The Second Sister

by Marie Bostwick

  “Admit it,” I said to Peter when he returned from the bar with two more cups of hot cider, “this is way better than a fish fry in your dad’s shanty.”

  “Maybe. But only because I’m here with you, old pal. Old buddy. Old BFF.” He shot me a bad-boy grin over the rim of his mug and took a sip.

  “Don’t be a jerk,” I said and elbowed him in the ribs. He elbowed me back and I smiled, happy that we’d moved past the awkward part.

  When the boil master announced that the fish was just about ready, everybody gathered closer to see the highlight of the evening: the boil over. I noticed that Celia wasn’t in the crowd. I looked over my shoulder, wondering where she could be, just in time to see Pat slam his empty highball glass down on a table and storm off, with Celia following close behind, apparently trying to placate him.

  Poor Celia. Daphne told me that Pat was really a nasty piece of work, very controlling, but Celia couldn’t seem to see it. Should I go after her? Tell her to come back to the fire and just ignore him, that by chasing after him, she was only getting sucked into his manipulation? Should I? I didn’t know her all that well yet. Maybe she wouldn’t appreciate me butting in.

  I felt a hand on my arm and turned around. “Watch!” Peter said. “He’s just about to throw on the kerosene!”

  Sure enough, a moment later the boil master tossed a tin can full of kerosene onto the fire. There was an enormous whoosh! The flames shot up five or six feet, like something out of a disaster movie, and even though this was the moment we’d all been waiting for, the crowd drew back and gasped, then laughed, then repeated the entire sequence when the boil master threw a second can of kerosene onto the flames to make sure that every last bit of the oils and impurities that the salt had drawn from the fish and to the surface boiled over the top and onto the flames, leaving nothing but perfectly seasoned potatoes and clean, firm, fresh-tasting whitefish.

  When the flames died down, the boil master yelled, “Dinner is ready, folks!” and everybody clapped.

  Two men in white kitchen aprons slid a long wooden pole through the metal handle of the boiling basket that held the fish and potatoes, lifted it from the cauldron, and carried it into the dining room, where it would be seasoned with lots and lots of butter before it was put onto the buffet table to be served with lemon slices, coleslaw, fresh-baked bread, and cherry pie for dessert. It wasn’t fancy or complicated or nouveau, but it was delicious and the people had been coming to the White Gull in droves to enjoy the exact same menu since 1961.

  Peter and I got in line behind Father Damon and his brother. We chatted a little bit while waiting our turn. Father Damon laughed when I told him that the FOA was helping me make a quilt.

  “I know, right? I’m the least crafty person on the face of the earth.”

  “That’s not why I’m laughing,” he said. “I’m laughing because, somehow, that’s exactly what I thought would happen. Alice told me that she wanted you to come home, see her quilts, meet her friends, and maybe even take up quilting yourself. She said it would do you good. And look! It’s happened just like that. One way or another, Alice always did manage to get her way.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said.

  Funny thing, just a couple of weeks ago that observation might have made me tear up, but now it made me smile. I was glad I could remember the good things about Alice and glad that other people remembered them too. And I was glad that, however belatedly, Alice had gotten her wish, glad for both of us.

  For a minute, I thought that Father Damon might invite Peter and me to join him and Bill at their table, but he didn’t and I was relieved. Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed their company, but I’d been thinking about some questions I wanted to discuss with Peter privately. Maybe Father Damon felt the same way.

  Once we sat down and got organized, buttered the bread and removed the bones from the fish, I cut right to the chase.

  “You know, I was reading an online transcript of the last meeting of the village council . . .”

  Peter’s fork froze midway to his mouth. He stared at me as if I’d suddenly grown a second head. “You did? Why? Who does that?”

  “People do,” I said defensively, feeling the color rising in my cheeks. “I do. Why wouldn’t I? And I think it’s a good idea to post them on the town Web site. Wasn’t that why you did it? Because you want people to be well-informed?”

  “I guess,” Peter said. “Honestly, I think we just started doing that because it made it easier to comply with some open meeting regulations, and to make sure we weren’t misquoted by reporters or irate citizens. I didn’t think anybody would actually read it. At least, not normal people.” Peter put a forkful of fish into his mouth and chewed. “Boy, you really are bored, aren’t you?”

  “Anyway,” I said, ignoring his question, “I read the transcript. You’re really good. No, I mean it!” I protested in response to the skeptical expression that came to his face. “You were obviously well prepared and asked really good questions about the upcoming spring street repairs. And you were right about not going with the cheapest bid; the materials used by the company that turned in the next-lowest bid are much better quality. It’s going to save the town thousands in the long run. And I thought it was great that you were able to get the council to go along with you and trim some other items from the budget so the library can stay open longer on Saturdays. That’ll be a big help for students and working people.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” Peter said with a shrug. “Just common sense.”

  “It was leadership,” I countered. “And it’s not something that everybody has. Neither is common sense, especially in the field of politics, but that’s another subject. My point is, you’re really good at this and you seem like you like it. Have you ever thought of taking it further?” He reached for another piece of bread and started spreading it with butter. “Peter?”

