Rainy Day Sisters (6 page)

“Oh, go on, then,” Lucy answered with a smile, and her heart lightened rather ridiculously as Juliet opened the bottle and poured two glasses.
This
was what she'd been hoping for when she'd come to England. Cozy suppers and confiding chats over large glasses of red.

“How was your first day, anyway?” Juliet asked when they were both seated.

“Overwhelming,” Lucy confessed, adding hurriedly, “I know it probably shouldn't be. I'm just answering phones and photocopying—”

“Any first day is bound to be a bit overwhelming,” Juliet answered. “It will get better.”

“I hope so.”

“Alex didn't give you a hard time?”

She thought of his tongue-lashing about the card stock, and then his terse apology. “No, not really.” She raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of wine. “Why do you ask?”

“He's known to be a bit tough, as I said. But the school went from Very Good to Excellent in the last Ofsted inspection.”

“I'm not even sure I know what any of that means, but it sounds impressive.”

Juliet cracked a small smile and Lucy asked impulsively, “Have you heard from—from Fiona at all?”

Juliet's smile disappeared and she looked away. “No, but then I haven't heard from her in about ten years. I called her on her birthday five years ago, but she's never rung or written me.”

“Really?” Lucy sat back in her chair, surprised by this admission yet recognizing that she had no real reason to be. She'd e-mailed Juliet on occasion, and they'd communicated a little through Facebook, but that was about it. Around five years ago Lucy had come to London for a spur-of-the-moment weekend and Juliet had taken the train down. They'd had a rather awkward lunch at the café at Selfridges, where they had not talked about their mother at all, yet she had been as present as if she'd been sitting at the table.

Now Lucy recalled Juliet's one visit to America, back when she was nine or ten, and Juliet must have been around twenty. There had been no big argument that Lucy remembered, but Juliet had left after only a few days, and Fiona had acted as if her oldest daughter hadn't visited, didn't exist. It hadn't bothered Lucy at the time; Juliet had just been one more person flitting in and out of their lives.

“Did you two have a falling-out?” she asked now, recognizing even as she said it that it was a rather stupid question. Of course something must have happened to make them so estranged from each other. Although considering they were talking about their mother, self-absorbed, nonmaternal Fiona, maybe not.

“We were never
in
anything to fall
out
of,” Juliet replied flatly.

Lucy frowned. “What do you mean—”

“Look, she might have wanted you,” Juliet cut her off, her voice hardening as she turned to give Lucy a sudden, savage glare, “and paid for a sperm donor so she could be a mother and all the rest of it. But she never wanted me, and she let me know it every single day of my childhood.”

Juliet

JULIET DRAINED HER GLASS
of wine as Lucy stared at her slackly and then abruptly she rose from the table. “I need to walk the dogs,” she said, even though she'd just given them a walk, and she left the kitchen without waiting for a response.

In the hall she called for the dogs and they came nervously, wagging their stubby tails, unsure of this sudden change in routine.

She grabbed her coat and the dogs' leads and headed out into the night. She needed to get out of the house, away from her own awful admission and Lucy's stunned stare, even if just for a few minutes.

It was past seven, the sky the color of a bruise, a hint of rain in the air. The wind was starting to stir up as it did most autumn nights, and fallen leaves swirled about Juliet's boots as she walked around the house to the muddy lane in the back that cut through the sheep fields. No one would be out on this rutted track at twilight, and she wanted to be alone.

She had a sudden, shaming desire to burst into tears, which infuriated her. She
never
cried. Anger was far better than tears, and she clung to it as she strode into the darkness, the dogs at her heels. She'd rather be angry at Lucy than miserable about her own loneliness.

She should have expected Lucy to get to her a little. She hadn't seen her sister properly in so long, she'd forgotten how the simple fact of Lucy's existence could hurt, reminding her of why Fiona had needed a second daughter in the first place.

