But as she often said, if she didn’t do it, someone else would, and these weddings were a great infusion of money into the local economy. Which was true. Beth and the Ice House often catered Hannah’s weddings and made a hefty profit. Her clients kept at least two florists in business, and the package stores adored her, bending over backward to get her guests the high-end stuff they demanded. She recommended local photographers, seamstresses, bakeries, chocolatiers, hotels. So Hannah was loved in the community, same as I was. Just in a very different way.
And then there was how we looked, dressed, decorated our homes. Hannah and I looked nothing alike. I was five foot three; she was six foot one. My clothing style was comfort based; hers was dress to kill. She knew how to put on makeup like a pro, and her straight black hair changed every few years, from bob to pixie to shaggy to sleek. My hair came down to my shoulders, was frizzy most days, curly some, and in a bun or ponytail most of the time.
Hannah was not conventionally attractive—she had a big nose and small eyes and her mouth was low on her face—but she was definitely elegant. Kind of an “Amy Winehouse in her better days” look. Strong boned. If she was Amy Winehouse, I was more of Carey Mulligan’s less attractive sister—girl-next-door prettiness. Cute little nose, big eyes, chubby cheeks. All our lives, people had asked Hannah and me and our parents if one of us was adopted. Hannah was and always had been single (and may have been asexual or even gay, but if she ever had a lover, I had never met him/her/them). I had slept with only one man and zero women. A pity, now that I despised my husband.
Hannah’s apartment was chic, sleek and comfortable (and chilly, I thought, all those shades of cool gray and stark white). My house was colorful, funky, often cluttered, and homey with worn couches that welcomed a nap and chairs frayed from Milo, our late great cat who had died in his sleep two years ago. Thomasina, Hannah’s cat, would never be so rude.
Hannah came back in with a tray, two wineglasses, a bottle of white wine in a marble wine chiller, some crumbly cheese, grapes and crackers, as well as a tiny vase holding three roses in various shades of pink. She was very fancy, courtesy of Beatrice.
“From your garden?” I asked as she poured.
“Yes.” She handed me a glass, sat down and crossed her legs. “How are you doing?”
“Shitty.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
I drank some wine. It was really good, all buttery and caramel and citrus.
“Do you want to . . . tell me about it?”
I sighed and sat back on the couch. Super comfy. Was it strange that we were in her office, rather than upstairs? Even though it looked like a very nice living room? “Um . . . it was the night before graduation,” I said. “We went to Pepe’s, and I surprised him with a vacation I’d booked. To Europe, to celebrate us having gotten Dylan off to college.”
“Can you afford that?” she asked, our mother’s girl. She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Well, we could afford it when we were a two-income family, Hannah. But no, and I did cancel it. Anyway,” I said, my voice sharp, “he told me that he was in love with someone else. Has been for some time.”
“My God. I never would have guessed he’d have the balls.”
I felt a little twinge of affection. “Me neither. And anyway, he’s moving in with her when Dylan leaves for college.”
“The day after tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yep.” Then something in me cracked, and I started crying, big ugly sobs. My hands went over my face, and I leaned forward against the pain.
“How horrible!” She leaned over and patted my knee, irritating me with that paltry gesture even as I grabbed a few tissues and blew my nose. How about a hug, sis? I wanted to ask. Then again, that would’ve been awkward. We weren’t the hugging type. Even as kids, I’d been the emotional one. She’d been calm and wise, sometimes regretful, but otherwise the epitome of grace under pressure. No wonder she made a killer living at her job.
When I quieted down, a little embarrassed at my outburst, I suddenly realized I was starving. Shoveled some cheese onto a cracker and stuffed it in my mouth. Repeated twice as my sister watched. Did a palate cleanse with the wine.
“Do you know who she is?” Hannah asked.
“Yes. Actually, I introduced them, Hannah. Can you believe it? Melissa Finch. She bought a house from the Fairchilds last winter, and— What?”
Hannah looked stricken. “She . . . she just booked a wedding consultation with me.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re going to plan my husband’s wedding, Hannah? Are you kidding me?”
“I—I didn’t know who the groom was, I swear! Obviously, I didn’t know,” Hannah said. “We have an appointment for next week, but I . . . She just called to make sure I was free. Said she heard I was the best. And um . . . she paid me a deposit. Twenty grand.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’ll tell her I can’t,” Hannah said. “Of course I will. I’ll cancel. She can use Rachel at Daylynn Designs. I’m so sorry, Lillie.”
I exhaled a long breath. “Well, you didn’t know.” I picked up the bottle of wine and poured myself another glass. “Did you like her?”
Hannah looked away. She always did such a perfect, subtle cat’s eye. It was a talent.
“You liked her,” I said. It was an accusation.
“I didn’t know, Lillie. I’ll hate her from now on, okay?”
“Good. She’s an amoral slut.” Slut shaming. Me, a champion for women and their bodies. “Strike that. Brad is an amoral slut.”
“I always thought you two were so . . . solid.”
“Yeah, me too.” I took another sip of wine.
“You’ve been sitting on this for all these weeks, Lils?”
“Mom knows.”
“Mom?” She was rightfully stunned.
“Free legal advice.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” She drank some wine and ate a cracker with cheese, much more gracefully than I had. When she was done chewing, she wiped her mouth delicately, her red lipstick staying in place. Truly Beatrice’s prodigy, as our stepmother, the former model, always looked camera ready. “What can I do, Lillie?”
A real sister, the kind you read about, the kind who knows you inside and out, would have offered to kill Brad. To publicly humiliate him. She would wrap her arms around me and fiercely promise to take care of me, reassure me that I wouldn’t be alone. She’d move in and sleep over for a month, and we’d drink wine and cry and laugh.
She was still waiting for an answer.
A thought occurred to me. “You know what? Take the job, planning their wedding. Be my spy.”
She winced. “Oh. Um . . . I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Okay. I understand. Great chat.” I stood up. “Gotta go.”
“Dylan came over this morning,” she said. “To say goodbye. I gave him some money. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. You’re his aunt.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll be around, Lillie. If you need . . . well. Someone to talk to.”
“Thanks.”
She walked me to the door. “You know what?” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your spy. I can’t tank their wedding, but yeah, I can give you some details and stuff.” She paused. “That is, if Brad wants me to handle this second wedding. He might not agree.”
“Oh, I think he’ll do whatever she wants,” I said. “And thanks, Hannah.”
“Of course.”
She was a very nice stranger, my sister. We almost hugged, then drew back simultaneously. “See you around,” I said.
“You bet.”
With that, I got in my car and headed to the ocean side of town. To home, where I’d wait for my son to come home, wait for tomorrow, the last day our little family would ever be together.
CHAPTER 7
Lillie
The night before my son left for college, I cooked his favorite meal and favorite dessert. Then, after my son went to bed and my asshole husband went downstairs to text his bride-to-be, I fantasized that I would get a fatal disease, and that would teach them, those two males who were leaving me. Boy, would they feel horrible! Oh, yes! Imagine the guilt trip there! Plus, I wouldn’t have to deal with anything, would I? I’d just die (peacefully, looking out over Herring Pond) in a blissful morphine fog and leave them to roil in guilt.
Or I’d move. I’d sell my house and move to Montana, not too far from Missoula, become a cook on a cattle ranch, learn how to ride horses and fall in love with a rugged cowboy who looked exactly like Idris Elba.