  He put down the butter knife. “Further how?”

  “Politically. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with serving on the village council, but have you considered aiming higher? Maybe running for state senator? And if that works out, who knows?” I said, using my fork to carefully lift a lattice of bones from another piece of whitefish. “You might even be able to run for Congress.”

  “Why in the world would I want to do that?”

  Now it was my turn to look at him as if he were the one who’d grown two heads.

  “What do you mean, why would you want to? Because it’s . . .” I put down my fork and cast my eyes up at the ceiling, searching for an explanation.

  “Because that’s supposed to be the next thing?” Peter offered. “The natural progression for anybody with any ambition? Because I’d have more power and influence in Madison or in Washington than I’d have in Nilson’s Bay?”

  “No,” I said, trying and failing to keep my tone from becoming resentful. But, really! He sounded so smug. “Although you would. And anyway, what’s wrong with having a little more power and influence? In the hands of the right person, somebody honest and decent, with a good heart and good leadership, power and influence can be used to help people! That kind of attitude is just . . . You know what, never mind. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  I dropped my fork and knife onto the plate. I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t mean to offend you or to imply anything negative about your work. It’s important to get good people elected to office at all levels, and you—”

  “It certainly is! And the reason we don’t have more good people willing to run for office is because of critical, judgmental, thoughtless people who constantly make critical, thoughtless comments about any elected official who casts a vote that is even slightly counter to their personal beliefs, accusing them of being in it for power, or influence, or to boost their own egos! In that kind of environment, what sane, decent person would want to get into public service?” I grabbed the lip of the table with bot
h hands and leaned so close we were practically nose to nose. “And when good people won’t run for office, do you know who is left to do it?”

  “Egomaniacs who are in it for power and influence?”

  “That’s right!” I exclaimed, throwing up my hands in frustration.

  Peter took one of my hands and pulled it back down to the table. “Okay, Luce. Let’s just take a deep breath and calm down, okay? People are staring.”

  I shifted my eyes from right to left. He was right. People were staring, but when they saw that I saw them, their eyes darted away.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “It’s fine. You don’t need to apologize for being passionate. And I agree with everything you said.”

  “Then why won’t you consider running for higher office?” I said, leaning closer, but keeping my voice low. “Peter, you’re a natural leader. Think of all the people you could help! If you’re worried about raising money for a race, I know a lot of people who could help. Seriously, all I’d have to do is call some people in the party and—”

  He laughed and held up his hands. “Whoa! Let’s just slow down for a second. I already do help people. I’m convinced that I have a bigger impact here locally than I ever would at the statewide level. Do you know why? Because you don’t need to ascribe to any particular ideology to figure out how to fill potholes or keep the library open. Right now, it’s very clear where my loyalties should lie—with the people of this town, those who voted for me as well as those who didn’t. But when you start taking money from a party or from big donors, it’s natural that they are going to expect you, if not precisely to vote how they want you to, then at least to champion their ideology. I don’t want any part of that, Lucy.”

  “Look,” I said, “I agree with you. The whole system of parties and money in politics is really messed up. But it’s the only system we’ve got, and until it changes—”

  “Until it changes,” Peter said, taking a last bite of coleslaw, “I’m going to keep serving at the local level, where I know I can get more done in one year than I could in a decade of partisan bickering in Madison. The other thing I’m going to do,” he said, putting his fork down on his plate, “is see about getting us some dessert.” He looked up, craning his neck as he searched for our waitress. “Do you want your pie plain or à la mode?”

  After a little bit of wrangling, Peter finally did let me pay the check—our dinners, delicious and served in a beautiful atmosphere, ran only about twenty dollars each. A similar meal in DC would have cost twice as much. More things to appreciate about life in a small town, I thought as we headed out to the truck. I was starting to wonder if I shouldn’t take a little bit of the money from the sale of the cottage and buy a condo here in Door County. Nothing big or elaborate, just a place that I could rent out now and use as a second home someday, when Ryland was out of office and my life was less complicated. Something to think about.

  The sun sets early in winter, and once we left the relatively populated domain of Fish Creek and headed east across one of the county roads toward Bailey’s Harbor, the drive home was pitch-black and a little bit spooky. Peter was quiet, focused on driving, and I said nothing to distract him. At this time of year, on a dark and potentially treacherous road that could be hiding black ice around every curve, you’re suddenly very respectful of the awesome power and danger of nature.

  We drove that way, which is to say in silence, for some time. But when we rounded a curve I spotted a quick glint of something unidentifiable in the headlights and shouted, “Look out! On the right!” and instinctively braced my arms against the dashboard.

  Peter shot a quick glance in my direction, then took a tighter grip on the wheel and steered the truck deliberately to the left without swerving while pressing his foot on the brake pedal firmly enough to bring the truck to a stop, but not so hard that he risked going into a skid.

  We came to a stop in the middle of the deserted road. “What was it?” Peter asked.

  “I’m not sure. I couldn’t see anything but a flash in the headlights. Maybe the eyes of a deer?”

