When We Were Sisters (41 page)

Donny welcomed Mick into the suite, followed closely by Gizzie, who was wearing a tortoiseshell tux and a bright pink necktie. There were kisses and greetings all around. When Cecilia finally announced it was time to finish dressing, I gave her one final hug.

“This is Nik and Pet's first unsupervised evening together, so we have to get back to the hotel before too late tonight, but we'll see you in Sanibel.”

“Joined at the hip, joined at the heart,” she said, bumping her hip against mine where our tattoos would forever meet. “We're here tonight, Robin. Despite everything, just don't forget. We made it.”

Everyone but Mick went to the front, where a row had been reserved for us. Donny claimed two seats, leaving an empty one for Cecilia between us. I chatted with others from the film crew and with Hayley, who joined Donny, until the organist, who had been playing film favorites, completed her concert and the organ was lowered from view.

The theater was now filled to capacity.

Kris took my hand and put it on his lap, wrapping his around it. “I'm so proud of you.”

I blinked hard and squeezed. “I like hearing that. Just don't change your mind if I dissolve in a puddle of tears somewhere along the way.”

“I'll be surprised if you don't.”

The lights dimmed. As the stage crew wheeled an impressive grand piano into place, Mick came out to introduce the film. He's almost as good a speaker as he is a filmmaker. He talked about children, about the need to protect them, and how we haven't always done a good job and still don't. I listened as he carefully made the transition to Cecilia, about her courage in agreeing to be part of the production, and the revelations she had made on camera.

“Nobody can know what it's like to be at the mercy of strangers except somebody who
has
been. But Cecilia is anything but a victim. I hope you'll take these images home with you and tell your friends how important it is to protect children, and to make sure that the systems we have in place are operating the way they must.”

Like any good showman, Mick knows when to stop. He said a little more about the making of the film, then he welcomed my sister and Gizzie to the stage.

Cecilia wore a long ice-blue dress, cut low in the front and nipped in at the waist. She looked like the star she is. The audience leaped to its feet, and the applause went on for a full minute until she held up her hands. As they settled again, she smiled at Gizzie, who was her only accompanist tonight.

Cecilia hadn't sung “At the Mercy of Strangers” for me, not in its finished form. She'd said she wanted me to hear it tonight with everyone else, but I think she knew it would be too hard to sing it when we were alone.

I was ready for her to begin, but she surprised me by stepping forward, mic to her lips. She waited until she found me in the audience, and then she said, “Robin, without a doubt, this one's for you.”

Gizzie began to play. The melody was different from the snatches I'd heard, haunting, thoughtful and evocative. The introduction was extended. Cecilia looked composed, but our eyes held for a long a moment before she began.

“As memories fade, your touch, your face

I reach for you through time and space.

Did you look back or did you go

Without goodbye, without hello?

I'll never know.

At the mercy of strangers

We are borne on the winds of fate

At the mercy of strangers

We wait.”

She had never sung with more feeling or depth. I was transfixed as the words and melody wove their spell. Cecilia and Gizzie had captured the spirit of the film and everything it meant.

Through the years Cecilia and I
had
shared memories that, blessedly, were fading at last, moments of abandonment and rejection, as well as moments of terror. But earlier in the dressing room my sister had been right.

We are no longer at the mercy of strangers. We no longer wait.

Together and apart, each of us is finally right where she belongs.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE COLOR OF LIGHT
by Emilie Richards.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to the following: Galen McGee of Peak Definition in Asheville for carefully vetting my pages on photography. Shelly L. McGee, Esq. for doing the same for law firms and lawsuits. And guardian ad litem Jasmine Cresswell for sharing knowledge of the Florida foster-care system in a conversation over oyster po'boys. Of course any mistakes or missteps are mine.

Thanks also to my brainstorming group, Connie Laux, Serena Miller and Shelley Costa Bloomfield, whose suggestions and comments always make such a difference. Thanks to longtime editor Leslie Wainger who from the beginning was enthusiastic about this book as well as the title. Thanks, finally, to Michael McGee, who will brainstorm new ideas and critique old ones over wine on our lanai anytime I ask him to.

Two books in particular helped inform my understanding of the foster-care system. To the End of June: The Intimate Life of American Foster Care by Cris Beam. And Another Place at the Table, by Kathy Harrison. A series of lectures in 2014 at Chautauqua Institution by filmmakers Ken Burns and Geoffrey Ward ignited my enthusiasm for creating my own documentary within the pages of this novel.

