The Faithfuls: An emotional page-turner with a heart-stopping twist (The Sisterhood Series) Read online

  “My pants are fine, Mom.” Uncle Nick returns to the rocking chair. Aunt Alice is next to him, sitting up straight. She is so stiff, it almost looks like her rocking chair has frozen.

  “Hi, Grandma.” Calan gives her a kiss. “Where’s Grandpa?”

  “According to her, licking his wounds,” Uncle Nick says.

  “What?” his dad asks. He settles on the edge of the lounger.

  “What wounds?” says his mom. She takes a seat next to his dad, placing her purse on the floor. Calan feels strangely relieved to see them sitting together.

  “He has a migraine. You know how he can get.” Grandma Tish purses her lips as she stares at the flames dancing in front of her. There’s a finality to her tone. She turns to Calan. “Let me look at you, my dear. You know, biology is a funny thing. You don’t look the least bit like your dad, but you smell just like my Nick did when he was a young boy.”

  “L’eau du gym socks, Mom?” Uncle Nick grins.

  “No.” Grandma Tish lets go of his face. “Crisp maple leaves in autumn, if you must know.”

  Calan feels his face flush. He’d give anything to be like Uncle Nick.

  “He’s got the Dewar coloring,” says his dad.

  “And the height,” Grandma Tish adds. “But his eyelashes are Gina’s.”

  “I’d kill for those eyelashes.” Aunt Alice’s voice is barely above a whisper, but everyone laughs. Everyone, that is, except for Calan, who resents the reminder that his features are girly-looking. His mind flashes back to the day someone drew a stick figure wearing a dress with CALAN written below it on the boys’ bathroom. The illustration had puckered lips and long eyelashes. It had made Calan want to cut his lashes and suck in his mouth.

  Yolanda shows up with green tea for his mom, whiskey for his dad, and a Coke for Calan. Still standing, Calan looks around, hoping to see Malaika playing with Allegra in the living room. No such luck. He takes a seat on the ottoman facing the sliding doors. Maybe Malaika will walk by.

  “Bobby, back me up here, dear,” Grandma Tish says. “I was explaining to your brother the importance of ensuring the continuity of the families that built America into this great nation.”

  “Aka racism.” Uncle Nick brings his cigar to his mouth and wiggles his eyebrows at his twin.

  “I beg your pardon,” Grandma Tish says. “I am not a racist. Nor does this have anything to do with race. I’m simply referring to preserving tradition. Much like the one we’re engaging in now, mind you.” She pauses but doesn’t wait for anyone to comment. Grandma Tish does not need validation. “Calan, dear, you’re the first of your generation. Tell me, do you know the blood that runs in your veins?”

  Suddenly, Calan is grateful Malaika isn’t around. He doesn’t want her to see him being put on the spot like this.

  “Of course he does, Tish,” says his mom. “Calan knows all there is to know about the Dewars. Don’t you, honey?” She beams at him.

  “But what about the other great families you are a part of?” Grandma Tish pats the seat cushion to her right, inviting Calan to sit down next to her. “You see, my dear, my mother was a Carmichael before she married my daddy, a Baron. He was not the eldest of the Baron boys, but at the time, Mama believed that Daddy would be chosen to inherit the family’s oil empire. Now, it’s true that Uncle Jack surprised us all by stepping up and filling in the shoes that were meant for him as the firstborn, but regardless of succession matters, I am a descendant of two prominent families that are as close to blue bloods as one can be in America, which means that you, my dear, are as well.”

  His dad looks at Grandma Tish with a funny face. Calan thinks he knows why: Grandma Tish rarely talks about her side of the family. He once overheard his dad say that it brought back bad memories, but Calan never learned exactly why.

  “I’m going to have to side with Nick on this one, Mom,” his dad says, whiskey glass in hand. “If you’re using terms like blue bloods, then, yes, it’s racism.”

  Grandma Tish tuts. “The point here is not race, but history. Why do you think I was so warmly accepted into Alma society when I married Charles? Because Almanacs can recognize when someone has been born to fill a certain kind of role, that’s why.”

