“No, I’m being sincere. You have . . . style.”
“Well. Beatrice taught me a lot.” Yes. Beatrice had been Hannah’s Svengali, back when she was a teenager. “You know,” she added, “Beatrice might be a great person for you to talk to these days. She’s very kind. If you let her in, you’d know that.”
“I have nothing against Beatrice.”
“Right.”
“I mean, I did, way back when.”
“Why, Lillie? She was so nice to both of us.”
“Um . . . because she was the other woman? Because she broke up our family? Because she hypnotized you and turned you into a different person?” Obviously, I was raw. What if Melissa hypnotized Dylan? My God! What if he loved her more than he loved me, the way Hannah loved Beatrice more than our mom? I grabbed a napkin and wiped my eyes.
“I needed to be a different person,” Hannah said, her voice gentle. “Don’t you remember?”
Zeus, tired of sleeping on his bed, jumped up onto the couch next to me to sleep there. He put his head in my lap and gazed up at me, his doggy eyes concerned.
“I mostly remember how much I missed you and how lonely I was,” I said, tracing Zeus’s spots. “Meanwhile, you were walking around their house with books on your head, speaking French and learning how to set a table for a five-course dinner.”
She looked at me steadily. “I was bullied so badly at school here in Wellfleet. I was five foot ten at age twelve and had this face.”
“What face? Your face?”
“Yes, Lillie! An ugly face. Big nose, weird forehead, small eyes. They called me—” She stopped. “It was a long time ago.”
“I never thought you were ugly.”
“You were the only one.”
“Dad never did, either.”
She sighed. “Well, you don’t know what it was like. They called me . . .” She paused. “They called me the Virus. Said they didn’t want to get too close in case my ugly was catching.”
“What? You should’ve told me! I would’ve beaten them up for you, Hannah!”
“Yeah, well, you were eight.”
“So? I was fierce!”
“You still are.” She gave a small smile, but her sadness was undeniable.
“What else happened that I don’t know about?” I asked.
“They’d trip me whenever they could. Shove my face down if I was getting a drink at the water fountain. I chipped my tooth when I was ten, remember?”
“No.”
“Well. They’d do other things. Put stuff in my lunch.”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know. Pencil shavings and dust. Once, Billy O’Hearn farted in my lunch box. I’d go to the bathroom, and Carrie-Ann Mortello would order me out and tell me to go to the boys’ room. I had no one to sit with at lunch. That sort of thing.”
My mouth hung open. “Why has it taken thirty years for you to tell me this?”
She shrugged. “I was embarrassed. It was . . . humiliating. And you . . . you loved me. I didn’t want you to know you were the only one.”
More tears surged into my eyes. “Oh, Hannah.”
“Then this fairy godmother came into our lives, and I got the chance to go to a new school district and become someone else. The stepdaughter of a Chanel designer, two moms, the house on Commercial Street . . . I couldn’t say no.” She finished her wine. “Of course I felt bad about leaving you. I tried for us to stay friends, Lillie. I really did.”
I sat back. “Well, we’re not exactly enemies.”
“But you never forgave me. And honestly, I don’t blame you. I picked me over you. You’re right. I left you.”
I swallowed. “I never really knew things were so hard for you, Han.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Well. I should go. This wedding is happening in three weeks, and I have a lot to do. What else would you like to know?” She was back to Hannah Chapman, wedding planner.
“What time does the ceremony start?” I asked, putting away all the information Hannah had just told me. For now.
“Four. But listen, Lillie. You can’t come. They’ve hired security, and they’ll be passing out your picture.”
“Wow. I guess I’m very scary. Glad I’ll be on their minds, anyway.”
“They called me a couple hours ago, asking for a biohazard cleaner for their house and lawn. There was a skunk in their house. Sprayed Brad right in the face.”
I laughed. “Oh, that’s delightful. Karma’s watching, I guess.” In the face! Huzzah! Well done, Flower!
Hannah looked amused, her version of uncontrollable giggles. “You wouldn’t know how the skunk got in, would you?”
“Inside their house? Do they have a dog door?”
“No. And being the daughter of a lawyer, I noted that you didn’t answer the question.”
I looked away from her old-soul gaze and squashed my smile. “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to hear about this. Can you blame me?”
“I cannot. Well. I’ll see you soon.” She came in for a hug, which was awkward, given our ten-inch height difference.
Still, it was nice. “Thanks, Hannah.”
“Don’t do anything that will get either of us sued, okay?”
“Okay.”
She left, and I went to the window and watched her pull out of the driveway.
She had tried to keep things the same, pretending that my life hadn’t been gutted. She went to that sunny, shiny new house, threw herself into the arms of our stepmother and didn’t look back. It was far worse than my mother’s desertion, because Hannah had always loved me. She had been my best friend. My only friend, really. It was only after I no longer had a big sister at home that I started meekly making friends with the girls in my class, the kids who rode the school bus with me. Until then, I’d never needed anyone else.
It had been so lonely, despite the chipmunks and turtles, the herons and seagulls. Without Hannah, our room felt too big, her empty, neatly made bed a constant reminder of her absence. Every other weekend she’d come home and seem a little surprised that she’d once lived here. “It seems smaller,” she’d said, but she was having a growth spurt that made her taller than even Dad. Each Wednesday night she’d come for dinner, which was sustenance food—Dad wasn’t much of a chef, so it was either from a can or a box, or his specialty—roasted carrots, potatoes and chicken cooked until it was practically jerky. Dessert was Oreos, the knockoff kind. Small wonder I became a good cook.
Contrast this with Mom’s, where I was summoned Monday nights for dinner and where I spent every other weekend. “You can always change your mind and move here,” Mom said at least twice per visit. She had painted “my” room purple—a lilac-hydrangea shade that I loved against my will. My bed was giant and covered in a fluffy white comforter with embroidered accent pillows. Where were those pillows the first eight years of my life, huh? Why couldn’t I have had pretty pillows in Wellfleet?
Beatrice, who told me to call her Maman, seemed to expect that I, like Hannah, would be bowled over by her fabulosity. I was not. She was beautiful. Stunning, really . . . her father Ethiopian, her mother Norwegian. Her French accent made her sound elegant (to be fair, anything sounded elegant compared to what we spoke here in Massachusetts). She had modeled in her early years and then gotten a design degree. She and my mother made quite a striking pair, Mom tall, blond and blue-eyed like her Danish ancestors, Beatrice with her shaved head, glowing brown skin and green eyes. It was like living with Tyra Banks. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.
“Lillie,” she told me the first weekend I stayed with them. My name sounded like Lee-Lee from her lips. “You must find a signature lip color. It defines a woman’s power and beauty, yes?”
“I’m eight,” I said.
“It is never too early to start,” she said. “Come! You may sit with me and try mine.”
“No, thanks.”