Chapter Two
C HAPTER TWO
T HE WEST SIDE OF THE OFFICE BUILDING FACED PUGET Sound. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows framed the beautiful blue-washed view. In the distance lay the forested mound of Bainbridge Island. At night, a few lights could be seen amid all that black-and-green darkness; in the daylight, though, the island looked uninhabited. Only the white ferry, chugging into its dock every hour, indicated that people lived there.
Meghann sat alone at a long, kidney-shaped conference table. The glossy cherry and ebony wood surface bespoke elegance and money. Perhaps money most of all. A table like this had to be custom-made and individually designed; it was true of the suede chairs, too. When a person sat down at this table and looked at that view, the point was clear: Whoever owned this office was damn successful.
It was true. Meghann had achieved every goal she’d set for herself. When she’d started college as a scared, lonely teenager she’d dared to dream of a better life. Now, she had it. Her practice was among the most successful and most respected in the city. She owned an expensive condo in downtown Seattle (a far cry from the broken-down travel trailer that had been her childhood “home”), and no one depended on her.
She glanced down at her watch. 4:20.
Her client was late.
You would think that charging well over three hundred dollars an hour would encourage people to be on time.
“Ms. Dontess?” came a voice through the intercom.
“Yes, Rhona?”
“Your sister, Claire, is on line one.”
“Put her through. And buzz me the second May Monroe gets here.”
“Very good.”
She pushed the button on her headset and forced a smile into her voice. “Claire, it’s good to hear from you.”
“The phone works both ways, you know. So. How’s life in Moneyland?”
“Good. And in Hayden? Everyone still sitting around waiting for the river to flood?”
“That danger’s passed for the year.”
“Oh.” Meghann stared out her window. Below and to her left, huge orange cranes loaded multicolored containers onto a tanker. She had no idea what to say to her sister. They had a past in common, but that was pretty much it. “So, how’s that beautiful niece of mine? Did she like the skateboard?”
“She loved it.” Claire laughed. “But really, Meg, someday you’ll have to ask a salesperson for help. Five-year-old girls don’t generally have the coordination for skateboards.”
“You did. We were living in Needles that year. The same year I taught you to ride a two-wheeler.” Meg immediately wished she hadn’t said that. It always hurt to remember their past together. For a lot of years, Claire had been more of a daughter to Meghann than a sister. Certainly, Meg had been more of a mother to Claire than Mama ever had.
“Just get her a Disney movie next time. You don’t need to spend so much money on her. She’s happy with a Polly Pocket.”
Whatever that was. An awkward silence fell between them. Meghann looked down at her watch, then they both spoke at once.
“What are you—?”
“Is Alison excited about first grade—?”
Meghann pressed her lips together. It took an act of will not to speak, but she knew Claire hated to be interrupted. She especially hated it when Meg monopolized a conversation.
“Yeah,” Claire said. “Ali can’t wait for all-day school. Kindergarten hasn’t even ended and she’s already looking forward to the fall. She talks about it constantly. Sometimes I feel like I’m holding on to the tail of a comet. And she never stops moving, even in her sleep.”
Meghann started to say, You were the same way , and stopped herself. It hurt remembering that; she wished she could push the memory aside.
“So, how’s work going?”
“Good. And the camp?”
“Resort. We open in a little more than two weeks. The Jeffersons are having a family reunion here with about twenty people.”
“A week without phone access or television reception? Why am I hearing the Deliverance theme music in my head?”
“Some families like to be together,” Claire said in that crisp you’ve-hurt-me voice.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I know you love the place. Hey,” she said, as if she’d just thought of it, “why don’t you borrow some money from me and build a nice little Eurospa on the property? Better yet, a small hotel. People would flock there for a good body wrap. God knows you’ve got the mud.”
Claire sighed heavily. “You just have to remind me that you’re successful and I’m not. Damn it, Meg.”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just … that I know you can’t expand a business without capital.”
“I don’t want your money, Meg. We don’t want it.”
There it was: the reminder that Meg was an I and Claire was a we . “I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I just want to help.”
