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

  I must look ridiculous staring at Cassie while the lawyer reads Nana’s will. Her neck is stiff, as if she is purposefully avoiding returning my gaze. What did I expect?

  The legal jargon is tedious, but one line stands out.

  “The condition that I ask of my granddaughters is that they spend a final month in the Montauk house in the summer following my passing, just the two of them,” he reads.

  Oh, Nana. Is this your plan? Do you really think it’ll work? Or is this your way of getting me to leave Patrick, if only for a month? You’ve never liked him.

  Like me, Nana was heartbroken that Cassie and I had become estranged. She had promised that she would find a way to make us reconnect, even if it was the last thing she ever did. I believed her. But seeing Cassie now—sensing the mercilessness of her resentment after all this time—makes me think that some things can’t be fixed. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’d feel towards me if she knew the full story. Nana did—but she took my secret to the grave.

  Cassie is now asking the lawyer—what is his name? Really, they should wear name tags—if we can think this over.

  I make sure to chime in, claiming to be busy. I can’t be the loser with no plans, not when she’s clearly unhappy about our predicament. Still, I feel a flicker of hope. She’s not saying no to Nana’s request—a small miracle. Cassie isn’t shy about turning people down.

  My therapist once suggested that I fell in love with Patrick because he reminded me of Cassie. I met Patrick shortly after Cassie and I had our falling out. Her absence had left a void in my life, a space I looked to fill with someone who instinctively takes charge, someone with a Type-A personality. Patrick made me quit going to therapy after that.

  I used to think that meeting Patrick was kismet, but after last night I wonder if we got married too quickly. Was I really in love with him or was it just the idea of him?

  I shouldn’t be thinking about this, not now. I need to focus on the lawyer and Cassie and on Nana’s crazy plan. Today is not the day to dwell on recent doubts surrounding my marriage.

  I ignore the voice in my mind telling me they’re not recent.

  Three

  Cassie

  Tuesday, June 19th

  Daniel is an idiot. I make it a point to tell him as much now.

  “Is this any way to treat your boyfriend after he’s had a heart attack?” he asks.

  I bring my index finger to my mouth and let out a low, shushing sound. “No talking, doctor’s orders. And you didn’t have a heart attack. You suffered something called unstable angina.”

  “I’m too young to have something that sounds so ominous.” He holds on to the bed’s side rails and sits up. His face is sunken and ashen, but his brown eyes are bright, luminous. Eyes of the man I love.

  “You heard the doctor. It can happen at any age, even thirty-eight. It’s no joke, which is why you need to rest. So no talking. Just listen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “As I was saying…you’re an idiot. An idiot for not taking proper care of yourself. For working too hard. And for eating way too much clam chowder. From now on, I’m putting you on a healthy diet.”

  I try to steady my breathing as I prop myself on the edge of his bed. It isn’t easy for me to be here, inside a hospital, especially given that I spent the night. Usually, I’d stave off my anxiety by focusing on my breath and noting my surroundings, but today that won’t work. The bleach-like scent of the room. The sterile whiteness the walls. The humming of unfamiliar machines. This space will always be a trigger for me.

  “All I need is you.”

  “You have me. I’m here.”

  “Thank you. For being here.” He squeezes my hand.

  “Thank you for telling the doctors I’m your wife. They wouldn’t have let me in otherwise.”

  “I’m just grateful they didn’t recognize you.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I’m famous.” And then, because I know that a hospital is probably filled with people watching daytime TV, I add, “It’s the hairstyle.” Although, of course, it’s a lot more than that. It’s the makeup and wardrobe—and a dozen other television tricks that make me look so different in real life. But mostly it’s the hair.

  “I like it like this.” He runs his fingers through my wild mane. “Reminds me of Leo the Lion from Angie’s favorite goodnight story.”

  A knot forms in my throat. If Sam and Angie were in town, I wouldn’t be able to be here. They don’t know about me. Obviously.

  “Do you need me to call Bella?”

