toward Nia’s studio. Oppressive heat radiated through the doors when I got within ten feet of the building. How on earth did Nia manage to enjoy sweating buckets in this place, particularly on a humid summer evening? The music suddenly shut off, a signal that it was safe to enter. The walls, which reverberated from the speakers she had mounted in each corner, quieted to normal.
I reached for the door. Nia, coming through from the building’s interior, nearly barreled over me. “Oh, Jeez!” She jumped back, hand on her chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I said with deep breaths to get my own rapid heartbeat back under control. “Are you okay?” My fingers entwined around her wrist, and I looked her up and down carefully.
“Yeah.” She offered a weak smile. “I told you. You just startled me, that’s all. I didn’t expect you to be out here.”
“That’s not what I mean. I ran into Emily Handler at FoodMart. She mentioned you’d been in some kind of accident.”
“Oh, that.” Wiping a long-sleeved arm across her shiny forehead, she grimaced. “Come on up to the house, and I’ll tell you about the damage your thirty day experiment caused me today.”
Damage? Aw, shoot. Hope trickled out of me.
Nia pulled a ring of keys from the back pocket of her jeans. “Give me a sec to lock up.”
Frowning, I stood on tiptoe to peer around her toward the inside of the building. “Am I taking you away from anything important?”
“No. I’m toying with a line of decorative glass pumpkins and gourds for the autumn. It’s good therapy for me. The accident was only the tip of my frustration iceberg today. I was actually just headed up to the house for dinner while I let my latest piece sit in the lehr ‘til tomorrow. Wanna join me? Did you eat yet?”
“I’ve got Lean Cuisines in my car,” I told her.
“Puh-leez,” she said. “After the day I had, I’m up for homemade pizza. I took dough out of the freezer when I got home a few hours ago. Are you in?”
My forehead puckered in mock disbelief. “Are you kidding? You bet I’m in. Can I stow my cold stuff in your fridge ‘til later?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I’ll meet you on the porch.”
While she fiddled with locking up her studio, I dashed back to my car on my wobbly ankles to fetch my perishable groceries. Once I had the two canvas bags in hand, I climbed the stairs to the house’s wraparound porch where Nia waited beneath a hanging basket of vivid purple petunias.
Her gaze followed the lines of my arms to the sacks, and she smirked. “What flavor?”
Blood rushed into my cheeks. My sister knew my weakness for Ben & Jerry’s far too well. “Phish Food.”
“I get to keep it,” she said as she inserted the house key into the lock on the lavender front door. “It’s the least you can offer me in penance.”
Following her inside, I sucked in a sharp inhale. “That bad, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.” After flipping on a light, she stopped in the foyer beside a dark wooden table inlaid with miniature white and gold tiles. Atop the table sat a cobalt bowl with a white rose in full bloom encased for eternity in the glass bottom. This was one of Nia’s creations from her most popular handcrafted collection, a set of flower-inset glassware she called Forever Summer. I always marveled at how artistic she was. Somehow, that particular trait had passed me by in the genetic lottery.
Nia dropped her keys inside the bowl with a tink, and jerked her head at me. “Come on.”
I followed her past the staircase and into the kitchen in the back. Of all the rooms in this house, the kitchen was the place where Grandma’s presence lingered. Golden oak cabinetry gleamed with orange-scented polish, creating a warm and comfortable glow to embrace all who entered. Pots of African violets still sat on the twin shelves of the greenhouse-style window box above the porcelain sink. Nia, always prepared for a possible burn, had added several aloe vera plants to the purple flower jungle. A homemade cross-stitch sampler mounted over the back door lintel proclaimed the kitchen the heart of a loving home. I remembered when Grandma created that sampler, and how Nia had worked with her on the hundreds of teeny x’s with multi-colored threads. Christmas vacation. 1997. While they stitched, I worked on an extra-credit project for my English class: reading Animal Farm by George Orwell and drawing parallels to the Russian Revolution. Good times, good times…
From one of the lower cabinets, Nia pulled out an extra-large wooden cutting board and set it on the center butcher block. “You know how I told you I would take First Avenue to work today?”
“Uh-huh.” I stood frozen, my mind hopping from one bad case scenario to another.
“Well, there’s a very good reason why I don’t normally travel that route.” She scooped flour out of a copper canister behind her and spread it across the cutting board. “Traffic’s a nightmare. When I finally got to the corner of First and Maple—twenty minutes late, mind you—a bunch of teenagers in a Jeep rear-ended me at the light, jumped the curb, and raced off in the shoulder lane.”
“Oh, my God.” My shopping bags fell to the floor in front of the refrigerator. Fear coursed through me, leaving chills on my flesh. What if she’d really been hurt? God, I couldn’t imagine. I opened my arms to squeeze my sister for dear life. “Nia, are you sure you’re all right?”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
She allowed me to cling for about thirty seconds, then stepped back to refocus her attention on the dough that sat in a sunny yellow ceramic bowl, covered by a pastel-striped dishtowel. One of Grandma’s old dishtowels. Nia threw nothing away if she could help it.
“I’m not injured,” she said as she plopped the dough onto the floured cutting board. “Although Sam tried to talk me into going to the hospital for some x-rays, just in case. He said sometimes spinal injuries can take a day or two to manifest.”
And there he was: the invisible elephant in the room. I couldn’t hold back the flood of sarcasm before it spewed from my mouth. “Sam said that, huh?”
“Yes, Sam said that.” A definite spark of something lit up Nia’s eyes when she grinned at me. And it didn’t come from the high hat lighting set into the ceiling. She shook her head slowly as she picked up the ceramic rolling pin. “Honestly, Paige, after all these years, can’t you soften up even a little? High school was a lifetime ago.
And Sam’s a really nice guy. You’d see that for yourself if you gave him half a chance.”
If I bit my tongue any harder, I’d slice it in two. But I wanted my sister to be happy. So when I could finally get the words out without choking on bile, I said, “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing today. That he and I really got off on the wrong foot and maybe it was time to let bygones be bygones.”
My suffering paid huge dividends instantly. Nia’s whole face glowed. “You were? Really?”
Watching my twin’s mood transform from shattered to hopeful, I catalogued a lifetime of moments stretched out before me. I’d just given Nia my blessing to date Sam Dillon. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday might now have my arch enemy in attendance. Sucking face with my sister.
My stomach flip-flopped. What if she married him? Had children with him? Okay, they’d be super-good-looking, but—
“Good for you, Paige.” Nia’s enthusiasm interrupted visions of gorgeous offspring with Sam’s stellar looks and her sweet personality.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, one hand clutching my upset stomach. “Good for me.”
~~~~
Nia
I will admit, I enjoyed watching Paige squirm when I honed in on her feud with Sam. Oh, I meant what I’d said. It was long past time both of them grew up. Snug Harbor was a small town, and these two ran into each other a lot. Best for all the innocent bystanders if their every meeting didn’t turn into a bloody battle.
I also realized that, at the moment, my sister was just telling me what she thought I wanted to hear. If the insincerity in her tone didn’t give her away, her sudden dive into my refrigerator to put away her groceries clinched my suspicions.
“So how bad is the damage to your car?” she asked from the vegetable crisper drawer.
“I don’t know yet. Brice is handling the details for me.”
Paige straightened and closed the stainless steel refrigerator door. “And the kids who hit you? Did Sam catch them at least?”
