The Other Sister

by Dianne Dixon

  The lie she’d told about Levi was still fresh. It made Ali hesitate before she said yes to Matt.

  When his hand slid beneath the waistband of her jeans, it sent a delicious shock through Ali, like fireworks. Yet she pulled away a little.

  “What?” Matt asked.

  “Nothing,” Ali said.

  There was a flicker of worry in his eyes—and a flutter of guilt in Ali.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Matt did as he was asked. He kissed Ali deeply, and for a long time. Then he slipped out of his clothes and helped Ali out of hers.

  But just as he leaned in to kiss her again, something stopped him. A fierce gust of wind rushed across the mansion’s lawn. Toppling the champagne bottle and smashing the wineglasses. Scattering Ali’s and Matt’s clothes. Spilling the contents of the tissue-stuffed gift bag. Spiraling everything into the air, flying all of it toward the edge of the bluff.

  Matt grabbed for the gift bag.

  Ali instinctively chased after the clothes.

  Shivering in the wind, she was pulling on her shirt and jeans, facing away from Matt, when she heard him say, “Sealed with a kiss. Great card!”

  “What?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

  Matt held up a small card inscribed with the words Sealed with a Kiss. He was also holding a blue box tied with a black velvet cord.

  Ali reeled. Like she’d been gut-punched.

  The minute she caught her breath and could see straight, she grabbed the box and the card, and with her shirt half-open and her jeans pulled on in a rage, she started running.

  Matt, struggling into his clothes, called out to her to stop.

  Blind with anger, Ali poured on the speed. Sprinting toward the mansion. Asking a furious one-word question.

  Why?

  Morgan

  A little while ago, when she thought she heard Ali say she was leaving, Morgan had shouted, “Wait! I need to tell you something!”

  But Ali never came in to talk to her. And Morgan realized that the noise of the shower, echoing off the marble walls of the bathroom, had probably drowned out everything she’d said. Now she was worried about what would happen when Ali opened that pretty gift bag and discovered what Morgan had added to it.

  Morgan stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Along with the worry about the gift bag, she’d also been hit with the reality of the empty night that was ahead of her. Morgan was the queen of loneliness, alone at a wedding. And it wasn’t the first time. It hurt so much she couldn’t move.

  When she finally left the bathroom and walked into the bedroom, Morgan was startled to see that someone was there. A smiling, brown-skinned maid, turning down the beds, saying, “Sorry to frighten you. I thought nobody in here. I saw your friend when she leave. She very pretty, your friend.”

  “She’s not my friend.” Morgan bristled with irritation and a possessive kind of pride. “She’s my twin sister.”

  “Twin?” Surprise darted across the maid’s face. “Why you no look like her?”

  Morgan’s stomach went achingly tight. The maid’s comment, the look of surprise, were pinches that had been stinging Morgan for a lifetime. Everyone—from her kindergarten teacher to a plumber who’d asked her out to dinner last year and handed her a hot dog—everyone always had the same reaction. “You two are so completely different” was what they’d say. But Morgan knew what they meant was “You’re so ordinary. How could you possibly be a twin to somebody as spectacular as Ali?”

  Caught between resentment and heartbreak, Morgan explained to the maid, “We’re not identical twins. We’re fraternal. Two separate people who shared a womb.”

  “I saw on TV about twins who are the same,” the maid said. “They have each other’s thoughts. Have each other’s pain. Is it like this for you and your sister?”

  “Sometimes. Not always.” Morgan took a quick, wistful breath. “It’s sort of like listening to AM radio out in the country. You can’t quite hold on to the signal. You never know when you’re going to have it or when it will go away.”

  The maid, finished with the beds, walked toward the door. “Even so…you are lucky. You have a sister who is very nice, so pretty. You must love her very much.”

  “Yes,” Morgan said and left it at that. She didn’t say the rest of it aloud, the ugly complicated truth: I love my sister. I’d kill and die for her. And at the same time, I’m furious that she even exists…because she makes me invisible.

