Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [54]
Honest to God, she wanted to pull over, walk into that crowded tavern, and lose herself in the smoky darkness. It would certainly be better than saying to Claire after being separated all these years, You're making a mistake.
But she didn't slow down. Instead, she drove the nine miles to Hayden, veered into the exit lane and turned off the freeway. The road immediately telescoped down to two lanes bordered on either side by towering evergreens. The mountains were jagged and cruel-looking. Even in the summer months, snow lay atop their inaccessible peaks.
A small green sign welcomed her to Hayden, population 872. Home of Lori Adams, 1974 State Spelling Bee Champion.
Nineteen seventy-four.
Meghann had first seen this sleepy little town only three years later. Back then, Hayden had been nothing more than a few run-down buildings. The city fathers hadn't stumbled across the Western motif as a tourist attraction idea yet.
The memory of driving into town was still fresh. She could practically smell the musty odor of Sam's old pickup truck, practically feel Claire's thin body tucked in close beside her. Does he really want us? her sister had whispered every time Sam got out to pump gas or check them into a cheap motel. They'd driven from California to Washington in two days; in that time, almost no words had been exchanged between them. Meghann had felt sick to her stomach the whole time. Each passing mile had made her more afraid that calling Sam had been the wrong thing to do. By the time they'd actually reached Hayden, Meg had run out of optimistic answers to her sister's questions, so she'd simply tightened her hold on Claire. Sam must have been uncomfortable in the silence, too. He'd cranked the radio up. Elton John's “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” had been playing when they'd pulled up to the resort.
Funny, the things one remembered.
She slowed down. Hayden still looked like the kind of place that welcomed newcomers, where women brought homemade tuna casseroles to the families who moved in across the street.
But Meghann knew better.
She'd lived here long enough to know how cruel these nice-looking people could be to a girl who ran with the wrong crowd. Sure, a small town could comfort a person; it could also turn cold fast. When you'd been raised by a stripper and grown up in a trailer on the wrong side of town, you couldn't move to Mayberry and fit in.
At least, Meghann hadn't been able to. Claire had been a different story.
Meghann came to the one and only stoplight. When it turned green, she hit the gas and sped through town.
A few miles later she came to the sign.
River's Edge Resort. Next Left.
She turned onto the gravel road. The trees on either side were gigantic. Salal and Volkswagen-size ferns grew in their immense shadows.
At the first driveway, she slowed again. A cute mailbox, painted to look like a killer whale, read: C. Cavenaugh.
The once-wild yard had been tamed, trimmed, and planted; it now looked like an English country garden. The house was Martha Stewart perfect—pale, butter-yellow clapboard siding and glossy white trim, a pretty white wraparound porch decorated with hanging pots of geraniums and lobelia.
Meg had been here only once, after Ali was born. All she remembered about that day was sitting on a shabby sofa, trying to make conversation with her sister. Then the Bluesers had descended—Claire's friends—they'd swarmed into the house like locusts, chattering and buzzing.
For an endless hour, Meg had sat there, sipping weak lemonade, thinking about a deposition that had gone badly. Finally, she'd made some idiotic excuse and slipped away. She hadn't been back since.
Now she parked and got out of the car. Lugging gifts, she walked up to the front door and knocked.
No one answered.
After a long wait, she walked back to the car and drove the five hundred or so yards to the campground's main office.
She walked past the swimming pool, where kids were playing Marco Polo, toward the long, narrow log building that served as the registration office.