Authors: Anne Tyler,Monica Mcinerney
Anna’s brow creased. “Pardon me?”
“You look incredible. The perfect figure, perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect skin, the perfect marriage, gorgeous little daughter, all so effortlessly.” Bett laughed, pleased with how it was all sounding. “I’m sure the day will come when we’re reading about the Anna Quinlan range of home and beauty products. Martha Stewart, watch out.”
To Bett’s amazement, Anna wasn’t amused. And she certainly didn’t take it as a compliment. “You think it comes easily? Effortlessly?” Her voice was still low, but her eyes were furious. “You think I am skinny by accident? No, Bett. It’s called discipline, and sometimes it’s called starvation. Think my hair looks like this naturally? No, it costs a fortune once a month. And my perfect marriage?” Anna took a breath, ready to tell all—wanting to tell all, sick of the charade. “Oh, yes, Bett, it is so perfect that I am—”
“Mummy?”
They both turned to see Ellen tossing around under her sheet, talking in her sleep or having a nightmare, Bett wasn’t sure which. Anna put down the wine and moved swiftly over to her daughter, talking gently, stroking her forehead until she settled again. When all was quiet, she moved silently back.
Bett stood up, her voice almost a whisper. “I’ll go. I’m sorry to interrupt—”
“Bett, stay, please.” Anna looked very tired all of a sudden. “She’ll be fine. Please, don’t go yet.”
They sat awkwardly for a moment, neither of them speaking. Bett shifted on the bed, wanting to apologize. She had been silly to assume things would fall into place so quickly. Two steps forward, one step back. She took a breath. “Anna, I’m sorry for what I said about the way you look. It wasn’t a dig, I promise. I know you work hard at it. I meant it as a compliment, really. It just came out wrong.” She seemed to have chosen exactly the right words for once. In front of her eyes, tension slipped out of Anna’s body, the tight look around her mouth disappeared.
Anna gave an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, too. I’m just really tired, I think. Ellen had nightmares again last night, and I didn’t sleep well.”
Bett gladly took up the change in subject. “Does she have them often?”
“Not as often as she used to, but now and then still. She’s reliving the attack, I think. And then she won’t sleep until I read to her, or cuddle her or she hops into bed with me. Which means she sleeps like a log, but I don’t sleep at all. She favors the horizontal approach in bed, rather than the vertical.” She smiled again.
“She’s been very brave. It must have been hard for her.”
“It was. It was hard for all of us.”
A shaft of guilt went through Bett. She should have been there to help.
Anna stood up, retrieved the wine, and poured two glasses, passing one to Bett. “If we’re going to be whispering in the dark like old times, we may as well be drinking in the dark like old times, too.”
Bett took the glass, surprised and pleased. “Do you remember how furious Lola was that night?”
“We were underage, I suppose. And it was Dad’s best bottle of red.”
They sat in silence for a moment, before Anna spoke. “So London was good? And Dublin?”
“It was, yes.” There it was, three years summed up in one sentence.
“You were working in a record company?”
Bett nodded. Lola had definitely acted as a conduit of news about each of them. “And you’re the voice behind every second ad on TV these days, I believe.”
Anna shrugged. “Not exactly the Royal Shakespeare Company, but I enjoy it.” Another pause and then Anna spoke again. “Bett, can I ask you something personal?”
Bett stiffened.
“Did you meet anyone in Dublin or London? Any men, I mean?”
Bett shook her head. On the plane she’d harbored a wish to invent a fantasy husband, a fantasy family, a whole family life to make this homecoming easier. She’d decided against it, knowing only too well Lola would demand photographic proof and all the intimate details. The sad truth was she hadn’t met anyone she liked, or anyone who had liked her, either. She decided to keep her answer light. “No. Still on the shelf. Destined to stay on the shelf, I suppose.”
“Bett, please don’t talk like that. I’m sure you’ll meet someone, when the right person comes along. Maybe even a nice country boy.”
Bett laughed softly, suddenly exhilarated by the pleasure of talking to Anna again. It was almost like old times—if she ignored the dozens of subjects they couldn’t approach. “That’d be ironic, wouldn’t it? I spend three years in Dublin and London, and all the time my dream man is waiting in my hometown.” She’d been joking, but someone came to mind. “Do you know who is nice? Richard, the Englishman here at the motel. I sat next to him at Lola’s party, and he’s good company. Really witty. And have you seen when he smiles? It’s like a transformation. His eyes get all sparkly. Anna, should I ask him out for a drink, do you think? Tonight, even?”
