by Beck, Jamie
Amanda cleared her throat and shot Mom a weird look. “Weird” because usually the most I could expect from her was false neutrality. Today, however, she almost looked upset with Mom for nagging me.
“I’m serious about yoga, Mom. I have friends who can’t afford Give Me Strength’s monthly fee but would love to take yoga with me if I had a place to teach. Besides, a so-called ‘serious’ job would make it harder for me to work on Shakti Suds, and I think that has potential. This is my year to push myself entrepreneurially.”
Amanda nodded after a mega yawn. “I love the Citrus Delight sugar scrub you gave me. It smells terrific.”
“Thanks.” I blinked in surprise, but my responding smile prompted the first real grin from my sister since I’d arrived. Still, she moved around the kitchen subdued. Her voice mail had mentioned wanting to talk about something, but I wouldn’t force that conversation.
“You know what?” she continued, possibly encouraged by my reaction. “You should approach local shop owners and ask them to carry the products.”
Naturally she butted in to tell me how much better she could run things. After all, she was the “smart” sister.
I shrugged noncommittally, having no interest in her taking over—and taking credit for—my business. Now was a good time to change the subject. “Hey, sorry I missed the baby shower thingy on Thursday. Did you have fun?”
“Oh, it’s fine.” Amanda waved it off. “I know you hate shopping anyway.”
“But I’m excited about the baby. Can I see the registration list?” I asked, curious about why she and Mom remained circumspect about their big day. “I want first choice of gifts.”
If I had more money, my niece would want for nothing. Most of Amanda’s colleagues and neighbors would be able to afford the better items on the list, though. A month from now the family room would be filled with prettily wrapped boxes and prettier women, plus Mom and Aunt Dodo.
While I couldn’t fill my niece’s playroom with toys, no one else could craft a line of organic baby soap products—chamomile-infused oatmeal bars—special for her. Once Amanda shared the baby’s name, I’d order a monogrammed stamp for the little bars, too.
“I’ll send you the links later.” Amanda touched my hand. “I’m rethinking the whole party idea, anyway.”
“What? Why?” Okay, now I was beginning to worry. Was something wrong with the baby?
“I’m just . . . overwhelmed right now.” She and my mom exchanged another peculiar look, but if she didn’t want to tell me the truth, I didn’t want to know. It’s not like she ever took my advice about anything anyway, so why work myself up? “Either way, I don’t expect you to get me anything.”
Because I was broke. She didn’t have to say it for me to know that’s what she meant. At least she didn’t look smug. And, truthfully, at this point I couldn’t even argue. “Of course I’m going to get something for my niece. I’m her aunt Erin, though maybe the first thing I should get is a better name for myself. A nickname . . . something cool, like Zizi.” Zizi. Zizi-E—like a rapper.
The oven timer dinged, and Mom muttered something under her breath. She seemed a bit absent tonight, which was also unusual. Even at sixty-two, she had loads of energy and a quick mind. Lots of opinions, too. In that way, she and I did share something in common, except our opinions rarely matched and I didn’t impose mine on others as often.
“Let me grab the pork so we can sit down.” Amanda crossed to the oven.
I couldn’t take the strain anymore, despite my resolve to butt out. “Is everything okay with you and the baby?”
Mom made a sign of the cross. “The baby is perfectly fine, Erin. Don’t say such things.”
“Sorry.” I bit my tongue, having known better than to try.
Amanda pulled a roast out of the oven and set the pan on the stove. Caramel-brown pork and potatoes and a hint of rosemary, apricot, and maple wafted through the kitchen. Her cooking made my temporary discomfort worthwhile.
My mouth watered as if I hadn’t eaten in days. “That roast looks perfect.”
Man, Lyle ought to bow down and kiss her feet every single day. She kept the house spotless, cooked like a master, and bent into a pretzel to please everyone, especially him. All that could get on my nerves, because her striving for perfection made me feel like I never knew my sister. Who was she, and what made her happy—because pleasing everyone else could not, in and of itself, be a life goal, could it?
Amanda shrugged. “Thanks.”