  The maid gave Morgan a cheery wave as she left the room. Morgan didn’t see it. She’d taken her phone from a desk near the bathroom door, pressing a number in her contact list, thinking about how unfairly she’d been treated by Ali today.

  The call was picked up on the first ring.

  A smoky, ambiguously genderless voice said, “Hello, friend.”

  And Morgan replied, “Hi, Sam.”

  Morgan didn’t know the person’s name—it had never been mentioned. And since she wasn’t certain if it was a man or a woman, somewhere along the line, Morgan had given this mysterious creature an identifier that would work for either sex—Sam.

  Theirs was a relationship that had started in anonymity and, to a certain extent, stayed that way. A little over two years ago, when Morgan was in a department store, a text had appeared on her phone: What’re you doing? I have a question. Got a minute?

  Morgan, who had recently landed a job as a temp, assumed the text was from her new cubicle mate, wanting to ask a question about work. But it quickly became apparent that Morgan was texting with a stranger. That’s when she wrote: You have the wrong person.

  Instantly a text came back: Sometimes the wrong person can turn out to be the right person.

  The message rattled Morgan, scaring her a little. It was too vague, too mysterious. She had hurriedly shut her phone off. But she couldn’t get the unusual exchange out of her mind. Late one night, she dialed the number the texts had originated from, curious to hear who would answer, planning to hang up immediately. But that smoky, ambiguous voice at the other end of the call had fascinated her. They ended up talking for over an hour. The person Morgan would come to think of as Sam was unlike anyone she’d ever talked to. Sam welcomed her with compassionate questions and listened to her with total acceptance, never a shred of judgment or criticism. Their interaction had been remarkable—and addictive.

  To Morgan, it had been like cool water on parched earth.

  By the time their first call had ended, Morgan was captivated. As their calls continued, she learned that Sam lived in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and enjoyed a wide variety of music. (Beethoven was playing in the background just as often as songs from a group called Pink Martini.) Sam mentioned looking forward to daily swims and had an interest in Greek mythology. Meditation and a small amount of Napoleon brandy were part of a mellow daily routine.

  From this information, Morgan had created a fantasy about Sam. Sam was male. Young enough to be handsome and desirable. Old enough to be wise and tender. In Morgan’s mind, Sam had an athletic body, sandy-brown hair, and sea-green eyes.

  In one of their earliest conversations, Sam asked her, “Do you have any idea what a beautiful woman you are? What a beautiful soul you have?”

  Sam’s vision of Morgan was why she had never asked Sam’s gender or name or marital status. She didn’t want to risk knowing too much, shattering the dream. Sam was precious to her—a place where she felt safe, accepted. And desirable.

  On some small but important level, Morgan had fallen in love with Sam.

  Now Sam was asking, “How are you tonight?” Sam never used Morgan’s name. As far as Morgan knew, Sam didn’t know what it was. And, after all this time, Sam had never asked.

  “I’m hurting,” Morgan told him. Just saying the words brought her to tears. She slid into a sitting position at the side of the d
esk, her back against the guest room wall. “I’m at a wedding and I’m alone.”

  There was a short silence. “Is that what hurts the most, being alone?”

  “I guess so. But what hurts almost as much is not ever being able to get what I want.” Morgan’s thoughts were on something very specific. A walk she’d taken on a warm summer afternoon a little over a year ago…

  Her hair was freshly washed, she was wearing a new dress, the sun was warm on her bare arms and legs—and she felt pretty. She came around a corner and narrowly avoided a collision with a man who was at the curb, crouched beside his car, inspecting a flat tire. He looked up and smiled at her. When he got to his feet, he said, “Can I borrow your phone? I left mine at work, and I need to call the auto club.” Morgan nodded, couldn’t speak. His height, the spectacularly blue eyes, and his incredible good looks had her tongue-tied. After he made the call, he said, “You saved me. I owe you.” He pointed to the ice-cream store across the street. “How about I buy you a cone…double-dip chocolate?”

