Rainy Day Sisters (2 page)

“Oh, yes, yes, of course. Mr. Kincaid. Yes. Sorry.” She was not actually all that keen to make Alex Kincaid's acquaintance. Given how unimpressed by her he'd seemed for the ten excruciating minutes of their phone interview, she thought he was unlikely to revise his opinion upon meeting her.

And she was unlikely to revise hers; she already had a picture of him in her head: He would be tall and angular with short-cut steel gray hair and square spectacles. He'd have one of those mouths that looked thin and unfriendly, and he would narrow his eyes at you as you spoke, as if incredulous of every word that came out of your mouth.

Oh, wait, maybe she was picturing her last boss, Simon Hansen, when he'd told her he was canceling her art exhibition.
Sorry, Lucy, but after the bad press we can hardly go ahead with the exhibit. And in any case, your mother's not coming anyway.

As for Alex Kincaid, now that she remembered that irritated voice on the phone, she decided he'd be balding and have bushy eyebrows. He'd blink too much as he spoke and have a nasal drip.

All right, perhaps that was a little unfair. But he'd definitely sounded as if he'd had his sense of humor surgically removed.

“I'm sure you're completely knackered now,” Juliet continued, “but tomorrow I'll give you a proper tour of the village, introduce you.” She nodded, that clearly decided, and Lucy, not knowing what else to do, nodded back.

It was so
strange
being here with her sister, sitting across from her in this cozy little kitchen, knowing she was actually going to live here and maybe get to know this sibling of hers who had semi-terrified her for most of her life. Intimidated, anyway, but perhaps that was her fault and not Juliet's.

In any case, when Lucy had needed someone to talk to, someone who understood the maelstrom that was their mother but wasn't caught up in her currents, she'd turned to Juliet. And Juliet hadn't let her down. She had to remember that, keep hold of it in moments like these, when Juliet seemed like another disapproving person in her life, mentally rolling her eyes at how Lucy could never seem to get it together.

And she
was
going to get it together. Here, in rainy, picturesque Hartley-by-the-Sea. She was going to reconnect with her sister, and make loads of friends, and go on picnics and pub crawls and find happiness.

“He's a good sort,” Juliet said as she whisked the kettle off the Aga before it had shrilled for so much as a millisecond. It took Lucy a moment to remember whom Juliet was talking about. Alex Kincaid, her new boss. “Tough,” Juliet added, “but good.”

Lucy didn't like the sound of tough, especially Juliet's version of tough. She wanted her boss to be cuddly and comforting, or maybe a pull-you-up-by-your-bootstraps type, but in a jolly, let's-get-on-with-it kind of way. She had a feeling Alex Kincaid was going to be neither.

“Here you are.” Juliet put a mug of steaming tea in front of Lucy, and pushed the sugar bowl and the milk jug towards her before taking her own mug. “So,” she said, taking a sip of tea, her face settling into neutral lines. “What did Fiona think of you coming here to stay with me?”

Lucy gave a noncommittal shrug. She supposed she'd eventually have to give Juliet the details of everything that had happened with their mother, but she'd part with them reluctantly and in any case Juliet could find them plastered all over the Internet if she did a search. Maybe she already had. “I don't know. I just sent her an e-mail, telling her I was coming here. We haven't actually spoken since . . .”

“That's understandable,” Juliet answered blandly. “I haven't spoken with her in five years.”

Lucy didn't know the source of her sister's estrangement with their mother, although she supposed she could guess at it. Fiona Bagshaw was, to put it mildly, a personality. A “force” would be how she described herself. She'd made a name for herself in the world of modern art before Lucy was born, creating sculptures of round-hipped and large-breasted women that reminded Lucy of something you might discover in a prehistoric cave.
Fertility Goddess, circa 2000 BC.
But the figures were immensely popular and now sold for thousands of dollars, along with her latest artistic undertaking, angry-looking phalluses made from handblown glass.

In the last decade Fiona Bagshaw had become as much of a social commentator as an artist. If a newspaper or a television program needed a quote about women's rights or modern culture or just about anything, they went to Fiona. Lucy had become used to her mother's constant theorizing, the endless commentary on what anyone wore, ate, said, did. She couldn't so much as eat a Twinkie without her mother making some remark about it being a phallic representation and a symbol of modern patriarchy.

But Juliet had missed her mother's fame and its effects on Fiona's purpose-built family. She'd left before Fiona had become something of a cultural icon, at least in America. She certainly hadn't lived with it day in and day out the way Lucy had. So why
had
her sister chosen to alienate herself from their mother? Lucy wasn't about to ask. One, she didn't know Juliet well enough to ask such a personal question. Two, she didn't want to think about her mother for the next four months. And three, she was exhausted.

“I'll show you your room,” Juliet said, draining her mug of tea. She rose and went to the sink, rinsing the mug out with her usual brisk movements. “You probably want a lie-down, although it's best not to sleep for more than an hour or two. Otherwise you'll be completely off schedule.”

