SEXUAL FRUSTRATION RUINED sleep.
Cell phone firmly in hand, Alana scuffed her feet into her slippers and pulled on her robe over her cotton nightie, then shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen. Sunshine poured through the window over the sink, glinting off the worn gold rim of her Syracuse University coffee mug as she got the mug from the cupboard, then ran water into the electric kettle. No chamomile or herbal teas this morning. Today was an Earl Grey Breakfast Blend day, probably two cups. She found her strainer in the drying rack, added the loose-leaf tea and set it in the teapot, and stared at the kettle. Little bubbles but not boiling. Cream. She needed cream.
“You’re such a librarian,” she mumbled.
When the water reached boiling, she poured it over the strainer and pulled her phone from the pocket of her robe while she waited for it to steep. Where was Freddie this week? The last time she’d talked to her sister, she was preparing for a three-week trip to South America. The Women’s Development Network annual meeting was being held in Sao Paolo, which meant site visits to various local organizations funded by the Wentworth Foundation, appearances on local television programs, meetings with politicians and dignitaries, and banquets. Lots and lots of banquets. If the devil himself took a few minutes to create Alana’s special, personalized version of hell, a conference and all the meetings scheduled around it would be an apt description.
Freddie thrived on it. Freddie was probably already awake, or perhaps hadn’t gone to bed.
She tapped through to her sister’s mobile number and pressed Call.
“Where are you, and when are you coming back to work?” her sister said without preamble.
“I’m in the kitchen, and soon,” Alana replied. Lucas’s grandmother’s kitchen, to be precise. Beulah Ridgeway had had her kitchen gorgeously renovated in 1970s avocado and orange, and fashion hadn’t quite circulated back around to the ’70s yet.
“The one with the orange and green floral wallpaper and the fridge like the one in our cabin when we were kids?”
“It’s not so bad when you get used to it. The window faces east, and I’m watching the sun rise over the backyard. Where are you?”
“Do you mean which continent, which city, or which hotel?”
“All of the above.”
“South America, obviously. It’s Wednesday, so this must be Chile. I’m in Santiago, in the restaurant of the Hilton, attempting to get coffee from people who seem no more awake than I am.”
Chile meant she was behind Walkers Ford. “What time is it?”
“Five in the morning. I need coffee. My brain feels like it was removed from my skull with a dull ladle. Disculpe, se?or. ?Me puede dar una taza de café, por favor? Gracias.”
Coffee took Freddie from high-functioning to superhuman. For not the first time, Alana wished her stomach tolerated the acid, because on her best day she didn’t process the world like Freddie did.
“How’s the conference going?”
“Fine,” Freddie said. “But next month’s conference in New Delhi still needs work. I need the research on programs to increase the literacy rate for girls in rural areas. Your replacement—”
“Denise.”
“—Does not possess your gift with academic databases. When are you coming home?”
Denise didn’t know Freddie’s brain, what she’d read, what she wouldn’t read, what interested her. “In two weeks, as we’ve discussed.”
“Just before the Senator’s banquet.”
“As we’ve discussed,” Alana repeated. “Why don’t we call him Peter?”
“Because Mother called him the Senator when we were growing up, and while we found him intimidating as children, we now find it amusing. Practice your piano, Frederica. The Senator will want to hear your first Chopin piece. Stay out of the Senator’s way, Alana, dear,” she said, mimicking their mother’s precise intonation. “Ah. Gracias. Eres mi salvador.”
Alana lifted the strainer from the pot of tea and waited while the last drops plunked onto the surface of the liquid. “Have you seen Toby lately?”
“I was able to squeeze in a quick visit while they played in Mexico City.”
“How’s the tour going?”