Woman in Blue Page 8

  There was another problem: The whole dramatic story of their reunion was sure to come out. Until now, only those closest to Lindsay, like Ollie and his mom and a handful of others, had known her history. No one else even knew she had a sister or that Miss Honi was anything but an old family friend. But tonight all that ugliness from her past would be on display, as if she were appearing on one of those ghastly let-it-all-hang-out talk shows she abhorred. People with whom she was barely acquainted would know about their mother’s prison record and that she and her sister had been placed in foster care.

  Besides, was it too much to ask that, after twenty-five years, she have her sister to herself for just one night?

  Apparently so. Lindsay had been surprised and, yes, a bit hurt when Kerrie Ann had jumped at the chance to go to a party instead of spending some quiet time at home with her and Miss Honi. How was chitchatting with a bunch of strangers preferable to getting to know your long-lost sister? They had so much to catch up on—a lifetime’s worth.

  One thing was already abundantly clear: There was a world of difference between her and her sister. Lindsay had seen it the moment she’d laid eyes on Kerrie Ann, even before she’d known who the pink-haired woman was: She’d led a hard life. Lindsay only knew what she’d gleaned through the years—the succession of foster homes, a dozen in all, culminating in Kerrie Ann’s running away at the age of sixteen—but it was obvious her sister had had a rough go of it. Lindsay had seen that same look of defeat mixed with stubborn pride in the faces of the people she’d met through the literacy program she was involved in, people who’d been deprived as children—and not just of an education.

  At the same time, Lindsay could see glimpses of the Kerrie Ann she’d known. She just had to find a way to get to her. Even if it meant bowing to her sister’s wishes in this instance.

  “Right,” she said briskly. “I’ll call Grant and let him know. Did you bring anything to wear? If not, we can probably find something in my closet that’ll fit you.” Though a few inches taller, Kerrie Ann looked to be about the same size as she.

  Kerrie Ann regarded her dubiously, as if wondering what, in Lindsay’s closet, could possibly be her style. “I’m sure I can throw something together,” she said.

  “Just between you and me, sugar, if it’s drop-dead you’re looking for, you’d best go hunting in my closet,” said Miss Honi. At the warning glance Lindsay shot her, she tossed back, “Now, don’t you go looking at me like that, missy. It don’t hurt to strut your stuff when you got something to strut. If the good Lord wanted us gals looking like a pillow with the stuffing knocked out of it, He wouldn’t have built us the way He did.” She threw out her chest and ran her hands down her own not inconsiderable curves, eliciting a giggle from Kerrie Ann.

  Lindsay kept her voice light as she replied, “Well, then, you two can be the peacocks, and I’ll be the plain old sparrow. Lucky for me, my boyfriend likes me the way I am. Even without the stuffing.” She cast a rueful downward glance at her own more understated bosom.

  She was rising to her feet, reluctant to get back to work but knowing she’d go broke that much quicker if she didn’t—there was probably a line at the register by now—when Miss Honi suggested, “Ladies, what do you say we head back to the house now? We can crack open a bottle of wine and kick back for some good old-fashioned girl talk before the party.”

  Lindsay arched a brow. “And just what do you suggest we do, leave our customers to the honor system?”

  “Ollie can mind the store—it’s just for a few hours,” said Miss Honi. “He’s got enough energy for three people, that boy.”

  “He might have the energy of three people, but he can’t be in three places at once.” Lindsay shook her head. “No, I’ll stay. Why don’t you two go on ahead? I’ll catch up with you later on.” She tried to sound cheerful but couldn’t help feeling left out when Kerrie Ann didn’t offer to stick around and keep her company. Clearly she preferred Miss Honi’s company.

  “We can take my car,” volunteered Kerrie Ann.

  It was only then that Lindsay remembered her own car was in the shop. She’d dropped it off that morning on her way to work to have it serviced and was supposed to have picked it up on her lunch break. In all the excitement, it had slipped her mind. Now a glance at her watch told her it would have to wait until tomorrow; the mechanic, Mr. Mahmud, closed early on Mondays.