The sky was darkening, and Juliet could barely see the rutted lane in front of her. She heard a gate in the distance banging against a post, a disconsolate sound. The dogs pressed close to her sides; they didn't like being out in the dark, and they quivered nervously, sensing the disquiet of her mood. Overcome by sudden remorse, Juliet dropped to her knees and stroked their heads, murmuring soothing nonsense as they pressed even closer to her. She shut her eyes, taking comfort from the warmth of their bodies, their obvious need of her.

It surprised her, this feeling of loneliness coming back to ride her so hard now. Ironic, really, that it had taken someone coming to live with her to make her realize how alone she really was. She'd been on her own for so long she'd thought she'd become used to it.

The sound of footsteps had her tensing, and she looked up from her dogs to see a man coming down the lane, a dog trotting by his heels. Peter Lanford with his border collie, Jake. She recognized him even though it was dark; there was something unique about his slow, steady gait, the untidy shock of brown hair under a well-worn flat cap, and the dog trotting faithfully beside him. He came closer, squinting in the darkness.

“Juliet? That you?”

Juliet straightened slowly, hating that her emotions were still so close to the surface, making her feel as if she'd lost a layer of skin. “Hello, Peter.”

Even in the darkness she could see Peter's smile, a shy thing, but no less genuine. He whistled to Milly and Molly and patted their heads; when they came rushing towards him, Jake sniffed them with disinterest before sitting obediently.

“Has your sister arrived?” he asked, and Juliet just kept herself from reminding yet another person that Lucy was only her half sister.

“Yes, last week.” She didn't think she'd actually told Peter that Lucy was coming, but news traveled quickly around Hartley-by-the-Sea. Tell one person something and you might as well have told the whole village.

“How's she settling in, then?”

“Fine.” In her mind's eye Juliet saw Lucy's stunned expression as she'd stalked out of the kitchen; she'd looked as if Juliet had slapped her. “She's good.”

“And how about you? Not always easy, sharing a house.”

Peter gave her a lopsided smile that hinted at too much understanding. He was a man of few words, but Juliet had always appreciated his plain speaking, his steady, stolid approach to village issues at the parish council meetings. They'd worked together on drafting a proposal for a new playground at the beach, and Peter had confronted the Copeland Council on giving the village more litter bins. Small but important things, and they'd shown him to be both trustworthy and dedicated.

That did not, however, make her want to confide even an iota of what she was feeling now.

“I'm used to sharing a house,” she said, and was glad to hear how unconcerned she sounded. “I run a bed-and-breakfast, after all.”

“Different, that,” Peter remarked, and Juliet suppressed a stab of irritation at how he cut to the heart of things with so few words. Sheep farmers weren't supposed to be so emotionally attuned, were they?

“I'm not sure it is,” she replied. “Lucy's just like my other guests, except she's staying longer and she doesn't pay.”

Too late Juliet heard the bitterness in those words, the way they fell into the silence like stones. She turned away to needlessly untangle the dogs' leads.

To her shock she felt Peter's hand on her shoulder, a heavy weight that had her whole body tensing even as she registered its warmth and solidity.

“Bound to be hard at first. You're like me, used to being alone.”

God, she was far too used to being alone. She was tired of it, desperately so, yet she didn't want puppyish Lucy being the person that ended her isolation.

Juliet stared down at the leads looped through her fingers; the wind blew her hair into her eyes and Peter still had his hand on her shoulder. She had the opposing desires to both shrug it off and keep it there.

“You're not really alone, Peter,” she said when she trusted her voice to sound normal. “You live with your father.” William Lanford had run the farm before Peter, and although he was elderly now, his health clearly starting to fail, Juliet still saw him out sometimes, with Jake trotting by his side.

After an endless moment Peter removed his hand. “That's different too,” he said, and Juliet chose not to ask what he meant.

“I should get back. It's late, and Lucy . . .” Somehow she wasn't able to finish that sentence.
Lucy thinks I hate her? Feels sorry for me? Will still be there, even though I half wish she wasn't?

Peter tipped his flat cap at her, a gesture that seemed rather ridiculously gentlemanly, almost from a different age. Juliet nodded back and then wordlessly she turned around and headed back to Tarn House.

