by Beth K. Vogt
“Jillian.”
I didn’t respond. I used to love to listen to Geoff talk. I would close my eyes and get lost in the cadence of his voice. How he said my name. His laugh. Now all I wanted to do was say good-bye and have him go back to work.
I opened the back door, grabbing Winston’s collar before he could run past me. “We’ll talk later.”
“Fine.”
And for one of the first times since we’d gotten married . . . maybe the first time . . . we didn’t say we loved each other before we hung up.
My cell rang as I headed inside, debating on showering or crawling into bed, firing up my laptop, and watching a movie.
I grabbed my phone and spoke before he could say anything. “I love you—”
“Hey, Jillian . . . um, good morning?” Zach’s hesitant greeting made me laugh.
Why hadn’t I taken just a second to look at my phone to make sure it was Geoff before blurting out, “I love you”?
“I thought you were Geoff!”
“I figured.” He chuckled. “Sorry. Just me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. How are you?”
“Other than embarrassing myself, I’m fine.” I slumped back against the kitchen wall. “Can’t complain. I mean, I could, but I decided to just enjoy the quiet house for now.”
“Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry about all this.”
“It’s not your fault Geoff bought an old house.” I held on to Winston, who squirmed to be let down. No need to let our dog get injured and add a vet bill to our expenses.
“It is a good home, Jillian.”
“And it will be all the nicer with new pipes and wiring, right?”
“Yes.” Zach cleared his throat. “I wanted to let you know we’re working on getting the permits processed. Once those are done, we can get back to work.”
“Great.”
“And you and Geoff—are you thinking about cutting costs at all? Changing anything?”
“I know we probably need to—I’ve already given up on the French doors in my head—but we just haven’t had the chance to talk about it yet.”
“If you want, we can talk through some suggestions. I can’t guarantee other things won’t show up as we go along.”
I settled on the couch, Winston in my lap. “Thanks for that bit of good news.”
“Just trying to be realistic. You’re still going to get your dream kitchen. We’re just tweaking the dream a bit.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll keep you posted on everything. I won’t be driving back down this week, though.”
“I understand. Not much for you to do right now, is there?”
“Look, I understand you’re probably feeling a little discouraged, but we’ll get back on schedule. I promise. And I’m praying for you . . . and Geoff, too.”
Was that some little code phrase Zach used instead of saying, “Have a nice day”?
No. He sounded too sincere for that. And knowing he was praying for me . . . for us . . . comforted me for some reason.
I carried Zach’s words like a personal benediction throughout the morning, perhaps a bit more powerful than one of Harper’s positive thoughts I still had taped to the mirror in the guest bedroom.
“I have a present for you.” Harper marched into my apartment, her arms cradling a large glass jar topped with a bright-pink bow.
“What is this?” I shut the door, pivoting to find her only a few feet away.
“Thoughts.”
“Thoughts?” I shifted the jar, examining the contents. It was filled more than halfway with strips of multicolored paper.
“Positive thoughts, to be exact.” Harper tapped the side of the jar. “Do you know how many hits you get if you google ‘positive thoughts’? And Pinterest divides them into categories like work and life and women and health. You’re lucky I’m not giving you two jars.”
“I wasn’t expecting one.”
“You need these, Jill. I’ve been reading about cancer, and everybody says your mind-set makes a difference. So you read one of these a day, got it? Like a mental multivitamin.”
“How many strips of paper are in here?”
“I don’t know . . . I just opened a Word document and started adding quotes. If you run out, let me know. I can add—”
I shifted the jar to one arm and pulled Harper close, blinking back tears. “You are the best friend . . . the absolute best friend . . .”
“And so are you. I told you that I didn’t like cancer messing with you. I’m here for you, remember?”
Every time I’d read one of the quotes, I’d taped it to the mirror over my bedroom dresser. When Geoff and I got married, he’d asked if I wanted to take all the strips of paper off, and I told him no. Absolutely not. He didn’t argue, covering the mirror with a sheet.
He’d treated the mirror like a precious heirloom, transporting it in his car and placing it in a corner of our bedroom until we had time to hang it in the spare bedroom after we finished moving everything else over from my apartment.
I’d memorized some of the quotes, and a favorite by Helen Keller came to mind now.
“Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.”
The quote had seemed more appropriate—more needed—six months ago. A stalled kitchen redo was not true suffering. Inconvenient, yes, but not suffering. Not being able to get pregnant for five years? Geoff’s aversion to adoption roadblocking my attempt to get around my inability to get pregnant? The possibility that I might not ever have children? That might be considered a type of suffering.
Now all I had to do was figure out the overcoming of it.
JOHANNA ENJOYED BEING HOME—especially after the twice-a-month visits from the cleaning service she paid an exorbitant fee to. Surfaces dusted and sanitized, wood floors and carpeting swept and vacuumed, glass and mirrors polished, a faint scent of citrus lingering in the air. Order restored—not that she ever let anything get too messy.
