Good Sister, The

by Diana Diamond

  Not even when she began flaunting it right in front of my face. She was giving a small dinner party for friends from the company, and there was the Serini glass on a delicate pedestal, lighted by small spots hidden in the ceiling. You couldn’t take your eyes off it. It really dominated the room. Naturally, everyone asked about it, and she took great delight in showing it off and explaining how our father had come to buy it. I knew exactly what she was telling everyone: that it had been given to her because she would truly appreciate it. Her sister had nothing like it.

  I should have stood up and exposed her whole dirty little fraud. But I said nothing. Once I even had to get up and leave the room. I could feel my skin burning with anger that she would find such an innocent way to embarrass me in front of our friends. I knew people would notice and think that I was the jealous one. So I left the room to avoid an incident.

  I guess I’m wandering. My point was that my sister did as good a job as I did of covering up true feelings. It must have been months after the dinner party. I had thought again and again of how she had used the vase to flaunt her superiority, but I had never mentioned my feelings; she really had no reason to be angry with me.

  I was visiting her one evening and she left the room to take a private telephone call. While I was waiting, I was suddenly drawn to the vase. It was standing by itself, beautifully lighted, dominating the entire atmosphere of the room. I walked over to it, examined it, and then picked it up carefully. It was the first time I had ever touched it. I carried it across the room to hold it up to a brighter light. Just to see the full value of the color, the way you do when the sun hits a stained-glass window. I was turning it slowly, watching the color as it seemed to move upward and then disappear. I didn’t realize that it was slipping through my fingers until it was falling.

  I made a frantic effort to catch it. One of my hands hit it up at the top. The other almost caught one of the handles. But the net effect was that it tossed out in front of me, hit the bare floor, and shattered. It broke into half a dozen big pieces and hundreds of tiny shards.

  The noise was like an explosion. My sister came flying into the room and pulled up abruptly when she saw what had happened. There were the two of us, standing on opposite sides of a pile of shattered glass, neither one of us able to speak a word. Finally, she got down on her hands and knees and began lifting the pieces, matching the broken edges as if she could put it back together again. I got down next to her and tried to help, but she pushed my hands away. And she looked at me with pure hatred in her eyes. She thought that I had smashed it on purpose.

  It was an accident. A terrible accident, to be sure, but purely and simply an accident. Naturally, I offered to pay for it. She refused. Then I said I would take the pieces to a glassblower to see if the vase could be put back together. She said it would never be the same, which was probably true. But if it meant that much to her, at least the basic form could be salvaged. I apologized profusely, and she nodded but never came right out and said I was forgiven. She never acknowledged that I hadn’t broken it intentionally.

  Yet she never once came right out and accused me. In fact, she never mentioned the vase again, not to me and not to any of our friends. She just brooded and nursed her hatred of me. Whenever we were together, she feigned affection for me, smiled at me, and complimented me. The way she acted, you would have thought there was never a vase at all.

  You see, she was good at it, too. She hated me. I know she wanted to get back at me. But you never would have guessed.

  It was a few months after that when she may have tried to kill me. I can’t be absolutely sure, because it may have been coincidental. Quite possibly, she had nothing to do with it. Maybe no one planned it. But at the time it certainly was suspicious.

  We were in Aspen for the Christmas festival. It was a business trip rather than a vacation. A lot of our customers were there, and one of the cable networks was sponsoring a big bash. Neither of us are particularly good skiers, but we joined the evening ski run, figuring on one pass down the mountain and then meeting at the lodge. I thought we should go straight to the lodge, but she was particularly insistent that we join the others on the slope. I didn’t see why it was so important, and that’s one of the things that was suspicious. She was dying to get me on that mountain.