  “And you were born to reign!” Uncle Nick rises to his feet and does a mock salute and Grandma Tish purses her lips to contain a smile. “Wait, that’s wrong.” He takes a half-step back and bows, chuckling. Everyone claps as he returns to his seat. Calan feels his cheeks stretch into a grin. Uncle Nick’s superpower is that he can make everyone feel relaxed—even Calan.

  “Reign in a town no bigger than a mall?” Aunt Alice’s voice cuts through the fizzling laughter. Her lips are pressed closed, her brow furrowed. Not even Uncle Nick can pierce Aunt Alice’s icy veil.

  “My dear,” Grandma Tish begins, “Alma may be a small kingdom, but a queen is a queen regardless of the size of her territory. If Charles had brought back some other woman—a lesser woman—Almanacs never would’ve accepted her.”

  “Besides, we’re much bigger than a mall,” his mom offers.

  “The Dewar name would be nothing without the preservation of the Dewar name,” Grandma Tish says. “They are one and the same. I helped preserve it, just as I always hoped my sons’ wives would.”

  “Mom lives and breathes Alma,” Calan whispers.

  He doesn’t add that he wishes his mom still had a family of her own. Calan doesn’t know much about his mom’s parents, except that they had died when she was eighteen. He would’ve liked to have met them, to have them in his life. Maybe they were like him—different. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so weird if his family were bigger.

  “Yes,” Grandma Tish says. “And one day you’ll run Alma Boots, my dear, so you should follow her example.”

  Calan chews on his lower lip. He has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with the family business, but they seem set on ignoring him. Alma Boots is a fine company, one that Calan is proud of. But Calan is going to be a graphic novelist. There is a zero percent chance of him being stuck in a soul-sucking office all day filled with uncreative followers like the kids at his school. Plus, he doesn’t want to live in Alma. Aunt Alice is right: it’s too small. If they lived in a big city, Calan wouldn’t stand out as much.

  “Nick, would you make me another one?” Grandma Tish holds up her Martini glass.

  “What brought this on anyway?” his dad asks.

  “You were late,” Uncle Nick says, getting up and taking Grandma Tish’s empty glass. “Mom was upset because she thought you weren’t coming and started talking about the importance of tradition. How she managed to spin that into this purity of blood speech I have no idea.”

  “We weren’t late,” his mom says. “Alice said 6:30.”

  Grandma Tish gives Aunt Alice a pointed look. She is about to say something when Malaika steps outside with Allegra.

  Calan holds his breath. The best part about coming to Aunt Alice’s house is seeing Malaika. She’s beautiful, hypnotic. Prettier than any girl in any comic book—even Stargirl.

  Malaika is wearing black leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt. Her earrings—a pair of dangling, yellow crystals—match her eyes. Allegra is in her arms, her weight pulling down at Malaika’s blouse, exposing an additional inch of skin. She isn’t showing cleavage, but Calan still feels movement coming from his pants, one that he desperately does not want Malaika—or anyone else—to see.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Malaika says. “But someone wanted to give Mommy and Daddy a kiss goodnight.”

  “Cawan! Cawan!” Allegra swings her arms in his direction.

  “Oh, you want to see your big cousin, do you?” Malaika coos.

  Hearing Malaika refer to him as big makes his erection more powerful. He panics—Malaika is now headed towards him. His legs became Siamese twins that can’t decide which direction to take: he starts getting up and crossing his legs at the same time. The result, of course, is that he stumbles and falls to the ground, landing less
than an inch away from the center table—and the fire.

  “Honey!” his mom screams. “Are you all right?”

  A second later, he’s back on his feet. The humiliation has cured his erection, possibly for good.

  “I’m fine.” He keeps his focus on the ground as his vision blurs. He wishes he could vanish. Go invisible like Sue Storm.

  Uncle Nick swoops in and takes Allegra from Aunt Alice. He then disappears into the house, whispering soothingly in her ear.

  “Are you OK?” Malaika touches his left arm for the briefest second, but it’s enough to make Calan feel the bulge in his pants return.

  “Excuse me,” Calan says, or at least he thinks he does. He might’ve mumbled something else, something unintelligible and inarticulate. He is thankful that his legs get it right this time and he makes a beeline to the powder room.

