The Sunset Sisters: An utterly gripping and emotional page-turner (The Sisterhood Series) Read online

  Sixteen

  Julie

  Tuesday, July 3rd

  Her mane is the first thing I see—red, wild. A crown of curls. She’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs. I tiptoe down the steps and lower my body next to hers.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her body is folded inwards, her hair covering most of her face. I wonder if she’s crying. “I’m really sorry.”

  There’s so much more I could say. I could explain how my mind is pathetic, impressionable. How my husband had just said those exact words to me during an argument, that I was chewing them over in my head, festering in anger. I could explain how her comment—Get your head out of the clouds—is a huge trigger for me. That I didn’t appreciate being treated like a child because that’s how Patrick treats me—and I’m tired of it. Maybe if she knew, she’d understand.

  But maybe not. I decide against sharing. She doesn’t want to hear about my life.

  Instead, I offer an apology. Weak, insufficient. But ultimately sincere.

  The Fire Princess turns to face the Sky Princess. She is not crying. Instead, she is covered in thorns. Poison ivy shoots out of her eyes. The Sky Princess is scared.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” I say. It isn’t true—I am nothing if not expectant. Or maybe hopeful is the word. Hope is not the same as expectation. Hope is fueled by longing, expectation by entitlement.

  The silence stretches between us. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is Cassie: ice runs through her veins. Maybe she should be the Ice Princess instead. My eyes dart to her hands. She’s holding a frame. I recognize it. It used to be hung on the wall above us.

  “Let me see that,” I say. I reach over, expecting her to flinch. But she lets me take the broken frame.

  I get up and make my way to the chest of drawers in the living room, where Nana keeps her arts and crafts supplies. I take out a pair of tweezers and a tube of superglue. It’s a relief to have a small, solvable problem. A broken thing I can actually make whole again.

  When I’m done, I hold up the frame like a prop.

  She finally speaks.

  “Pleased with yourself?” She stands up, crossing her arms over her chest.

  This is my punishment. My happiness has always bothered her. She’s admitted as much, years ago, back when we were children. When we traded stories about our home lives.

  “I get it,” I say softly, walking back towards the steps where she was sitting a moment before. “You’re angry.”

  “Me? I’m fine. You just said the cruelest possible thing to me. But it doesn’t matter because you fixed a picture frame.” She marches past me, heading towards the chest of drawers. She picks up the frame. “See? All good now!”

  “I didn’t mean it.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes. My voice quivers.

  “Oh, no. Now I’ve made you upset,” she says, in an unkind falsetto. She cocks her head to the side. “Should I break another frame so you can superglue it back together? I’m sure I can find another one with my mom.”

  When angered, the Fire Princess turns into lightning and wind and thunder. The Sky Princess needs to find a way to defend herself, or she’ll be swept away by the tornado, never to be seen again.

  “How about we get one of my mother?” I pause, letting the words sink in.

  She blinks, confused.

  “You can’t, can you? She’s not up on these walls or on the mantle or anywhere else in this house. Because everyone acted like she didn’t even exist.”

  I’m not done.

  “Do you know how hard it was for me, seeing how Nana adored your mom? She hated mine, Cassie. Ignoring her was the nicest thing she could do. I loved Nana, but God forbid I bring up Sophie around her. God forbid she catch me writing her a postcard or checking her horoscope. When I was here, I had to forget about her.”

  “None of that’s my fault, Julie.” Her nostrils flare.

  “And it’s not my fault that your mother killed herself.” The words leave my mouth without my permission. Sometimes it scares me, how easily I can lie. I should be ashamed of myself. I am.

  “Who said it was?”

  “You did,” I say, taking a step closer. “When you cut me out of your life like a rotten limb.”

  “My mother had just died.”

  “And then what? It’s been fourteen years.” Indignation bubbles inside me, spreading like poison. She doesn’t know what I did. She doesn’t know what I did and yet she still shunned me. Why would she do that? “At some point you have to let go. Isn’t that what you’re always preaching to your viewers? And yet you’re incapable of it. You’re such a hypocrite.”

  “How dare you?” Her tone is low, wounded. A hissing sound.

  “How dare I what—stand up for myself? You never expected me to, did you? You think you can go through life bossing people around, poking at their wounds. Well, guess what happens when you do that? People snap. I snap.”

  She lets out a grunt, a low rumble. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.” I take a step closer to Cassie. She moves back. We’re locked in a stare. “And Nana didn’t want that, either. It’s why she brought us here. Don’t you see?” A pause. “Cassie, I’m sorry about what I said. But can’t we get along? I’ll do anything. Do you want me to beg? I’ll do it. Do you want to hit me? Go ahead.”

  She frowns. “I’m not going to hit you.”

  “I won’t hit back.” I smile weakly.

  “Yeah, because that’s what I’m worried about.” She scoffs. “I’m twice your size.”

  “Jamaica Plain versus Dover?” I say. “We both know who’d win.”

  I see the corners of her mouth twitching, the beginnings of a smile. I want to reach out, take her hand in mine. I want to tell her that it’s me, Julie. Her sister. But she slips the mask back on. Returns to her icy self.

