Beach Plum Island (28 page)

Joan Toledo had written the copy, Elaine was pleased to see. Joan had become their top copywriter in just a few short weeks, stripping the fat out of Web copy and going for an emotional impact with creative, energetic, even muscular headlines. This last campaign was pure genius.

Elaine stopped by Joan’s cubicle to tell her about Tony’s call and congratulate her. Joan was looking sleeker and better dressed these days, more up to speed in stylish peep-toe shoes and a knee-length blue cap-sleeve dress that flattered her round figure and set off her silvery hair nicely. She looked adorable and Elaine told her so.

Joan flushed and produced a lipstick out of her bag. “You were right about war paint,” she said. “Makes a big difference. Hey, I was just going for lunch. Want to join me?”

It was an impulsive invitation, Elaine knew. She also knew better than to accept; after all, she was the vice president and what was Joan? A disposable copywriter. She was amazed Joan had the balls to invite her.

Elaine—deliberately—had never eaten lunch with anyone from the office other than Tony, wanting to keep boundaries clear. Not that Tony did; he sometimes invited the younger employees out for lunch and even drinks after work, saying it built company morale. Maybe it did. What did she know about morale, with her own self-esteem in the ditch lately?

“Sure,” Elaine heard herself say, and knew the voice had sprung from some deep need of her own, a loneliness she seldom acknowledged.

At Joan’s suggestion, they went to a new Thai place on Mass Ave. The restaurant was packed but quiet enough that they could talk once they got their meals—noodle soup for Joan, Thai chicken salad for Elaine.

Naturally, they discussed work at first. They were in the process of creating an online magazine for a university in Connecticut. The university had asked Elaine if she had any writers who could handle the feature stories; Joan would be perfect for that. Luckily, when Elaine mentioned it, Joan was all over the project. She could check that off her task list.

Eventually the conversation turned personal, which was the reason Elaine avoided having lunch with employees. Lately, hearing other people talk about their families made her feel inadequate. It seemed like everyone around her had a partner and kids whose bad art and toothless photos were tacked onto cubicle walls. The only single employees were under thirty. Of course, that was partly the nature of their work; Tony liked hiring younger people, figuring they were closer to understanding what kind of branding appealed to prospective college students.

Not that it mattered where you went to college. Despite her lofty career in marketing institutions of higher education, as far as Elaine could tell, what it said on your degree didn’t matter nearly as much these days as what you did while you were in school. One case in point: their best account manager graduated from some podunk Catholic college in Connecticut she’d never heard of before hiring him; he had earned his chops by writing for Web sites senior year to make beer money.

Joan was talking about her husband now, who apparently was a police officer on disability and learning to cook. She hadn’t pictured Joan married to a cop, certainly, but apparently they’d known each other since high school. What would that be like, Elaine wondered, having someone who knew you, really
got
you, and stayed with you through mortgages and hair loss, toddler tantrums and college bills, hospital stays and retirement plans?

It would be boring, she reminded herself. There would be days when your spouse would drone on about the plumbing and nag you about groceries and dry cleaning. The kids—as she’d seen with Ava’s boys—would forget to do their chores and expect food on the table, night after night, without noticing how much you did for them. You wouldn’t be alone. That was the upside of domestic life. But you wouldn’t ever be alone, and that was the downside, too.

“Listen to me, droning on,” Joan said happily, pushing away her empty bowl. “What about you? Do you have a family?”

Elaine gave her the obligatory glossy version of her sister, and of her sister’s kids being like her own, wanting to slide out of sight beneath the booth because of how big a lie that was. She had a family, sure. But she wasn’t part of it.

Joan must have understood, though, because Elaine could see a flicker of pity in the other woman’s round brown eyes, even as she said, “I always envy you single women your freedom,” and offered to treat Elaine to lunch, which of course Elaine had to refuse.

“This was lovely,” Elaine said, knowing she wouldn’t make this mistake again.

Back at the office, she dove eagerly into e-mail mode, sorting priorities, then made up a calendar of work assignments to present at the staff meeting on Friday. She was just finishing that when her phone rang.

It was the receptionist, Carl. “Your sister is here to see you,” he said.