The house was quiet and dark when she let herself in, and she saw their meal had been cleared away, the dishwasher turned on, the wine bottle corked, the glasses drying upside down in the drainer. When she opened the fridge, she saw that Lucy had left her half-finished plate of pasta on a shelf, neatly covered in plastic wrap, and somehow this small gesture caused a lump to form in her throat, so it hurt to swallow.

She settled the dogs in their beds even though it wasn't much past eight o'clock, locked up, and went upstairs, pausing for a moment in the hallway. She could see light spilling out from under Lucy's door, but she couldn't hear anything except the relentless wind.

Juliet hesitated, staring at that door, and then pressing her lips together in a firm line, she turned and went to her bedroom.

Lucy

AFTER JULIET HAD LEFT
the kitchen, Lucy had sat at the table for a good fifteen minutes, staring into space, her mind spinning without snagging on any coherent thought. Then she'd gotten up, tidied the remains of their meal, and tiptoed upstairs to her room, even though she'd known there was no one else in the house. She'd heard Juliet calling to the dogs and then the slam of the door.

Alone in her bedroom, she decided to tidy up there too. It wasn't until she'd folded all her clothes away, had thrown out the crumpled receipts and gum from her trip, and was sitting on the edge of her bed that she realized what she'd done. She'd just tried to erase all signs of her presence in Juliet's house. Because Juliet didn't want her here.

It hadn't been her imagination; her half sister actually did resent her.
She may have wanted you, but she never wanted me.

Was that true? It shamed her that she'd never really thought about her mother's relationship, or lack of it, with Juliet. And it made her feel like laughing or tearing her hair out or both, because Juliet might think Fiona had wanted her, but Lucy had never felt all that wanted. Her whole childhood had felt like an apology for messing up her mother's life.

And Juliet probably felt the same. Perhaps they had something in common, even if her
half
sister didn't think they did.

But she could hardly go explaining that to Juliet now. She didn't even want to face her, and the anger and contempt she'd seen so plainly on her face when Lucy had thought they'd been enjoying a pleasant dinner together.

With a sigh she reached for her laptop. She didn't care anymore that her life here in Hartley-by-the-Sea wasn't as promising as she'd hoped it would be. She needed to talk to a friend.

It took three attempts on Skype to reach Chloe, who was, Lucy realized belatedly, at work at two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon.

“Luce.” The Internet connection was so slow that while Lucy could hear Chloe's voice, her friend's face was frozen in a smiling rictus, her eyebrows drawn together in concern. “What's up? You know I'm at work, right?”

“Sorry, I forgot the time difference.”

“It's okay. I'm taking a late lunch. I've been thinking about you. How's village life? As charming as you hoped?”

Briefly Lucy remembered talking with determined airiness about the appeal of English villages. She'd been picturing something vaguely Shakespearean in the Cotswolds, all thatched roofs and clotted cream.

“‘Charming' isn't exactly the word I'd use,” she said. Even though Chloe's image was still frozen on the computer screen, Lucy heard a tiny sigh, and then Chloe shifting her chair.

“You need to give yourself some time to settle in, Luce. How's the job?”

Lucy thought of Alex yelling at her about the stupid card stock. “Not great. But that's not really it. . . .” She trailed off, realizing that she didn't actually want to tell Chloe about Juliet, or what she'd said. It felt disloyal, as if it wasn't her secret to share. “It's just a bit more awkward than I expected.”

“Well, it's bound to be, isn't it? You and Juliet barely know each other.” Chloe spoke bracingly, the way she always did, but it irritated Lucy now. She didn't want a pep talk. She wanted sympathy. She wanted to do the one thing she'd tried to keep herself from, which was to luxuriate in self-pity. To stop looking for the bright side and wallow in the darkness instead.

