8

My mother wasn’t answering her cell phone. She was off with the new boyfriend, gallivanting through the wilderness, where they probably didn’t even have cell phone service. And my father was dead, and my sister was in some antiseptic enclave of the Raylor Memorial Clinic, bleeding and sobbing as the doctors tried to calm her. I was out in the waiting room. Waiting. Alone.

The only other member of our family—the unofficial member—was an hour away, in Minneapolis. But I couldn’t call him. The sharpness of his tone and the anger in his face were too fresh in my mind. I’d disappointed him too many times to ask him for anything more than forgiveness.

So I was out of people to call. This was where running away from my problems had gotten me. I had to face this agonizing uncertainty all by myself.

Part of the problem was I’d seen too many episodes of ER. I had no idea what was wrong with Skye, but every time I thought about the blood seeping through her white cotton skirt, my mind flashed to an image of Noah Wyle screaming, “We’re losing her!” She hadn’t gotten any pre-natal treatment that I knew of, and instead of marching her over to the nearest physician the minute I hit town, I’d been whining about money and trying to placate my ex-boyfriend. Bravo.

When at last the attending physician emerged, I was heartened by the fact that her pale blue scrubs weren’t drenched in crimson. I opened my mouth to ask, but I couldn’t force the words out.

The doctor seemed accustomed to this response. She cleared her throat. “You’re Skye Geary’s sister?”

I nodded, searching her expression for clues.

“Okay. What I’m going to tell you may come as a bit of a shock.”

The look on my face must have alarmed her, because she hastened to add, “No, no, it’s fine. Skye’s fine.” She tilted her head. “It’s just that she’s not pregnant.”

I felt no shock or relief at this news, just sorrow that my sister had been suddenly wrenched away from yet another person she loved. I studied the anti-smoking poster on the far wall. “So she lost the baby?”

“There never was a baby. She didn’t miscarry; she just started her period. I know she assumed she was pregnant, but…”

“But she got a blood test,” I protested. “At the doctor’s office. I’m sure of it. She missed her period, they did a blood test, and it came back positive.”

The doctor rolled her eyes. “Probably some lab tech screwed up. You’d be amazed at the stories we hear. I have to tell you, the clinics out here aren’t exactly Mount Sinai. Lab guys get the sample labels mixed up, they confuse your first name with someone else’s last name…they should have to pay malpractice insurance.” She gave me a tired smile. “Not, of course, that I’m bitter.”

“But she missed her period,” I croaked again.

The doctor sat down next to me. “It’s my understanding that she’s been under a tremendous amount of stress lately. And she’s lost some weight?”

I nodded.

“Well, those factors can affect your menstrual cycle.”

“But she was never pregnant? At all? Are you sure?” I tried to realign my sense of reality to fit these facts.

“Very sure. Sometimes these things just happen. We tested the betaCG levels in her blood serum—the hormone that the placenta would be making if she had a placenta—and the levels were so low that we know she was never pregnant. It’s unfortunate, but mistakes were made.” The doctor stood up as a nurse entered the waiting room, pushing my sister in a wheelchair. Skye looked drawn and gray, as if the last two hours had sucked out half her soul.

“If nothing’s wrong, why is she in a wheelchair?” I asked.

“Hospital procedure.” The nurse scribbled on a clipboard with her pen. “It’s just a precaution. Sign here.”

“Well,” I said halfway through the long, silent ride home. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Skye curled up in her seat, planting her bare feet on the dashboard. “The fact that they charged me five hundred dollars for a tampon?”

“No, about, you know. The baby. Not having it anymore.”

She looked out the window at the lush green fields. “It never existed so, it’s like, how can I care? I can’t miss something that never existed, right?” Her laugh, though light, was brittle.

I didn’t say anything.

“It’s just sad, you know? Because I thought that we’d really love each other, me and the baby. We’d always have someone to talk to. And Bob would come back and be a father.” She sighed. “But he’s not coming back. And anyway, I couldn’t be somebody’s mother. I can’t even remember to water my plants.”

