She quickly picked up the bathroom, made her bed, and left the house.
Outside, the sun shone brightly on the well-tended yard. It was late June, a glorious time of year in the Northwest. So much was in bloom. There was color everywhere in the yard, all of it backed and bordered by glossy green bushes and a thicket of trees. At the far end, looking almost close enough to touch, the granite triangle of Formidable Peak pushed up toward a high layer of clouds.
Meghann tossed her purse onto the passenger seat of her Porsche and got inside. The engine growled to life. She drove toward the resort slowly, careful not to stir up too much dust on the gravel road. It was a short distance, maybe five hundred yards between the house and the registration office, but her high-heeled sandals couldn’t handle the loose stone.
Finally, she pulled up in front of the registration building and parked. Choosing a careful path through the dewy grass, she went into the building.
It was empty.
She went to the desk and found the Hayden phone book, then flipped to Wedding Consultants. There was one listing. Royal Event Planning. In fine print it read: Pretend you’ll only get married once.
Meghann couldn’t help smiling at that. A cynic with humor. Who better to help Meghann plan a wedding? She wrote down the number and put it in her purse.
She found Claire in the campground’s rest room, plunging a backed-up toilet. At Meghann’s horrified expression, Claire laughed. “Go on outside, hotshot. I’ll be out in a sec.”
Meghann backed out and stood on the edge of the grass.
True to her word, Claire was out in no time. “I’ll wash up and we’ll go.” She looked at the Boxster. “You drove over here?” Laughing, she walked away.
Meghann got in the car and started it up. The stereo immediately came on, too loud. “Hotel California.” She put the convertible top down and waited.
Finally Claire reappeared, wearing a pair of jeans and a River’s Edge Resort T-shirt. She tossed her canvas handbag behind the seat and climbed in. “Now, this is going to town in style.”
Meghann didn’t know if Claire intended that remark as a put-down or not, so she kept silent. Actually, that was her new mantra: Shut up and smile.
“You sure slept late,” Claire said, turning down the music. “I thought you usually got to the office by seven.”
“I had trouble sleeping last night.”
“Please don’t worry about me, Meg. Please.”
Meghann was trapped by that quiet please. She couldn’t let her sister think the insomnia was because of the wedding. “It’s not the wedding. I never sleep.”
“Since when?”
“I guess it started in college. Cramming all night for exams. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.”
Meghann had been trying to protect Claire, to hide the fact that the insomnia had started when their family fell apart, but college had been the wrong tack. To Claire, it was another reminder of everything between them, one more instance of Meghann lording it over her sister. Over the years, Claire had made dozens of remarks about her brainiac older sister who started college early. It was a touchy subject. “From what I hear, motherhood causes a few all-nighters, too.”
“You know something about babies. Mama said I was colicky. A real pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, like Mama would know. You didn’t have colic. You had ear infections. When you were sick, you wailed like a banshee. I used to carry you, screaming, down to the Laundromat. If I sat on top of the dryer, holding you, you’d finally fall asleep. Mama always wondered what happened to all her quarters.”
Meghann felt Claire’s gaze on her. She tried to think of something to say, a way to change the conversation, but she came up empty.
Claire finally laughed, but the sound was brittle. “No wonder I don’t mind doing the laundry. Turn here.”
They were on safe land once again, she and Claire; each standing on her separate shore.
“This is it.” Claire pointed to an old Victorian house, painted Pepto-Bismol pink with lavender trim. A gravel walkway cut through a perfectly shorn lawn. On either side were bright red roses in full bloom. The white picket fence bore a hand-painted sign that read: Miss Abigail’s Drawers. Come on in.
Meghann looked up at the ridiculously cute house. “We could zip down to Escada or Nordstrom.…”
“Don’t be yourself, Meg.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “I’ll be Tammy Faye. Or better yet, Small-Town Sally. Lead on. I’ll shut my mouth.”
They walked up the rickety stairs and entered the store. There was merchandise everywhere—plastic flowers and seashell picture frames, and Christmas ornaments made of painted dough. The fireplace screen was alight with votive candles.
“Hello!” Claire called out.