The Sunset Sisters: An utterly gripping and emotional page-turner (The Sisterhood Series)
The Sunset Sisters
An utterly gripping and emotional page-turner
Cecilia Lyra
Books by Cecilia Lyra
The Sunset Sisters
The Faithfuls
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
The Faithfuls
Hear More From Cecilia
Books by Cecilia Lyra
A Letter from Cecilia
Acknowledgments
For Bruno
Author’s Note
This is not the story of my life. But it is a book about two sisters who, as children, forge a bond so strong that they decide to put each other before everyone else, including their parents.
And that is the story of my sister and me.
Prologue
Julie
Nineteen years ago
At sunrise, I feel my eyes flutter open. It’s here—it’s finally here. My thirteenth birthday.
I prop myself on my elbows as I sweep my gaze across the room. It looks the same as it did yesterday morning: cool and tidy, a soft amber glow filtering through the blinds. Cassie asleep to my left. Slowly, I sit up and kneel over to the window. I lift one of the slats with my index finger.
“Is it time?” Cassie’s voice is slow and groggy.
I nod, making a wave with my hand, thrilled that she’s awake. “Come on.”
Cassie stumbles over to my bed and flings her long arms around me. “Happy Birthday, Jul,” she whispers in my ear. My face is buried in her thick, red mane. “Thirteen. My sister is an old lady.”
“Hurry up, OK?” It’s what I tell her every year on my birthday. I usually don’t like it, being a different age than Cassie for two whole weeks. I wish we’d been born on the exact same day, like twins. But today I don’t mind. I’ve been dreaming about turning thirteen for as long as I can remember. It’s a big deal—I’m a teenager now.
“Yeah, yeah.” Cassie releases me and begins pulling the blinds open. “Wow,” she says, under her breath. I follow her gaze towards the orange-red sphere rising in the distance. The effect is magical, like the sun is defying gravity. “You were right. It’s beautiful.” She leans forward so that her nose is glued to the window.
“Told you,” I singsong. Cassie is usually asleep at sunrise.
We’re quiet for a moment, both of us hypnotized by the view.
“Do you regret it,” she begins, her voice low. “Not traveling with our father and your mom?”
I frown. “Are you kidding me?” Where is this coming from?
“This is nice, but…” She turns to face me. “It’s not Paris.”
“I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” It’s true: I don’t take Montauk for granted. I know how lucky I am to spend summers with my sister and grandmother. Three years ago, I didn’t have them in my life. Cassie didn’t even know I existed.
“Let’s promise we’ll always come here for the summer,” she says, her eyes wide and resolute. Cassie loves making plans. “Even when we’re adults.”
“Sounds good to me.” I don’t point out that she’s giving up a lot more than I am. Daddy didn’t invite her along on his trip with Sophie (obviously). But I’m sure her mom would agree to send her anywhere in the world. Whenever, wherever. They can afford it.
She extends her pinkie. “Summer together, forever.”
“Summer together forever,” I repeat, locking my little finger in hers.
One
Cassie
Monday, June 18th
The lawyer is a lot younger than I expected.
Over the phone, I pictured an older man because, really, who would name their child Norman these days? I wonder whether he was picked on as a boy. And whether his wife feels silly crying out his name when they’re in bed. Because that’s another thing I’ve noticed: Norman-the-lawyer—surely just fresh out of law school, with those baby cheeks and rosy complexion—wears a wedding band.
This is a new habit. As a young girl, I promised myself I would never walk down the aisle, and so I’ve spent the greater part of my life barely acknowledging left hands.
What’s that saying about making life laugh by telling it your plans?
It’s my saying, too. I share it with my patients all the time: Never say never and Be careful what you wish for. Clichés, but fitting ones—sentiments I tap into to remind my patients not to close themselves off, to face the future with an open mind. And yet here I am: thirty-one years old, unmarried, yes, and in love with a man who couldn’t make me his wife even if I wanted him to.
Which I don’t. I really don’t.
But it is ironic.
“Your sister should be here any minute now,” Norman says, sensing my impatience.
I nod as I scan the conference room: oval-shaped table, wood-paneled walls, identical leather-bound tomes neatly lined on a built-in bookshelf to the far left. The space is generic and elegant, not unlike Norman-the-lawyer, who is wearing a sharp, navy-blue suit, probably Italian. Not that I can tell.