This was what had happened to her in the wake of everybody running off, first my father, then my mother and me. She’d lost all hope of ever being part of a happy family.

I could relate.

“You have me,” I said. “To love.”

“I know.” She reached over to my hand on the steering wheel. She didn’t squeeze it, just covered it with her palm. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

I groped for a topic that would make her feel better. Something light and fluffy. Something that would help her regain a sense of control. I swallowed my pride and broached the topic I’d wanted to discuss at the beauty salon. “I need some advice from you.”

After the initial shock passed, she seemed delighted. “Okay! What?”

“All right, here’s the deal.” I tried not to blush. “Remember when I left for L.A.?”

She nodded.

I pulled into the Roof Rat parking lot and turned off the ignition. “Well, as you know, Flynn and I had sort of a big fight. And I think he’s still kind of miffed. Men. You know.”

“What’s he mad about? Oh, because of that bass player guy? What was his name?”

“Hank,” I muttered. “No, he’s mad for many reasons, most of which we don’t have to get into right now.”

She gave me a stern look. “I can’t help you if I don’t know the facts.”

My dignity was long gone anyway. “Fine. If you must know, he’s mad because I sort of skipped bail on our relationship. He got all bent out of shape because he wanted to get married and I said no, which is why he broke up with me. Which is why I ran off with the bass player. So really, he has only himself to—”

“He asked you to marry him?” Her mouth opened so wide I could see the fillings glinting in her molars. “You said no?”

“I was barely eighteen!”

“But you guys were so in love! Didn’t he used to call you his little sparkplug?”

My cheeks were flaming under the sunburn I had already accrued. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, no! I can help, I really can! You know business, but I know men. What do you need?”

“Well. I need to work with him at the bar,” I said slowly. “And he won’t cooperate with anything I want to do.”

“So you need to win him over.”

“Yes. I need…” I started to laugh. “I need to exploit my feminine wiles. But first I need to get some feminine wiles.”

“Okay! This’ll be so great.” She clapped her hands. “All you’ve gotta do is charm the pants off him.”

She painted an appealing picture. Wait, no, no—that road would only lead to disaster.

“He can keep his pants on,” I said quickly. “I just want to establish a comfortable working relationship so we can help get the bar back on track.”

“No problem. Feminine wiles are so easy. I am going to give you the foolproof way to win over any man alive.” The mischievous spark returned to her eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done, he’ll be yours to command.”

“This doesn’t involve bargaining with Satan, does it?”

Skye just smiled wickedly and rubbed her palms together. “Who needs the devil when you’ve got a subscription to Cosmopolitan?”

 

“Here.” She handed me a twisted piece of blackened metal studded with rhinestones.

“What the hell is this?” I stood directly in front of the living room air conditioner and examined the tarnished loop of scrap metal. Short of melting this down and refashioning it into shackles, which I would then use to handcuff Flynn to the wall until he’d listen to reason, I couldn’t see how it would transform my life.

She rolled her eyes. “Duh. It’s my crown from junior year.”

“Your prom queen crown?” I dangled the tiara between my thumb and index finger as if it were the tail of a wriggling sewer rat.

“No, my homecoming crown.”

I glanced at my watch. “Look, time is money, babe, and there’s a big pile of your account books with my name on them. What does this have to do with my future feminine wiles?”

“You’re going to clean it off and wear it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ll see.” She steered me toward the hall. “Go get a toothbrush and some soap or something.”

“You’ll forgive me my skepticism.” But I padded off to the bathroom, where I rustled up a moldy blue toothbrush I surmised had been Bob’s and a bar of Ivory soap. “Here you go.”

“Great.” She seemed unfazed by the origins of the toothbrush. “Okay, the first thing we have to do is scrub all the black stuff off so it’s nice and sparkly.”