“I’m not the baby girl who needs her big sister’s protection anymore, Meg.”
“Sam was always good at protecting you.” Meg heard a tiny flare of bitterness in her voice.
“Yeah.” Claire paused, drew in a breath. Meghann knew what her sister was doing. Regrouping, climbing to softer, safer ground. “I’m going to Lake Chelan,” she said at last.
“The yearly trip with the girlfriends,” Meghann said, thankful for the change in subject. “What do you call yourselves? The Bluesers?”
“Yeah.”
“You all going back to that same place?”
“Every summer since high school.”
Meghann wondered what it would be like to have a sisterhood of such close friends. If she were another kind of woman, she might be envious. As it was, she didn’t have time to run around with a bunch of women. And she couldn’t imagine still being friends with people she’d gone to high school with. “Well. Have fun.”
“Oh, we will. This year, Charlotte—”
The intercom buzzed. “Meghann? Mrs. Monroe is here.”
Thank God. An excuse to hang up. Claire could talk forever about her friends. “Damn. Sorry, Claire, I’ve got to run.”
“Oh, right. I know how much you love to hear about my college dropout friends.”
“It’s not that. I have a client who just arrived.”
“Yeah, sure. Bye.”
“Bye.” Meghann disconnected the call just as her secretary showed May Monroe into the conference room.
Meghann pulled the headset off and tossed it onto the table, where it hit with a clatter. “Hello, May,” she said, walking briskly toward her client. “Thank you, Rhona. No calls, please.”
Her secretary nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.
May Monroe stood in front of a large multicolored oil painting, a Nechita original entitled True Love . Meghann had always loved the irony of that; here, in this room, true love died every day of the week.
May wore a serviceable black jersey dress and black shoes that were at least five years out of date. Her champagne-blond hair fell softly to her shoulders in that age-old easy-care bob. Her wedding ring was a plain gold band.
Looking at her, you would never know that her husband drove a jet-black Mercedes and had a regular Tuesday tee-time at the Broadmoor Golf Course. May probably hadn’t spent money on herself in years. Not since she’d slaved at a local restaurant to put her husband through dental school. Though she was only a few years older than Meghann, sadness had left its mark on May. There were shadowy circles under her eyes.
“Please, May, sit down.”
May jerked forward like a marionette who’d been moved by someone else. She sat in one of the comfortable black suede chairs.
Meghann took her usual seat at the head of the table. Spread out in front of her were several manila file folders with bright pink Post-it notes fanned along the edges of the paperwork. Meghann drummed her fingertips on the stack of papers, wondering which of her many approaches would be best. Over the years, she’d learned that there were as many reactions to bad news as there were indiscretions themselves. Instinct warned her that May Monroe was fragile, that while she was in the midst of breaking up her marriage, she hadn’t fully accepted the inevitable. Although the divorce papers had been filed months ago, May still didn’t believe her husband would go through with it.
After this meeting, she’d believe it.
Meghann looked at her. “As I told you at our last meeting, May, I hired a private investigator to check into your husband’s financial affairs.”
“It was a waste of time, right?”
No matter how often this scene played and replayed itself in this office, it never got any easier. “Not exactly.”
May stared at her for a long moment, then she stood up and went to the silver coffee service set out on the cherry wood credenza. “I see,” she said, keeping her back to Meghann. “What did you find out?”
“He has more than six hundred thousand dollars in an account in the Cayman Islands, which is under his own name. Seven months ago, he took almost all of the equity out of your home. Perhaps you thought you were signing refinance documents?”
May turned around. She was holding a coffee cup and saucer. The porcelain chattered in her shaking hands as she moved toward the conference table. “The rates had come down.”
“What came down was the cash. Right into his hands.”
“Oh my,” she whispered.
Meghann could see May’s world crumbling. It flashed through the woman’s green eyes; a light seemed to go out of her.
It was a moment so many women faced at a time like this: the realization that their husbands were strangers and that their dreams were just that.
