Eventually, the road widened and a dozen gaslights lined the last 100 yards or so to the ranch house, which was nestled in the shadows of the long, twisting limbs of the live oaks along the banks of the Guadalupe River. Slung long and wide, the house was a two-story limestone, marked with an abundance of windows so that no vista was left unframed. A wide veranda stretched endlessly around the structure, dotted with wicker furniture, green ferns, and whitewashed porch swings. In the small front yard stood an old iron kettle, filled with antique roses that matched those planted along the railing of the porch. A century-old boot scrape and horse tether stood next to the path leading to the flagstone skirt spread around the entrance to the porch.
Robin had seen this house a million times, but today, as she coasted into the circular drive at dusk, she thought it looked strangely hollow—the setting sun reflected on the second floor windows, giving the house orange eyes and a gaping black mouth where the front door stood open.
As she climbed out of her car and gathered her things, she could see the familiar shapes of her sisters rise from two wicker chairs and move across the porch, Rachel distinguished from Rebecca by the wild curl of her long hair and the glowing tip of her cigarette. Rebecca, sleek and slender, had her hair pulled back—she was the first one to come off the porch, walking gracefully but purposefully.
It was the determination in her stride that unnerved Robin. She felt a small panic in the pit of her belly—she wasn’t ready to do this, or to hear it, or to feel it, and realized with surprise that her hands were shaking. God, this was so unlike her. She was always the one who was so put together, so sure of herself. Everyone said that of all of them, she most resembled Dad.
“Hey,” Robin said lamely as Rebecca came around the side of the car.
Rebecca responded by taking Robin into her arms and hugging her tight. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She let go, grabbed a bag from Robin’s hand, and stepped aside.
Rachel dropped her smoke and ground it out with the heel of her boot. “Hey, Robbie,” she said.
Robin picked up her purse and put her arm around Rachel’s shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze as they followed Rebecca up the flagstone path to the house. “Rach, you’re still smoking?” she asked, as the house loomed larger and larger before her.
“Sometimes,” Rachel answered sheepishly.
“Oh yeah?” Robin stopped, looked up at the windows of the master suite. “Then give me one.”
Rachel obediently fished a smoke from her pocket and handed it to her, then offered up a light. Robin grimaced at the taste, but welcomed the soothing race of smoke through her blood. In front of them, Rebecca dropped Robin’s bag at her feet, looked up at the master suite, too, and shook her head. “I can’t believe this,” she said, gesturing for Rachel to give her a cigarette, too. “This just all seems so unreal.”
Robin glanced at Rebecca, who shrugged as she inhaled, then daintily let the smoke escape her lips. It was a fact that Rebecca could, just by breathing, be the most elegant woman on the planet. She had that special air about her, as if she walked on spun gold—unlike Robin, who marched through life in army boots, kicking her way to clear a path, and Rachel, who pretty much floated along, barefoot and picking flowers.
“So how are Mom and Dad? I mean . . . is everything okay?” Robin asked.
Rebecca settled her pale blue gaze on her. “They are doing remarkably well. It’s weird. It’s like the last fifteen years didn’t happen.”
“That is so weird,” Rachel murmured.
Robin’s sentiments exactly. She took another drag from her smoke. “So has he told you anything? Like what his doctors are saying? H-how . . . long?” she forced herself to ask.
The question silenced them all; Rachel looked nervously at the ground. Rebecca, the rock, calmly shook her head. “He wanted to wait for you. He hasn’t said any more than what he told us on the phone—just that it’s bad.”
“Maybe he’s exaggerating. You know how some people are—they think things are a lot worse than they really are?” Rachel said, her hopeful expression dissolving with Rebecca and Robin’s pointed looks. “I mean, how bad can it be?” she asked no one in particular, tossing the cigarette aside. “God, is there any liquor out here? A beer at least?”
The three women looked up at the second-story windows of the master suite, none of them having the guts to take the next step forward.
From the sitting room of the master suit, Aaron watched as his three beautiful daughters gathered on the drive below him. “Since when do my children smoke?” he demanded gruffly as Rachel handed Robin a cigarette.
Seated in a comfortable armchair, Bonnie lowered the book she was quietly reading. “They don’t. At least not usually. Rachel can’t seem to kick the habit completely. When she feels stressed, she smokes.”
“I didn’t know Rachel smoked.”
Bonnie shot him a sidelong glance. Aaron knew that look; it was the there’s-a—lot-you-don’t-know look she had perfected in the last couple of weeks. He sighed, sat in a chair next to Bonnie, and closed his eyes, unable to shake the ill effects of the aggressive drug therapy.
“Why don’t you rest a bit? I’ll go see about the girls, then bring you some tea in a while.”