She looked so earnest and avid and not preoccupied with her “miscarriage” that I decided to humor her. “Fine. But if you think for one second I’m wearing this thing, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Faithie! You have to wear it. Otherwise it won’t work.” She lowered her voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “The thing is, if you want people to treat you like the homecoming queen, you have to think like the homecoming queen. The crown will help you. Trust me, boys love the homecoming queen. And they never grow out of it. Remember Mr. Jersen?”

I nodded. Pre-algebra teacher, mustached and polyestered.

“He asked me out at the bar last week.” She shuddered. “It was really gross. But it just goes to show.”

“It just goes to show what? Am I supposed to be encouraged by that?”

“Yes. If you want to start bossing Flynn around, you have to start being more charming. You know. Nice.” She paused and nibbled her bottom lip, as if we might be hitting a snag here. “You say hi to everybody. You smile a lot. You pretend like everybody’s interesting. If you want Flynn to listen to you, then I promise this’ll help.”

I rolled my eyes. “Will I be needing a glass slipper next?”

But we cleaned that crown until the fake jewels danced in the afternoon sunlight.

She beamed. “Get ready for the new you. Try it on.”

In the name of sisterly harmony, I allowed her to place the aluminum circlet on my head.

I widened my eyes and waited.

“I hate to break it to you, but this is not working.”

She winked at me. “Go look in the mirror.”

I did, and in the bathroom, I witnessed a miracle. Adorned in this glorified piece of Reynolds Wrap, surrounded by a floral shower curtain and rumpled towels, I suddenly looked like the kind of girl who has been chosen for the final round of a beauty pageant. The kind of girl who refuses to accept a Saturday-night date after Wednesday. Who has a phone installed next to her deep marble bathtub. Who is, in short, the love child of Paris Hilton and Beau Brummell.

“See?” My sister popped into the doorway, carrying an armload of clothes and grinning. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“Kind of,” I hedged. But this was a lie. It felt like a shot of tequila to the spirit. I was drunk with social power.

“Okay. I want you to remember this feeling and take it with you wherever you go. I’m going to put the crown in your car, and I want you to wear it when you’re driving around.” I opened my mouth but she held up her palm. “Just do it, okay? Okay. We covered the social stuff—smile a lot and always talk about the guy, not yourself, because guys think they’re very interesting.”

She wrinkled her pert little nose. “But now we need to do something about your wardrobe.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What about my wardrobe?”

“You look too citified.” she declared. “You’re intimidating. You don’t fit in here.”

I took this as a compliment.

“You’re in Minnesota now. You need to wear more colors and soften it up. Think cute and nonthreatening. Here.” She handed me a plum tank top and lavender capri pants. “And also, we need to talk about your underwear.”

“We do?”

“Yes. When you’re dealing with men like Flynn, you have to be confident. And what makes you confident?”

I mulled this over. “A Harvard degree and a modeling contract?”

“No, your panties, you silly goose!”

And thus the eternal difference between the Geary sisters.

“If you want to be fun and sexy, you just have to start with your underwear and work your way out. I went on a total shopping binge at the Mall of America the day you picked me up, and I bought a bunch of cute new stuff that I haven’t worn yet.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

I yelled after her, “How do you know I don’t already have something scandalous on?”

“Oh, Faithie, be serious.” She returned clutching a pink bag filled with white tissue and black lace. She fished out a scrap of lavender silk. “Put this on, and put the purple outfit on over it, and then I’ll do your makeup and you can go. Flynn will be much easier to handle today, I promise.”

“I don’t want to ‘handle’ him, I just want to have a civil, working relationship.”

She shook her head. “That’s what you say now, but I know how you two are. You’re like yin and yang. Smith and Wesson. Nick and Jessica.”

“That is so not—”

“Stop thinking with your head so much. Make sure you pay attention to your body next time he’s around. What do you feel like? What is your body telling you?”

“My body never tells me anything,” I objected. “Except, ‘more M&M’s, please.’ ”

“I’m just saying. You think too much and it gets you into trouble. You’re always in your head. Pay attention to what your body says for a change. Now put on the purple.”

“But I just wore jeans in high school and he liked me fine then.”

