A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  “He’s wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Is he, now? I confess I didn’t notice.”

  “One of your very few flaws.”

  I’m not sure exactly how to take that, so I’ll let it go. Damn, does that mean I’m maturing? “Mel? It was just a joke, okay? I wish you didn’t take everything so seriously.”

  She nibbles a breadstick. “That would be nice, but some habits are hard to break.”

  “Habits like fidelity?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Question.”

  “Okay.” Her tenor is noncommittal.

  “Do you regret that night in Glenns Ferry? Be truthful.”

  “Do I regret it? No. Would I do it again? I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  Her answer comes more quickly than I expect. “It made me come to grips with how much my marriage has deteriorated. I would never have done something like that in the past because I realized it would mean admitting defeat.”

  “Yet you’re willing to give Graham another chance.”

  “Yes, because despite everything, I love him. If I didn’t, letting go would be as simple as showing him the door. It’s not. Still, I gave him an ultimatum. Either we go to counseling and make a serious effort to save what’s left of our marriage or he gets the hell out for good.”

  “Did you ever find out where he goes when he disappears?”

  “He always claims his band is playing a gig, but I can’t say if that’s the truth.”

  “Have you ever considered hiring a private investigator?”

  “To follow Graham?”

  Is she taking dense pills? “Uh, yeah. Wouldn’t it ease your mind to know for sure what he’s up to?”

  “I suppose. . . .”

  “If nothing else, it might help if and when you file for divorce. A little leverage can be a very good thing when it comes to alimony.”

  She mulls that over. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could afford a PI.”

  “You have been putting money away like I suggested, haven’t you?”

  This isn’t the first time she’s talked about divorce. Not sure if she’s wishy-washy about it or just downright scared to try and make a life for herself and her kids without Graham in the picture.

  “I try, but there isn’t a lot to spare. Seems like there’s always an expense I didn’t expect, you know?”

  They married in college. Graham has always been a part of her adulthood, so she’s never had to consider a single-income existence. And he’s the true breadwinner.

  Successful pediatrician versus paid-per-project technical writer? No contest.

  “Look. I’ve got a great PI who’s done work for me in the past. I’ll give you his name, and as a birthday present I’ll cut you a check to cover his retainer.”

  She studies my face as if searching for ulterior motives. “That’s a generous offer. I’ll think about it.”

  All efficiency, not to mention great timing, Brad arrives tableside to inquire about dessert. We turn him down, of course, and he brings the bill. I do tip him generously. But not that generously.

  On our way to the showroom Mel surprises me again, stopping at the Wheel of Fortune and betting dollars on the long odds.

  “You, gambling?” The last time we were here I played roulette, with her bitching at me the entire time.

  She shrugs. “I figured I could throw away ten dollars. I’ve worked for it. And what if I win?”

  She doesn’t. Ten dollars disappear in five spins.

  “There are better games if winning is what you’re after. Blackjack, for instance.”

  “I guess. But you have to know how to play.”

  That’s true of any game, in- or outside of a casino. You also have to consider the odds.

  As we move again toward the showroom, I’m cognizant of heads turning but have no way of knowing which one of us they’re turning for, and that is vaguely unsettling. Mel seems blissfully unaware of the activity, or else she’s playing coy, something I can’t associate with my sister. It’s strange.

  Our seats are front row, but off to the left. That doesn’t really matter as Ricky Martin masterfully plays the entire stage, which is only a couple of feet away. Every time he moves to our side, we’re staring straight up at him, and more than once he sings directly to Mel and me. If I were the fan-girl type, even though this isn’t my kind of music at all, I’d be swooning. Mel is the fan-girl type. Enough said.

  Okay, the beat is infectious. And yeah, he’s pretty damn hot, in a totally Latin way. So. Not. Graham.

  Regardless, it’s inspiring enough just to watch my little sister so enthralled in something beyond her encapsulated world. On many levels, I truly hope Graham is inspired to move on. Mel is still young enough, and now desirable enough, to immerse herself in “ la vida loca.” I’ve experienced “the crazy life.” She should try it, too.

  At least long enough to find happiness.

  We are both happy enough when the encore is over, and we’ve made eye contact with gorgeous Ricky Martin dozens of times. As we wait for the room to clear, allowing easier access to the exit, Mel gushes about this song and that, the amazing band, and Ricky’s advanced level of dance.

  Finally, we turn to move toward the door, and guess who’s immediately ahead of us? I can’t avoid her, can’t pretend not to see her or hope she won’t notice me. Her dark eyes seize hold right away. “Hello, Tara. Oh, you go on, darling. I’ll meet you in the foyer.” Sophia sends Maury hustling off toward the restroom.

  Fuck.

  Though I’ve done nothing wrong, my face heats like it’s recently been sunburned. “Sophia.”

  “That’s me. Who’s this?”

  What business is it of yours? But I respond, “Oh, sorry. This is my sister, Melody.”

  “Of course. Nice to meet you. Cavin mentioned you’d be in town.”