WHEN WE
WERE SISTERS

Emilie Richards

Reader's Guide

Reader Questions for
When We Were Sisters

1. Robin is unhappy with the hours her husband, Kris, puts in at his law firm and his lack of involvement with their family. Did you feel she had a reason to be upset and to force him to spend more time with their children by leaving him in charge?
   
2. Cecilia seems to have everything—fame, money, beauty—yet her nightmares and panic attacks say differently. Did Cecilia's plan to attack her problems seem to fit the kind of woman she is?
   
3. Can facing and revealing old secrets begin a healing process? Was facing their mutual past the best way for Robin and Cecilia to move into the future? Have you had a similar experience in your own life?
   
4. Cecilia and Robin met in foster care. How many of the problems they encountered were due to the foster-care system and how many were due to the dysfunctional families they were born into?
   
5. The documentary
   At the Mercy of Strangers
   highlights both good and bad foster-parent programs and placements. Do you have firsthand knowledge of the foster-care system as either a former foster child, a parent, or an interested professional or citizen? What are your own thoughts about changes that might need to be made?
   
6. At the Mercy of Strangers
   shows the interworkings of a particularly good program in Tennessee with small group homes and caring house parents. What is the ideal foster-care model?
   
7. Hayley, a foster child whom Cecilia immediately connects with, does her best to be certain nobody will love her. She claims it's easier than waiting to be rejected. Do you know children and adults who operate on the same assumption? Will unqualified love solve her problems, or will she need more?
   
8. Kris's attitude toward his job slowly changes as he is forced to be home with his children. Robin's confidence in her abilities as a photographer grows as the documentary progresses. Can two professionals find ways to be involved, devoted parents despite work pressures? What are the most essential factors to achieving success?
   
9. Cecilia often avoids the truth and tells lies without guilt. Were you able to empathize with her reasons? Was she a sympathetic character?
   
10. Robin let both Kris and Cecilia steer the course of her life, but now she is making her own way. Was her part in the drama of her adolescence believable and sympathetic? Will both women recover and move on?
    

“Complex characters, compelling emotions and the healing power of forgiveness—what could be better? I loved this book!”
—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Sherryl Woods on
One Mountain Away

Looking for more powerful stories by
USA TODAY
bestselling author Emilie Richards?
Discover these compelling tales of friendship and forgiveness, trust, compassion and love:

One Mountain Away
Somewhere Between Luck and Trust
No River Too Wide
The Color of Light

“This rich, multilayered story of love and bitterness, humor, loss and redemption haunts me as few other books have.”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Sandra Dallas on
One Mountain Away

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The Color of Light

by Emilie Richards

chapter one

ANALIESE WAGNER NEEDED
to breathe. She was fairly certain she hadn't inhaled even once during the past hour. Now her head felt three sizes too large, and she was perilously close to her first-ever panic attack. She needed to find a place where she could stand unobserved and fill her lungs and bloodstream with oxygen. Maybe afterward she would be calm enough to get behind the wheel of her Accord and risk life and limb in Asheville's rush-hour traffic, but not yet.

The church sanctuary was too far away and probably in use. The closest restroom was public. She saw the door to the sexton's supply closet, opened it, slipped in and closed it behind her. The moment she did, the small room, maybe three feet by five, went dark, but she didn't care. The air smelled, not unpleasantly, of pine and chlorine.

And she was blessedly alone.

Analiese stood very still, eyes closed, and filled her lungs, releasing the air slowly, and then repeating. She was well acquainted with prayer and meditation, but right now she needed oxygen and silence more.

When her head stopped swimming she rested her face in her hands. Her ministry had come to this. Escaping into the sexton's closet to inhale poisonous chemicals rather than face even one more member of her staff or congregation.

Long ago the man who had encouraged her to enter seminary had told her there would be moments when she wanted to hang up her clerical collar. He hadn't told her that she would face most of them alone, and that sometimes God, who was supposed to walk beside her, would wander off, too.

But Isaiah must have known. Who faced loneliness more often than a Catholic priest?

A long moment passed before she straightened, took one more deep breath, and opened the door. No one was in the hall, which made for the best moment of her day. She started toward the front door of the parish house and was only inches from escaping when a familiar voice sounded behind her.

“You'll be gone for the
rest
of the day?”

Myra Hudson had been the church administrator longer than Analiese had ministered to the congregation, and she had the gray hair and pursed lips to prove it. The rest of the staff had already gone home, but obviously Myra was soldiering on.

Analiese managed one small smile as she faced her. “Trust me, Myra, my absence will be a gift.”

The other woman's scowl eased just a fraction. She was twenty years older than Analiese's thirty-nine, and twenty years more experienced in getting what she wanted. “You have three phone calls to return and a mountain of correspondence. You told me to remind you.”