She’d spent years trying to interest me in preparing something that didn’t come in a box with plastic wrap, so I expected detailed instructions about how to make this dish. When she didn’t elaborate, that sinking feeling returned. “You two are awful quiet. Did you invite me over because of Max? ’Cause I’m fine. I swear.”
Amanda’s brows pinched. “What happened with Max?”
“I broke up with him.” I drummed my hands on the counter. “He moved out while I was at the retreat.”
Instead of jumping for joy, my mom started touching her cheek the way she always did when she got nervous. She’d never much cared for Max, though. When I’d invited him to live with me the month after my dad died, she’d accused me of using him to fill a void and said I’d regret it. If anything, I’d expect her to start celebrating the fact that she’d possibly been a little bit right.
Maybe she preferred me to be with someone rather than no one. She probably couldn’t imagine my life as a young, single woman. Heck, aside from running the public library’s genre-based book groups on Thursday nights, she still struggled with what to do with herself as a widow. No kids to boss around at home or at school, either—except for Amanda. Last fall when I’d suggested she should write a book, she’d glared at me like I’d said she was ugly or something. Meanwhile, I thought I’d given her a compliment. She was a good writer and knew more about books than anyone I’d ever met.
“What made you do that?” Amanda carved the roast with extra zeal.
“Whoa, take it easy. It’s already dead.” I laughed.
She glanced up, cheeks pink from embarrassment.
“Kidding!” My gaze bounced between her and Mom, who didn’t appear to be listening much to anything we were saying. I almost made a crack about bad sex to test my theory. “Max and I weren’t having fun or inspiring each other anymore, so we parted ways.”
“Was he upset?” Amanda’s jaw tightened while she plated juicy slices of pork, potatoes, and squash.
“Not really.” It didn’t reflect well on me to admit it, but I wouldn’t lie. “At least he didn’t seem to be.”
“And you’re okay?” Amanda looked at me incredulously.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You dated for two years. You’ve been living together for a while. I thought he was ‘the one’ for you. That’s what you said.” She looked so sad about it, like I’d broken up with her or something.
I shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.”
“So you didn’t love him,” Mom interrupted. “Even when you insisted that you did?”
Finally, she was paying attention. Nice job with the not-quite “I told you so,” too.
“I loved him enough to support him these past several months while he floundered around without any job. But it’s not like you fall in love and then, wham, it lasts forever. Feelings change. People grow. Relationships evolve. The things that made us work well were no longer working—he’d stopped all of his artistic stuff, didn’t lift a finger to help me, and, honestly, he got a little boring—”
My sister’s unexpected sob shut me up.
She never cried in front of me. At least not since the time she’d come home excited about being admitted to the National Honor Society only to have her achievement overlooked because I’d gotten hurt after falling off our roof. I’d gone up there to hide from Mom because I knew she’d gotten a call from the middle school principal about a food fight I’d started in the cafeteria. To be fair, I’d dumped the pasta o
n Emmerson’s head because she’d been picking on poor Wendy Jones that day. Anyway, looking back, I did have a habit of inadvertently ruining my sister’s celebrations. “Amanda, I’m sorry you’re so upset. Shocked, though. You never much liked Max. You thought he smelled funny.”
“Don’t pick on your sister,” my mom admonished as she reached over to soothe Amanda.
I stood there, blinking, confused about why Amanda needed comforting over my breakup with a man neither of them liked. “I’ve had a weird vibe pretty much since I arrived. What’s going on?”
Amanda wiped her eyes and sniffled. “Let’s all take our plates to the table, then I’ll explain.”
Suddenly my appetite waned. Unlike when Mom and Amanda typically made a mountain out of a molehill, tonight their somber moods rattled me. We all took our plates and sat while I searched my memory for any hint of trouble in the Turner family that I’d missed last week.