  Don’t bite. Don’t bite.

  How can you not bite?

  “When did you talk to Cavin?”

  Speaking of biting, she shows us her even, bleached teeth. “Yesterday.”

  Don’t react. Don’t react.

  How can you not react?

  “Yesterday?”

  “Well, yes. I happened to run into him over at Starbucks. So we . . .”

  I will maim her.

  “. . . had a cappuccino and talked for a while.”

  A white-hot smoke of anger billows. “He didn’t mention it. It must have slipped his mind.”

  Maybe you should maim him instead.

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Cavin can be a little scattered. Oh, but didn’t you love Ricky? And what great seats you had. Bet they were pricey.”

  She must be clairvoyant.

  I force the tremor from my voice. “They were, but we were lucky to find them.”

  The crowd is thinning, so we can move with less effort, something I silently urge Mel to do, and she complies, zero clairvoyance necessary. Sophia excuses herself to go meet up with Maury, and we start across the casino toward valet. About halfway there, my bladder reminds me I haven’t peed since we left the house.

  “I’d better use the restroom.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll wait here.”

  I’m glad I chose this bathroom rather than one closer to the showroom. The line isn’t too long, so it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes to get in, complete the necessary task, and get out again.

  Mel’s staring at something, fixated.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Them.” She flips her head, indicating a couple drifting toward the exit—Sophia and Maury. “Odd pair.”

  As we head toward the door, I explain the relationship, at least what I know of it.

  “That woman is stunning. You must hate having her so close.”

  “Other than wanting to kill her, it doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “It doesn’t upset you that she had coffee with your husband?”

  “He should have told me about it,
but other than that, no.”

  She must know it’s a lie, but she lets it go, except to say, “I’d better never catch Graham sneaking around like that.”

  The “or else” is heavily implied.

  Yeah, but or else what?

  We reach the valet and Mel takes care of sending them for the car. I reach into my purse for my wallet for a tip for the kid, and when I pull it out, my cell goes flying. “Shit.” It lands on the ground with a thud, but with luck the OtterBox will keep the electronics intact.

  Mel bends to retrieve it.

  “Is it okay? Did the screen crack?”

  She straightens slowly. “It’s fine.”

  “What’s wrong then?”

  Mel hands me the phone, which is no worse for the wear. In fact, illuminated in green on the screen is the notice of a text message. From Graham. Can we please talk?

  I have no clue why Graham suddenly wants to converse, but the idea does not sit well with my sister, who is miffed all the way home.

  “Just how often do you and my husband talk?”

  “Like, never.”

  She does not believe me. “I see. So out of the blue he asks for a dialogue?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “What about, exactly?”

  “I sincerely don’t know, Mel. He approached me. Maybe he’s actually worried about your marriage. Or maybe he’s concerned about all these changes in you. They’re huge, and they’ve happened so fast.”

  “Not really. They’ve happened over four decades. He just hasn’t noticed, and obviously neither have you.”

  That stops me. I thought I noticed everything.

  Problem is you have to look.

  Assumption is rarely a good thing, and I’ve always simply assumed I understood the framework of Mel’s life. But how deeply have I ever really peered? How important is it to me now?

  Does she even want me to?

  twenty-five

  S ATURDAY MORNING I’M MAKING coffee when Melody appears, dressed in a sensible pair of jeans and a simple long-sleeved tee the color of cotton candy. “I’ve never seen you in pink before. It works.”

  “Thanks.”

  No hint of warmth.

  She sits on a bar stool three feet away and the silence that builds in the space between us forms a perceivable wall.

  “Coffee?”

  “Black.”

  Also new. At least, I think so.

  “No cream?”

  “I gave it up for Lent three years ago and never reacquired the habit.”

  Lent.

  Right.

  Religion.

  Right.

  Astrology.

  Right.

  “Hey, Mel. What sign are you?”

  This is a test.

  “Libra. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” I hand her a mug with a smiley face, unsure where it came from. It seems out of place in these cupboards. “Are you still pissed at me?”

  “Not pissed, exactly. Unhappy though. I realize good communication skills weren’t a part of our programming, but I want you to know without a doubt that covert interaction with my husband is unacceptable.”

  Must temper my temper, which is threatening to explode. “I have not interacted with Graham, Mel. I haven’t even responded to his text.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “Yes, if for no other reason than to let him know you’ve commanded no interaction.” After she leaves, I plan to give Graham the opportunity to bare his soul if that’s what he has in mind. I do not respond well to veiled threats, and that includes from my sister, though this is the first time she has ever issued one. But I won’t give that away. “Look, I’m sorry if you’re upset. But I promise there isn’t a problem.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  She sips her coffee.

  Grimaces slightly.

  Changes the subject.

  And when she does, she goes straight for the jugular. “So what did Cavin have to say about Sophia?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with him yet. He was asleep when we got back and I didn’t want to wake him.”

  Deal off. The last thing I needed after an argument with my sister was a confrontation with my husband. I’ll see to that once Mel is on her way home. And sex will not happen until he offers a satisfactory explanation.