  He shakes his head. “You know my sister. She won’t be able to keep her big mouth shut. I don’t want to scare them. Let them enjoy their summer break.” He lifts a finger in the air. “What’s that?”

  I cock my head to the side. I can hear it, too. A loud, thundering voice coming from the halls.

  “Daniel O’Riley. I’m looking for Daniel O’Riley. Where is his room?”

  It’s a voice I know well—authoritative, emphatic. One I would almost admire if I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t treated her for months.

  Tatiana is here. Daniel’s wife.

  “I should go,” I whisper.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I look at my boyfriend, lying on a hospital bed, dressed in a generic white gown. His usual larger-than-life presence, brought by his muscular, squared-shoulders and imposing height, seems strangely fragile.

  “You’re supposed to be avoiding stress,” I say.

  “I’ll handle her, Cass. I need you here—”

  “You!” Tatiana shouts as she opens the door to the private room where Daniel and I have been since last night. “You seriously brought her here?”

  “Tatiana, please lower your voice,” Daniel says. He’s wincing. Is it annoyance or could he be in pain?

  “What the hell is she doing here?” She waves her arms frantically. Her tone is still loud. Louder, if that’s even possible. “This isn’t what we agreed on.”

  “Excuse me.” A short, red-haired nurse holding a clipboard walks in, her freckled forehead scrunched up in a frown. “Ladies, this is a place with sick people in need of rest, including this gentleman right here.” She points to Daniel. “Now whatever is going on here, take it outside.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m his wife!” Tatiana takes a step in the nurse’s direction. “I have every right to be here.”

  “Not if you’re causing a disturbance. Now, do I have to call security?”

  I search the nurse’s eyes for a flicker of recognition, but I see none. I’m actually thankful I didn’t manage to sleep last night—who can sleep in a hospital?—since the dark circles under my eyes help keep me incognito.

  “Come on, Tatiana.” I gesture to the door.

  Tatiana hesitates for a moment, darting her eyes between the nurse and Daniel. Finally she lets out a heavy sigh and follows me out the door. I’m surprised—I thought she’d put up more of a fight.

  I lead the way, taking us to the hospital cafeteria. It smells of stale bagels and bad coffee.

  “What’s wrong with you, Cassie?” she asks, giving me a once-over. I’m grateful she’s no longer yelling. “Do you know how inappropriate it is for you to be here?”

  I meet her gaze. I can practically hear her judgmental thoughts as she takes in my wrinkled, day-old clothes, no doubt wondering what Daniel sees in me. Tatiana—who did not spend the night on the world’s most uncomfortable foldout bed—is wearing a perfectly ironed V-cut purple dress and a long string of pearls. Her white-blond hair is pulled up in a stylish high ponytail and her skin is poreless and dewy. She looks like she always does: buffed and polished and perfect. Next to her, I look like an awkward, gangly giant.

  “You want to talk about inappropriate?” I say. “Your husband had a heart attack yesterday and you didn’t come to see him until today.” I’m being unfair, choosing the more ominous term. Does she know enough to pick up on this?

  If so, she doesn’t let on
. Instead, Tatiana looks like she’s been slapped. Good.

  “What business is it of yours? You’re not our therapist anymore, Cassie.”

  “I’m not here as your therapist.”

  “No, you’re here as his whore.” A sneer.

  “Call me whatever you want, Tatiana.” I pause, crossing my arms over my chest. I know my measured tone is enervating. “We both know that if you cared about him, you would’ve been here yesterday.”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Her lips curl into a half smile. “And you better watch it. Have you forgotten what I know? Have you forgotten that I can destroy your precious little career? How many books do you think you’ll sell once word gets out that TV’s Cassie the Couples’ Counselor ruined my marriage?”

  I haven’t forgotten. This isn’t the first time she’s threatened me.

  “You know that’s not what happened.” I sound cool and in control, which is the opposite of how I feel.

  “Were you not our counselor?” She takes a step closer. Even though she’s wearing eight-inch heels, I’m still taller than she is.