And Juliet was someone who seemed to thrive on schedules. Left to her own devices, Lucy would sleep all day. But now she obediently rose from the table and followed Juliet back into the hall. “I'll just get my bags from the car. What time is dinner?” Juliet gave her a rather narrow look. “I only meant, with your other—umm, your paying guests? Are they . . . ?”

“I haven't any guests at the moment,” Juliet answered. “They left this morning, and the next lot arrive tomorrow at noon. They're all walkers, and they're usually only here for a night before they move on to the next stop on their route. I don't do dinner for guests, though, so it'll just be the two of us.”

“Okay.” Lucy jangled her car keys, the sound seeming too loud in the little hall. “I'm happy to pitch in, of course. With cooking and cleaning and all that.”

“I'll make a rota,” Juliet answered.

“A rota?” Lucy said blankly, and her half sister pursed her lips.

“A schedule,” she explained, and Lucy suspected she'd already made one.

“Great.” In the short silence after this awkward exchange, she jangled her keys again, and then went for her bags, ducking her head in the persistent drizzle, giving Hartley-by-the-Sea's high street one dubious glance. In the rain it all looked gray and bleak, without a single person to liven up the muted, monochrome landscape of terraced houses. If she were to paint it, she'd use a palette of grays and title it
Loneliness
. Or maybe
Isolation
. Not that she was planning on painting anything here, or ever again. Standing there, she couldn't hear a single sound besides the soft pattering of rain on the hood of her car.

Ten minutes later Juliet had left her alone in a sunshine yellow room at the back of the house, the white duvet cover stitched with daisies and a single window overlooking the sheep fields.

Lucy sank onto the bed, feeling more exhausted than ever and quite suddenly homesick—although for whom or what, she didn't know. She didn't miss Boston, particularly, or her job as a barista at a gallery/café in Cambridge. She didn't miss her mother or even Thomas, to whom she'd given three years of her life. She would have missed his children, if they'd shown her even a modicum of kindness or affection, but as it was, she was relieved to be free of them.

Maybe that was the trouble. She was missing the very fact that she didn't miss anything, that no one was special to her, that she'd left nothing behind that she still wanted. And nobody would miss her.

All right, perhaps that was being a bit maudlin. Her best friend, Chloe, hadn't wanted her to go. She had a small circle of friends and acquaintances who would at least read her Facebook updates, if she could be bothered to post them.

Arrived in Hartley-by-the-Sea! Raining steadily and had a cup of tea.

She had friends; she had a sister who she believed loved her even if she wasn't particularly demonstrative; she had a job. She had her health. Anything else?

Sighing, Lucy kicked off her shoes and turned back the daisy cover. Sleep, she decided. She had the luxury of sleeping for at least four hours, never mind what Juliet had said about one or two. She'd wake up in time to help with dinner, or with whatever job Juliet had written her down for on her precious rota.

Juliet

JULIET HAD FINISHED WASHING
up the tea mugs, her gaze on the sheep fields that stretched to the horizon, blanketed in a gray drizzle. Upstairs she'd heard the creak of the floorboards as Lucy had moved around, the squeak of the bedsprings. She wondered now what Lucy thought of the room, imagined her taking in the curtains with the daisy chains Juliet had stitched herself, the Edwardian washing pitcher and basin she'd found at the antiques fair in Cockermouth. And then she wondered why she cared.

A mug slipped from her hand and broke in the bottom of the farmhouse sink she'd bought from a reclamation center. She swore softly under her breath and picked up the shattered pieces, swearing again when a jagged shard of pottery cut into her thumb, and a bright red drop of blood welled up. She wrapped the broken pieces in a paper towel and threw them in the bin before putting her thumb in her mouth and sucking at the cut.

Then she reached for a sponge and wiped the table, swiping at the droplets of tea and the sprinkling of sugar granules that Lucy had left. Having her sister stay was going to make a mess in all sorts of ways, and stir up unwanted feelings in herself. And that was something she hadn't expected.

It had seemed to be both simple and generous, to invite Lucy here when her life had fallen apart in spectacular Lucy style. Lucy, Juliet had long noted from afar, never seemed to do anything by halves, or with any modicum of caution. She jumped into situations, relationships, and even college degrees with far more enthusiasm than sense. Juliet had, with a kind of smug pleasure at her own neatly ordered life, periodically checked Lucy's enthusiastic Facebook updates:
Changed my course from history to art! So excited
and
Moved to a converted warehouse in South Boston. Love it!!!!
Never mind that she'd already done two years of her history degree, and changing to art necessitated a further two semesters of college, or that the converted warehouse hadn't actually yet been converted into a livable dwelling. Lucy leaped. Juliet looked.

Except, in this instance, Juliet had been the one to leap, by inviting her half sister to stay. And while it had seemed so easy when she'd suggested it on the phone—here she was, the organized, older sister, swooping in to take care of poor Lucy—now it felt . . . unsettling.

She propped her elbows on the sink and gazed out again at the muddy fields. Peter Lanford was coming down the dirt road from Bega Farm in his battered old Land Rover, probably to check on the sheep he kept in the pasture in back of Juliet's garden. She and Peter had gotten to know each other a little, both through their properties adjoining and being on the village's parish council together. She might almost call him a friend, and she didn't really do friendship. Or even relationships in general, outside of ones that were clearly and comfortingly defined. Employer/employee. Patient/doctor. Innkeeper/guest. What category did half sister fall into?