“I think he’s out.”
“No, he’s not. I saw him go into his room earlier. We said hello.” Bett stood up. “Do you know what? I think I will. I’ll ask him if he wants to go into town and have a drink with me.”
“No, Bett.”
“Why not?”
“I think there’s a motorbike rally on in town. The pubs are jammed. It’ll be terrible.”
“Oh.” Bett sat down again. “Well, perhaps I’ll have an early night.”
“Good idea. You look a bit tired. You look good,” Anna said hastily, “just a bit tired.”
“I am, actually.” She stood up. “Maybe I’ll ask Richard out for a drink tomorrow night.”
“Go to bed, Bett.”
“All right.” She hesitated, then leaned over and kissed her. “Thanks. It was very good to talk to you again.”
“I liked talking to you, too.”
Bett let herself out, quietly closing the door. Anna sat down on her bed and breathed a slow sigh of relief.
Chapter Thirteen
I
n his room, Richard typed one more paragraph, then pressed the Save button on his laptop computer. Good, he’d managed to get a lot done and still leave himself time to get ready.
As he stretched he looked with pleasure at the growing pile of paper beside him. It had been a good idea to come here. He was easily imagining his characters in the same landscape more than one hundred and fifty years earlier. The Clare Valley was like a wilder version of Tuscany, he’d decided. Rolling hills, vineyards, olive groves, old stone buildings, and that incredible wide blue sky, day after day. He’d explored the towns and villages, and a good few of the wineries. He’d soaked up the scenery—the wooded hills, the gum trees silhouetted against the sky, and the willow trees edging the dry creek beds. At sunset he’d watched the pink-chested galahs swoop in great flocks. He’d even started noticing the different smells, the gum leaves, the native flowers, and the earth itself, baked hot under months of sunshine. The sounds were distinctive, too, the warbling of the magpies and the loud laughter of the kookaburras. It was all helping him get the details just right.
He had talked about writing a book for years, always expecting when he got down to it that it would be a long dark night of the soul. Instead, he’d discovered an interest—and a talent, if the responses from agents to his early chapters were anything to go by—for rollicking, fiction-based-on-fact adventures. He was basing his story on the life of an English petty criminal who had been shipped to Sydney, then escaped to the Clare Valley, where he’d hitched up with an Irish servant girl. The pair of them had gone on to quite a life of crime, before disappearing, either to new lives under assumed names, or to their deaths in the desert. Not exactly Bonnie and Clyde but not a long way off, either.
He said another silent thanks to his aunt, his father’s only—and very wealthy—sister, who had died a year earlier, leaving Richard and his two sisters more than thirty thousand pounds each in her will. The money had come through six weeks after he had split with his long-term girlfriend, a reporter on the same newspaper in London. It had spurred him into making some big decisions—to get out of journalism, get out of London, and make a real attempt at writing the novel.
He’d spent a month in Sydney before deciding to base himself in the Clare Valley. Not only would it give him a feel for the novel’s other main setting, he’d decided it would be cheaper and have fewer distractions, too. He’d found the Valley View Motel on the Internet, liking the idea of a motel room overlooking a picturesque valley view. The motel hadn’t quite lived up to its name, he thought with a grin. More Part of a Hill View than Valley View. But what had been happening as expected recently? He certainly hadn’t thought he’d want to stay in the Clare Valley for this long. He hadn’t expected to uncover such fascinating research material from the local history group. Or to come across such a character as Lola Quinlan. And he certainly hadn’t expected to meet anyone so beautiful, or so fragile, or so entertaining as Lola’s granddaughter.
There was a knock at the door. He opened it and smiled. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
He turned and gestured extravagantly toward the small table set with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Please, come in.”
Anna smiled. “Thank you. I’d love to.”
O
ut at the farmhouse, Carrie was lying in the middle of the double bed, wide awake. After she’d gotten back from work, she’d scrubbed the whole house and cleaned out the fridge. But she still wasn’t tired, and she still couldn’t get her conversations with Bett and Matthew out of her head.
She’d taken out the photo of them again and looked at it for a long time. She’d thought about burning it, then told herself off for being childish. It wasn’t going to change things if the photo didn’t exist, was it? Matthew would still want to see Bett. Bett would still want to see Matthew.
From her position on the bed, she noticed a T-shirt had fallen between the wardrobe and the dressing table in the corner of the room. She hadn’t noticed it before. She was over to it in a moment. It was one of Matthew’s.