“He’ll like this better. Trust me.”

My sister could be terrifyingly convincing when she wanted to be. And she did know a few things when it came to men…

“Listen,” I said slowly. “I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll stop thinking with my head and listen to my body if you promise to stop thinking with your body and listen to your head.”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you said you’d stop conspiring with Flynn and commit to helping me save this bar. Which means we can’t sell it. Which means we need to start making a lot more money, tout de suite. So we need—you need—to dream up ways to get customers in the door and keep them in all night. Think of yourself as the social coordinator.”

“I’ll be good at that!” Her face lit up. “Ooh, I have a great idea! For tonight! Leave everything to me.”

“For tonight? But we open in four hours. What’s the plan?”

“Trust me, you’ll love it.” She yelled this over her shoulder as she headed for the front door. “I’ve always wanted to do this, but Bob would never let me. I have to start getting everything ready. Show up at six-thirty and prepare to be amazed.”

 

“Good evening, and welcome to ‘Free Beer Till Somebody Pees’,” Skye bellowed as she stood atop the bar, clad in painted-on jeans and a pink bustier, à la Coyote Ugly.

The bar was absolutely packed with customers—beer-bellied factory workers, twenty-two-year-old deer-hunting enthusiasts, wide-eyed young single gals and chain-smoking, rusty-voiced middle aged women. When my sister wanted to get the word out about something, she was better than Reuters. Now if only she could use her powers for good…

“Here are the rules: everyone who wants to compete has to get their hand stamped. Faith will do the stamping,” she announced, tossing a star stamp and ink pad my way. “Once your hand is stamped, the bathrooms are off-limits to you. We’ve posted guards at both bathrooms and the front door.” She beamed and waved to Lars and his henchmen, who gruffly nodded back. “Everyone who gets their hand stamped will drink for free.”

The crowd erupted with a deafening roar of approval.

“But once somebody pees, we start charging for beer again. Okay, also, everybody here has to pony up five bucks. No, ten bucks! And the last person to pee will win a prize of”—she looked at me and shrugged—“a hundred dollars!”

“What about betting?” came a yell from the back.

She tossed her hair back and smiled. “Betting is totally permitted and encouraged. And if I were you, I’d bet on my big sister Faith, ’cause she’s the stubbornest person I know!”

“Hey!” I cried. “I’m just the stamper! I’m not having any part of this.”

She jumped down from the bar. “Of course you are. Somebody has to get the ball rolling.”

“Well, why can’t Flynn get the ball rolling?” The perfect opening to ask the question that had been preying on my mind all evening. “Where is he, anyway?”

“I told him not to bother coming in till ten-thirty.” She giggled. “He’d go ballistic if he knew about this. Fire codes and blah, blah, blah. He’ll be happier not knowing. Which reminds me, he called and asked how the buyer appointment went. I told him to talk to you. That man is your problem.”

And according to Skye, I should now be able to handle him with no problem. I had spent the afternoon enduring a head-to-toe makeover, and was now decked out in the purple capris and delicate strappy sandals that strangled my toes but looked fabulous. My sister had pronounced me feminine-wile ready, but the proof would be in the Pig’s Eye.

She turned back to the crowd. “All right, you guys. It is now six forty-five. You have fifteen minutes to settle up with Faith and get your last-minute peeing in!”

As the electrified mob rushed toward me, I resigned myself to the fact that Skye’s taste in social events was always going to be more Animal House than Buckingham Palace. But I had asked her to help, and she was helping.

“All right, people, form a line,” I commanded. “Single file. No pushing, no biting, no spilling beer on the bartenders.”

I tossed ten-dollar bills into a plastic pitcher and stamped away without really looking up at faces. The hands I anointed with pink stars were workers’ hands. Callused from manual labor, with fingernails tinged with traces of dirt that no amount of scrubbing could erase. These were hands like my father’s, the kind of hands you just don’t see in the clubs and boutiques of L.A.