Elaine felt a flutter of alarm in her throat. Ava had only been to the office a few times, and always at Elaine’s invitation to lunch or a company event. If she was here, it must be something important.

“Send her in,” she said with a smile so forced it actually hurt. “What a nice surprise.” No need for gossipy Carl to know anything was odd about Ava visiting the office.

Elaine straightened the pens on her desk that were already regimented into lines by color and type, then folded her hands on top of a stack of papers. That felt wrong, though, so she turned back to her computer, opened a document, and stared at the screen without seeing it.

It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like an eternity before Carl ushered Ava into the office. Carl Rossi was greyhound lean, and usually dressed in black shirts and black pants that were somehow miraculously lint free. He had a convict’s haircut and, except for the turquoise jewelry, looked like an undertaker. But he had a killer smile, never forgot a name, and handled their baffling phone system with the techie grace of a professional computer gamer.

Carl had given Ava a cup of coffee in one of the office mugs with the company logo that turned colors depending on the temperature of your beverage. Ava set it down on Elaine’s desk, carefully centering the mug on the cork coaster before sitting down in one of the leather chairs angled in front of the desk.

“What are you doing here?” Elaine asked. No point in pretending this was normal, when both of them knew it wasn’t.

“I wanted to see you.” Ava’s face contorted into what might pass for a smile with anyone but Elaine. She wore a yellow summer dress—something totally out of character—and looked tan and muscular, attractive and confident. Elaine felt suddenly self-conscious in her tight black skirt, ruched red top, and red open-toed heels, like a little girl caught playing dress-up by a cool teenager.

“Obviously, you wanted to see me, or you wouldn’t be here,” Elaine said. “What’s up?” She picked up a pen, forced herself to put it down again.

“I had to run some errands and thought I might take you to lunch.”

“Errands? In
Boston
?”

Ava looked sheepish. “Okay, only in Danvers. But since I was that far south, I figured I might as well drive the rest of the way. Apparently you don’t have time to return my calls. Can you spare a few minutes to grab a bite to eat?”

“I’ve already eaten. I went out with another woman from the office.”

“Oh!” Ava’s green eyes widened in surprise. She knew Elaine’s lunch habit was typically salad at her desk. “Too bad.”

“It’s already one o’clock,” Elaine pointed out. “You should have called to let me know you were coming.”

“I didn’t know I was coming until I was on my way. Besides, I was pretty sure you’d find an excuse not to see me.”

Elaine didn’t want to admit how true this was. “I’ve been busy, as you can see.” She gestured to the folders on her desk, the computer. “Look, text me some good days for you next week and I’ll check my calendar after our Friday staff meeting. How are the boys?” she asked suddenly, because seeing Ava in front of her made her realize how much she’d missed seeing Evan and Sam.

“Fine. Working less than they should, gaming more than they’re sleeping. Growing an inch an hour. The usual.” Ava pulled her chair closer to the desk and reached for the coffee, made an appreciative noise as she drank. “Wow. You should definitely keep that guy out front.”

“If only to look at him.”

For a minute, the women smiled at each other. Then Ava frowned and said, “Why are you avoiding me?”

Elaine hadn’t expected an actual confrontation. That wasn’t something Ava did. “I’m not!”

Ava’s green eyes were fixed on her face like twin suns. “Don’t bullshit me. You don’t answer my calls or texts. We haven’t spoken in over a week. We don’t
do
that, Elaine. That’s not who we are as sisters. I want to know what’s going on.”

Ava was right, of course. They’d been angry at each other, hurt, irritated, impatient, in the past. They’d been a lot of things, as sisters. But never, ever silent.

“You know why.” Elaine felt suddenly, wearyingly tearful.

Ava didn’t look away. “I know you don’t like Gigi being around, but that’s getting a little old. Grow up.”

“She isn’t just
around
! She’s practically living at your house!” Elaine said fiercely, surprising them both with her vehemence, then bit her lip, ashamed. “I don’t
want
to hate her. I know she’s just a kid. But I can’t help it. I hate everything she represents.”