She didn’t think twice. She stripped off her nightie and pulled his T-shirt over her head, breathing in his smell, feeling the cotton against her skin, trying to imagine how he felt when she hugged him.
It made her feel a bit better.
A
nna let herself quietly back into her room. She went straight over to Ellen and kissed her gently. The little girl was still fast asleep.
She walked into the bathroom and started taking off her makeup. What an unusual night. And what an unusual man. She hadn’t felt under any pressure. He hadn’t made a pass at her or made her feel at all uncomfortable. They had just enjoyed a glass of wine and talked. The same way they had talked so easily the night of Lola’s accident, when he had made her the hot chocolate. He was just so interested in everything, in what she did for a living, in what had happened to Ellen, in how long her parents had owned the motel.
“Are you a detective?” she’d asked him.
“No, I’m not. I’m a journalist trying to become a novelist.”
“That explains the questions. But why are you so nice? Are you gay?”
He laughed. “No, I’m not gay either. Why are you so suspicious?”
“In my experience, people don’t ask so many questions unless they’re after something.”
“I’m interested because I’m interested in people. And I’m especially interested in people with such beautiful speaking voices.”
She had actually blushed.
“I’ve also discovered there’s nothing to fuel the imagination like hearing other people’s stories,” he said. “So it’s not so much curiosity as cannibalism. I’m feeding off you so I can write my own book.”
“Oh, in that case, that’s fine.”
He’d understood completely when she had slipped away several times to check on Ellen, a few rooms away.
“Everything all right?” he’d asked each time.
“She’s fast asleep,” she’d been able to answer.
“So you can stay a bit longer?” At her nod, he poured her some more wine. “Then tell me some stories, Anna Quinlan.”
“About what?”
“Well, let me think. An easy one to start with. Tell me why there is so much tension between you and your sisters.”
“You noticed?”
“It’s a little hard to miss. I don’t think I’ve seen the three of you so much as have a cup of coffee together since you all got here. My own two sisters spend their entire time in a huddle whispering, so I was just curious.…”
She hesitated. “We had a bit of a fight three years ago.”
“About …?”
She decided she wanted to tell him about it. “Have you ever heard that song ‘Sisters’ from the film
White Christmas
?”
He started to sing it, note perfect.
She raised an eyebrow. “You know musicals off the top of your head? Are you sure you’re not gay?”
He grinned. “No, I just like old musicals. I can cook, too. So it was a mister who came between you and your sister?”
“No, not between me and my sister. A mister came between my two sisters. Well, moved from one of my sisters to the other, anyway. If you know what I mean. And married her instead.”
“Ah, I see. So that explains them. But what about you? How did you get caught up in it?”
Anna didn’t want to spoil the mood by going into it. She was enjoying this gentle atmosphere too much. “That’s a story for another time. It’s your turn to tell me some stories. Are you really writing a book or is that a cover story for something much more sinister?”
“I’m really writing a book. Trying to write a book, at least,” he’d said. “And this is the perfect place to do it. The scenery is beautiful. The wine is delicious. And all the people I’ve met seem very interesting, too.” He paused. “One in particular, actually.”
“Really?” A look had passed between them. “That’s good.”
She smiled as she finished taking off her makeup and moved quietly back into the bedroom. She’d been flirting with him, she realized. And not only that, she’d enjoyed every minute of it. She kissed Ellen again and climbed into bed. The room was quiet for a few minutes and then she actually laughed out loud. She’d just caught herself lying there smiling into the dark like a teenager.
I
n her room next door, Bett couldn’t get to sleep. First she’d been too hot, and then when she’d turned on the air-conditioning, it had been too cold. All the noises outside seemed too loud—guests arriving back late, doors opening and closing in nearby rooms, the murmurs of nighttime conversations.
Her mind was filled with thoughts of her sisters. It was strange to think that Anna was just meters away, Carrie a few miles away, home alone in the farmhouse that Bett still hadn’t seen. The three of them were managing to work on a musical together, help run the motel together, yet the tension still hummed away between them. Bett knew that Lola was watching their every move, listening in to all the conversations she could, trying to gauge how things were going between them.
Bett had tried her best tonight. She’d broached the subject of Matthew with Carrie. She’d spoken to Anna about Glenn. But she wasn’t feeling any better. She turned in the bed again. What else could she do to get rid of this tension between them? Challenge them to a duel?