But then, at the end of the line, I encountered five lily-white fingers, French-manicured and moisturized to the point of supersaturation. Bejeweled with a large and gaudy pink class ring.

The hand of Sally Hutchins.

I glanced up in surprise and stamped her flesh perhaps a bit harder than I’d intended.

“Ow!” She snatched back her hand and flung a ten-dollar bill in the general direction of the pitcher.

“Gosh, Sally, I’m ever so sorry.” I gave her my best fake Hollywood simper.

“No, you’re not.” She clutched her hand to her chest and scowled. “Isn’t it enough that you ruined my whole day? My father had a conniption after I lost that sale with Mr. Warton.”

I felt an inexplicable twinge of pity for her, standing there all dour and ill-tressed.

“I’m surprised to see you here tonight,” I said. “ ‘Free beer till somebody pees’ doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“There’s nowhere else to go in this dinky little village,” she sniffed. “Besides, I could use the hundred dollars. Dayton Hudson is having a sale on Monday, and my dad won’t give me any money after what happened this morning.” She curled her lip at me. “I really need some new espadrilles. And I can win this. I can hold it forever.”

“Really.” I raised one eyebrow.

“Why? You think you can hold out longer?” she demanded.

I’d be damned if I folded to the woman who had made an art form of aiming the volleyball at my head in gym class. “We’ll see.”

She narrowed her eyes and flicked her long crimson bangs off her forehead. “Fine, then.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Fine.”

Let the games begin.

 

Flynn showed up at eight, by which time the festivities were in full swing. I was draped over the bar, tapping my pen and advising my mother’s friend Mrs. Dupree to bet against Sally Hutchins, when I heard Flynn’s voice behind me, quiet but unmistakably furious.

“Geary. Back room. Now.”

“Hang on one second,” I said to Mrs. Dupree and turned to greet my business partner.

You could set your watch by this guy’s wardrobe—today was jeans and a gray T-shirt, one sleeve of which was halfway turned up around the hem. I fought the sudden urge to straighten out the folded fabric, but my little laundry reverie came screeching to a halt when I checked out the hockey player behind the Hanes.

Although his face was a mask of control, the muscles in his jaw twitched madly.

I decided to look on the bright side. What better opportunity to practice my new prom queen maneuvers? I gave him a smile straight out of the Rose Parade. “As I live and breathe, it’s Patrick Flynn. How are you?”

This took him off guard. He straightened his shoulders and regarded me with deep suspicion.

“Get back there, now,” he ordered.

“I’m right in the middle of a consultation with a client here,” I cooed. “But I’ll be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and then I’ll be happy to talk with you.” I turned back to Mrs. Dupree, who had lit her second cigarette on the smoldering remains of her first.

“Sorry about that.” I pointed to the list of names in my notebook. “Now, as I was saying, you might want to put a few bucks on…”

Flynn’s strong, callused fingers closed around my wrist. My arm and breast smashed up against him as he yanked me away from the bar. When I tried to wriggle free, he clamped his other hand around my elbow.

“March.” He dragged me toward the back office.

The crowd’s chatter and jukebox guitar riffs faded into a long, loaded silence as we headed down the hall. He slammed the office door behind us and loosened his grip. I wrenched my arm away, chafing my skin bright red in the process, and escaped to the other side of the tiny white room.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded.

“That was me calling a business conference.” He leaned back against the closed door.

“Do you start all your business conferences with bodily assault? This isn’t the hockey rink.”

“You and Skye are violating every fire code known to man,” he fumed. “And I don’t even know where to start with the illegal gambling.”

“Oh, give me a break.” I rolled my eyes. “A few bucks in a beer pitcher hardly qualifies as federal racketeering. And don’t blame me for the overcrowding—that was all Skye.”

“Yeah, and we’re her business partners, so when the lawsuits start pouring in, we’re all screwed.”

He had a point. “Okay. I understand your concern,” I said in the tone of voice you’d use to soothe a snarling rottweiler. “I’ll go make sure every possible fire exit is clear.” I took a few steps toward the door. Flynn didn’t budge.

