Between Sisters Part 29

"You do, huh?" Claire leaned against Bobby, who was talking animatedly to Charlotte's husband.

"Unfortunately, I have a few last-minute details I need to go over for tomorrow. I have to get up early."

Claire nodded. "I understand, Meg. I really do."

"I thought I'd call Mama again, too."

Claire's happy look faded. "Do you think she'll show up?"

Meghann wished she could protect Claire from Mama. "I'll do my best to get her here."

Claire nodded.

"Well. Bye. I'll tell Gina why I'm leaving."

Fifteen minutes later, Meghann was in her car, speeding down the country road toward Hayden. She had the top down, and the cool night air whipped through her hair.

She tried to forget the rehearsal dinner, get the hurtful memories out of her mind, but she couldn't do it. Her sister's well-meaning friends had managed to underscore the emptiness of Meg's life.

She saw the sign for Mo's Fireside Tavern and slammed on the brakes.

It was a bad idea to go in, she knew. There was nothing but trouble in there. And yet . . .

She parked on the street and went inside the smoky bar. It was crowded tonight.

Friday. Of course.

Men sat on every barstool, at every table. There were a few women scattered throughout the crowd, but d.a.m.n few.

She made her way through the place, boldly checking out every man. She got enough smiles to know that she could definitely find one here tonight.

She had toured the whole place and made her way back to the front door when she realized why she was really here.

"Joe," she said softly, surprised. She honestly hadn't known that she wanted him.

That wasn't good.

She left the bar. Out on the street, she took a deep breath of sweet mountain air. She never slept with a man twice. Or rarely, anyway. As her friend Elizabeth had once pointed out, Meghann would sometimes make a New Year's resolution to quit s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g college kids, and then date men without hair for a week or two, but that was pretty much the extent of her so-called dating life.

The amazing thing was, she didn't want to cull through the possibilities in the bar and bring home a stranger.

She wanted . . .

Joe.

She stood at her car, looking down the street at his small cabin. Light glowed from the windows.

"No," she said aloud. She shouldn't do it, but she was walking anyway, crossing the street, and entering his yard, which smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine. At the door, she paused, wondering what in the h.e.l.l she was doing.

Then she knocked. There was a long silence. No one answered.

She twisted the k.n.o.b and went inside. The cabin was dark and quiet. A single lamp glowed with soft light, and a fire crackled in the hearth.

"Joe?" Cautiously, she stepped forward.

No answer.

A s.h.i.+ver crept along her spine. She sensed that he was here, close by, burrowed into the darkness like a wounded animal, watching her.

She was being ridiculous. He simply wasn't home. And she shouldn't be here.

She started to turn for the door when she saw the photographs. They were everywhere-on the coffee table, the end tables, the windowsills, the mantel.

Frowning, she walked from place to place looking at the pictures. They were all of the same woman, a lovely blond with a Grace Kelly kind of elegance. There was something familiar about her. Meghann picked one up, smoothed her finger across the cheap Plexiglas frame. In this photograph, the woman was clearly trying to make pie dough from scratch. There was flour everywhere. She wore an ap.r.o.n that read: Kiss the Cook. Kiss the Cook. Her smile was infectious. Meghann couldn't help smiling along with her. Her smile was infectious. Meghann couldn't help smiling along with her.

"Do you always break into other people's homes and paw through their things?"

Meghann jumped back. Her fingers went numb-just for a second, but it was time enough. The picture crashed to the floor. She turned around, looking for him. "Joe? It's me, Meghann."

"I know it's you."

He was slumped in the corner of the room, with one leg bent and the other stretched out. Firelight illuminated his silvery hair and half of his face. She didn't know if it was the dim lighting, but she noticed the lines etched around his eyes. Sadness clung to him, made her wonder if he'd been crying.

"I shouldn't have come in. Or come here, for that matter," she said, uncomfortably. "I'm sorry." She turned and headed for the door.

"Have a drink with me."

She released a breath, realizing just then how much she'd wanted him to ask her to stay. Slowly, she faced him.

"What can I get you?"

"Martini?"

He laughed. It was a dry, rustling sound that bore no resemblance to the real thing. "I've got scotch. And scotch."

She sidled past the coffee table and sat down on the worn leather sofa. "I'll have a scotch."

He got up, shuffled across the room. She saw now why he'd been so invisible; he had on worn black jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt.