“Honey, you can’t keep holding Dad’s decision to leave against her. For that matter, it wasn’t Dad’s fault that Mom died. Or yours. You keep acting like she killed herself, but she didn’t. Mom had a heart attack. Yes, she might have lived if she’d gotten help in time, but whose choice was it for her to live the way she did? Not yours! It was never your choice, Elaine, not any of it,” Ava said. “Let it go.”

Elaine bolted out of her chair so fast that she bumped the desk, making Ava’s coffee spill over the sides of the mug. So much for a cork coaster. “I don’t know
how to let it go
,” she said. “Every time I look at Gigi, I think about it. And then this whole brother thing? Why would Dad tell you and Gigi about that, but not me?
Why?
” Elaine spun in a circle and, trapped in her corner, folded her arms and leaned against the big windows overlooking Boylston Street.

“You couldn’t have saved Mom,” Ava said quietly. “The more we find out about what happened, the more sure I am of that.”

“I know,” Elaine said miserably, “but it doesn’t mean I’m ready to make nice with people who make me remember everything bad that happened.”

“What about me? Am I somebody you have to avoid now, because I make you remember the bad times, too? What about all of the
good
things between us? Can’t you focus on that?”

Elaine couldn’t breathe. It was as if the air in the room had been sucked out onto Boylston Street through the big windows behind her. “No. Not right now,” she said, staring down at her ridiculous too-red shoes.

Ava’s eyes glistened with tears. “
Look
at me,” she hissed. “Pick up your head and
look
at me. Don’t you think I feel guilty and angry, too, for not being there to help you cope with Mom? I
left
you. I don’t feel great about that. But we all have things that happen that are beyond our control. We just have to figure out how to live with the chaos.”

“Maybe you do. Not me. I’ve never liked chaos.” Elaine lifted her eyes just as far as the desk, where she focused on the neat stacks of papers and folders and the line of pens in every color. What she needed, more than anything, was a drink. “I’m sorry. But could you leave now, please? I’ve got work to do.”

•   •   •

Neal texted early in the morning to ask if Gigi wanted to ride. She called Ava just to make sure it was all right if she skipped a morning in the studio, then texted Neal back to say yes.

She’d been riding with her mother a few times since that first time they went out, but it still felt weird to return to the stables. Especially pedaling her bike up the road to meet Neal, who’d been at the barns since early morning, turning horses out into the paddocks so he could muck out the stalls. He greeted her with a big grin, though, putting her at ease, accompanied by a goofy-looking dog she’d seen around the stables without realizing that Neal and the dog belonged together.

“Meet Beast,” Neal said. “Beast, meet Gigi.”

The dog looked like a bear, black with short ears that stood straight up. It had almost no tail at all, but wagged its hind end and made a big show of jumping around Gigi like she was a long-lost friend.

Neal had an easy way with horses, gentling them with his deep voice and slow hands. He swung up onto LazyBoy, a young Thoroughbred just brought in from the track by a woman “with more money than sense,” Neal said, who was determined to turn the colt into a hunter-jumper. Not many people wanted to ride that horse because nobody trusted him.

Gigi could see why. LazyBoy was one big nerve, a glossy red chestnut with a strung-out way of tossing his head and prancing in place. Gigi prayed no car alarm would go off; she knew the horse would race toward an invisible finish line at any sound remotely like a bell.

Soon, though, Neal had LazyBoy trotting along on the trails, only occasionally shying away from shadows, swinging his big hind end around as he eyeballed a chickadee or squirrel in terror, making Gigi laugh. Oddly, instead of making the horse more nervous, Beast seemed to calm it down, trotting right next to LazyBoy’s legs as if he were just one more horse on the trail.

The only other guy Gigi had ever been riding with was her father. Neal, she noticed, had the same unschooled but graceful way of relaxing in the saddle, paying little attention to whether his heels were up or down in the stirrups but easily commanding the horse with the pressure of his long legs. This was how she imagined cowboys would ride.

They talked in little snatches, depending on whether they were trotting or walking, and whether they were on a single track or cart road. She found out that Neal was seventeen, starting his senior year at the same public high school Evan and Sam went to; he was interested in pretty much the opposite of everything Gigi liked. For instance, he was in AP calculus and she could barely manage algebraic equations. She loved English, but Neal said he’d rather slit his wrists than ever write another paper.