  She almost said something but in the end decided not to. She could always catch a ride home with Ollie. No sense raining on their parade.

  Kerrie Ann must have sensed something amiss because she paused to eye Lindsay thoughtfully on her way out, as if there were something more she wanted to say. Then the moment passed and she was gone, leaving Lindsay to wonder what role, if any, she would be playing in her sister’s life. Would they grow closer over time as they grew more comfortable with each other, or would their relationship merely be one of getting together once or twice a year and exchanging cards at Christmas? For once she wished she could be more like Miss Honi. The old woman had taken Kerrie Ann into her arms and given her a good Texas-sized hug while Lindsay hadn’t even recognized her own sister.

  At the same time, a tiny splinter of worry pricked at her. She remembered Kerrie Ann’s facetious remark about being a bad penny. Suppose it was no joke? Would the fulfillment of her wish become a case of being careful what you wish for?

  “Thanks again for the ride, Ollie. I know it’s out of your way,” said Lindsay as they rattled over the private road to her house. It was late in the day, the sun a golden rind peeking over the fog bunched along the horizon. They’d been delayed by a last-minute influx of customers, those who hadn’t heard about tomorrow’s event being canceled and who’d wanted to snag a copy of Blood Money before they were all sold—the second time that day she’d been inconvenienced by the no-show Randall Craig. Now she’d have to hustle to make it to the party on time.

  Ollie, his hands loosely curled around the steering wheel of his Willys, the World War II-era jeep he and his dad had restored, replied amiably, “No problemo. Hey, it’s not like I have anything lined up for tonight. Not that I’d turn down an invitation to some cool party, even if it was, like, last-minute,” he hinted broadly.

  Lindsay cast him an indulgent smile. “Forget it. The last thing I need is to show up with an entourage.” It was enough that she would have her sister and Miss Honi in tow.

  “What, you’d deny me the chance to meet the love of my life? What if the perfect woman happens to be there, just waiting for a guy like me to show up?” He gave her a pleading look, which, with his big brown eyes and wide, mobile mouth, his hair even more wild than usual from the air blowing in through the window, only made him look like a shaggy dog begging for treats.

  “I hate to break it to you, Ollie, but Julia Child’s no longer with us,” she informed him, doing her best to keep a straight face. “Besides, the only women who’ll be at the party are clients’ wives.”

  “Go on, mock me,” he said in an injured tone as he slowed to ease the Willys over a pothole. “Why should you take me seriously? No one else does. Around here I’m just the muffin man.”

  “Who happens to make the meanest muffins in town.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather be known as a stud muffin,” he continued in the same vein. “My problem is, I’m too freaking nice.” He spoke the word as if it were an insult. “In school? I was always the one the girls confided to about other guys, the ones they liked. The way I see it, girls don’t want nice, they want six-pack abs and day-old stubble. You know, the type of guy who’d rather have his girlfriend’s name tattooed on his arm than have a meaningful conversation with her. Who keeps nothing but beer and maybe some thousand-year-old Chinese takeout in his fridge.”

  Lindsay refrained from reminding him of the time he’d come dangerously close to being that kind of guy.

  “If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, it’s not working,” she told him. “And for your information, there’s not
hing wrong with the way you are. I’ll take nice any day over six-pack abs and stubble. Though I suppose my opinion doesn’t count, since I’m so ancient.”

  He grinned, going along with the joke. “I happen to like older women. Take your sister, for instance—she’s hot. Seriously, I can’t believe you guys are related.” He caught himself, his cheeks reddening. “Sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant to say was that you’re nothing alike. It’s like you grew up on separate planets or something.”

  “It certainly feels that way,” Lindsay confessed.

  “You must’ve about shit a brick when she dropped in like that, out of the blue.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Well, if my opinion counts, I think she’s awesome.” He paused before asking, with a casualness belied by the deepening color in his cheeks, “You wouldn’t happen to know if she has a boyfriend?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Why?” Lindsay was growing uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking.

  “Just curious.” Ollie fell silent for a moment, his porcupine head bobbing as he mulled this over. “It’s just … well, I was thinking I’d ask her out. How long is she in town for?”

