I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING DISORIENTED. THE LIGHT was wrong, the noises absent—except for birds chirping. I rolled over. Birds chirping? Moments passed in the haze between dream and reality before I recognized that New York did not charge by outside the window. Hood River, Oregon, with every one of its 7,300 citizens, yawned and stretched more slowly. I pulled a sweater over my T-shirt and pajama pants and went in search of coffee.
Dad sat, working a crossword at the kitchen table, and glanced up briefly as I ambled into the room. We had thawed in parting last night, but his directive still stung.
“Ooh, a crossword.” I generated false enthusiasm as I glanced over his shoulder.
“Hang on a sec and you can take the next pass.”
I pulled a mug from the shelf and poured a cup of acrid-smelling brew. Dad needed new, and probably better, beans. I leaned against the counter and tried to enjoy the stillness. Usually my split-second breakfast was spent mentally prioritizing to-do lists and the details of an evening’s service. But now . . . there was only a crossword.
“What time do we leave?” I worked to keep my tone neutral.
“How about an hour?”
“I’ll be ready.”
“We’ll leave your car here and take the truck. That way you won’t get miles on it.”
“No, let’s take the rental. It’s more comfortable, and the miles don’t matter. Really.”
“Okay.” He turned back to his crossword. I took a sip and watched him. How was a four-hour drive going to feel?
We were still too quiet when we pulled out one hour, to the minute, later. I glanced over at him. “I’m sorry about last night.”
He didn’t reply.
“Dad?”
He sighed as if he’d been storing it up for years. “I wish it wasn’t so hard between you girls. I feel I’m to blame. That’s hard too.”
“How are you to blame?”
“I’m the head of this family, and when one of our numbers went down, we fell apart. I didn’t lead.”
I concentrated on the road. For my dad, that was a tough admission. Fire chiefs lead. Dad’s crew had respected his authority and followed him anywhere. But at home it had always been a different story. Maybe it was because we were all girls, or maybe he had used up all his energy at work—either way, Dad never led. Instead he had watched with detached contentment as Mom worked out our family rituals, gave the orders, and doled out the discipline and the cough syrup. Until the day she didn’t.
After a few minutes of silence, I found something to offer. “You couldn’t force Jane to come home. She was an adult. She made her own decisions.”
“I let Jane drown in her own fear when I should have been pulling the family together. Peter would’ve helped if I’d insisted.”
“Nothing swamps Jane, so cut yourself some slack. You lost your wife.”
“And both my daughters.”
“That’s not fair. You haven’t ‘lost’ me. You come to New York at least twice a year and you love it.”
“But you don’t come home, and you don’t even speak to Jane unless forced. You both lost your mother. It hurts to see you lose each other.” Dad paused, but I sensed more was coming, so I stayed quiet and focused on the highway.
The pause drew long. “And?”
“And it’s time to let the past go.”
I sighed. I should’ve stayed in New York.
BEFORE I KNEW IT WE WERE TURNING INTO JANE’S driveway. It had been a couple years since I had visited, and even then that Christmas break was more accurately counted in hours than days. I smiled when I saw the house. It was my secret ideal, though I’d never admit it to her. It was a 1930s Craftsman with style and substance, boasting higher ceilings than most and a front porch painted brick red—I loved that detail. The rest of the house was beige with white trim and black shutters. Impeccably maintained.
I loved the way the inside was decorated, too, kid art on the walls mixed with black-and-white photographs and strong oil paintings. Much the way I designed Feast’s interior, but Jane’s interpretation was warmer and more vibrant, with comfortable chairs, embroidered throw pillows, and books. Even the small entry hall was such an alive space . . . and it bugged me that it was hers.
As soon as I opened the car door, I saw Jane walking down the porch steps. She wasn’t bouncing, but she didn’t look sick. She looked good in her jeans and a fitted green sweater—thin, but not skinny; shoulder-length blond hair, not bald; color in her cheeks, not pallid. I hadn’t realized that I had even made such a checklist until I felt my breath release. Relief was immediately followed by annoyance. She looks fine. Why’d I come?
“You’re here!”
“We are,” Dad said. “The drive was only three and a half hours. Your sister has a lead foot.”
“Excellent.” Jane turned to me. “You’re here,” she said again. I caught an unspoken finally hovering above us.
“Hey, Jane.” I pulled her into a hug. “I don’t know what to say about all this.”
She patted my back and stepped away. “Later. Come in and have some lunch and catch up. There will be time.”
I clenched my jaw. “Of course.”
“I’ve put you in the guest room and, Dad, you’re in Danny’s. He gets to sleep in the basement. Peter even bought an air mattress, so he’s thrilled and not exactly roughing it.”
“That was good of him—both hims.” Dad chuckled.
“It’s the least Peter could do.”
Jane’s dismissive tone surprised me. She’d always seemed softer, nicer around Peter.
She rushed on. “I made chicken salad and some soup today. We can have the salad now and the soup can stretch for a few days. I’m at chemo tomorrow, and then I’m pretty useless until Friday, so soup seems to work best.”
“Sounds perfect,” Dad assured her.
“I can cook, you know.” I threw the lob before thinking.
A flicker in Jane’s eyes indicated she caught it, but she stayed silent and led us into the house.