  There were at least a hundred of us who assembled at the top of the lift, and we were all given lighted torches. It was supposed to be breathtaking, all those flames weaving down the slope. We started down, everyone carving wide, easy turns. My sister was somewhere behind me. I was in my second traverse, coming to a turn at the edge of the trail when, without any warning, the person in front of me fell. But it wasn’t a typical sprawling fall down the slope. It was almost as if he lurched back, right across my path. His torch flew up into my face. All of a sudden I was blinded and out of control. Instinctively, I edged, trying to stop, but someone coming down behind me slammed into me. It wasn’t a mere bump. Whoever it was pushed me and sent me careening off the trail. I saw trees everywhere, and rocks sticking up through the snow. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to fall. I hit the snow and lost speed as I slid. I plowed into a boulder feet-first, which is what saved me. Even at reduced speed, a headfirst crash probably would have killed me.

  The skis were jammed tight. I couldn’t pull them free, so I had to release the bindings and pull my boots out. When I stood, I felt a flash of pain in my right ankle. I had sprained it, but at the time I thought I might have broken it. I was well off the trail and down a slope. I couldn’t see anything or hear anything except the wind. And then it struck me. How was I going to get down the mountain?

  The person who fell in front of me must have seen me go off, and the person who hit me from behind as well. They had to know that I was in the woods. So I thought I’d wait until they came up with a snowmobile and then scream my head off. I probably waited an hour. Maybe more. No one came back up the mountain. It was night, the temperature dropping and the wind picking up. I got really frightened. If I stayed where I was, I might die of exposure. So I began climbing up the slope, trying to get back on the trail. I couldn’t put any weight on my foot, and getting traction in the snow was almost impossible. I dragged myself halfway up and then slipped back down. I tried again, and again slipped back. I was beginning to get desperate. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. I probably struggled another hour, getting hysterical at times, until I got back to the trail. And still there was no sign of anyone searching for me.

  I started sliding down. I was sitting on the snow, using my good foot and my hands to keep me in a straight line. But it was getting colder and colder, and my clothes were beginning to soak through. It was a slow, painful progress. To this day I don’t know whether I could have made it all the way down on my own.

  But then I saw the lights of snowmobiles. My sister had finally told someone that I was missing, and they were coming up looking for me. I screamed and waved, and that’s how they found me. They brought me down, thawed me out, and put one of those plastic casts on my foot. No one was too concerned: Why didn’t I get into some fresh clothes and catch the end of the party? I had to beg them to keep me in the hospital overnight.

  You may wonder why I think my sister was responsible. There are lots of reasons. I knew she would try to get back at me for breaking the damn vase. I guess I thought she wouLd find some way to break something of mine. But later I learned that she had been doing a lot of looking into my side of the business. So then I knew. She wasn’t just out to avenge a vase. She was going to take over everything.

  She was behind me, so she certainly could have been the one who pushed me. She might have paid the person who fell in front of me. And, of course, she would have had to report me missing. Otherwise she would have seemed completely indifferent. She might even have come under suspicion.

  My guess is that she gave it a few hours, figuring that if I didn’t make it down by then, I was probably smashed against a rock or impaled on a tree. Then she sent t
he ski patrol so she would look concerned and could play the distraught sister.

  But, as I’ve been saying, we both got very good at hiding our feelings. She was at my bedside when I woke up, all worried and solicitous. She brought a couple of specialists in to make sure I wasn’t badly hurt, and wanted to have me flown back to New York on a charter. You should have seen the show she put on when I finally made it back to the lodge. Her arm around me, supporting me. A pillow under my foot. Telling everyone what a narrow escape I’d had and how worried she had been. She fooled everyone, but not me. I knew that even if she hadn’t planned it, she would have been overjoyed if they’d brought me down in a body bag.

  We never got any closer. If anything, there was more distance between us. I knew she was dangerous, and I gave her plenty of space. The idea of two sisters who were best friends was good copy for the trade press. But it wasn’t true.

