She leaned sideways and flicked on the bedside lamp. Light fell on a framed photograph of Meghann and her sister, taken years ago.
Meghann wondered what her sister was doing right now. Wondered if she was awake at this late hour, feeling alone and vulnerable. But she knew the answer.
Claire had Alison. And Sam.
Sam.
Meghann wished she could forget the few memories she had of her sister’s father. But that kind of amnesia never overtook her. Instead, Meghann remembered everything, every detail. Mostly, she remembered how much she’d wanted Sam to be her father, too. When she’d been young and hopeful, she’d thought: Maybe we could be a family, the three of us.
The pipe dreams of a child. Still painful after all these years.
Sam was Claire’s father. He had stepped in and changed everything. Meg and Claire had nothing in common anymore.
Claire lived in a house filled with laughter and love. She probably only dated upstanding leaders of the community. No anonymous, dissatisfying sex for Claire.
Meghann closed her eyes, reminding herself that this was the life she wanted. She’d tried marriage. It had ended exactly as she’d feared—with his betrayal and her broken heart. She didn’t ever want to experience that again. If sometimes she spent an hour or so in the middle of the night with an ache of longing that wouldn’t quite go away, well, that was the price of independence.
She leaned across the bed and picked up the phone. There were five numbers on her speed dialer: the office, three take-out restaurants, and her best friend, Elizabeth Shore.
She punched in number three.
“What’s the matter?” said a groggy male voice. “Jamie?”
Meghann glanced at the bedside clock. Damn. It was almost midnight; that made it nearly three o’clock in New York. “Sorry, Jack. I didn’t notice the time.”
“For a smart woman, you make that mistake a lot. Just a sec.”
Meghann wished she could hang up. She felt exposed by her error. It showed how little a life she had.
“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said, sounding worried.
“I’m fine. I screwed up. Tell Jack I’m sorry. We can talk tomorrow. I’ll call before I leave for work.”
“Just hang on.”
Meghann heard Elizabeth whisper something to her husband. A moment later, she said, “Let me guess. You just got home from the Athenian.”
That made her feel even worse. “No. Not tonight.”
“Are you okay, Meg?”
“Fine, really. I just lost track of time. I was … working on a messy deposition. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Jack and I are leaving for Paris, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Have a great time.”
“I could postpone it—”
“And miss that huge party at the Ritz? No way. Have a wonderful time.”
There was a pause on the line, then softly Elizabeth said, “I love you, Meg.”
She felt the start of tears. Those were the words she’d needed, even if they came from far away; they made her feel less alone, less vulnerable. “I love you, too, Birdie. Good night.”
“ ’Night, Meg. Sleep well.”
She slowly hung up the phone. The room seemed quiet now; too dark. She pulled the covers up and closed her eyes, knowing it would be hours before she fell asleep.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Their first gathering at Lake Chelan had been in celebration. Nineteen eighty-nine. The year Madonna urged people to express themselves and Jack Nicholson played the Joker and the first pieces of the Berlin Wall came down. More important, it was the year they all turned twenty-one. There had been five of them then. Best friends since grade school.
That first get-together had happened by accident. The girls had pooled their money to give Claire a weekend in the honeymoon cabin for her birthday. At the time—in March—she’d been head over heels in love with Carl Eldridge. (The first of many head-over-heels-in-love relationships that turned out to be a plain old kick in the head.) By mid-July, on the designated weekend, Claire had been out of love, alone, and more than a little depressed. Never one to waste money, she’d gone on the trip by herself, intending to sit on the porch and read.
Just before dinnertime of the first day, a battered yellow Ford Pinto had pulled into the yard. Her best friends had spilled out of the car and run across the lawn, laughing, holding two big jugs of margarita mix. They’d called their visit a love intervention, and it had worked. By Monday, Claire had remembered who she was and what she wanted out of life. Carl Eldridge had most definitely not been “the one.”