“I'm not sure she wants to get to know me,” she said finally. She pictured Juliet's face right before she'd stalked out of the kitchen. Lucy had never seen such an expression of resentment and
loathing
before. Her mother might have used her as publicity fodder, and her boyfriend of three years might have broken up with her with no more than a shrug of apology, but neither of them had looked at her as Juliet had.

“She invited you,” Chloe protested reasonably. “So she must want you there.”

“That's what I thought.” Lucy tried for a laugh and didn't quite succeed. “But honestly? I have no idea why she invited me. She certainly isn't acting like she wants me here. At all.”

“Then maybe you should ask her. Get to the bottom of this.”

Which would, of course, be Chloe's advice. Chloe was confrontational, even aggressive. She'd faced down their smarmy landlord when the loft conversion they'd rented in South Boston during college hadn't actually been all that converted. Lucy had hidden behind a stack of old copper piping and watched a huge rat waddle across the floor of their stripped apartment.

“I can't,” she said.

“Why not? What have you got to lose?”

“A place to live? Seriously, Chloe. I think Juliet is more than half-inclined to boot me out.”

“Why? What happened?”

“It's . . . just a feeling,” Lucy said, knowing she was being lame. On the screen Chloe's image had unfrozen and then frozen again, so she was stuck in mid–eye roll. She should have known better than to expect unquestioning sympathy from Chloe. “It'll get better, I suppose,” she said with absolutely no conviction.

“It will if you try,” Chloe said. “Maybe this is a chance for you to get to know your sister properly.”

“I thought that when I came, but honestly, Chloe, she's not—”

“Get to the bottom of what happened between you two—”

“Nothing
happened
. Before I came here, we had maybe five conversations total.”

“And why was that?” Chloe pressed, and Lucy slumped back against the bed, a pillow clutched to her chest.

“Because I don't think Juliet was ever interested in knowing me.”

“But she invited you, so something must have changed. Maybe there's some tension, but there's also opportunity.”

Chloe always saw opportunity. They'd been friends since they were eighteen and as the years had gone on, Lucy had fallen further and further behind in the opportunity stakes. Chloe had graduated from Boston University summa cum laude; Lucy had barely scraped a 3.0. Chloe had gone to grad school; Lucy had started as a barista. And now Chloe had some high-flying job in marketing and her own office, and Lucy had . . .

A temporary job and a sister who hated her.

“All I'm saying,” Chloe persevered, “is try to see the bright side—”

“I've been seeing the bright side my whole life,” Lucy cut across her. “You
know
that. But maybe there isn't one here. Maybe I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, England, with a sister and a boss who both hate me. And it's freezing here, by the way. And it rains. Constantly.”

Chloe cocked her head. “Finished?”

“No, I haven't mentioned the wind. It is so windy I am doomed to have a bad hair day for the next four months.”

“Now,
that
sucks.”

Lucy let out a little laugh. She couldn't hold on to her self-pity for long. “Yes, it does suck. Majorly.”

Chloe was silent for a moment, and Lucy wasn't sure it was due to the lag in the Internet connection. “You don't think things could get better with Juliet?” she finally asked.

“I don't know if I want to try.” Chloe's image had unfrozen again and she saw her glance at her watch. Lucy straightened and tossed the pillow she'd been clutching back on the bed. “I know you have to go. Thanks for listening.”

“Okay. Hang in there. Skype me on Saturday. I'll only be at the office until lunchtime.”

“Right.” When the call had ended and Chloe's image faded to black, Lucy felt the silent emptiness of the house around her once more. She hugged her knees to her chest as she considered, reluctantly, what Chloe had suggested.

Could she talk to Juliet about what had happened with their mother? Should she apologize?

For what? Being born?

She felt a surge of anger, a sudden white-hot flare of feeling, because it wasn't her fault that Fiona had decided to go the sperm donor route and have another baby. Juliet shouldn't blame her for their mother's choices, but she had no idea how to make her feel otherwise. How did you reconcile with someone who resented your very existence?

Lucy fell asleep sometime towards ten; she'd heard Juliet come in and the sound of her bedroom door closing, but she didn't move from her bed. She just wriggled out of her bra, peeled back the duvet, and snuggled down, content to let the world slip away.

