Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [68]
In front of the Wild Ginger, Meghann double-parked, ran into the restaurant, and came out three minutes later with a paper sack. She tossed it into Claire's lap, jumped into the driver's seat, and stomped on the gas.
They turned down Pike Street and veered left hard, into an underground parking lot.
Claire followed her sister into the elevator, up to the penthouse floor, and into the condo.
The view was breathtaking. An amethyst almost-night sky filled every picture window. To the north, the sleepy community of Queen Anne sparkled with multicolored light. The Space Needle, decked out in summertime colors, filled one window. Everywhere else, it was the midnight-blue Sound, its dark surface broken only by the streamers of city lights along the shore.
“Wow,” Claire said.
“Yeah. It's some view,” Meghann said, plopping the paper sack on the kitchen's black granite countertop.
Everywhere Claire looked, she saw perfection. Not a painting was askew on the silk-covered walls, not a piece of paper cluttered a table. Of course there was no dust.
She walked over to a small Biedermeier desk in the corner. On its shiny surface stood a single framed photograph. It was the only one in the room, as far as she could tell.
It was a photograph of Claire and Meghann, taken long ago. In it, they were kids—maybe seven and fourteen—sitting at the end of a dock with their arms looped around each other. In the corner, a glowing cigarette tip identified Mama as the photographer.
Surprisingly, Claire found that it hurt to see them this way. She glanced over at Meg, who was busily dividing up the food.
She put the photograph back and kept moving through her sister's condo. She saw the white-on-white bedroom that only a woman without pets or children would possibly choose and the bathroom that contained more beauty products than the cosmetics counter at Rite Aid. All the while, Claire found herself thinking that something was wrong.
She made her way back to the kitchen.
Meg handed her a margarita in a frosted glass. “On the rocks. No salt. Is that okay?”
“Perfect. Your home is gorgeous.”
“Home.” Meg laughed. “That's funny. I never think of it that way, but it is, of course. Thanks.”
That was it. This wasn't a home. It was a really nice hotel suite. Definitely four-star, but cold. Impersonal. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
“You're kidding, right? The last thing I chose for myself was the wedding gown with parachute sleeves. I hired a decorator. German woman who didn't speak English.” She set out the plates. “Here. Let's eat out on the deck.” She carried her plate and drink outside. “We'll have to sit on the floor. The decorator chose the most uncomfortable outdoor furniture in the world. I returned it all and haven't found the time to buy new stuff.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Seven years.”
Claire followed her sister outside. It was a beautiful night. Stars everywhere.
As they ate, silence fell between them. Meg said a few odd, awkward things, clearly designed to break the quiet, but like seawater in a rising tide, the silence always returned.
“Did I thank you for the gown?”
“Yes. And you're welcome.” Meg put her empty plate down on the deck and leaned back.
“It's funny,” Claire said. “It's loud out here at night—between the traffic and the ferry horns and the railroad, but it still feels . . . empty. Kind of lonely.”
“The city can be that way.”
Claire looked at Meghann and, for once, she didn't see the harsh, judgmental older sister who was always right. Neither did she see the older sister who'd once loved her so completely. Now, she saw a pale, rarely smiling woman who seemed to have no life apart from work. A lonely woman who'd had her heart broken long ago and now wouldn't allow herself to believe in love.
She couldn't help remembering the old days, when they'd been best friends. For the first time in years, she wondered if that could happen again. If so, one of them would have to