The chances of my getting out of this conversation without inadvertently causing more conflict were pretty slim without my dad around. He’d been a much-needed buffer, and never misunderstood my meaning or intentions in these kinds of family discussions. Given my sister’s tears, anything I did or said could be the wrong thing now, like that stupid Thanksgiving four years ago, when Amanda had made a pumpkin cheesecake instead of pie and then gotten upset with me for voicing my surprise. That conversation had been about to tip into yet another argument when Dad cut it short. “Amanda, your sister was only looking forward to your pumpkin pie, but I bet we’ll love this, too, once we try it. Now pass me a slice.” He wasn’t here tonight to stop us from going down a rabbit hole, so my best bet was to eat in silence and let it all unfold. Amanda pretty much pushed her food around with her fork before putting it down and sipping her iced tea.
My mom reached across the table and patted her hand. “It’s all going to be okay.”
I sat back, antsy and growing warmer by the minute. “It’s obvious you’re upset, and I want to give you space, but the suspense is killing me.” Maybe a joke would break the tension. “Did someone rob a bank?”
Amanda’s bleak gaze snapped to mine, stunning me into silence. “Lyle is having an affair . . .”
She kept talking, but my mind shut down at those words. That rat bastard!
When I’d caught him with that hot blonde on Valentine’s Day, I’d felt even more suspicious of him than usual. Lyle had been startled when I’d run into them at the Kentwood Inn, where I’d stopped in on Max’s behalf to ask about auditions for its new live-music nights. They’d looked almost conspiratorial to me, the way they were looking into each other’s eyes.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lyle,” I’d said sardonically while staring at him, my gaze flicking briefly to the bimbo’s face.
He stiffened so slightly I questioned whether I’d imagined it. “Erin.”
I raised my brows expectantly, then extended my hand to the woman. “Hi, I’m Erin Turner, Lyle’s sister-in-law.”
The blonde gave nothing away but a hint of steel in her spine. “I’m Ebba Nilsson.” Then she’d tied her scarf tighter around her neck and pulled her blonde curls out of it to cascade over her shoulders.
“Ebba and I work together at Chesapeake Properties,” Lyle added smoothly. But he’d also shifted his demeanor, stepping slightly away from her. “We were having lunch with a potential tenant.”
The fact that he’d offered a detailed explanation before I’d even questioned him had struck me, too.
“Oh, and here I assumed you stopped by to make reservations for a romantic dinner with Amanda.” I’d waited for his reaction, which didn’t come. But Ebba’s mouth curled upward a touch. I looked over Lyle’s shoulder. “Where’s your client?”
He and I locked gazes. There in the depths of those striking blue eyes lay all the coldness he hid from my sister. “He left five minutes ago for another meeting. I had to stay and pay the bill. Now we’re on our way back to the office, so if you’ll excuse us.” He grinned insincerely. “You have a pleasant day.”
I’d waited on the porch, watching them wander down the walkway, scrutinizing their body language for any overt sign of something nefarious. They’d done nothing I could latch on to, yet I couldn’t shake my misgivings.
I’d never trusted Lyle—not from the first. But there hadn’t been any evidence that day to take to Amanda. And after the way she’d shut down on me the first time I’d criticized him, I couldn’t have simply shared my suspicion. Not with her basking in her first trimester and their recent move to this house. Plus we’d all still been reeling from Dad’s death, so I hadn’t wanted to stir up more drama without smoking-gun proof.
She’d fallen so hard for Lyle from the start, blind to all his faults. His boasting annoyed me, but worse was how he’d systematically made Amanda more reliant on him—sowing doubts about her friends, like making derogatory remarks about Cindy Dunlap’s influence simply because she planned girls’ nights out, or persuading Amanda to put off working toward her master’s degree because he could support her while she raised their children. He used my sister’s eagerness to please him against her, and got away with it by lavishing her with praise and affection. God, he made my skin crawl.
Meanwhile, I’d only ever been completely open with her, and yet she trusted him more than she trusted me—that much was as clear as her crystal chandelier. In a “he said, she said” situation, he would’ve won and she and I could’ve ended up seriously estranged.
But damn it. Damn, damn, damn. No way would I confess that sighting now. That’d be worse than useless, and the blame for everything would land back on me despite Lyle being the liar.