  FIFTEEN

  JENNIFER’S DIVORCE was dragging on. The issues were simple and generally uncontested, but O’Connell’s lawyer seemed to be in no hurry. He reworded drafts, insisted on meetings to review the new language, then forwarded pages to Padraig in Ireland. Padraig, pleading that he barely had enough time to finish the movie, much less read “legal mumbo jumbo,” took days to respond. And then his response was generally a request for additional clarifications.

  “What in God’s name is the problem?” Jennifer finally demanded. “An imbecile could understand it. I keep what I brought to the marriage and he keeps what he brought. Neither of us has any future claim on the other.”

  “He’s distracted,” O’Connell’s lawyer offered. He proposed waiting until the movie was completed. Then they would have Padraig at the table, and any remaining issues could be hammered out to everyone’s satisfaction.

  “He’s shaking you down,” her attorney responded, suggesting that O’Connell was dangling the divorce in case he needed Jennifer’s vote for more money from Pegasus. Conceivably he could trade his signature on the divorce agreement for Jennifer’s approval of further financing. Her lawyer threatened to seek a summary judgment that would impose the terms of the divorce whether Padraig liked them or not.

  With the atmosphere deteriorating and the simple, no-contest divorce threatening to get ugly, Jennifer was startled to hear Padraig’s voice on the telephone. “I’m in town and I can be down to your place in an hour,” he said. “If you’ve got those damn divorce papers, I’ll be happy to sign them.”

  “I’ll arrange a meeting,” she offered.

  “Fook the meeting, and fook the lawyers,” he said, turning on the brogue. “With all I’ve put you through, darlin’, I’ll sign any damn paper you put in front of me.”

  “No! I don’t think—”

  He cut her off. “I’ll be getting into a cab right now. It won’t take me a minute.” The phone went dead.

  “Damn it!” Jennifer snapped. She didn’t have the papers. Her attorney had them. And the last thing she wanted was a useless visit from her cheating husband. She dialed the lawyer and got his secretary, who promised he would call back instantly. “Instantly” turned out to be twenty minutes.

  “Can you get down here right away with the divorce agreement? Padraig is on his way and he seems to be in a mood to sign.”

  “An hour,” he shot back. “There are still a few changes to be made, but I’ll have them done right now and be there in an hour.”

  It seemed like only seconds before Padraig called up from the front door. Jennifer had no choice but to invite him up to her loft and hope she could keep him entertained until the lawyer arrived with the paperwork.

  He seemed much smaller when she opened the door, and there was certainly less color in his face. His eyes were dead, like neglected windows, too opaque to look through. His mouth was tight, with no trace of the broad, mischievous smile. His shoulders were slumped, as if there wasn’t enough spirit left in him to inflate his chest. Jennifer had never seen him look so insignificant or so crushed. She invited him in, watching him walk lifelessly into the room and settle into a place on the sofa without even acknowledging her greeting.

  “There’s still some of your single malt in the bar,” she said, inviting him to help himself.

  “Just a dash over an ice cube,” he answered, expecting to be waited on.

  She made his drink and then poured one for herself. She glanced at the clock. Somehow, she had to keep him involved for another forty-five minutes.

  “Tell me about the picture,” she said as she set the glass in front of him. “How’s it going?”

  He nodded. “Good. Better than you could expect, considering the hurry.” He sniffed at the edge of the glass and then wet his lips. It was clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate.

  “And how are you?” she asked. “No more helicopter accidents. I hope?”

  Padraig shook his head and sipped again. Jennifer didn’t know where to take the conversation, so she joined him in his morose drink.

  Finally, he looked up at her. There was a flicker of his old self in his expression. “And how are you, Jennifer? I know I nearly destroyed you, though God knows I never meant to.”

  Now she nodded. “Good. Pretty well recovered.” This would never do. They seemed to have exhausted their conversation in just a few seconds. She needed to keep him here for her attorney.