  “You really think I don’t see what you’re trying to do?” Her tone is steely. “You feel bad about what you said. And you should. It was below the belt and I’m not going to indulge in your stupid idea just to make you feel better.”

  And then she turns around, leaves the house, and drives off.

  Seventeen

  Cassie

  Tuesday, July 3rd

  I blame the house for my erratic behavior. This used to be my safe space—the one place I got to relax, to let my guard down. But I can’t do that now. I can’t get sucked back in. It has cost me too much.

  I try to stop the memories of my first summer with Julie. I fail.

  A few days after Julie arrived, Nana pulled me aside to talk in private.

  “I’m still getting used to having two granddaughters,” she said, her tone gentle. “It’s a big change for all of us. And it’s natural to have feelings about any kind of change.”

  I knew what she was doing. Teachers did it all the time: talked about their feelings to get us to open up about our own. I also knew why she was doing it. I’d been quieter than usual, reserved. Keeping my distance from Julie.

  “How are you feeling about your sister?” Nana asked.

  “She’s nice.” It seemed like the polite thing to say.

  “I’m always here if you need to talk. You know that, right?”

  I nodded. I expected her to tell me that I had to get along with Julie, that a friendship between us wasn’t optional. But she never did. Nana seemed to sense I needed space.

  That space evaporated when a hairy spider jumped on Julie. After falling and laughing, we found ourselves on the beach, in front of Nana’s house, trading secrets. Summer was almost over.

  “My mom is Daddy’s girlfriend,” she told me. “They love each other very much.”

  I didn’t understand why she would share such a monumental secret with me. Looking back, I see that she was desperate to get along. But, at the time, I just thought she was very bad at keeping secrets. Especially after she told me that everyone in her school knew about the affair—and that they were really mean ab
out it. Cruel, even.

  I had follow-up questions. Julie seemed eager to answer all of them.

  Did her mother and our father sleep in the same room when he came to visit?

  Of course. (A small laugh.)

  Was our father romantic? Did he surprise her mother with flowers and stuff?

  Not really, maybe once or twice.

  Did he ever get mad at her mom?

  Maybe sometimes? (She seemed unsure.)

  Did he ever yell or break things around the house?

  No. (Her confusion was palpable.)

  Did our father want more children with her mother?

  She’d never asked.

  Did they do things together? Like go out and stuff?

  All the time. To dinner or to the movies. Or dancing.

  Had our father lived with her for a few months around three years ago, in the spring?

  Yes. It had been the happiest time in Julie’s life.

  Did our father love her mother?

  Of course. (No hesitation.)

  I quickly understood what Julie was telling me: they were a family. More than that: a happy family. Any other kid would’ve freaked out. But not me. I was used to being hurt by my father. The fact that he had been cheating on my mom for a decade was just another bruise in a series of beatings to my heart. I wasn’t even surprised, at least not as much as I should be.

  But I was torn. Because now I had a big decision to make.

  I had to decide whether or not to tell my mom about my father’s infidelity.

  My third-grade teacher, Ms. Eleanor, had taught us how to make a pros and cons list. It was a habit I quickly—and happily—picked up. I loved the simplicity that came with dividing arguments into two different sides. It all seemed very logical to me—and I loved logic.

  And so I made a list. But that didn’t help. There were too many variables—another term Ms. Eleanor had taught us.

  My mind spiraled with possibilities. If I told my mom, her drinking could get worse—but it could also get better. Maybe she’d finally decide to leave my father—to her, divorce was a sin, but so was adultery. If she did leave, it was possible that she’d find happiness—but what if she didn’t? I worried she’d blame me. That she’d move back south, where her parents were from, and make me go with her. What if I never saw Nana again?

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I needed help. And so I asked Nana if we could talk, just the two of us.

  We went for a walk on the path that connected the houses along the shore, the lush vegetation that surrounded us providing a comforting sense of privacy. I told her everything.

  “What your mother did, asking you to spy on your sister,” Nana began, shaking her head. “She shouldn’t have put you in that position. A child shouldn’t concern herself with her parents.”

  “I know. But it’s what she does. It’s what they both do.”

  At this, Nana frowned. “What do you mean?”

  I told her about what went on at my house. About my mom’s drinking—there were days when she wouldn’t even get out of bed. About my father’s temper—he yelled and broke things around the house. About their constant fighting, which sometimes became physical. It was the first time I opened up to an adult—to anyone, really—about my home situation. I’m sure she already knew about some of it—maybe even most of it. But it couldn’t have been easy for her, hearing it from me.

  I didn’t notice I was crying until I felt the salty taste of tears in my mouth.

  Nana pulled me into a hug. I felt soothed, comforted. I felt something else, too. Hope. Maybe Nana would be able to do something. She was an adult, she had power.

  But being hopeful was a mistake.

  “What your mother asked you to do wasn’t fair,” Nana said. “I can only assume that she wasn’t…all there when she decided to do that.”

  I told her how Julie thought I was lucky because my parents were married, but I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like I was living in a world of pretend. My parents pretended to be happy, but they weren’t. They pretended to love each other, but they didn’t. Sometimes, I wish they’d pretend with me. At least then, I wouldn’t know the truth. The truth hurt.

