Chapter 7 #2
Everything inside her stopped as Wren’s voice came over the line. Her little sister. “Can I talk to her?”
Hildi must have handed over the phone because Wren’s voice came through more clearly. “Lark,” she repeated.
Lark closed her eyes. “Hi, Wren.”
“Please don’t hang up.”
“I’m not.”
“You have to come.”
Lark sank onto the edge of her worktable. “Wren...”
“Please, Lark.” There was something in her sister’s voice that made Lark’s chest ache.
Images of a different Wren… a different time…
filtered through her mind. A little girl with blond pigtails who used to follow Lark everywhere.
A little girl who thought her older sister was the most fascinating person in the world.
Wren had spent summers in Bell Creek with her, too, trailing after Lark and Marilyn through the bakery, begging Lark to teach her how to draw.
She’d slept beside Lark during thunderstorms. She’d cried when Lark left for college.
She’d once told Lark she wanted to be exactly like her when she grew up.
Those memories were some of the sweetest Lark had. Until everything changed when Wren went away to boarding school. She’d made friends. Learned the rules. Learned which families mattered. Which events and parties were important. Which people were acceptable. And which ones weren’t.
And of course, Lark had never fit those rules.
She’d always been the wrong kind of Meadows.
She was artistic and outspoken. Too independent for her own good.
Too willing to befriend people her family considered beneath them.
She’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, according to her parents.
Her friends had been fellow artists, musicians.
People without trust funds. People who didn’t care what last name she carried.
People who liked her because she was Lark.
Wren had slowly stopped being one of them. Now she was eighteen and standing exactly where their parents had wanted Lark to stand. Beside Bradley Whitmore.
“Lark?” Her sister’s voice pulled her back.
“I’m here.”
“I know you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry at you.”
“You aren’t?” The disbelief in her tone made Lark’s stomach clench. No matter what, she still loved her little sister, who was nothing but a victim of circumstances. Unlike Lark, she hadn’t yet developed the confidence to pursue her desires. She was still so young.
Lark gentled her voice. “I’m not.”
“You hate me.”
Lark’s heart cracked. “I could never hate you.”
“Then please help me.”
Lark closed her eyes. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think Wren was expertly manipulating her. But she knew her sister couldn’t have learned that skill. Could she?
“How?”
“Come to the gala.”
“That’s what Mother wants.”
“I know.”
“She wants me there so everyone can see that I’m happy for you.”
“I know.”
“And pretend everything is fine.”
“I know.” Wren’s voice trembled. “But I need you there.” Lark couldn’t speak.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Wren whispered.
“Everyone is saying horrible things about me. They're calling me a homewrecker. They’re saying I stole Bradley from you. They're even saying Bradley is my sugar daddy. I didn’t even know what that meant until I looked it up.”
Lark’s stomach twisted. “You’re not a homewrecker.”
“I know that. But everyone else doesn’t.” She paused. “And I know you’re the only person who might understand what it's like to have everyone judging you.”
That hurt. Because it was true.
“Please, Lark.” The little girl she’d once carried on her hip seemed to surface beneath the sophisticated young woman on the phone. The sister who used to think Lark could fix anything. “I just need my big sister there.”
Lark stared around her studio. At the shelves. The sketches. The sculptures. The life she’d built specifically to escape the one her family had planned for her.
She didn’t want to go. Every instinct told her not to go. But this wasn’t her mother demanding anymore. It was Wren. Her little sister. The one person in that family she’d once loved without reservation.
She sighed. “One night.”
Wren went silent. “Really?”
“Yes. I’ll come.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
A shaky breath escaped Wren. “Thank you.”
“But I’m not pretending I approve of everything.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m not going to make some big public declaration.”
“I don’t care.”
“And I’m not staying longer than I have to.”
“I don’t care.”
Lark couldn’t help smiling. “You’re still bossy.”
“You taught me.” That made Lark laugh. For just a second, she could almost see the little girl with the pigtails again.
“Okay,” Lark said softly. “I’ll come.”
Wren’s relief was audible. “Thank you, Lark.”
Her mother suddenly reclaimed the phone. “Good. That’s settled.” The warmth vanished instantly.
Lark rolled her eyes. “Apparently.”
“Your father will arrange your flight.”
“Of course he will.”
“And don’t worry about what you’ll wear.” Lark frowned. “I’ll have an appropriate gown waiting for you when you get home.”
Lark’s stomach sank. Of course she would. Because apparently agreeing to attend the gala meant surrendering control over everything else.
“Mother—"
“I’ll see you soon.” The call ended. Lark stared at her phone. Then she dropped it onto the worktable and groaned.
She’d agreed. She was going to Washington. Back into the world she’d escaped. Back into the Whitmore family’s orbit. Back into Bradley’s. She rubbed her temples. One night. She could survive one night. Besides, what could possibly go wrong?
The thought had barely crossed her mind before she remembered the man from Bell Creek. Hoot. And all the calamities that had struck since they’d met. The universe had a strange sense of humor. And Lark should’ve learned by now never to tempt it by asking what could possibly go wrong.