She lay back, kicked at the sheets, then tugged at her pillow. She turned it over, feeling the cool side. She paused for a moment, then took the pillow in her hands, lifted her legs into the air, and balanced the pillow across her feet. She glanced over at the clock and started timing herself. Less than a minute later her leg twitched and the pillow slid off. A very bad performance. She’d obviously lost her touch.
Perhaps that was the solution, though. She could invite Anna and Carrie into her room for a rerun of the Pillow Balancing Competitions they’d enjoyed as children. She lifted the pillow onto her feet again, remembering the first time they played it, at a different motel but on a hot summer night just like this one. They’d been forced for space reasons to share a dormitory-style room. The windows had been left wide open, and the girls were lying in bed dressed only in T-shirts, trying to keep cool. It had been too hot to sleep, too hot to do much at all.
Bett, fourteen at the time, had turned her pillow first one way, loving the brief feeling of coolness against her face, then turned it back. Before a few minutes had passed, it was warm again. “It needs a constant supply of air on it,” she said out loud.
“What?” Anna said, engrossed in a book. In the bed between them Carrie was asleep.
“Nothing,” Bett said, preoccupied now. She gave up on turning the pillow and instead wriggled down in the bed and stuck her legs straight up in the air. Then she reached up and balanced the pillow across her feet. A few minutes later she was still like that and very pleased with herself indeed. “Anna?” she whispered again.
Anna didn’t look up. “Mmm?”
“Bet you I can balance a pillow like this for ages.”
That earned a glance from Anna. “Well, that’s really going to get you a place in the Moscow Circus.”
“It’s harder than it looks. You try it. It actually takes great staying power and balancing skills.”
“How long do I have to do it for?” Anna said, grunting a little as she reached up and put her pillow in place. Hers wasn’t as firm as Bett’s, and hung saggily over her feet. “Hold on. It’s not an even competition yet.” Leaning over, she pulled out Carrie’s pillow with a tug.
“Ow, what?” Carrie opened her eyes, face crumpled, as if she was about to cry. “Anna, give that back.”
“I can’t, sorry. I need it for equipment.”
Carrie looked around blearily, noticing Bett with her legs sticking upright, a pillow atop of them, and then Anna, getting into position to do the same thing. “What are you doing?”
“It’s the Annual Quinlan Pillow Balancing Competition. First heats start today,” Bett said matter-of-factly. “And I am winning by a long shot. I’m miles ahead of you.”
Carrie reached over and snatched the spare pillow off Anna’s bed, putting it on her feet.
Anna moved the lamp onto the floor and angled the clock so she could read the time. “Okay, starting in ten seconds. Pillows in position. Go.”
They lay like that for several minutes before Carrie spoke up. “It’s a bit boring.”
“It is not.” Bett’s voice was as indignant as possible in her physical position. “It’s a combination of balance and concentration. You just can’t stick it.”
“Can so. It’s easy.”
Bett shot her a glance. Carrie was looking remarkably relaxed. “It’s easy for you. Your legs are shorter, so there’s less muscle to ache.”
“Yours have got more fat, and fat rises, so it should be easier for you.”
Anna quickly stepped in. “Carrie’s right. It is a bit boring. Let’s make it more interesting.”
“I know,” Bett said, trying to take back control of her game. “You have to do something while you’re balancing the pillows.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I don’t know, doing something revolting with your face. See, like this.” Bett pulled her eyes down with one hand and grimaced, pushing her nose up with the other hand.
Anna looked at her blankly. “I thought you were going to do something revolting with your face.”
“I am,” Bett said in a voice muffled by the contortions.
“You look the same to us, doesn’t she, Carrie?”
“Just the same,” Carrie agreed happily.
“A little prettier than normal, if anything. Are you wearing makeup, Bett?”
Bett just poked out her tongue. “Go on, Anna. You do something if you’re so smart.”
“Okay, then.” She thought for a second. “Right, I’ll be a bat. Listen.” She started making a high-pitched noise, the noise getting louder and louder, unrelenting, ignoring Bett and Carrie’s protests until Bett finally threw a book at her. Anna’s pillow toppled, with Carrie’s tumbling seconds afterward.
Bett leaped up, holding her pillow above her head. “I win. Champion of the Pillow Balancing. Out of my way, vermin, and let me take a victory leap.” She leaped from her bed onto Carrie’s, badly misjudging the distance and landing square on Carrie’s leg. Carrie set up a terrible wailing.