Her living room was streamlined, with a sleek black sofa, two white chairs, and glass-and-metal side tables adorned with abstract metal lamps. Her small office, closed off with paned glass pocket doors, repeated the spare decor, with a glass-and-metal desk and a black leather chair positioned in front of minimalist bookshelves. She’d indulged in a bit of whimsy, arranging the books spine out by color, rather than by title or author.
She’d used Super White paint on her walls, creating a sense of being in a museum, aided by the various black-and-white photos displayed throughout the house. Some were Beckett’s, some copies of favorites by photographer Toni Frissell. Maybe when she got her promotion, she’d celebrate by purchasing an original.
With Jillian and Payton coming over for round two of their book club, she’d added several fresh white orchid plants in the living room and dining room and even one in her study. The cleaning company knew to toss them once they died. She’d prepared two quiches last night—her favorite recipe and a vegan one for Payton. The aromas of cheese and onions and eggs filled her house, mingling with the scent of her preferred coffee, fresh ground and fresh brewed. No premeasured pods for her.
And she’d even read three chapters of the book. Skimmed was more like it, but she was ready not only to host, but to participate in any discussion Payton started—because that was Payton’s responsibility, not hers.
She was also willing to forget her last conversation with Jillian. Fatigue was enough to make anyone unreasonable. And getting fired . . . well, she’d be understanding and not bring it up at all. Maybe for once Payton would play the buffer role between two Thatcher sisters, instead of Jillian.
Coffee, quiche, and surface conversation. A lot of sisters survived on this. Or less.
Johanna arranged cloth napkins, silverware, and spotless square glass plates on the dining room table. This was her role in the family—she managed things. Kept things orderly and under control. Of course, no one came right out and said,
“Johanna, take care of things,” but everyone knew that’s what she excelled at.
Jillian was the peacemaker. Payton and Pepper? Their arrival had disturbed the family peace. But eventually they’d settled into their star status as the twins—attracting attention and earning the title of Double Trouble with their identical faces and their equally identical athletic ability. Well, not quite identical. Pepper had edged Payton out just a bit on the volleyball court.
Johanna straightened the tablecloth, smoothing a wrinkle and aligning the pieces of flatware. Order was a good thing. It kept frustration and disappointment at bay. And maybe one day her sisters would thank her. If they didn’t . . . well, at least all was right with her world.
When a knock stopped her musings and summoned her to the door, Johanna was surprised to find not just one but both of her sisters standing together on her small front porch. “Did you ride together?”
Payton’s brow furrowed as she shook her head. “Of course not. We just got here at the same time.”
Why would the thought of her sisters driving together bother her? She and Payton weren’t “besties.” And she didn’t have exclusive rights to a close relationship with Jillian, even if they were only two years apart and had always been closer, just like Payton and Pepper had been a matched set.
Jillian’s hello and smile seemed natural enough, so maybe she’d forgotten their phone call from two weeks ago, too.
“Come on in. Let’s eat while everything’s hot.”
As they settled around the table, Johanna served the quiche and poured coffee. “This quiche is vegan—tofu instead of eggs. And the sugar jar is right near you, Payton. I know how you like your coffee sweet. There’s fresh cream for us, Jill.”
“Thank you. You didn’t have to go to the extra trouble—”
“No trouble.” Johanna passed the other quiche to Jillian. “How are you two enjoying the book?”
“Has anyone actually read it?”
“Isn’t that the plan? I read the first three chapters.” She placed her napkin in her lap. “I don’t recall setting a chapter goal for each time we meet. Maybe we should do that before we leave.”
“I confess the book is on the table beside my bed—and that I’m stuck on the first chapter.” Payton’s smile held the hint of an apology. “I want to read it, but between classes and volleyball, it’s just not happening.”
“I’m not having any more success than Payton.” Jillian seemed relieved at the confession. “You’d think with all my free time, I’d be reading all sorts of books. But magazines are more my speed right now. I start to read and doze off. I’m tired all the time.”
“What’s the update on the house? Zach told me the plan was to repipe first.”
“They just finished putting in the new pipes this week.” Jillian served herself a small portion of the nonvegan quiche. “So next week the new crew will come in and start rewiring the house.”
So much for trying to help Payton start a conversation about the book. It was as if Johanna was trying to lead and no one was following her. Why hadn’t she remembered this whole book club thing wasn’t her responsibility?
“So we’re not going to talk about the book, then?”
Both of her sisters stared at her as if she’d declared she was going to write a book, instead of questioning their intention to talk about the biography they’d all agreed to read.
Jillian spoke first. “Maybe we could just relax and catch up with each other?”
“There’s not too much to tell for me. Work is fine. Beckett’s got this big annual conference this weekend. He’ll be glad when it’s over.”
Jillian nodded and turned to Payton. “What about you?”
“Like I said, classes and coaching. I remember walking off the campus back when I graduated from college and thinking, ‘I don’t ever have to take another class’—and here I am, back in college to become a teacher, taking tests and writing papers with kids straight out of high school.” She cut into the quiche without taking a bite. “I’m having fun coaching the JV team.”