  Morgan, who didn’t particularly like ice cream, told him, “That would be perfect.” And they’d sat side by side, eating jumbo cones on a bench in front of the ice-cream store, while he waited for his flat tire to be replaced. Morgan couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “I’m a teacher,” he’d said. “How about you?”

  “I work in an art museum.” She wanted to tell him so much more, but the flat had been fixed, the ice cream was gone, and he was saying, “Time to hit the road.” He was already halfway to his car. Morgan frantically tried to think of something to say. He was so good-looking—and good-looking was her idea of the perfect man. She desperately wanted the chance to get to know him and was sure she’d fumbled it. Then, miraculously, he turned back to her. “I’m not quite ready to say good-bye. Are you?”

  “No. Not even close.” Morgan’s heart was racing.

  “When I ran into you,” he asked, “where were you headed?”

  “To meet my sister. She gets off work in a little while, and we’re going to see a movie.”

  He was holding open the passenger door of his car. “How about I give you a ride?” Morgan had never been so happy. She actually thought she might faint. It only took them a few minutes to arrive at their destination, the local Williams-Sonoma store where Ali worked. And as he brought the car to a stop, he told Morgan, “I live on pasta. It’s the only thing I know how to make. Maybe I should branch out, get myself a cookbook. What if I come in with you and pick one up?”

  Morgan nodded, thrilled, already picturing their future together. Within moments of entering the store, Morgan introduced him to Ali. That’s when, with an awestruck look on his face, he had stepped around Morgan, holding his hand out to her sister, saying, “Hi. I’m Matt.”

  “I never get what I want,” Morgan told Sam. “Not even something as small as catching a bridal bouquet. I wanted it so much…not because I thought I’d get married, but because it was pretty. My sister saw… She knew, but she kept it. And all I could think was ‘Why? Why won’t you let me have it? You don’t need it. Compared to me, you have everything.’” Morgan paused, wiping her eyes with the edge of the towel she was wrapped in.

  And Sam said, “I can hear how painful this is for you.”

  “I know it sounds like I’m whining, and I don’t mean to, but it’s like I’m always being cheated.”

  Another silence. A peaceful, accepting void.

  After a while, Morgan took a deep breath. She was feeling less frantic. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Always” was the soft reply. “Good night, my friend.”

  Morgan put her phone on the floor and rested the back of her head against the wall. I’m alone at a wedding, she thought, and my twin, the person who’s supposed to care about me the most, wouldn’t even let me have a handful of somebody else’s flowers. How can Ali be that selfish?

  It was then that Morgan saw her bed—and the bouquet of lavender roses lying on her pillow.

  The rush of love for her sister, the gratitude, was instantaneous.

  • • •

  Minutes later, Morgan was wrapped in a plush terry-cloth robe. A gift given by the bride’s parents to members of the wedding party. For some reason, slippers hadn’t been included. In their place, Morgan was wearing pale-pink, sling-back stilettos with scarlet soles—her bridesmaid shoes. She liked them; they made her feel pretty.

  She was on the terrace outside the guest room, sitting on a cushioned sofa, her feet propped up on a low stone wall dividing the terrace from a walkway that was a few feet below.

  Shining in the moonlight, the scarlet soles of Morgan’s stilettos had caught someone’s attention. The groom’s.

  Ambling along the pathway below the terrace, he noticed the seductive flash of red and a woman’s slender foot. In a lightning-quick move, he reached over the terrace wall and slipped off one of Morgan’s shoes.

  Startled, Morgan jumped up from the sofa, still wearing the other stiletto and losing her balance. Before she could fall, the groom leaped over the wall and steadied her.

  With a finger hooked through the thin strap at its back, he began to swing her shoe in a lazy circle, grinning at Morgan and saying, “Hot. Very sexy.”

  Flustered by his sudden appearance on the terrace, Morgan grabbed the shoe from him. “These aren’t mine. I mean they are, but they’re my bridesmaid shoes. All the bridesmaids had them.”

  She sat down on the sofa, and the groom studied her, smiling.