  By the time he comes out, his family is already sitting around the dining table. Malaika is gone—along with any hint of a chance he’ll ever have of kissing her.

  Five

  Alice

  Friday, September 6th

  Friday night dinners typically make a dent on Alice’s oxycodone stash, but this is one for the history books. In addition to enduring another evening of Tish’s creepy, pro-Dewar nonsense, tonight she is also hosting, which means that Alice has taken four—yes, four—oxy. It had been a smart decision, too. Right now, she feels as though she is floating through clouds while listening to her favorite band play at Madison Square Garden. Never mind that she is actually sitting in her fourteen-seat dining table with her husband’s insufferable, conservative family.

  “Alice?” The voice is Nick’s. He is giving her a funny look. “Gina just complimented you on the meal.”

  “Oh,” Alice says, turning her gaze towards Gina. She is wearing dark blue jeans and a shirt so colorful it looks like it’s had an unfortunate encounter with Allegra’s crayon box. “Thank you.”

  “I’d love to get the recipe,” Gina says. “What’s it called?”

  Alice has to look down at her plate to remember what they’re eating. “Moqueca de peixe.” Alice sips her wine. Not the best idea, mixing alcohol and oxy—but Nick has picked a great Sancerre. “A Brazilian dish I picked up while living in Rio de Janeiro.”

  “And by picked up,” Tish begins, “do you mean you asked Yolanda to prepare it?”

  “Does Nataliya not cook at your house, Tish?” Alice isn’t putting up with hypocrisy tonight. Tish is as domestically inept as Alice—she’s just better at hiding it. Alice doesn’t see anything wrong with hiring a housekeeper. It’s good for everyone, including the economy.

  Tish clears her throat. “Gina, dear, I noticed you’re wearing the suede sneakers that are coming out next fall.”

  Alice doesn’t have to look at her sister-in-law’s shoes to know that they are an Alma Boots pair. They’re probably drab and generic—all Alma Boots shoes are. The unofficial company motto seems to be: Let’s play it safe! Alice has pointed out to Bobby that the brand needs to evolve. High-end monogram options. A vegan-friendly line. A marketing campaign focused on gender-neutral shoes. They need to cut their summer line in half—it’s bleeding them dry—and invest more in their women’s and children’s lines—women and kids buy more shoes, after all. These are only a few of the ideas she’s had over the last three years. But Bobby won’t listen to her—and Nick doesn’t seem to care. They look at her in the same way they look at every other woman in this family: as if she is nothing more than a mother and a housewife. Never mind that Alice is highly educated. Never mind that Alice’s career, albeit short-lived, was extremely successful. Never mind that the one time she took the lead on an Alma Boots project they had a smash success in their hands.

  Alice feels a tingle of pride when she remembers the Angie Aguilar music video, the one she’d single-handedly secured for these bunch of ingrates. It had been wildly popular, dethroning Taylor Swift’s latest single in the charts.

  Soon after moving to Alma, Alice had met Angie at a party at Soho House. They’d bonded over the fact that they were both pregnant and both wearing the exact same dress: a Stella McCartney number with a plunging neckline. Angie had admired Alice’s brooch; Alice had admired her serpent ring. They’d chatted for at least an hour, swapping notes on the changes their bodies were undergoing—the food cravings, the sudden insomnia, their increased libido—as well as their favorite designers, restaurants, and TV shows. Alice isn’t sure how it came up, but at some point Angie had complimented Alma Boots’ level of comfort, lamenting about how she’d much rather be wearing her old pair of sheepskin boots instead of uncomfortable stilettos (both she and Angie had been wearing high heels) because pregnancy had made her feet swell all the time. Almost a year later, when Nick came to Alice asking for help to elevate Alma Boots’ brand awareness among millennials, the conversation with Angie came back to Alice. It was a long shot, but definitely worth a try.

  It hadn’t been hard to reach Angie—one of Alice’s friends from high school was close friends with her producer. As luck would have it, Angie’s image was in need of a patriotic boost—and what better way to accomplish that than to support an all-American brand? Alice had been thrilled. Back then, she thought that moves like this would help her leave Alma.

  “They feel great,” Gina says, looking at Tish.