  “You are more patient than I,” comments Melody.

  “Patience is something I practice.” And it has generally proven wise. “Anyway, I’ve always thought of you as ‘long-suffering,’ which indicates patience to me.”

  “Long-suffering?” Her jaw juts forward and her shoulders stiffen. “Well, I suppose that’s better than trading in husbands like used cars.”

  Ouch. Double ouch, in fact.

  So much for apology accepted.

  My patience has almost expired. “Were you referring to me?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Definitive.

  I’ve never worried about how Mel—or anyone—felt about my marriages and/or their demises. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she has an opinion. In fact, I suppose it’s strange that we’ve never discussed it.

  We won’t discuss it now, however, as Eli and Kayla come upstairs to reward Mel with a few minutes of inane conversation. I tune them out completely, thinking about my sister’s recent commentary. I suppose I presumed a larger measure of respect, considering I mostly raised her, not to mention took the brunt of our mother’s rage.

  There you go with suppositions again.

  My attention is pulled back toward the ongoing dialogue by Kayla’s high-pitched whine. “No way, Mom!”

  “Don’t you think it makes more sense?” asks Mel.

  “Maybe, but I don’t care. I mean, as long as you still want to drive me, Eli?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, I planned on it,” he agrees.

  “Okay, fine,” says Mel.

  “What’s fine?” Cavin shuffles into the kitchen, still wearing his pajamas and sleep-tousled hair.

  “I just volunteered to take Kayla home with me now and drop her off at school next week,” explains Melody. “But she’d rather ride over with Eli.”

  “It’s our last chance to be together for a while,” Kayla complains.

  Eli rolls his eyes but comments, “It’s my last chance to visit the city for a while. I’ve been stuck in the sticks too long.”

  Cavin pours a cup of coffee, turns. “Did you girls have fun last night?”

  Mel shoots me an obvious look but exclaims, “It was amazing! What a performance!”

  Now Cavin directs his words toward me. “I thought you were going to wake me when you got home.”

  “Slipped my mind.”

  There’s no possible way anyone here could’ve missed the undercurrent, but this is not the time for the pending discussion.

  Mel stands. “I should probably head home. I’m supposed to pick up Jessica around lunchtime.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” I tell her.

  Her small overnight case is already by the door. She picks it up, rotates back toward the kitchen. “You’re stopping by the house tomorrow, right?” she says to Kayla.

  “Well, yeah. I need to get my stuff.”

  “And say hello to your sisters?”

  “Duh, Mom.”

  “We’ll go to the early service and be back from church by ten.”

  “Will Dad be there?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve got his number. Ask him.”

  But it’s me Mel’s looking at. I ignore that fact and open the door, ushering her outside. “Ricky Martin was fun. We need to do another girls’ night out soon.”

  She nods. “Oh, hey. I forgot to ask what I owe you for the ticket.”

  “Don’t worry about it. When you’re a rich and famous author you can buy the tickets.”

  “Rich and . . . What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about that novel you’re writing.”

  No clue where that came from.
<
br />   Mel laughs. “I’m not writing a novel.”

  “But you could. You’ve got the talent. Or maybe you are writing one and just don’t know it yet.”

  “I think you’re losing your mind.”

  “You could be right.” I give her a hug. “I’m serious about seeing each other more often.”

  “We should. Oh, I forgot to tell you happy birthday. You look great for fifty.”

  “What?” I just turned forty-two.

  “Joking.”

  “Stick to writing. Stand-up isn’t your thing.”

  As she drives away, I realize I would like to see her more, if only to keep a better handle on the state of her life. And as I go back inside, I understand I’m not anxious to engage in the coming conflict. God, have I grown soft or what? Soft is not a good thing.

  Soft is so not you. And as for your husband, lying by omission is still lying.

  I pull back my shoulders, tilt my chin upward. The kids are still in the kitchen, so I start down the hallway before requesting, “Cavin, may I talk to you privately, please?”

  He follows me into the office, and I shut the door behind us. Neither of us sits.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “I was wondering when you last spoke with Sophia.”

  Boom.

  His face flushes scarlet. “I . . . uh . . . Just a couple of days ago, actually. I happened to run into her at Starbucks. But then, I guess you know that.”

  “I do. Because Mel and I happened to run into her last night at the show and she was very happy to inform me that you two had a long conversation over cappuccinos. Was there a reason why you neglected to mention it?”

  He sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Tara, I should’ve told you. I just didn’t want to upset you. It was a harmless cup of coffee, nothing more.”

  “I see. And what, exactly, did you talk about? I mean, if you think I can handle it. I’ll try very hard not to get upset.”

  “Please don’t condescend. We talked about her show. We talked about you. But the main thing we talked about was Eli. I was very clear that I’m unhappy about her inviting him into her bed.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And with some discussion, she admitted it was her way of getting back at me. She also said she’d recently decided it wasn’t such a good idea.”