Her chicken salad was remarkably good. She had complemented the chicken with a good mayonnaise, slivered almonds, finely chopped celery, fresh tarragon, purple grapes, and a hint of Dijon mustard. I was impressed. I would’ve added more salt and pepper, but couldn’t think of much else missing.
As Dad and Jane sat chatting at the table about a million things of which I knew nothing, I pulled out my phone to e-mail Tabitha and check on Feast.
“Lizzy, are we bothering you?”
I compressed a smile at Jane’s irritation, but didn’t look up. “Not at all. Keep talking. I’m finishing an e-mail.”
“I gathered that. I asked if you wanted to go for a walk.”
I glanced up. Dad looked expectant, like a kid awaiting a cookie. Jane looked ticked, like Dad got the bigger cookie.
I lowered my phone to my lap. “Sure, Jane, I’d love to go for a walk.” I sounded perky and eager—an attempt to seize the high ground. “Dad?”
“You two go. I’m going to sit in the living room and read. I may even take a nap before the kids come home.”
I shifted back to Jane. “Can you give me a sec to finish this? Then I’m all yours.”
As I signed off on my message, I recalled the last time Jane had asked me to take a walk. I was ten years old; she was eighteen and soon leaving for college.
“I’m walking to town. Do you want to come along and get an ice cream?”
“Yeah.” I had tried to match her tone, and the word came out like Duh. I mimicked all things Jane back then.
I raced to grab my shoes and flew out the front door, expecting to find myself alone with my gorgeous big sister. Instead I saw a few of her friends waiting on the sidewalk with her.
Molly, her best friend, turned to me. “I’m babysitting Will today. Why don’t you walk with him, Lizzy, and hold his hand? You can be in charge.”
“Okay.” A wave of defeat had washed over me as Will Bolton’s sticky, chubby hand slid into mine.
And that was my last real memory of life with my sister. She rarely came home from college, and years later, when Mom was dying, she never came home at all.
Lost in the memory, I caught only the end of Jane’s sentence. “. . . positive, invasive carcinoma.”
“What?”
“The cancer. That’s what it’s called.” She shot me a look. “Are you even listening?”
“Of course. Is it what Mom had?”
“Hers was triple negative, that’s the most aggressive, and hers was advanced by the time they found it. But mine we caught early. I’ll have one kind of chemotherapy cocktail twice more, then a different one four times, then I’ll have surgery and radiation, but the radiation’s not definite. If all goes as well as expected, I may not need it.” She listed it so clinically. Quintessentially Jane.
“Okay, then.”
She let a small sigh fall in tandem with her shoulders. Finally, there was the truth.
We walked in silence for a few minutes.
“I don’t . . . you know . . .”
“Don’t what?”
“Have confidence this will go as well as expected.” Her voice cracked.
“Nothing ever does.”
We drifted back to silence as we turned into the park. She opened her mouth to say something when we heard a voice yell her name.
“Bright smile, Lizzy.” She pushed the words out of the corner of her mouth.
“Of course,” I mumbled as a man more my age than Jane’s strode toward us. He was tall and good-looking in a loose, lanky, Seattle way. My gaze dropped to his shoes—flip-flops.
“Hey, Nick. Is Matt here?” Jane stood straight and boomed out a voice too bright.
Nick pointed across the playground. “He had a half day at school and Mom couldn’t take him. So work is effectively done for the day.” He shrugged.
“Nick, meet my sister, Lizzy. She’s visiting for a couple days from New York.”
Nick’s gaze briefly surveyed me, and I felt overdressed in my black cashmere sweater, pencil skirt, and Prada boots. His bright green eyes danced, implying that he agreed. He reached out and we shook hands.
“It’s Elizabeth.” His hand was warm and, for some reason, that bothered me. I pulled away brusquely.
Nick threw a glance at Jane, who rolled her eyes.
“Jane didn’t have a silly nickname to shed, so she keeps forgetting.”
“Elizabeth suits you.” He turned back to Jane. “I’ve talked with Gordon Holman and finished his website. Could I come by tomorrow to show you the new design and discuss next steps?”
Jane looked into the distance. “Tomorrow I . . . It’s not great, Nick. Can it wait till Thursday?”
“Sure. I’ll drop by in the morning.” He glanced back to me. “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth from New York.” He added my name and city slowly and distinctly, accompanying it with a small bow. I couldn’t help but smile before ducking my head, embarrassed. He loped across the playground, glancing back once, to where he’d left his computer and a bag on the bench.
“I can’t believe that. He was actually flirting with—”
I cut her off. “Who’s Gordon Holman?”
She sighed. “I had a consulting company. Not much, about ten clients—social media, website development, and stuff.”
“Had?”
“Peter convinced me to step back, so Nick folded them into his business.”
“It’s only ten clients. He’ll give them back, right?” I heard the panic in my voice—as if my story at Feast would parallel hers.
“Gee, Lizzy, why would I bother? It’s only ten clients.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant he wouldn’t sacrifice much to give them back when you’re ready.”
“You just meant it was small and insignificant. Not nearly as glamorous and important as what you do.” Jane turned out of the park.
I followed, feeling ten years old and wishing for someone, even chubby five-year-old Will Bolton, to hold my hand.