  “I’m not sure—she wasn’t definite. But I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.” No sense in encouraging him. “She’s not your type.”

  Ollie grew defensive. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing she’s older—we’ve already established that.”

  “I’m twenty-four. How old is your sister?”

  Lindsay did the mental arithmetic. “Twenty-nine.”

  “That’s only five years.”

  “I’m not just talking about the difference in your ages. She’s had a hard life, Ollie. She’s not … well, she isn’t the kind of girl you would have taken to the prom. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?” She didn’t want to be unfair to her sister, but Ollie should know the truth.

  He wasn’t so easily dissuaded, though. “So she had it rough growing up. That doesn’t make her a bad person.”

  “I’m not saying she’s a bad person. I’m just saying she may not be right for you.”

  “You mean because she’s not like you?” An edge crept into his voice.

  Ollie’s right, she thought. I’m measuring her by my own yardstick, which isn’t fair. Truth to tell, Lindsay was still recovering from the shock of encountering someone who bore no resemblance to the idealized picture in her mind—that of an adult sister with whom she could share confidences and discuss topics of mutual interest. In place of that was someone who, by Kerrie Ann’s own admission, hadn’t cracked a book in years and with whom Lindsay was as likely to share a confidence or an opinion as the same taste in clothing.

  Once again she felt a twinge of guilt, wishing she were as accepting as Ollie. But wasn’t she, too, a product of her upbringing? The first twelve years of her life had been about waking up each morning with a vague sense of dread, wondering what fresh ordeal was in store for that day. Was it any wonder she’d grown up needing to be in control? That she had trouble making friends—especially with people whose lives were in disarray? People like her former classmate Susie Larson, who’d recently gotten in touch. Lindsay had listened in sympathy while Susie had described the messy divorce she was going through, but she hadn’t followed up when Susie had suggested they get together. Not because she didn’t feel for Susie but because for her, it would have been like accepting delivery of a suspicious-looking package that might contain an explosive device.

  At the moment she had enough turmoil of her own, with the battle over her land.

  She gazed out at the darkening landscape, folding around her like the gentlest of arms, arms that for so long had cradled her against the brunt of life’s storms and that, God willing, would continue to do so in the years to come. The fog of earlier in the day had retreated, revealing a semibarren vista matted with low-lying scrub and, off in the distance, windswept bluffs where the bent and twisted shapes of Monterey cypress stood silhouetted like so many hobgoblins. Beyond lay the ocean, gleaming like tarnished silver and rippling with long swells.

  It was a view she never tired of. She recalled her sense of wonder, those first weeks after arriving here with her parents, in discovering that the picture-perfect ocean of Baywatch and Beverly Hills 90210 was actually a living entity, its moods as mercurial as the weather. Playful one minute and treacherous the next. On any given day, calm waters and blue skies could give way to a storm that would whip those swells into green-mawed combers and send them racing in to smash against the cliffs, sending geyser-like spumes of spray high into the air. It had its own language, too, one that whispered its secrets in her ear. It told her to be patient, to have faith. That it had endured, and so would she.

  She could see the house ahead, lit from within and shining like a beacon in the gathering darkness. It was modest compared to most cliffside homes in this area, small and low to the ground, built out of cedar, with a shingled roof and siding worn by decades of salt spray to the soft, silvery gray of the coastal grasses that blanketed the surrounding fields. It was also in need of repair: Its roof sagged, the front and back decks were riddled with dry rot, and more than a few of its shingles were missing. Even so, she wouldn’t have traded it for a mansion.

  “You’re the best—I owe you,” she thanked Ollie again when he pulled to a stop in the driveway. Her gray-muzzled Labrador retriever, Chester, short for Mr. Rochester, loped over on legs stiff with arthritis to greet her as she climbed out of the Willys, and she stooped to pet him.

  Ollie stuck his head out the window as he drove off. “Have fun at the party!”

  The party. Lindsay’s heart sank once more at the reminder.