  “The universe works in mysterious ways,” Nana said. “When your grandfather died, I was devastated. I didn’t understand why he had to go, why I was left behind. But if it weren’t for his passing, Julie wouldn’t be here. It was only when he died that I realized how much I wanted to have both my granddaughters in my life. And now you’re both here, friends. Sisters.” She smiled. I knew she was thrilled that Julie and I were finally getting along.

  “Does that mean I should lie to my mom?”

  “It means you should remember that your mom and your dad have a history that predates you. It’s not up to you to either make or break their marriage. Your job is to enjoy your summer with your favorite grandmother.” She paused to tickle my nose. “And your sister.”

  I nodded, sniffling. “This is all my father’s fault.”

  I waited for Nana to agree with me. To say that my father’s behavior was irresponsible and selfish. That he had created this mess.

  “Your father is doing the best he can, Cassie.” Her tone wasn’t stern, but there was a finality to it. I sensed I shouldn’t argue. No matter how much she loved me, she loved my father more. He was her only son, after all.

  That’s when I understood that revealing my father’s secret would mean upsetting Nana. And I didn’t think I could handle that.

  When I returned to Boston, my mom asked me about Julie. I told her I’d found out nothing. I was a good liar—she believed me. The following year, when it came time for me to go to Montauk again, she asked me to keep my ears open. She didn’t say about what. She didn’t have to.

  I considered, once again, whether I should tell my mom the truth.

  Except, by the end of the following summer, Julie and I were best friends. Spending three months in a house with someone who knows the biggest secret you’re carrying is a very effective way to bond.

  I loved my mom. I didn’t want to see her being lied to. But I loved Julie more.

  My sister became my person—even more than Nana. With Julie, I could be myself. She was the only person in the world who understood the burden I carried because it was her burden, too. We were both keepers of our father’s secret. We understood that if we were to reveal it, we’d lose summers with Nana. We’d lose each other. I opened up to her without reservations or fear of judgment. She didn’t have the power to change my parents or improve my home situation, but she never made me feel guilty about being critical of them, about feeling like I deserved better. She never told me my father was doing the best he could. She understood my anger. She validated my emotions. She made me feel seen and safe. For years, she made me feel lucky. I was happy.

  And then it all came crashing down.

  Eighteen

  Julie

  Tuesday, July 3rd

  It must be a record, fighting with one’s husband and sister on the same day.

  I peer out the window. It’s partly cloudy—the sun occasionally making an appearance. It doesn’t look like it’ll rain. I decide to go for a walk on the beach.

  The first thing I do is take off my shoes. A tactile memory of Montauk: walking barefoot, the sand hot on the arches of my feet. I scurry towards the ocean, relieved when I reach the cool dampness of the shore. If I close my eyes, I can sense Nana walking beside me. Holding my hand.

  But when I open my eyes, she’s gone.

  Maybe Patrick is right. Maybe coming here was a mistake. I’ve underestimated how lonely I’d feel, being here without Nana. Actually, lonely isn’t the word. I feel hollow.

  I lower by body onto the sand. This stretch of the beach is empty. It’s usually empty, even in the summer. Especially on a cloudy day. I graze the seashell necklace (I haven’t taken it off, except to go to sleep) with the tips of my fingers as I consider my next move.

  I glance at my phone, won
dering if I should text Patrick. I could tell him that he was right: that there’s nothing left for me here. That I want to go back home. He’ll be pleased, relieved. He’ll send a car to pick me up—he wouldn’t dream of asking me to take the jitney back to Boston. He’ll contest the will in court and win—Patrick always wins. He’ll buy out Cassie’s share if I ask him to. He’s never said no to me, not when it comes to the things that money can buy. It’s been this way from the start.

  I met Patrick when I was out with Janette at Copley Place, slurping on fruit smoothies, pretending we had enough money to do more than window shop. Earlier that week, a girl from our floor at BU brought home twelve (I repeat, twelve) shopping bags from Neiman Marcus, all filled with horrendously expensive things. It was cold outside—April in Boston is always cold—but for a moment it really felt like spring. I watched as she unveiled her finds: a Missoni lightweight scarf, a Donna Karan denim jacket, a Burberry skirt, and, my favorite: a pair of colorful, hip Louis Vuitton espadrilles that looked nothing like the brand’s classical shoes. I salivated when I saw those shoes. And even though we couldn’t afford them, Janette and I decided to go to Copley Place and try them on. Patrick walked in when I was eyeing my feet in the store’s mirror.

  I was attracted to him right away. He was handsome, in a charming, slightly older way: tall, with a square jaw, an aquiline nose and seashell ears. His brown hair was beginning to gray. He was dressed in a gray three-piece suit, silk tie, cufflinks and tie clip. But the most impressive thing about him was his confident stance: impeccable posture, hands in his pockets, easy smile. He looked like he belonged.

  He complimented my shoes and asked if I’d mind helping him pick out a present for a female colleague at his firm. I’m not an idiot—I knew he was hitting on me. I was very much used to male attention. It didn’t often flatter me, but that day it did.