“My god . . . You’ve actually fallen for him. A grubby little reporter paid to invent lurid tales about your own family. And please don’t pretend all of this didn’t come from him. You sound like a sappy schoolgirl. Well, he chose his mark wisely—I’ll give him that.”
The remark stings, perhaps because it hits too close to the bone. You did choose wisely. And yet I find myself needing to defend you, too proud to concede that she’s right. I feel myself wavering, wanting to justify what you’ve done—or at least your motives for doing it. But how am I any different from my sister if I’m willing to turn a blind eye to a betrayal simply because I can’t bear the truth? And yet, I cannot allow her this petty triumph.
“You’re wrong about him,” I say evenly. “You’ve been wrong from the start. He was never going to be on your side. You thought you could buy him, use him to create some hero’s narrative, but he was never going to do it. He’s not for sale.”
“Not for sale?” She actually laughs, a high, mocking trill. “You poor dolt. You never saw him coming. You’re a would-be heiress, engaged to one of the most eligible men in the state, but he makes a play for you anyway. He woos you with that pretty face and that stuffy accent. And then, when he’s got you on the hook, he begins to pry little bits of information out of you. He wants to know all about you, how you grew up, and what it was like being the daughter of such an important man. He sets up a little love nest so the two of you can be alone, away from the big bad world, and you play house together. All of this after he’s managed to get himself invited to this house and into Father’s inner circle. Did it never occur to you to ask yourself what he might hope to gain from all that romancing? Or what would happen once he had what he wanted?”
It sounds so obvious when she lays it all end to end like that, so completely and carefully orchestrated. Because that’s exactly how it happened, right down to that first invitation to dinner and the fight we had after. You were in your element that night, smiling and nodding as my sister dragged you around the room, introducing you to people you would have never met otherwise. None of this is news, of course. You admitted as much to me. But knowing that she knows it too—that she sees me for the fool I’ve been—is a hard pill to swallow.
Tears suddenly threaten. I try to blink them away, but Cee-Cee sees them and huffs impatiently. “You little fool. The man doesn’t have two nickels to his name and you were prepared to throw away your entire life for him—to live on love, I suppose. Meanwhile, what have you been giving him?” She rakes her eyes over me, slow and knowing. “Nothing you can get back, I’ll wager.”
“He hasn’t taken a cent from me.”
She brushes past me then, without so much as a glance. “I wasn’t talking about money.”
Hours later, I’m still uncertain what comes next. I’ve been working on a letter—two letters actually—though I’m not certain I have the strength to finish either. I can’t seem to stop weeping. But I have a decision to make. I’ve been wrestling with the words, with the impossible choice between my heart and my head. But how can I choose? It’s as if I’ve been set adrift and there’s no way back to you. No way back to anything. But I must choose. And soon.
I wonder, too, how to deliver the letters once they’re written. I could phone instead. Discretion seems pointless now that our secret is no longer secret. But the truth is I’m putting it all on paper because I know I will never be brave enough to say what I almost certainly have to—not once I’ve heard your voice. And yet, I must say it, mustn’t I?
Goodbye.
Cee-Cee was right. I have been naive. About so many things. Living in a fantasy world where the fairy princess and the handsome pauper ride off into the sunset and the wicked king is never heard from again. But life doesn’t work like that. The pauper isn’t who he seems and the king is all-powerful. There is no sunset, and the princess is a fool.
I’m still at my writing desk when Cee-Cee enters without knocking. I’m startled by her sudden presence and annoyed that she feels entitled to enter without permission. I don’t want her to see me like this.
I sit stiffly as she eases her way into the room, peering past me at the sheet of blue notepaper in front of me. “Writing a letter?”
She asks it so casually, as if we haven’t just had a cataclysmic argument. I drag my diary across the half-written page and fold my hands over it. “A poem,” I lie. “One I’ve been working on for several weeks.”
“I didn’t know you were writing again.” She tries for a smile, then drops it when she realizes I’m not in the mood for smiles. “May I see it?”
“You’ve never cared about poetry before. Mine least of all. In fact, I remember you running to Father once with a notebook of mine and getting me in trouble.”
She sighs wearily. “Are we going to read through the entire catalog of my sins?”
“If you’d like.”
I push to my feet and step away from the desk, prepared to do battle again. Instead, Cee-Cee surprises me by fishing a freshly pressed handkerchief from her pocket and handing it to me. I accept it warily and blot my eyes.
She wanders to the bed and drops down heavily. “We shouldn’t fight.”
I say nothing. I’m not interested in her olive branch.
“Look, I’m sorry about the things I said earlier. I didn’t realize how serious it had gotten with the two of you, and you caught me off guard. You’ve always been the little sister, and when I see you wandering into trouble, I suppose I still feel a need to protect you.”
I can scarcely believe my ears. “When have you ever protected me?”
She drops her gaze. “I know we haven’t been close, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. We’re family.”
I study her—her wide, soft eyes and turned-down mouth—and wonder who this stranger is sitting on my bed. Certainly no one I’ve ever met. She looks tired, even a bit shaken. I sit down beside her, stiff, silent.
“You think me harsh,” she says quietly. “And I suppose I am. Sometimes out of need, other times out of habit. But I’ve had so much responsibility since . . . since Mother died. And there’s always been such a difference in our ages. I’ve never quite known how to be with you, how to straddle the line between mother and sister. But you’re grown up now. A woman, not a child. We should be friends.”
Friends.
I stare at her handkerchief, freshly pressed a moment ago, now wrung into a damp knot. We’ve barely been sisters. How can we ever be friends? Friends trust one another. And I don’t trust anyone anymore.
She brings her face close to mine, offering a tremulous smile. “Can we, do you think? Put the harshness behind us?” She reaches for my hand, tracing her thumb over my knuckles. “Please?”
The moment of softness, so unexpected, so unfamiliar, brings a fresh rush of tears. I try to hold them at bay, but it’s useless. I crumple against her, sobbing.
“Poor darling,” she croons, patting my back. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”