  At that moment, I was startled by another flash, a glimpse of something moving in the darkness. I gasped and clapped my hand instinctively against my chest, and then slumped with relief when the something stepped out of the shadows and into the bright beam of the headlights.

  I opened the door and jumped from the cab of the truck. Peter grabbed the emergency blanket he kept under the seat and followed right behind me.

  “Celia!” I cried. “We almost hit you! What in the world are you doing out here in the freezing cold?”

  “Sorry,” she said, hanging her head as Peter wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “Pat kicked me out of the car.” She sniffled. “And the house.”

  Chapter 32

  It was too late to do anything about Celia’s predicament that night, so I made her a sandwich and a cup of hot tea and put her to bed in my parents’ old room. In the morning, I phoned Daphne and Rinda and scheduled an eleven-o’clock strategy meeting in my living room.

  Celia had been living with Pat since the previous May. She paid him eight hundred dollars a month in rent, but Pat owned the house, so even though it was lousy of him to throw her out with no notice and in the middle of winter, he was within his legal rights to do so.

  Rinda clucked her tongue at Celia, who was sitting in the corner of the couch, in something close to the fetal position, looking small and miserable.

  “Didn’t I tell you that this would happen?” Rinda asked as she paced from one end of the living room to the other, never taking her eyes off Celia. “Didn’t I warn you about him? And didn’t I tell you that living in sin with a no-good, worthless man—and, honey, any man that asks you to live in sin is worthless—would lead to nothing but heartache and shame? Didn’t I?”

  Celia nodded and Rinda resumed her harangue.

  “A man who loves you, truly loves you, will offer you a ring and a home. ‘And the two shall become one,’ ” Rinda said, lifting her chin high and pointing an index finger at Celia.

  “That’s what the Word says, and that is what is right! But you wouldn’t listen to me, would you? No, ma’am. You had to do it your way, just ignoring God’s good word and my good advice. And now look at you! Tossed out on your behind in the middle of winter. Hmph.” Rinda crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath.

  Daphne, taking advantage of the momentary silence, looked at Celia and sighed. “Poor thing. Don’t be so hard on her, Rinda. ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream, act one, scene one.”

  Rinda put a hand on her hip. “ ‘Let marriage be held in honor among all,’ ” she countered, “ ‘and let the marriage bed be undefiled; for God will judge the immoral and adulterous.’ Hebrews, chapter thirteen, verse four.”

  “I know,” Celia said in a piteous voice, looking from Daphne to Rinda and back again. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

  Rinda’s expression softened.

  “Oh, honey. Aren’t we all? Idiots and sinners and hopeless romantics—wishing for something better. Well . . .” She sighed. “What’s done is done. Learn from it, but don’t dwell on it. We’ve got other problems to deal with now, like finding you a place to rent.”

  Celia shrank even farther into the corner of the couch and looked at me, her eyes begging me to intervene.

  “Yeah,” I said slowly. “That could be a problem. Celia doesn’t have money for a rental deposit. Seems she loaned Pat twenty-three hundred dollars last month, everything she had in her bank account, and he hasn’t paid it back.”

  “What!” Daphne exclaimed. “Celia, are you crazy? ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’! Why would you lend money to a man who hasn’t worked steady in three years?”

  “He told me that if he got his car fixed he’d get a job,” Celia said. “He said they were hiring at the winery.”

  “And you gave him every d
ime you had so he could get a job selling liquor,” Rinda said sarcastically. “Makes perfect sense. Because people who own a winery are going to be anxious to hire the town drunk. And did he get his car fixed?”

  “Well . . . he told me that he bought a new set of plugs and belts and was going to put them in himself, but . . .”

  Celia moved her head slowly from side to side and sniffled.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Pat’s car isn’t working? Whose car was he driving last night?”

  “Mine.”

  “So . . . he kicked you out of your own car and then drove off and left you by the side of the road in the dark and freezing cold?”

  Celia nodded.

  Rinda stopped her pacing and stood right in front of Celia. Now she had a hand on each hip.

  “Didn’t I warn you? Didn’t I tell you that you can’t trust an alcoholic? That he will break your heart and drink it dry? Didn’t I tell you how I nearly bankrupted my family and destroyed my marriage before I finally put down the bottle? ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.’ Proverbs, chapter twenty, verse one.”

  Daphne, who had been nodding in agreement as Rinda spoke, added her two cents. “ ‘O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.’ Othello, act two, scene three.”

  “Amen!” exclaimed Rinda.

  “I just thought it would be different this time,” Celia whimpered. “I really thought he was trying to get his act together. I just wanted to help him.”

  Tears formed in Celia’s eyes and her shoulders wilted, making her look even more pitiful.

  “Oh, I know you did,” Rinda replied more gently. “You meant well. But, honey, believe me when I tell you that Pat has got to help himself. He’s got to want to change. Nobody can do it for him. Not even you.”

  “You’re right,” Celia conceded. “I just . . . never mind. You’re right. If I didn’t know that before, I do now.”