“Wait, wait . . .” I waved my hands after hearing something about Mom and her money. “I’m sorry. I missed everything you said after the very first sentence. What’s this about Mom’s money?”
Amanda set her elbows on the table and hung her head, hands covering her face, hair dangling all around. Now that drastic haircut made sense. What we women did to feel better I’d never quite understand, but I had a tattoo and an extra piercing as the result of various disappointments, so no judgment here.
My mom interjected with the clipped voice she always used to stop a discussion before it started. “I lent Lyle money to get this deal in Florida under his belt. We’re waiting to hear back from him about all that.”
My stomach dropped as if the floor had fallen away. I hadn’t asked for Mom’s money—Dad’s money—but Lyle took it? “Waiting to hear back?”
Amanda reexplained about the promissory note and the coworker.
I stole a look at her belly and completely lost my appetite. God, I wished I’d risked the argument back in February. I’d mentioned it to Max at the time, but he’d raised an eyebrow and warned me that if Lyle was as bad as I thought, then I’d better not alienate my sister, because one day she’d need me. Looked like that day was now. Still, if speaking up would’ve planted the slightest seed of doubt about him and prevented this loan situation, estrangement would’ve been worth it.
Crap. Biggest effing mistake in my life—and that’s saying something. “I’m so sorry, Amanda. What can I do . . . besides track down this other woman and make her life a living hell?”
My sister had never shared my bloodlust, but today a fleeting glimmer of vengeance lit her eyes. “Please don’t do anything. I’ll solve this on my own. It’s just been difficult because Lyle hasn’t been easy to reach these past few days.”
She twined her fingers together on top of the table, probably regretting the mini breakdown.
I narrowed my gaze, trying to read her better. She loved that man, no matter how foolish that seemed to me. This had to gut her. If only she’d be open with her feelings, maybe I would know how to help. “You seem strangely calm for someone whose husband is off with another woman.”
She lowered her hands from the table. “I’ve had a few days to get used to the idea.”
I crossed my arms, recalling how people in high school had ta
ken advantage of her generous nature to get what they needed—study outlines, rides, extra cash because she was flush from babysitting money—but rarely had reciprocated. I would’ve dumped pasta on all their heads, too, if I could’ve.
How dare Lyle! My love for movies like Goodfellas prompted all kinds of evil ideas to the point where energy pulsed through my arms and shot to the fists that I’d formed. “We need to take Ebba down. I mean, she’s a class-A bitch to sleep with a married man whose wife is pregnant.”
“Language,” Mom admonished.
Amanda shook her head, looking sadder than I’d seen her since we buried Dad. Man, I was almost glad he wasn’t around to see this. He’d be devastated, and would probably be upset with me for not saying anything, too. Then again, if he’d been around in February, I would’ve asked for his advice. “I’d prefer it if this could stay between us for now. I’m not ready for the whole town to pick sides.”
“Okay.” It chapped my butt that Lyle was getting away with so much. Even worse—he’d known he would, too, because he knew Amanda’s history of smoothing things over. Boy, I wanted to punch him. My thoughts circled back to the sheer hypocrisy of his taking a loan from my mom. “Not to belabor this, but if Lyle’s business plan’s so great, why couldn’t he borrow money from the bank?”
Amanda’s eyes flared to life in his defense . . . and probably in hers for complicity. “He didn’t ask Mom for the money. She overheard us talking about how a bank loan wouldn’t come through in time to jump on the deal.”
On the surface that sounded plausible, but I’d never trusted Lyle. He’d been too polished. Too solicitous to my parents. Too sweet to my sister.
I didn’t go to college, but I knew plenty of pop psychology, and his behavior smacked of everything phony and manipulative. Amanda’s pathological need to please had been the perfect fit for a guy like him. He’d hooked her harder than an Eagle Claw snell did a striped bass. “I guess now Mom wants to be paid back pronto.”
“He probably already invested some of the money, but I’ve asked him to send back whatever is left until he and I work out our situation.” She and Mom exchanged a meaningful look.