  “Padraig, for what it’s worth, I know you didn’t try to kill me in Positano. I heard from the Italian detective who was handling the case.” She repeated the information she had received and explained how she had interpreted it.

  “‘For what it’s worth’?” he asked. “Don’t you know that it’s worth everything to me?” His eyes filled with the emotion that seemed to be suddenly exploding inside him. “What do you think it’s been like, knowing that the woman I love thinks I tried to kill her? What do you think I feel doing business with the lying bastards who came between us?”

  “Padraig, it wasn’t Catherine and Peter who broke my heart—”

  “It was the two of them that broke mine,” he answered in an explosion of anger. “And now they’ve beaten me. All they ever wanted was to keep us apart.” He shook his head in disgust. “So give me the damn divorce decree. Let me sign it and get out of your life.”

  “That wasn’t what broke us apart, Padraig, and you know it. I never believed that you tried to kill me. Or if I did, I never admitted it to myself. It was those pictures. You and my sister. Of all the people you could have cheated with, my own sister.”

  “You think that was something different? You think blaming me for the car and dragging me into bed were two different sins. For Christ’s sake, Jennie darlin’, don’t you see it was all one plan? ‘Let’s get rid of the stupid actor, and if that doesn’t work, then let’s drive him out of the family.’ You think your sister couldn’t find anyone else to screw her? Is it likely that with all the men fawning on her, she found me irresistible? Open your eyes, child! She didn’t love me. What she wanted was to stop you from loving me. And didn’t I fall right into her trap? Wasn’t I the total jackass? Here I was, thinking that she was making me play the lover to get money for my picture. And all she really wanted were those pictures so she could break us up.”

  “You think she sent the pictures?” The notion wasn’t a complete surprise. She had weighed the possibility many times. He was telling her things she already knew; only now she was beginning to see them in a different light. Before she had just followed the obvious evidence. Why wouldn’t he want Catherine? Wasn’t she more attractive? More fashionable? More Hollywood? But why would Catherine have wanted him? She had no shortage of admirers. She had chosen Padraig just to take him away from Jennifer. And she might have sent the pictures so that there would be no doubt about her victory.

  Suddenly, Padraig made sense. Neither Catherine nor Peter had wanted her new husband in the family, much less as a partner in the business. They had tried for a prenuptial agreement and, when that failed, for a marital agreement. And when neither she nor Padraig show
ed much interest in who might end up owning what, they had tried to kill him. Jennifer had come to believe that he was the true target of the automobile crash. It was only afterward that her sister had taken a serious interest in producing the movies that Pegasus would distribute. That decision had put Catherine into bed with her husband. And then what had Catherine done? Had she tried to cover up Padraig’s indiscretion? Had she done anything to reassure her sister? No, she had documented the seamy affair in pictures. It was even worse than that. She had hired the photographer in advance. This hadn’t been an accidental moment of weakness. She had carefully planned to bring him down in full view of his wife. What other reason could there be but to destroy the marriage?

  When she looked up, Padraig was pacing back and forth between the sofa and the huge industrial window that looked out onto the narrow street.

  “What are you saying, Padraig? That none of this was your fault?

  “Oh, it was all my fault,” he answered with irony in his tone. “But it wasn’t the fault that you’re talking about. You think I’m guilty of lust, but my real crime was stupidity. Your sister and your partner played me out and then pulled me back in like a yo-yo. First they fix the brakes, and I’m thinking that sure as hell you’re going to leave me. And then they come at me with money. More money than I ever could have raised on my own. And all I have to do is take down your sister’s pants. And, sweet Jesus, didn’t I fall right into it. I thought, Screw the lady so she can brag that she’s had the great lover of the big screen. Who cares? I’ll make my movie, and it will make money for their company, and then maybe they’ll leave Jennie and me alone. But you know what? It wasn’t just me, and it wasn’t just money. It was hatred, darlin’. They hate me, for sure. But someone hates you, too. Someone was out to trash us no matter how much it cost.”