She heard a splash of liquid, then a rattling of ice. As he poured her drink, she looked around the room. All those photographs of the Grace Kelly look-alike made her uncomfortable. These pictures weren't decoration; they were obsession, naked and unashamed. She tried to figure out where she'd seen this woman but couldn't.

"Here."

She looked up.

He stood in front of her. The top two b.u.t.tons of his Levi's were undone, and the T-s.h.i.+rt was ripped at the collar, revealing a dark patch of chest hair.

"Thank you," she said.

He took a drink straight from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sure." He didn't move away, just stood there, staring down at her. He was unsteady on his feet.

"You're drunk," she said, finally getting it.

"Iss June twenty-second." He smiled, or tried to, but the sadness in his eyes made it impossible.

"Do you have something against the twenty-second?"

His gaze darted to the end table beside her. To the photographs cl.u.s.tered there. He looked quickly back at her. "You were here the other day. You didn't come in."

So he'd seen her, standing on the street that afternoon, looking at his house. She couldn't think of how to answer, so she drank instead.

He sat down beside her.

She twisted around to face him, realizing an instant too late how close they were. She could feel his breath against her lips. She tried to edge away.

He reached out, grabbed her wrist. "Don't go."

"I wasn't leaving. But maybe I should."

He let go of her wrist suddenly. "Maybe you should." He took another swig from the bottle.

"Who is she, Joe?" Her voice was soft, but in the quiet room, it seemed too loud, too intimate. She flinched, wis.h.i.+ng she hadn't asked, surprised that she cared.

"My wife. Diana."

"You're married?"

"Not anymore. She . . . left me."

"On June twenty-second."

"How'jou know?"

"I know about divorces. The anniversaries can be h.e.l.l." Meghann stared into his sad, sad eyes and tried not to feel anything. It was better that way, safer. But sitting here beside him, close enough to be taken into his arms, she felt . . . needy. Maybe even desperate. Suddenly she wanted something from Joe; something more than s.e.x.

"Maybe I should go. You seem to want to be alone."

"I've been alone."

She heard the ache of loneliness in his voice and it drew her in. "Me, too."

He reached out, touched her face. "I can't offer you anything, Meghann."

The way he said her name, all sad and drawn out and slow, sent a s.h.i.+ver along her spine. She wanted to tell him that she didn't want anything from him except a night in his bed, but amazingly, she couldn't form the words. "It's okay."

"You should want more."

"So should you."

She felt fragile suddenly, as if this man she didn't know at all had the power to break her heart. "We're talking too much, Joe. Kiss me."

In the fireplace, a log fell to the hearth floor with a thud. Sparks flooded into the room.

With a groan, he pulled her into his arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE NEXT MORNING, THE WEATHER IN HAYDEN WAS perfect. A bright sun rode high in the cornflower blue, cloudless sky. A thin, cooling breeze rustled through the trees, making music on the deep green maple leaves. By five o'clock, Claire was ready to begin dressing. The problem was, she couldn't move. perfect. A bright sun rode high in the cornflower blue, cloudless sky. A thin, cooling breeze rustled through the trees, making music on the deep green maple leaves. By five o'clock, Claire was ready to begin dressing. The problem was, she couldn't move.

Behind her, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she said, thankful for the distraction.

Meghann stood in the doorway, holding a pile of plastic-sheathed dresses. She looked nervous, uncharacteristically uncertain. "I thought maybe we'd get dressed together." When Claire didn't answer instantly, Meghann said, "You probably think it's a stupid idea." She backed out of the room.

"Stop. I think it would be great."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I just need to shower."

"Me, too. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes."

True to her word, Meghann was back in ten minutes, wearing a towel around her naked body. Once inside the room, she changed into a bra and panties, then dried her hair and fas.h.i.+oned it into a beautiful French twist.

"That looks great," Claire said.

"I could do your hair if you'd like."

"Really?"

"Sure. I did it all the time when you were little."

Claire didn't remember that, and yet she crossed the room and automatically knelt in front of the bed.

Meghann settled in behind her, began brus.h.i.+ng her hair. She hummed as she worked.

Claire closed her eyes. It felt so good to have someone brus.h.i.+ng her hair.

It came to her then, floating on the lullaby of her sister's humming, a memory.

You'll be the prettiest girl in all of Barstow kindergarten, Claire-Bear. I'll put this pink ribbon all through your braids and it'll protect you.