Claire took a sip of coffee. It occurred to her to drop the whole thing, to do what she’d always done around Meg—shut up and pretend it didn’t hurt. Then she remembered her conversation with Bobby. Slowly, she said, “You didn’t answer my question: How come you left the shower early?”
“It wasn’t that early. How were your presents?”
“They were great. Thank you for the Cuisinart, by the way. Now: Why did you leave early?”
Meg closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. She looked … scared.
It shocked Claire so much she straightened. “Meg?”
“It was the M&M game,” she answered. “I tried to be a good sport and play the game, but I barely know you, so I said something wrong. I still don’t know what the hell it was.”
“You said I loved well but not easily.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think it’s true, that’s all, and it hurt my feelings.”
“It’s true for me,” Meg said.
Claire leaned forward. They were finally circling something that mattered. “Sometimes it’s hard to love you, Meg.”
“Believe me, I know.” She laughed, but it was a bitter, throaty sound.
“You judge people—me—so harshly. Your opinions are like bullwhips. Every one leaves a bloody mark.”
“People, yes. But you? I don’t judge you.”
“I flunked out of college. I dropped out of cosmetology school. I never left Hayden. I dress poorly. I had a child out of wedlock with a man whom I discovered was already married. Now I’m marrying a three-time loser and I’m too stupid to protect myself with a prenuptial agreement. Stop me when it sounds familiar.”
Meg frowned. “Have I hung all that on you?”
“Like a suit of armor. I can’t talk to you without feeling like a poor-white-trash loser. And, of course, you’re rich and perfect.”
“That part is true.” Meg saw that her attempt at humor failed. “My therapist thinks I have control issues.”
“Well, duh. You’re a lot like Mama, you know. You both need to run the show.”
“The difference is, she’s psychotic. I’m neurotic. But God knows she handed down bad luck with men.” Meghann looked at her. “Have you broken the curse?”
Even yesterday, Claire would have been angered by the question. Now, she understood it. Claire’s legacy from Mama was a belief that sooner or later love walked out on you. Meg had inherited something else entirely: She didn’t believe in love at all. “I have, Meg. Honestly.”
Meg smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes. “I wish I had your faith.”
For once, Claire felt like the stronger sister. “I know love is real. It’s in every moment I share with Ali and Dad. Maybe if … you’d had a father, you’d be able to believe in it.” Claire saw the way her sister went pale; she knew she’d gone too far.
“You were lucky to have Sam,” Meg said slowly.
Claire couldn’t help thinking about the summer Dad had tried to be there for Meg. It had been a nightmare. Meg and Sam had had screaming fights about who loved Claire more, who knew what was best for her. It had been Claire herself who’d ended the worst of the battles. She’d cried out to Meg, Quit yelling at my daddy. That was the first time she’d seen her sister cry. The next day, Meg had gone. Years later, she’d finally called Claire. By then, Meg was in college and had her own life.
“He wanted to be there for you, too,” Claire said gently.
“He wasn’t my father.”
They fell silent after that. The quiet bothered Claire, compelled her to stack up words between them, but she didn’t know what to say.
She was saved by the phone. When it rang, she jumped up and ran inside the house to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hold for Eliana Sullivan, please.”
Claire heard Meg come up behind her. She mouthed: Mama.
“This should be good,” Meg said, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Hello?” Mama said. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mama, it’s me, Claire.”
Mama laughed, that throaty, carefully sexy sound she’d cultivated over the years. “I believe I know which of my own daughters I called, Claire.”
“Of course,” Claire answered, although Mama confused the two of them all the time. Her memories were completely interchangeable. When called on it, Mama would say airily, Whatever; y’all were thick as thieves back then. How’m I supposed to keep every little detail straight?
“Well, honey, speak up. M’houseboy said you left me a message. What’s goin’ on?”
Claire hated the faux Southern accent. Every elongated vowel reminded her that she was ultimately “the audience” to Mama. “I called to tell you I’m getting married.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I thought for sure you were going to die an old maid.”
“Thanks, Mama.”
“So, who is he?”
“You’ll love him, Mama. He’s a nice Texas boy.”
“Boy? I thought that was your sister’s way.”
Claire actually laughed. “He’s a man, Mama. Thirty-seven years old.”
“How much money does he make?”
“That isn’t important to me.”
“Broke, huh? Well, I’ll give you my best advice, honey. It’s easier to marry the rich ones, but what the hell. Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”
“Saturday the twenty-third.”