“It gets worse,” Meghann went on, trying to be gentle with her words, but knowing how deep a cut she’d leave behind. “He sold the practice to his partner, Theodore Blevin, for a dollar.”
“Why would he do that? It’s worth—”
“So you wouldn’t be able to get the half you’re entitled to.”
At that, May’s legs seemed to give out on her. She crumpled into her chair. The cup and saucer hit the table with a clatter. Coffee burped over the porcelain rim and puddled on the wood. May immediately started dabbing the mess with her napkin. “I’m sorry.”
Meghann touched her client’s wrist. “Don’t be.” She got up, grabbed some napkins, and blotted the spill. “I’m the one who’s sorry, May. No matter how often I see this sort of behavior, it still sickens me.” She touched May’s shoulder and let the woman have time to think.
“Do any of those documents say why he did this to me?”
Meghann wished she didn’t have an answer to that. A question was sometimes preferable to an answer. She reached into the file and pulled out a black-and-white photograph. Very gently, as if it were printed on a sheet of plastique explosives instead of glossy paper, she pushed it toward May. “Her name is Ashleigh.”
“Ashleigh Stoker. I guess I know why he always offered to pick Sarah up from piano lessons.”
Meghann nodded. It was always worse when the wife knew the mistress, even in passing. “Washington is a no-fault state; we don’t need grounds for a divorce, so his affair doesn’t matter.”
May looked up. She wore the vague, glassy-eyed expression of an accident victim. “It doesn’t matter?” She closed her eyes. “I’m an idiot.” The words were more breath than sound.
“No. You’re an honest, trustworthy woman who put a selfish prick through ten years of college so he could have a better life.”
“It was supposed to be our better life.”
“Of course it was.”
Meg reached out, touched May’s hand. “You trusted a man who told you he loved you. Now he’s counting on you to be good ole accommodating May, the woman who puts her family first and makes life easy for Dr. Dale Monroe.”
May looked confused by that, maybe even a little frightened. Meghann understood; women like May had forgotten a long time ago how to make waves.
That was fine. It was her lawyer’s job anyway.
“What should we do? I don’t want to hurt the children.”
“He’s the one who’s hurt the children, May. He’s stolen money from them. And from you.”
“But he’s a good father.”
“Then he’ll want to see that they’re provided for. If he’s got a shred of decency in him, he’ll hand over half of the assets without a fight. If he does that, it’ll be a cakewalk.”
May knew the truth that Meghann had already surmised. A man like this didn’t share well. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then, we’ll make him.”
“He’ll be angry.”
Meghann leaned forward. “You’re the one who should be angry, May. This man lied to you, cheated on you, and stole from you.”
“He also fathered my children,” May answered with a calm that Meghann found exasperating. “I don’t want this to get ugly. I want him … to know he can come home.”
Oh, May.
Meghann chose her words carefully. “We’re simply going to be fair, May. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but you damn sure aren’t going to be screwed over and left destitute by this man. Period. He’s a very, very wealthy orthodontist. You should be wearing Armani and driving a Porsche.”
“I’ve never wanted to wear Armani.”
“And maybe you never will, but it’s my job to make sure you have every option. I know it seems cold and harsh right now, May, but believe me, when you’re exhausted from raising those two children by yourself and Dr. Smiles is driving around town in a new Porsche and dancing the night away with his twenty-six-year-old piano teacher, you’ll be glad you can afford to do whatever you want. Trust me on this.”
May looked at her. A tiny, heartbreaking frown tugged at her mouth. “Okay.”
“I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
“You think a few rounds of paperwork and a pile of money in the bank will protect me from that?” She sighed. “Go ahead, Ms. Dontess, do what you need to do to protect my children’s future. But let’s not pretend you can make it painless, okay? It already hurts so much I can barely breathe, and it has just begun.”
Across the blistered expanse of prairie grass, a row of windmills dotted the cloudless horizon. Their thick metal blades turned in a slow and steady rhythm. Sometimes, when the weather was just right, you could hear the creaking thwop-thwop-thwop of each rotation.
Today, it was too damn hot to hear anything except the beating of your own heart.