  She walked in to find Kerrie Ann all dolled up for the occasion, her hair teased and moussed, glittery shadow applied to her eyelids, and her pouty lips glistening with a fresh coat of gloss. She’d changed into a pair of low-rise white jeans so tight they looked spray-painted on and an equally tight, scoop-necked pink T-shirt with shiny metal rivets spelling out the word “Behe” across the front. She’d traded the high-heeled boots she’d had on earlier for a pair of jazzy platform shoes.

  She was a dead ringer for their mother.

  “Is that what you’re wearing to the party?” asked Lindsay.

  Kerrie Ann, seated on the sofa with the ginger cat, Fagin, curled in her lap, looked up from the magazine she’d been leafing through to give her a wide-eyed look. “Something wrong with it?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Lindsay lied.

  Her sister’s eyes narrowed. “I can change if you like,” she offered with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

  “No time now. We should get going.” Lindsay glanced at her watch. “Where’s Miss Honi?”

  Ignoring the question, her sister asked, “Aren’t you going to change?”

  “I’ll throw something on. It’ll only take a sec.”

  Kerrie Ann regarded her with the same dubiousness Lindsay had shown a moment ago when eyeing her, as if wondering what sort of outfit she could pull together in so short a time. But, unlike Lindsay, she obviously didn’t feel it was her place to comment. “Sure, whatever,” she said with a shrug, going back to her magazine.

  Lindsay’s gaze came to rest on an old chipped saucer sitting on the coffee table. In it were several lipstick-stained cigarette butts. Kerrie Ann caught her eyeballing them and said somewhat defensively, “Don’t worry. I smoked outside.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” Lindsay replied, but her voice was tight.

  Kerrie Ann set aside her magazine and languidly rose from the sofa, sending Fagin racing off to join his sister, Estella, who was batting around a stick of kindling by the fireplace. “Hey, you weren’t kidding when you said this place was out of the way,” she remarked, clunking her way across the room in her mile-high platform shoes to gaze out at the view from the picture window. She turned toward Lindsay. “It must get pretty lonesome, huh?”


  “That’s what I love about it,” Lindsay said.

  “Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you as the loner type.”

  “Because I work around people all day?” Lindsay smiled. “That’s precisely why I need the peace and quiet when I get home.”

  Kerrie Ann contemplated this for a moment before giving a nod. “Yeah, I get it. Kind of like when I used to work at Hooter’s. The last thing I wanted on my time off was to have some bozo hitting on me after all the frat-boy crap that got pulled on me during my shift.”

  Lindsay didn’t quite get the analogy, but she replied nonetheless, “Exactly.”

  “Anyway, it’s cozy.”

  Lindsay followed her sister’s gaze, seeing the room anew through Kerrie Ann’s eyes. Very little had changed since she’d lived here with her parents. The same tongue-and-groove paneling and scuffed plank flooring covered in a crazy-quilt assortment of hooked rugs, the same Arts and Crafts lighting fixtures and funky, mismatched furniture. Her gaze lingered on the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace. One side was lined with books and old LPs of Arlene’s—mainly opera recordings—the other with Ted’s collection of geodes and fossils. Tucked into the corner next to the fireplace was the antique dentist’s cabinet that held the smaller rocks and bits of fossilized bone. The only thing her parents had loved as much as music and nature was flea markets. The house was filled with treasures they’d hauled home through the years, while Lindsay’s only contribution had been to install new wiring and upgrade the appliances and plumbing.

  Kerrie Ann wandered over to the stereo cabinet and began flipping through Lindsay’s CD collection. “So you’re into classic rock, huh? Cool. Though I gotta admit, I can’t quite picture you grooving to Steppenwolf. Goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.” She studied Lindsay as she might a word or phrase in a book that she didn’t understand.

  Lindsay only smiled wanly and said, “Books and music are my two favorite things.” She’d have been embarrassed for her sister, or anyone, to see her on those occasions when she cranked up the volume and cut loose, sometimes even dancing in her underwear. The only one who’d ever witnessed that was Miss Honi, who, even at her age, wasn’t above dancing in her underwear right alongside Lindsay. “Anyway, help yourself. I don’t know what kind of music you like listening to, but we have the full range—from Pavarotti to U2.”