*
When Sydney arrived at the Waverley house, it was already dark. She hated these shorter days. She jogged up the steps to the door, pulling her trench coat around her in the chilly breeze. She was going to have to bring out her heavier coats soon. She wondered if Violet had a winter coat, or if Charlie had winter clothes.
Stop it, she told herself.
There was only so much she could control.
But that was just it. She was trying so hard because she felt so out of control. Violet could have a baby at the drop of the hat, and Sydney couldn’t. How was that fair? It had been so easy to get pregnant fifteen years ago, something so unconsciously done that it had been like waking up, something her body did naturally, telling her it was time. Now it took such effort, such energy.
Claire had warned Sydney about this. About her attachment to Charlie. Sydney told her sister everything. Too much, probably, but Claire was always there, always listened, always said the right thing, whether Sydney wanted to believe her or not. Sometimes Sydney felt like she took too much from Claire. When Claire called her, it was simply to ask how Sydney was doing. Claire never asked for help, never seemed to have problems she didn’t already know how to fix. As much as Sydney loved Claire, that could be pretty frustrating. It would be nice if, every once in a while, Claire could have a problem, too. It wouldn’t have to be a big one. Just something small that would allow Sydney to show up triumphantly with a bottle of wine and say, “I know just what to do!”
Sydney reached the front door and tried to open it. It didn’t budge. She got out her Waverley house key and tried to unlock it. It still wouldn’t open. She tried the doorbell, but it didn’t ring. Confused, she crossed the porch and looked in the sitting room to see Bay and Mariah watching television. The curtains closed on her suddenly, leaving her in darkness on the porch.
Oh. Now she understood.
Sydney went back to the door. She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one could hear, then she whispered, “I don’t care if you’re unhappy that I grounded her. I’ll come back and paint you an ugly green color if you don’t open right now,” she said. She felt ridiculous, as she always did when she had to face this kind of Waverley stuff.
But the door opened.
The house had always been a little vain.
As soon as she walked in, she heard Tyler yell from upstairs, “I forgot. What was I supposed to do up here?”
Claire called from the kitchen, “Caulk around the attic vents!”
“Right, right,” Tyler said.
Sydney went to the sitting room and said, “Ready to go?”
Bay nodded and stood.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Sydney said, walking to the kitchen.
Claire was taking fried chicken out of a box Tyler had obviously brought home. She looked up from setting the pieces on a plate when Sydney came in.
“KFC? This is a new low,” Sydney joked, walking over to her. “Start cooking again, please.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Really?” Sydney said, surprised. This was the first she’d heard of it. Everyone in the family had been trying to get her to start cooking again, and not just because they loved to eat. Well, that was most of it. But something about Waverley’s Candies was turning Claire inward again, and that was never a good thing. Sometimes Sydney feared if Claire went inward too long, she might not ever come out again, like their grandmother, who’d hidden under the staircase when someone knocked on the front door, not wanting anyone in her house.
“Evanelle stopped by today and gave me a spatula. Maybe it’s a sign.” Claire shrugged, and Sydney knew that was that. Claire wasn’t going to say any more.
Sydney turned and leaned against the counter. “How is Bay?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“I should. I will,” Sydney said with resolve. “There are things I’ve never told her that I need to say. I just don’t know how to say them.”
Claire wiped her hands on a nearby towel. “Speaking of things we were never told, Evanelle told me today that Grandmother Mary’s husband was named Karl.” Claire walked into her small office attached to the kitchen and came back out and handed Sydney an old photo. “As in this Karl, from the photos we found on Saturday. How did we not know that?”
“We never asked, I guess. You can tell he’s trouble. Look at that smile.” Sydney looked closer at the black-and-white photo. “Mom had his chin.”
“You do, too. Karl is the name on this kitchen journal we found, too,” Claire said, holding it up. “The one all blacked out.”
“Looks like you’ve stumbled upon a mystery.”
Claire started to say something, then paused and looked at Sydney, tilting her head curiously. “Is your hair getting more red?”
She’d put her hair in a bun, hoping to make it less noticeable. “I swear I’m not doing it,” she said, touching the bun. “Every morning I wake up and it gets worse. I’m going to try to dye it tomorrow. I can’t wait for first frost. Everything will calm down again then.”
Claire nodded. “Five more days.”
“You seem to be faring pretty well,” Sydney said. “No first frost trouble for you?” That was the thing about Claire, you never really knew for sure. You had to rely on her to tell you. Sometimes Sydney wished she could contain herself as well as her sister, so that everything didn’t spill out. Then again, she knew the price her sister paid for those walls.
“Don’t jinx it,” Claire said.
“Don’t go looking for it, either,” Sydney said pointedly, handing the photo back to her sister as she left the kitchen.