“Is your team winning?”
“We’ve won more than we’ve lost so far. I’ve got a great setter and a strong back row. Working on the block.”
Johanna grimaced. “And she’s talking like we understand all that volleyball terminology.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re managing that while you’re taking a full load of classes?”
“Don’t have a choice. I don’t want to be a college student forever.”
“Is it weird, being back at your high school and coaching?” Jillian continued to act the part of the impromptu interviewer.
“It was at first. But I’m glad to help out. They weren’t expecting their coach to go on bed rest for the last half of her pregnancy.”
“So overall, you’re glad.”
“It’s the right decision. Teaching high school English seems a long way off, but I’ll get there.”
“You look happier, Payton.”
“Thanks. And Zach’s told me that he likes being the project manager for your kitchen reno.”
“I’m not sure he’s telling you the truth there.”
“He knew what he was getting into, Jill.”
“Not everything, but I will say he’s helped Geoff and me stay calm. And since we’ve had so many unexpected costs already, Zach’s helping us figure where to cut so we don’t completely blow our budget. We can’t control the timeline, but we can try to scale back the costs.”
It was like listening to casual acquaintances talking while enjoying good coffee and good food. All of this information could have been conveyed via texts, without any of them leaving their homes.
Payton looked tired.
Jillian looked tired.
Johanna was the only Thatcher sister who’d even gone to the trouble of putting on makeup.
“So, Jillian, have you looked for another job yet?”
Payton stared at her. “Johanna, were you even listening to Jillian?”
What was the attitude for—other than the fact that Payton always took an attitude with her?
“Of course I was listening—”
“—because if you had been, you’d have heard Jillian say she was tired all the time. Finding a job right now probably isn’t her priority.”
“I asked a reasonable question, Payton. And we are having a conversation, aren’t we? One I can participate in? I thought if nothing else, Jillian might look for something part-time.”
“Just because you think she should—”
“I didn’t say she had to do anything—”
“Can we go back to coffee and quiche and talking about the book?” Jillian’s voice rose just a bit louder than hers and Payton’s. “Please?”
“I asked a legitimate question, Jilly.”
“You’re like a . . . a bulldog with a bone, you know that, Johanna?” Payton’s china cup clattered in its saucer.
“Well, at least you didn’t throw a volleyball analogy at me.”
“All right! If I answer your legitimate question, can we please change the topic?” Jillian stared Johanna down until she nodded. “No. No, I’m not looking for a job right now. Not a full-time one. Not a part-time one.”
“You didn’t have to answer her, you know.” Payton’s words were mumbled around a bite of food.
“Oh, stop already!” Johanna sat ramrod straight.
“Both of you stop acting immature. We’re adults, aren’t we? Aren’t we?”
Payton mumbled yes and Johanna offered a curt nod.
“What happened to remembering what Pepper said? ‘Sometimes you just have to forget all the other stuff and remember we’re sisters.’”
Payton’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry, Jill.”
Johanna’s lips tightened into a thin line. “It’s a nice thought . . . but to be honest, I don’t want Pepper’s words thrown out to silence me every time I’m trying to have an honest, helpful conversation.”
Jillian gasped. “Is that what you think I was doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
Jillian pressed a hand to her mouth. Closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Jillian’s voice pitched higher. “What’s wrong is . . . maybe you’re the one who’s good at using words to silence people.”
Payton reached for Jillian’s hand as she pushed away from the table, rattling the water glasses and coffee cups. “It’s okay . . .”
“I’m sorry, Payton. I’ll talk to you later.” Jillian gathered her purse and book and, without another word or a backward glance, walked out. The front door closed with a decisive click.
Johanna shook her head. “Well, Jillian is more exhausted than I realized. . . .”
“You think what just happened is about how tired she is?”
“You heard her. And no matter what you believe, I heard her, too—”
“Fine. We all know she’s tired—although you seem to keep forgetting that. But if you were honest with yourself, you’d admit you’ve upset her. Again. Then you’d do something about it.” Payton stood, picking up her book. “I need to get home and write a paper. Thanks for breakfast.”
Had she just been put in her place by not one, but two of her little sisters?
As Johanna stood in her open doorway, Payton fast-walked to where Jillian sat in her car. When Payton knocked on the window, Jillian rolled it down. The two of them talked for a few moments before Payton leaned in and gave Jillian a hug. Neither of them acknowledged Johanna before driving off.
So much for the second book club session. All that had happened was she’d been reprimanded and then excluded by both of her sisters . . . and left with a bunch of food that would go to waste, including a tofu quiche.
PAYTON WASN’T SURE which was more exhausting—her nonstop former life as a party planner for Festivities, where she was at the beck and call of clients, or her now double life as a full-time student and part-time coach, with practices five days a week, mixed in with one or two games.
She leaned into her front door, using her shoulder to muscle her way into the foyer. With her double backpacks, she looked like one of the girls on her JV team. One backpack for her textbooks. Another for her volleyball gear. And just like her girls, she had homework to do after practice.