Joe Wyatt stood on the poured-concrete slab that served as the warehouse’s front porch, holding a now-warm can of Coke, all that was left of his lunch.
He stared at the distant fields, wishing he were walking along the wide rows between the trees, smelling the sweet scent of rich earth and growing fruit.
There might be a breeze down there; even a breath of one would alleviate this stifling heat. Here, there was only the hot sun, beating down on the metal warehouse. Perspiration sheened his forehead and dampened the skin beneath his T-shirt.
The heat was getting to him and it was only the second week of June. There was no way he could handle summer in the Yakima Valley. It was time to move on again.
The realization exhausted him.
Not for the first time, he wondered how much longer he could do this, drift from town to town. Loneliness was wearing him down, whittling him away to a stringy shadow; unfortunately, the alternative was worse.
Once—it felt long ago now—he’d hoped that one of these places would feel right, that he’d come into some town, think, This is it , and dare to rent an apartment instead of a seedy motel room.
He no longer harbored such dreams. He knew better. After a week in the same room, he started to feel things, remember things. The nightmares would start. The only protection he had found was strangeness. If a mattress was never “his,” if a room remained unfamiliar territory, he could sometimes sleep for more than two hours at a time. If he settled in, got comfortable, and slept longer, he invariably dreamed about Diana.
That was okay. It hurt, of course, because seeing her face—even in his dreams—filled him with an ache that ran deep in his bones, but there was pleasure, too, a sweet remembrance of how life used to be, of the love he’d once been capable of feeling. If only the dreams stopped there, with memories of Diana sitting on the green grass of the Quad in her college days or of them cuddled up in their big bed in the house on Bainbridge Island.
He was never that lucky. The sweet dreams invariably soured and turned ugly. More often than not, he woke up whispering, “I’m sorry.”
The only way to survive was to keep moving and never make eye contact.
He’d learned in these vagrant years how to be invisible. If a man cut his hair and dressed well and held down a job, people saw him. They stood in line for the bus beside him, and in small towns they struck up conversations.
But if a man let himself go, if he forgot to cut his hair and wore a faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt and ragged, faded Levi’s, and carried a ratty backpack, no one noticed him. More important, no one recognized him.
Behind him, the bell rang. With a sigh, he stepped into the warehouse. The icy cold hit him instantly. Cold storage for the fruit. The sweat on his face turned clammy. He tossed his empty Coke can in the trash, then went back outside.
For a split second, maybe less, the heat felt good; by the time he reached the loading dock, he was sweating again.
“Wyatt,” the foreman yelled, “what do you think this is, a damn picnic?”
Joe looked at the endless row of slat-sided trucks, filled to heaping with newly picked cherries. Then he studied the other men unloading the crates—Mexicans mostly, who lived in broken-down trailers on patches of dry, dusty land without flushing toilets or running water.
“No, sir,” he said to the florid-faced foreman who clearly got his kicks from yelling at his workers. “I don’t think this is a picnic.”
“Good. Then get to work. I’m docking you a half an hour’s pay.”
In his former life, Joe would have grabbed the foreman by his sweaty, dirty collar and shown him how men treated one another.
Those days were gone.
Slowly, he walked toward the nearest truck, pulling a pair of canvas gloves out of his back pocket as he moved.
It was time to move on.
Claire stood at the kitchen sink, thinking about the phone conversation with Meg yesterday.
“Mommy, can I have another Eggo?”
“How do we ask for that?” Claire said absently.
“Mommy, may I please have another Eggo?”
Claire turned away from the window and dried her hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven door. “Sure.” She popped a frozen waffle into the toaster. While it was warming, she looked around the kitchen for more dirty dishes—
And saw the place through her sister’s eyes.