“A moment of weakness.” Myra didn't budge, and Analiese lifted her hands in defeat. “I'll make the calls tonight from home. The mountain can wait until tomorrow.”

“I hope wherever you're going you plan to walk?”

“And the reason?”

“Because when I looked outside a few minutes ago, a van and a forklift were parked right behind your car.”

“I'm going downtown. To a rally where I'm a featured speaker because somebody in charge actually believed I had something to say.”

“Unlike everyone else you've encountered today?”

Analiese let her statement stand.

Myra took pity. “They're over at the sanctuary. I guess you could put on your friendliest smile and beg them to park somewhere else.”

Analiese didn't have to ask who “they” were. Radiance Stained Glass from Knoxville, Tennessee, was in town to take measurements for a new rose window in the choir loft, as well as to listen to the council executive committee's opinion about proposed designs. Analiese had spent the past hour butting heads with the executive committee, but luckily she'd been excused from the next portion of the meeting, since everyone knew exactly what her objections to the designs were and didn't want to hear them again.

She calculated how long it would take the Radiance crew to move the forklift. She was already late.

“I don't have my car,” Myra said, taking pity again, “or I would let you borrow it.”

A man spoke. “I have mine.”

Analiese looked up as Ethan Martin joined them from the connecting hallway. She craned her neck to peek behind him. “Please tell me the committee's still in session,” she said in a low voice.

His smile was warm, his brown eyes sympathetic. “They're waiting for Radiance. You still have time to get away.”

“Could you possibly get me downtown, Ethan? I'm sure I can find a ride back home afterward.”

“I ought to be at the rally, too. It's no trouble.”

She met his smile with a more or less genuine one of her own. Ethan was an attractive man in his fifties who really did seem to be an advertisement for the prime of life. Although he attended services from time to time, he wasn't a formal member of her congregation. He
had
been a member, well before Analiese's arrival, but he had resigned after a contentious divorce. His wife, Charlotte Hale, had stayed.

“Why should you be there?” she asked after they said goodbye to Myra and started toward Ethan's car, wisely parked in the general lot well behind the building.

“I'm working with the Asheville Homeless Network. They asked me to draw up some preliminary sketches for two newly donated lots.”

“You're becoming Super-Volunteer. I feel guilty I asked you to give your thoughts about the window at today's meeting.”

“Because I'm already volunteering elsewhere, or because the people on the committee need a few lessons on how to get along?”

Analiese knew Ethan had only agreed to sit in on the rose window committee—who he had represented at the meeting today—as a favor to her. He was an architect whose professional insight was extremely valuable, but even more important, much of the funding for the new window was coming from a bequest Charlotte had made to the church. Ethan and Charlotte had reunited before her death, and the committee was obligated morally, if not legally, to take his opinions and those of Taylor, their daughter, into account.

“The executive committee can be a cranky lot,” she said, thinking what an understatement that was. “I'm sorry I got you into this.”

Afternoon sunshine bronzed the bare limbs of trees that just a month before had flaunted rainbow-colored leaves. November weather in Asheville was unpredictable, but right now the air was balmy, as was the light breeze that pulled wisps of dark hair from the knot she had fashioned on top of her head. As they walked around the parish house, past Covenant Academy, the elite private school the church had founded, she breathed deeply and forced herself to appreciate the parklike surroundings. The grounds had been recently manicured by the garden crew, and pansies and chrysanthemums filled beds along with the stalks of departed hollyhocks nodding in the children's garden.

That garden sat at the rear of the parish house, nearly out of sight of the street, tended and appreciated by Sunday school classes who grew produce for a local women's shelter. Analiese had been forced to fight for the patch of land, since the garden was rarely tidy and even more rarely productive. But the children loved working in the sun and getting their hands dirty, and the lessons they learned were invaluable.

As they turned toward the garden she noticed several people strolling to admire the flowers, as well as a family sunning themselves on the grass in the farthest corner. From this distance she didn't recognize anybody, but they seemed at home. She lifted her hand in acknowledgment as she and Ethan passed the other way. She liked nothing better than to see both the grounds and the building in constant use.

In the parking lot he opened the passenger door of his car and waited until she had settled herself before he closed it. He pulled into traffic and was headed downtown before he spoke.

“So tell me what else went wrong today.”

Although they had never discussed it, Analiese suspected that Ethan had never rejoined the Church of the Covenant because his friendship with her would be altered. He would then be a “lamb in her flock,” an image she wasn't fond of since none of the church members were vaguely sheeplike. But she liked being Ethan's friend instead of his spiritual guide.