Julie would know. Her mother read her Posh articles in lieu of bedtime stories. Julie’s indoctrination on All Things Designer probably began in the womb. And she is her mother’s daughter, after all. The apple never falls far from the tree.
That’s a saying I don’t use with my patients. Instead, I encourage them to forge their own identities, to break free from the stereotypes of their childhoods. You can’t change the past, but you can write your own story from here on, I say.
Ha! If they could see me now, they’d find a new therapist.
“Ms. Meyers, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but my wife is a huge fan. She watches your show every week. And she’s read your book twice.”
I’m about to tell Norman-the-lawyer that it isn’t my show w
hen I hear the sound of a door opening behind me.
“I’m so sorry to be late.”
That voice. It’s been over a decade, but I’d recognize it anywhere.
I don’t turn around. I want to, but it’s important to keep my cool. Part of me is hoping that she’s gained weight, or at least developed an adult acne problem.
“Ms. Meyers!” Norman exclaims. Why is he using her maiden name? “So glad to see you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I watch Norman all but drool over her. He has forgotten all about me. Probably just forgot about his wife, too. The familiar tug of jealousy drums inside my chest. I’m betting he wishes that I’d been the one to arrive late. Story of my life.
“Please, call me Julie,” she says.
I take note of this: she hasn’t changed her galling habit of pronouncing her name with a soft j, in the French fashion.
“Hello, Cassie,” she says, turning to me.
I give her a slight nod but nothing else.
She is unchanged: slim and petite, with cheekbones that could cause a paper cut, a heart-shaped face, and pouty lips. But her look is different: instead of the colorful, funky outfits she wore as a teenager, she is donned in an elegant, asymmetrical black-and-white pencil skirt, white silk blouse, and black stilettos. I can’t help but wonder if Nana saw this transformation. They shared the same fashion sense—Julie began dressing like Nana on the very first summer they met. Nana would’ve been disappointed to see Julie in clothes that are so…unoriginal.
“How are you?” she asks, still looking at me.
I wonder what will happen if I answer truthfully.
I take a deep breath and focus on the fact that, while I do have to be in the same room as Julie, at least our father isn’t here. Apparently, even Nana thought that would be too cruel.
“Should we get started?” I ask, turning to Norman.
“Yes, of course,” Norman continues, composing himself. “As discussed on the phone, our firm handled your grandmother’s affairs and she requested that you both be present during the reading of the will. Her final wishes were quite straightforward.” Norman opens a cream-colored folder and clears his throat. “I, Bernadette Patricia Meyers, being of sound mind, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament…”
I feel a soreness in my throat as I listen to the officious legalese that sounds nothing like my spirited, creative grandmother. This is my first time at a reading of a will—my mom died without one.
Thinking of my mother sends a shiver down my spine. “Your father’s bastard child” is what she called Julie when she was being nice. When she was sober.
I am aware of Norman’s voice in the background, but my mind is too restless to process his words. “I hope they keep the house in the family, but they are free to sell it as they see fit and share the proceeds from the sale equally, provided that the conditions herein are fulfilled.”
Norman puts down the folder, his eyes fixed on Julie. It’s like I’m not even in the room. I should have remembered this—and not only because she’s gorgeous. All my life I’ve wanted to have her magnetism, her charisma—the invisible stuff that made her so irresistible to everyone, even to our father. She was the beautiful daughter: sophisticated, exotic, fun. I was the plain one: sensible and levelheaded.
I will myself to pay attention, but I must have a faraway look on my face because Norman narrows his gaze in my direction and speaks in a low, clipped voice. “In summary, she’s leaving you the house and all her money if you both spend thirty consecutive days there this summer.”
“Together,” Julie whispers.
Wait…what?
“Yes.” Norman nods.
The words Norman read only a few minutes ago begin to sink in. A wave of panic hits me. Julie and I are required to spend one month in the Montauk house?
“Is this a joke?” I blurt out.
“No.” Norman’s tone is sober. “These are your grandmother’s last wishes.”
“But is this even legal?” I say. “Making two people spend time together like that?” Surely, this kind of thing only happens in cheesy romcoms.