  Morgan had dated very little and slept with only two of those dates. She wasn’t accustomed to being watched and smiled at by a man—any man, much less one who looked like a smoothly muscled, dark-haired movie star. The groom was making her painfully self-conscious. At the same time, she was incredibly attracted to him.

  Without asking, he settled in beside her, relaxed and comfortable, draping his arm across the back of the sofa. His hand was so close to Morgan’s shoulder that she could feel the heat of his skin. She was panicked. And lonely. And tantalized.

  She scooted forward. Then wished she hadn’t. He had set off a desire in her. She wanted him to touch her. And all she could think to do was glance toward the walkway and ask, “Where’s Jessica?”

  “My lovely bride is taking a stroll down memory lane with her family. I needed some air.” He casually stretched his legs. His thigh brushed Morgan’s.

  The jolt was immediate, a thrill Morgan had only experienced in her fantasies. But underneath the thrill was something uncomfortable. Morgan knew what she was doing—what she was wanting—was wrong. But her attraction to this gorgeous man kept her where she was. Unable to move, unwilling to think.

  He leaned toward her and said, “It’s crazy. I do okay. I make good money, real good money. But I come from people who manage a Mighty Burger in Bakersfield. Jessica’s old man was CEO of an oil company, and her mother has a painting hanging in the National Gallery. It’s a big jump, status-wise. You know what I mean?”

  Morgan nodded vaguely. She could barely hear his voice over the pounding of her own heart.

  He stretched and then settled back comfortably against the sofa cushion. “A few minutes ago, I was sitting next to my new wife, and I realized I’d married a woman who intimidates the crap out of me.” He took Morgan’s hand and held on to it. “So please, just let me stay here for a little while. Be my friend for a couple of minutes?”

  Only inches separated them. Morgan’s every breath was filled with his scent—a light cologne and a hint of salty-clean sweat, which must have come from the dancing she’d watched him doing at the reception. His tie was loose and the top few buttons of his shirt were open. She could see the smooth skin at the base of his neck and the curling tendrils of dark softness below it.

  She wanted to touch him, the man in whose wedding she had so recently been a bridesmaid. She wanted him to touch her. And she wa
s ashamed.

  Morgan’s voice was shaking as she said, “Okay, you can stay. But just for a minute. Logan.”

  There had been the slightest hesitation before Morgan said his name. She knew she hadn’t said it because she needed to. She’d said it because she wanted the feel of it in her mouth. Because, just once, she wanted to have what her sister had always had—she wanted tall and incredibly handsome. She wanted to know, if only for a minute, what it was like to have Ali’s kind of man.

  Logan leaned closer, leaving no space between them, his eyes never moving from hers.

  Morgan was exhilarated. For once in her life, she was the winner. He could be in bed right now with his rich, beautiful wife, Morgan was thinking. But who he’s looking at, who he’s choosing, is me.

  He was so close that his breath was on Morgan’s lips as he told her, “You’re every bit as hot as your red-soled shoes. But you must already know that, Megan.”

  The thrill dimmed. “Morgan,” she said. “My name is Morgan.”

  His response was a shrug. “Sorry. My new wife and I kind of got married in a hurry. We barely know each other. And I only met you yesterday. I’m still figuring out all the players. And anyway, I’m a bit fucked up.” He grinned. Like a mischievous schoolboy. “Let’s just say I’m a little high. Wedding-day jitters.”

  But nothing about him seemed high, or jittery. His expression was cool and composed. He appeared to be offering her a dare, and Morgan didn’t understand what its terms were. She didn’t know what he expected her to do. Nothing about their encounter was making sense. Suddenly, she wanted to get away from him. “I have to go,” she murmured.

  The instant Morgan started up from the sofa, he pulled her back down. The grab was so fast that it left her dizzy. “Got a boyfriend waiting for you in your room? A husband, maybe?” He was making Morgan uneasy. She was anxious to get to a safer place—no sex, no heat, just two people having a casual conversation. Without thinking, she said, “No one’s waiting for me. Well, not a man anyway. I’m sharing the room with my sister. The maid of honor.”