  “Daniel and I were never involved when—”

  “Good luck getting people to believe that.” Her tone is unremorseful. Defiant.

  “You’re right.” A pause. I register the surprise in her eyes. “I was your counselor. Which is why I know you won’t say a word. Because that would mean people would talk— and you can’t have that.”

  She presses her lips into a thin line. From the outside, we probably look like two women engaged in a staredown. This isn’t what I want, to be arguing with another woman over a man. This has never been what I wanted.

  I gather my thoughts. I know what I need to do.

  “Tell me you love him,” I say in a slow, deliberate tone. I am thankful the cafeteria is empty. The last thing I need is to have someone record this and post it online.

  “What?” she asks, confused.

  “Tell me you love him. Tell me you want to be with him. Tell me you want to make your marriage work, and I’ll walk away. You’ll never see me again.”

  A stretch of silence. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll prove me wrong.

  I hold my breath. The thought of never seeing Daniel again is enough to send cracks through the surface of my heart. The pull I feel towards him is intense, magnetic. So powerful, it aches. What we have is once-in-a-lifetime: I know I’ll never love anyone like I love Daniel.

  But I also know this: I’m not bluffing. I really will walk away. If Tatiana loves him—truly loves him—I won’t stand in the way of their marriage. No matter how much it hurts.

  But Tatiana says nothing. She continues to stare me down with her imperious gaze.

  “Do you even care about him?” I ask. An underlying sense of relief settles in me.

  “I’ll tell you what I do care about, Cassie.” She takes a step forward. “I don’t want you to have him.”

  I take a deep breath. Her words sting, though I’m not sure why. I’ve known how she feels for a long time now.

  “You need help, Tatiana. I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you.”

  I turn on my heel and leave.

  My heart hammers inside my chest as I hurry back to Daniel’s room. I’m annoyed at myself for allowing Tatiana to take up so much of my time with him. What if he’s had another angina? Or worse—an actual heart attack?

  A thought leaps to the front of my mind, one that’s been stirring inside my brain since I first saw Daniel in the hospital.

  What if I lost him before ever really having him?

  Four

  Julie

  Sunday, June 24th

  I run a quick body scan in front of my closet’s floor-length mirror: hair (down), eyelashes (brushed, no loose ones), breath (minty), nails (no chips), outfit (cream linen jumpsuit), shoes (patent leather ballet flats, one of the two pairs I only wear indoors). All good.

  Patrick doesn’t look up when I walk in. He’s sitting in his favorite espresso-brown, distressed leather armchair, tapping on his iPad. Classical music floats softly from the built-in speakers. A tune I don’t recognize, possibly Vivaldi. At the bar cart, I fix him a Scotch, making sure to get it exactly right: two fingers, neat, served in a crystal-cut glass.

  I place the Scotch on the antique wood table to his right. I remember to use a coaster. Still no eye contact.

  I take two steps back.

  “We should have a baby,” I say.

  This catches his attention. He looks up and meets my gaze.

  I wrap my arms around my waist. A reflexive gesture.

  “This again?” His tone is sharp. An exhale. “Is this because of your grandmother?”

  “No.” I clear my throat and move closer to him, just an inch. “This is because I want a baby.”

  The Sky Princess is resolute: she wants an heir to the throne. The king is reluctant, but the princess will not be dissuaded. She has procured a rare potion from a sharp-toothed fairy, an elixir that will instantly put the king in a good mood while she persuades him to grant her wish.

  The magical potion is—obviously—the Scotch. Alcohol is the closest thing the real world has to magic potions.

  “Asked and answered, Julie,” he says. I hate it when he gets all lawyerly on me. “You knew I didn’t want any more kids when we got married.”

  He had told me two days before our wedding. Two days.

  “And you knew I wanted kids,” I say.

  “We have Nate,” he replies.

  I perch on the couch to his left, purposefully crossing my legs at the ankle, like a proper lady. I can’t afford to do anything to displease him today. (There are many things that displease Patrick.) I catch a glimpse of his iPad’s screen. The Economist. No surprise there. It’s Sunday evening. Patrick is a creature of habit.