“It’s perfectly legal, I assure you.”
“What happens if one of us refuses?” I ask, leaning forward in my seat.
“Yes, what if one of us refuses?”
I roll my eyes. New look, still the same parrot of a girl.
“I have plans for this summer,” Julie adds, her voice still barely above a whisper.
“If one or both of you refuse the conditions, the money goes to a charity that your grandmother wished to remain confidential,” Norman says. “I strongly urge you to accept her conditions. The house in Montauk should be worth a significant sum of money.”
And Nana realized this, which is why she decided to use it as leverage.
“What should we do?” Julie’s head whips in my direction. She looks bewildered, lost. Like an actor who’s forgotten their lines on opening night.
I remind myself that I am a trained psychologist—keeping my cool during stressful situations is a huge part of my job.
“We need to think about it.” I say, still looking at Norman. “How long do we have to decide?”
“By June 25th,” he answers.
“All right,” I say. That gives us a week. “We’ll get back to you then.”
As I am leaving the offices of Katz & Kline, I retrieve my cell phone from my bag. Five missed calls and one new voicemail, all from the same number. I am about to listen to the recorded message when another call from the same number comes through. I answer on the first ring.
“Is this Cassie Meyers?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Mrs. Meyers, my name is Melissa Thompson. I’m calling from Massachusetts General Hospital. We need you to come in right away, ma’am. Your husband has just checked into the Intensive Care Unit. He may have had a heart attack.”
“My husband?”
“Is this Daniel O’Riley’s wife?”
A pause. “Yes. Yes, that’s me,” I lie. “I’ll be right there.”
Two
Julie
Monday, June 18th
It’s coronation day, and the princess is late.
No, that won’t work. Coronations are happy occasions.
It is the day of the great unveiling of the Queen Mother’s last wishes, words that were carved in stone and will soon be presented to the entire kingdom, but mostly to the princess, who is running late because…
Well, because traffic in Boston sucks, that’s why.
OK, so this story needs work. They all do at first.
I open a new Note on my phone and write the general premise of the tale. I’ll have fun with it later.
Normally, I’d text Patrick a quick I love you, but not today. Not after last night.
The driver tells me I’ve reached my destination: a mirrored-glass high-rise in the Financial District. I silently pray that none of Patrick’s friends work here because I make a run for it, thanking the driver, and scuttling inside. Very unladylike.
As I step out of the elevator, I take a moment to steady my breathing before introducing myself to a sleepy-eyed receptionist. My Louboutin heels click on the marble floors as I am escorted down a corridor lined with conference rooms. I know which one I’m headed to before the receptionist reaches for the door handle.
I recognize her red leonine hair through the frosted glass walls. My legs turn watery.
My sister.
The Fire Princess has porcelain skin and a red mane made of solar flare, gamma rays, and meteorites. The Sky Princess hasn’t seen her in fourteen years.
(Watching her counsel people on TV for a few minutes every week does not count.)
“I’m so sorry to be late,” I say, entering the room.
The lawyer shakes my hand and introduces himself, but I don’t catch his name.
Cassie doesn’t even bother to acknowledge my presence. Her hair looks different—on East Coast Coffee she always has it up i
n a bun, but it’s untamed now, curly and free. I can tell she doesn’t like her haircut by the way she’s holding herself. I want to tell her to get a Brazilian Blowout—it does wonders for frizzy hair—but, of course, I don’t. She’s wearing dark jeans, a crisp, white dress shirt, and ballet flats. I wonder if she still hasn’t gotten over her insecurity about her height. She would look stunning in heels. She definitely has the legs for it.
In my stories, the Fire Princess has a closet full of heels.
“Hello, Cassie,” I say. Maybe all I need to do is extend an olive branch. Show her that I want to be civil.
Nothing.
“How are you?” I continue.
“Should we get started?” she asks the lawyer.
I wonder if she would’ve spoken to me if we’d run into each other in the waiting area. I chide myself again for my tardiness. I’ve never been punctual, but I’ve gotten so much worse, probably because it’s a habit of mine that Patrick doesn’t mind—a rarity. “Only Americans believe in punctuality,” Patrick says when we’re out. “The French consider it terribly unfashionable to be precisely on time.” Patrick loves accentuating my European eccentricities.