It wasn’t a bad house, certainly not by Hayden standards. Small, yes: three tiny bedrooms tucked into the peaked second floor; a single bathroom on each floor; a living room; and a kitchen with an eating space that doubled as a counter. In the six years Claire had lived here, she’d painted the once moss-green walls a creamy French vanilla and replaced the orange shag carpeting with hardwood floors. Her furniture, although mostly secondhand, was all framed in wood that she’d stripped and refinished herself. Her pride and joy was a Hawaiian koa-wood love seat. It didn’t look like much in the living room, with its faded red cushions, but someday, when she lived on Kauai, it would stop people in their tracks.
Meg would see it differently, of course. Meg, who’d graduated high school early and then breezed through seven years of college, who never failed to mention that she had buckets of money, and had the nerve to send her niece Christmas gifts that made the others under the tree look paltry by comparison.
“My waffle’s up.”
“So it is.” Claire took the waffle from the slot, buttered and cut it, then put the plate in front of her daughter. “Here you go.”
Alison immediately stabbed a piece and popped it into her mouth, chewing in that cartoon-character way of hers.
Claire couldn’t help smiling. Her daughter had had that effect on her since birth. She stared down at the miniature version of herself. Same fine blond hair and pale skin, same heart-shaped face. Although there were no pictures of Claire at five, she imagined that she and Alison were almost carbon copies of each other. Alison’s father had left no genetic imprint on his daughter.
It was fitting. The minute he’d heard Claire was pregnant, he’d reached for his running shoes.
“You’re in your jammies, Mommy. We’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry.”
“You’re right about that.” Claire thought about all the things she had to do today: mow the back field; recaulk the showers and bathroom windows; bleach the mildewed wall in cabin three; unplug the toilet in cabin five; and repair the canoe shed. It was early yet, not even 8:00, on the last day of school. Tomorrow, they’d be leaving for a week of rest and fun at Lake Chelan. She hoped she could get everything done in time. She glanced around. “Have you seen my work list, Alison?”
“On the coffee table.”
Claire picked up her list from the table, shaking her head. She had absolutely no memory of leaving it there. Sometimes she wondered how she’d get by without Alison.
“I want ballet lessons, Mommy. Is that okay?”
Claire smiled. It occurred to her—one of those passing thoughts that carried a tiny sting—that she’d once wanted to be a ballerina, too. Meghann had encouraged her to dream that dream, even though there had been no money for lessons.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. There had been money for Mama’s dance lessons, but none for Claire’s.
Once, though, when Claire had been about six or seven, Meghann had arranged for a series of Saturday-morning lessons with a junior high friend of hers. Claire had never forgotten those few perfect mornings.
Her smile faded.
Alison was frowning at her, one cheek bunched up midbite. “Mommy? Ballet?”
“I wanted to be a ballerina once. Did you know that?”
“Nope.”
“Unfortunately, I have feet the size of canoes.”
Ali giggled. “Canoes are huge , Mommy. Your feet are just really big.”
“Thanks.” She laughed, too.
“How come you’re a worker bee if you wanted to be a ballerina?”
“Worker bee is what Grampa calls me. Really I’m an assistant manager.”
It had happened a long time ago, her choosing this life. Like most of her decisions, she’d stumbled across it without paying much attention. First, she’d flunked out of Washington State University—one of the many party casualties of higher education. She hadn’t known then, of course, that Meghann was basically right. College gave a girl choices. Without a degree, or a dream, Claire had found herself back in Hayden. Originally, she’d meant to stay a month or so, then move to Kauai and learn to surf, but then Dad got bronchitis and was down for a month. Claire had stepped in to help him out. By the time her father was back on his feet and ready to resume his job, Claire had realized how much she loved this place. She was, in that and in so many things, her father’s daughter.
Like him, she loved this job; she was outside all day, rain or shine, working on whatever needed to be done. When she finished each chore, she saw tangible proof of her labor. There was something about these gorgeous sixteen acres along the river that filled her soul.
It didn’t surprise her that Meghann didn’t understand. Her sister, who valued education and money above everything, saw this place as a waste of time.
Claire tried not to let that condemnation matter. She knew her job wasn’t much in the great scheme of things, just managing a few campsites and a couple of cabins, but she never felt like a failure, never felt that her life was a disappointment.
Except when she talked to her sister.