  “Nate is your son,” I say. “And I love him, I do. But he lives in LA with his mom. We’re lucky if we see him once a year for, what, a week?” Last time, it had been for five days. Two years ago. “Last week was Father’s Day and he wasn’t even here.”

  “I didn’t see you flying across the country to spend the day with your father.”

  At this, I wince. Patrick knows I would’ve loved nothing more than to spent the day with my dad, that I would’ve gladly have made the trip to Seattle for the weekend. “That was the day of the benefit dinner,” I say. It’s why I chose today to have this conversation with him yet again: it’s been one whole week since he acted like a monster. I’m hoping that by now he feels remorse. Enough remorse to mollify his stubbornness.

  But he doesn’t seem the least bit moved. “I’ve done the baby thing.” Patrick’s tone isn’t cruel, but it is indifferent. “I don’t want to do it again.” Does he know he’s breaking my heart?

  “Don’t you want us to be a family?”

  I’ve asked him this question more times than I can count. And every time the words leave my mouth, I feel a flicker of hope. I think to myself, Maybe today he’ll say yes. Instead, he reminds me, once again, that I knew what I was getting into when I married him. My heart shrinks.

  Patrick isn’t wrong: he did tell me he didn’t want kids. I was surprised—shocked is probably a more accurate description—and I did consider calling off the wedding. But I didn’t do that because, in my heart, I didn’t believe him. I had faith that, in time, he’d change his mind. I wasn’t in a hurry: I was twenty-two when we got married. I had time to strengthen our bond, to persuade him.

  Except, of course, it’s been nine years since that conversation. And in this almost-decade, I’ve learned to be exactly the woman he wants me to be. I’ve learned to live by his rules. I use the perfume he picked out for me (Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue), wear outfits he approves of (classic cuts in neutral colors), and greet him with a quiet smile when he gets home from work (not being home is not an option; being chatty is annoying). I put on makeup right after I wash my face in the morning, but not lipstick—especially not red lipstick (red lipstick is for prostitu
tes and drag queens). I get a manicure every week and every week I choose the same color: bubble bath by OPI (before I met Patrick, I used to bite my nails). I only hum on occasion, even when I have a song stuck in my head—and I never whistle (whistling is for sailors and drunks). I even switched shampoos to please him (Patrick is very sensitive to smells). It sounds like a lot. And it is a lot. But the truth is that I’m happy to do all these things, I really am. Patrick knows what he likes, what he wants. And I’m flexible. I’m happy to adapt, to compromise.

  Except on this: I want a baby.

  Which is why over the past nine years I’ve brought up having a baby at least once every six months or so—more since I turned thirty. And he hasn’t changed his mind.

  I feel myself escaping—my mind is searching for comfort, trying to get back to my fairy tale. But I anchor it to this moment. I can’t run. Not today.

  “What if we left it up to fate?” I offer him a coy smile. “I’ll go off the pill. We’ll see what happens.” I hold my breath and visualize him saying yes.

  The king feels his steely resolve melting away.

  “I’m not having this conversation again, Julie.” There’s a finality to his tone.

  That is so not what the king would say! He would take the princess in his arms and make a baby with her right there on the spot.

  Well, probably not on the spot since fairy tales are rated PG.

  “A baby would do us good,” I continue. “It would bond us together forever.” And who knows? It might even encourage him to come home early every once in a while. To step outside his comfort zone—his miniscule comfort zone.

  Patrick is a lawyer specializing in litigation. He deals with demanding, high-profile cases. When we first got married, I had a mental image of what our evenings would look like: the two of us sitting at the dining table, trading stories over a delicious meal, laughing. I did my part—I learned to make his favorite dishes, I told jokes. But Patrick gave me nothing in return except for low hums and one-word answers. At first, I reasoned that my mistake was asking him about work, so I tried steering the conversation towards current events or a funny story about one of my friends—but that failed as well. When I pressed him, he explained that he felt tired after a long day at work. His job was taxing, draining.