She woke up to the shocking reality of bright sunshine pouring through the window, her cheek stuck to her pillow by drool, and the clock on the bedside table glaring at her accusingly. It was four minutes past eight.

She bolted upright as if she'd been electrocuted, then scrabbled for some clothes. There was a terrible taste in her mouth and she could feel her hair sticking up in about eight different directions. Talk about a bad hair day.

A bad everything day, she decided when she clattered downstairs and grabbed a banana from the bowl on the kitchen table. Both Juliet and the dogs were gone. Lucy grimaced at her reflection in the hall mirror; she'd pulled her hair into a messy bun and grabbed the first clothes she'd found, which had been her lemon skirt, an aqua top, and the purple tights that had seemed to offend Juliet. Not the most coordinated of outfits, and Alex Kincaid would probably have something to say about it, but for once in her life she was past caring.

She was late enough that pupils and their parents were already heading up to the school in a steady stream, so Lucy joined the harried mothers pushing strollers or checking their phones or both. A few gave her distracted smiles, and as she turned up the little lane, someone waist-high reached for her hand.

“Morning, Miss Bagshaw.”

Lucy blinked down at Eva, the little girl who had scraped her knee the day before.

“Hello, Eva,” she said, and squeezed her hand lightly. “How's the knee?”

“Mummy gave me a plaster.” She pointed to a garishly colored Band-Aid with a picture of a cartoon character.

“That looks like an awesome Band-Aid,” Lucy said, and Eva giggled.

“She said you had a funny accent,” Eva's mother said with a little laugh. She looked like Eva, with an elfin face and wispy blond hair. “You're American.”

“Actually, I was born in England, but I know I don't sound like I was. And I thought you guys were the ones with the funny accents.”

Eva's mother laughed, and Lucy smiled, her heart lifting. It didn't take much to get her to start hoping again.

“We don't get many Americans around here,” Eva's mother said, and stuck out her hand. “I'm Andrea.”

“Hi,” Lucy said, and shook her hand. “Lucy Bagshaw.” She remembered what Eva had said about not having a dad, and wondered if she'd ever get to know Andrea well enough to hear her story.

They chatted all the way into school, and her bad mood had cleared away with the clouds by the time she arrived in the office. Maggie pressed a mug of tea in her hand and gave her a wink. “I told Mr. Kincaid you were in the loo when he asked where you were.”

Lucy grinned back. “You're a saint, Maggie Bains.”

“I just don't want you to get fired on your second day,” Maggie replied with an answering smile. “I'm going to Newcastle, remember.”

Lucy took a much-needed sip of tea and sat down in front of the computer. The children were coming into the office with the morning registers; Maggie had explained yesterday that two children from every classroom brought the morning registers to be logged into the computer.

Now Lucy took them with a smile for each of the children, from the too-cool-for-school Year Sixes to the brand-new kindergarten—or Reception, as they called it in England—pupils, only four years old, who held out the registers with wide eyes and trembling hands.

Around her the school was humming to life; Maggie had set the photocopier whirring away, and teachers were dashing in and out of the staff room with piles of papers and mugs of tea. A hassled-looking mum brought in a late Year Four and then gossiped with Maggie across the opened glass partition for the better part of half an hour.

Lucy hunted and pecked her way through the registers, logging each present, absent, or tardy with painstaking slowness. She knew her way around a computer when it came to design and graphic art, but spreadsheets were her nemesis and she always seemed to be leaping to the next box before she'd filled one in completely.

Alex, thankfully, had not left his office, although Lucy had discovered that if she leaned forward in her seat and craned her neck, she could see him at his desk through the window of his office that overlooked the front hall. Not that she would do that.

The still-hassled but more cheerful-looking mum had left and Maggie had bustled back to the photocopier, taking out a stack of parent letters before glancing over at Lucy.

“Are you still on the morning register?”

“Sorry, I'm a bit slow with these spreadsheets.”