  Alice sighs. It must have been considerably easier to marry into the Dewar family back when Alma Boots only made, well, boots. The limitless footwear options they now carry means that Alice is harassed whenever she wears another brand.

  Harassed. Ha! That’s funny. She should make that joke at the table.

  “And I love the minimalist look,” Gina continues.

  A great match for a Technicolor outfit.

  Alice immediately chides herself. She doesn’t want to be that woman. The woman who picks apart another woman’s appearance. Not even in her mind.

  “You look lovely, dear,” Tish says.

  “You do,” Alice agrees. A kindness.

  When was the last time Tish complimented Alice? She can’t even remember.

  “Tell me, Calan,” Tish begins. “How’s school?”

  Calan fidgets on his seat, brings a forkful of moqueca to his mouth, and mumbles something that Alice can’t quite make out. Really, with all the time Gina spends pampering the boy, one would assume that he would’ve learned to enunciate properly by now.

  “Calan is working on a project with Nicholas Davidson,” Gina says. “You know him, Tish. Craig and Colleen’s boy?”

  “Of course, Terry’s grandson. She told me Colleen is pregnant again. A girl this time. Charlotte, I think.” Tish turns to Bobby. “Bobby, dear, that reminds me. Terry stopped by today to ask about your… situation.”

  “Mother, let’s not,” Bobby voice comes out strained, tense. Alice’s ears perk up.

  “Apparently,” Tish begins, ignoring Bobby, “Terry’s cauliflower of an IQ thought you were being accused of rape. Can you believe it? She obviously doesn’t think you did it, but still. Rape! What a silly thought.”

  Yes, thinks Alice. Rape and silly. Two words that go together so well.

  “Mom,” Nick says, his tone stern. It’s harder to ignore Nick. Physically, they are identical, but Nick has a commanding presence. “Let’s not.”

  Alice steals a glance at Gina, whose eyes are, as always, on Bobby. Alice swears that’s all Gina does: take cues from her husband. That and fret over her son. Alice feels sorry for her sister-in-law, she really does. Gina is often a source of annoyance, but she doesn’t deserve to be gossip fodder for this town. Still, this might be a good thing, long-term. Gina is obviously a competent person. Alice has seen her efficiency on display during ASC events—she’s a scheduling and organizing whizz. Maybe if Gina divorces Bobby, she’ll go back to school. She could work in events or with project management. She’s great at fundraising—that’s a real, valuable skill. Her talents are wasted in Alma. As are Alice’s. Really, this whole town is a waste of
everyone’s time.

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” Tish says. “No sense in pretending otherwise.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Mother,” Bobby says, sternly. “It isn’t true.”

  Alice notices Calan’s eyes darting nervously between his parents. As a rule, she stays out of the Dewar Drama, but even she knows that Bobby and Calan’s relationship is a rocky one. (Nick won’t shut up about it, and it’s obvious Calan hero-worships Nick, which means that Alice has yet another person to compete with for her husband’s attention.)

  “Of course it isn’t true,” Tish says. “Which is why there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. The woman is a conniving little liar.”

  Alice drops her fork with a little more force than necessary. Victim blaming—is that really what they’re doing? If she weren’t so buzzed, she’d speak up.

  “But why is she lying, Grandma?” Calan asks.

  From the mouth of babes. Perhaps Calan is smarter than he looks.

  “Calan thinks it has something to do with Souliers,” Gina says.

  Calan nods vigorously. “It happens all the time in graphic novels, the bad guys blackmailing the good guys. Like, for personal gain. So maybe they’re tricking her into lying for them.”

  Alice sighs. This is even worse than victim blaming. It’s victim infantilization. So much for the boy being smart.

  “It’s nice to see you taking an interest in the family business, my dear,” Tish says. “Even if it is long overdue.”

  It occurs to Alice that the only person who has it worse than she does is Calan. Not only has he lived in Alma his entire life, but he is expected to run the company someday. He’ll never be able to escape this town.

  “Dad’s looking into it, baby.” Gina’s voice is laced with fatigue, but she seems resolute. It’s sad, how otherwise intelligent women will dumbly believe their husbands.

  “This will all be over soon.” Bobby sounds confident. Too confident.

  Has he paid Eva off? Alice feels a ripple of disgust.