It had been shockingly disconcerting to open the door and see Lucy standing there in the flesh, with the same sandy hair, gray eyes, and freckles that Juliet possessed, and yet looking so different. Her ballet flats, purple tights, and miniskirt decorated with lemons of all things had been ridiculous and inappropriate for the weather; Juliet was, as ever, wearing jeans and a fleece. Lucy's hair had frizzed about her face, while Juliet kept hers subdued in a sensible ponytail. And yet there could be no denying they were sisters. Half sisters. They even had the same slightly crooked nose. Whoever their respective fathers were, neither of them seemed to have passed on many of his genes.

And as Lucy had stepped into the foyer, seeming suddenly to fill up the space that had always been hers alone, Juliet had had a sudden and overwhelming urge to push her half sister right back out the door and then slam it in her face.

Not exactly the most sisterly of impulses, and not one she'd expected to have. She was being kind and generous to poor, hopeless Lucy. That was what was going on here. That was what she'd signed up for.

A knock sounded on the door, and blowing out a breath, Juliet turned from the sink. A few seconds later Rachel Campbell appeared in the kitchen with her arms full of freshly ironed sheets.

“I thought I'd pop by with the ironing while I had a moment,” she said, and with a murmur of thanks Juliet took them from her. Rachel cleaned the house twice a week and did all the ironing, tasks that Juliet was fully capable of doing herself, but Rachel's housecleaning business supported a family of five—a mother, two sisters, and a nephew—and Juliet wanted to help her without seeming pitying. Besides, she hated ironing. “Has the half sister arrived?” Rachel asked, her eyebrows raised, and guilt needled Juliet uncomfortably.

When she'd told Rachel last week that Lucy would be coming, Rachel had said in a voice of such disbelief that Juliet hadn't been able to tell if she was joking, “You have a
sister
?”

“Half sister,” she'd said, and Rachel had rolled her eyes.

“Oh,
well
, then,” she'd said, and Juliet hadn't answered, because she couldn't, in truth, explain her relationship, or lack of it, with Lucy. Since then she and Rachel had both, in a semijoking way—or maybe not—referred to Lucy as “the half sister.”

“Yes, she's here,” Juliet said. “Lucy's here,” she added, as if there were any question as to who had arrived. She didn't want to call her the half sister anymore, even if Lucy still felt like the half sister. Or maybe even just a quarter sister. Barely related, basically.

“And is she as scatterbrained as you expected?” Rachel asked, making guilt needle Juliet once more. All right, she might have called Lucy scatterbrained. But she hadn't meant it meanly. It had been more a statement of fact.

Juliet leaned against the Aga rail and folded her arms. “She's just Lucy,” she said flatly. “And she's only been here about five minutes. She's just gone upstairs to have a nap. Jet lag.”

Rachel nodded, her clear-eyed gaze resting a little too thoughtfully on her. “You think she'll get on at the school?” she asked. “Alex Kincaid is a bit of a slave driver, from what I've heard.”

Juliet shrugged. She respected Alex and she liked his toughness. She understood tough, because that's what she'd been faced with for most of her life. Lucy, however, didn't know the meaning of tough, their mother's ridiculous grandstanding aside. She'd been cosseted and spoiled since the moment she'd been born and as far as Juliet could tell, she still expected other people to step in and pick up the pieces she'd carelessly dropped.

“She'll have to manage, won't she?” Juliet said, deciding to cut short any more speculation or gossip. “I should get on. I've got three walkers coming in tomorrow, Australian lads. They'll eat me out of house and home, most likely.”

“All right.” Reluctantly Rachel rose from the table. “I suppose I should get on, as well. Lily's gone to the cinema with a friend. She'll need a lift home.”

Lily was Rachel's seventeen-year-old sister, and Juliet knew Rachel had been caring for her more or less since she'd been a baby. She didn't like to think about it too much, though, because Rachel was eleven years older than Lily, the same age difference between her and Lucy. And her relationship with Lucy was so incredibly different. So much
less
.

“You coming to the quiz night tomorrow?” Rachel asked, and Juliet shook her head. Every week Rachel asked her to the quiz night at the Hangman's Noose, and every week Juliet refused. She wouldn't know what to do at a thing like that. She didn't do banter and refused to try.

“See you Friday, then,” Rachel said, and headed towards the front door. “I'll do the bathrooms. You'll need it, after these Australian blokes go.”

Juliet waved and then hefted the pile of ironed sheets to take upstairs. She couldn't hear anything from Lucy's room; she was probably asleep.

As she made the three guest bedrooms up with the freshly starched and ironed sheets, tucking in the hospital corners and snapping them tight, she told herself that maybe being with Lucy now would close a little bit of the distance they'd had in their relationship. Maybe during these four months they'd actually get to know each other.

The trouble was, Juliet acknowledged as she headed back downstairs, she wasn't sure she wanted to.