“You know me well, don't you?” she said. Her loneliness eased a little.

When a motorcycle cut in front of the car he smoothly switched lanes without missing a beat of conversation. “You held your own, Ana, you really did. But I'm not accustomed to the edge I heard in your voice.”

He'd cut through her defenses so quickly, she didn't have time to ward off a flashback of the past hours. Waking up alone and lonely in a silent house. Morning prayers interlaced with the usual doubts about her calling. Mind-numbing paperwork no one in seminary had warned her about. Lunch by the bedside of a terminally ill teenager, and finally the meeting with the council executive committee, in which she had been not so subtly reminded of her relative youth and inexperience—as well as the number of parishioners who would prefer a man in their pulpit.

“Some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed,” she said.

“Especially when you know the committee is lying in wait.”

She understood what he was doing. On their short trip into town he was giving her the opportunity to unload, to tell somebody
her
troubles for a change. He was a genuinely compassionate man, and a strong one. He would be a logical choice to talk to, except that unloading was not in her nature.

“Tell me about this project for the Homeless Network,” she said, turning the conversational spotlight to him.

After one quick glance, as if to assess whether to coax her, he described his newest undertaking. Several architects were working together to create as many apartment buildings as they could fit into the allotted space and still give occupants attractive, liveable homes to call their own. Ethan wanted to use as much recycled material as possible, and she knew from hearing about the renovations he had done to his own condo that he could do it in style.

She asked questions right up until the moment he dropped her off at the edge of the crowd that was gathering for the rally.

“I'm going to park beside my office, but I'll meet you back here to take you home,” he said, pointing to a street sign. “In case I can't find you at the end.”

“You're really planning to stay?”

“I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Then I'll treat you to dinner afterward, but it will have to be fast. I have a list of phone calls to make tonight.”

“Ana...maybe you ought to take the night off.”

“Not with the council executive committee gunning for me.”

“After today, you still want to keep your job?”

No good answer occurred to her, but she had to smile. She stepped back and waved him off.

She was quickly drawn into the crowd. When she had agreed to add her comments to those of county officials and other leaders at this rush-hour rally, she hadn't realized how large the gathering would be. She'd said yes a month ago and then nearly forgotten until a reminder had popped up on her calendar. She was lucky Ethan had driven her and could park in his personal space. Even on a relatively quiet day downtown parking was tough.

She was early—that seemed nearly miraculous since so little had gone well today—and she had a few minutes to unwind before she made her way toward the front. She skirted the crowd and leisurely took in the view.

The scene was Asheville at its finest. Bare-chested, tattooed Gen Xers tossed Frisbees with mutts yapping at their heels. A small group of men in sports coats accompanying women in heels looked as if they had just left downtown offices. Tourists with cameras and retirees dressed for the next round of golf stood side by side with members of the crowd who looked considerably less fortunate. Many of that last group were carrying large backpacks or duffels. One was pushing a shopping cart.

Nobody had as much to gain from a well-attended rally as Asheville's homeless. The city was working hard to find solutions. Panhandling was now illegal, and of course not everybody was pleased about that, including the man several feet away who was engaged in an angry conversation with a young mother clutching her baby firmly to her chest.

Analiese didn't think twice. The pair was off to one side of the crowd, in the direction she was walking, and nobody else seemed to be paying attention. The young woman turned and tried to get away, but the man, sporting snakelike dreadlocks, grabbed her shoulder and jerked her backward just as Analiese got close enough to hear him.

“Just some
change
. You got change, I know you do!”

Analiese arrived just as the young woman, off balance, nearly fell into the man's arms. “Hey,” she said calmly. “Please let her go. You're scaring her.”

The man released the young mother with a shove, and she stumbled forward with her baby still clasped against her. He faced Analiese, and up close she saw his eyes were wild, his pupils distended. She was still several feet away but his smell preceded him. Poverty and despair, vomit and urine. She steeled herself not to react, and watched as the young woman found her feet and disappeared into the crowd.

“How 'bout you?” he asked, a grin revealing decaying teeth. “Am I scaring you enough to give me some money?”

“Why don't I see if I can find somebody with Rescue Ministries to help you? They have better solutions.”

He moved closer. She refused to retreat. In that moment it seemed that she'd been retreating all day. There was no sexton's closet here, and the time had come to stand her ground.

“I need money!”

Now she smelled alcohol, too, although her first guess had been drugs. She felt and heard movement behind her, and she hoped that reinforcements were closing in.

“I know you do,” she said calmly. “I can get you help. Come with me and we'll find somebody at the front who can get you dinner and shelter for the night.”