“Not so fast.” He crossed his arms over his chest. The Clint Eastwood glare was back. “I’m not finished.”

I waited.

“I am trying to help you and Skye out, but if I ever drive down here to find another unannounced, unauthorized peeing promo, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“There’s already hell to pay—have you seen the account ledgers?” I took another step toward him. “And as long as we’re on the subject of unauthorized, unannounced business deals, why don’t we discuss the prospective buyer I had to deal with this morning?”

“Good idea.” I could practically see the black storm clouds gathering over his head. “Henry Warton called me this afternoon, and he had a lot to say about the way we run this bar.”

I couldn’t stifle my laugh. “All complimentary, I hope?”

“His exact words were ‘an underfunded asylum’.”

“Well, you win some, you lose some.”

“I can’t believe you deliberately screwed up that deal.” The jaw muscles resumed twitching. “I can’t believe you two went ahead with this without asking me.”

“Well, I can’t believe you tried to sell this place without asking me. Listen.” I tried to rekindle the homecoming queen within. Be nice. “Try to appreciate what we’re doing here. This promo is genius—we’re making money hand over fist. And it was Skye’s idea. She’s finally involved. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

He frowned at this gratuitous mention of “we” and reverted to his tone of cold control. “You pull another stunt like this and you’ll regret it.”

My hands reflexively closed in a need for something to shatter. Because nothing had changed. Ten years had passed, oceans and continents had been crossed, and yet I’d been cast in exactly the same role. The stunt-puller. The black hole of dysfunction. The woman who stood between Flynn and what he wanted.

When I finally opened my mouth, my words came out clipped and crisp. “It seems to me I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: you need to stop issuing ultimatums.”

The anger in his eyes flared up. “You need to stop making bad decisions without consulting your partner first.”

We circled each other, bristling. The squabble over the bar bets had escalated into something much darker.

Run off with one lousy bass player and pay for it for the rest of your life.

I took a step back. “I’ve said all I have to say.”

“So have I.” He nodded toward my hand. “How’s your wrist?”

In all the tumult, I had forgotten about my pending personal injury lawsuit. I hid my reddened wrist behind my back. “It’s fine.”

He sighed and held out his hand. “Come here.”

Suddenly, and for reasons I couldn’t begin to untangle, I was afraid I might cry. “No.”

“Come on, Faith. Let me see.” His posture relaxed and his tone gentled. He gave me a hint of a smile and my stomach did a slow half-gainer.

“It’s fine,” I insisted.

“God, you’re impossible.” He crossed the room in a flash, backing me into the corner. He reached around my waist and eased my hand out from behind my back.

He cradled my wrist in both hands, stroking the delicate skin. The pink fingerprints he’d left on my forearm were fading fast, but I could see the regret in his eyes as he lowered his head to examine the marks.

“I’m sorry.” His breath was warm against the hollow of my throat.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I stammered. “I guess we both got a little, you know, carried away…”

“I like what you’re wearing,” he said, but he didn’t seem all that focused on my outfit. Rather, he was looking at me as though I were naked.

“Thanks.” I continued babbling uncontrollably. “But it’s not mine. I borrowed it. From Skye.”

His hand skimmed up my arm and shoulder, leaving a ripple of goosebumps in its wake. I shut up. When he brushed his thumb across my chin and lower lip, I shivered against the cold plaster behind me.

I parted my lips, and he leaned in closer.

“You guys!” Skye pounded on the door. “Faith! Flynn! Somebody peed! Come on!”

“I’m sorry.” We said this in unison as we leapt apart.

His expression shocked me. He looked pained. He looked reproachful. He looked the opposite of everything I was feeling.

I tried to regroup. “Did you…did we just…”

“I’ll see you out there.” He flung open the door. Smoke and music and a cool burst of air conditioning poured in.

Skye scooted out of the way to let him pass, then popped her head into the office.

“Faithie! What is going on in here? You look like Kim Basinger in that Tom Petty video where she’s dead. I thought we covered this. You’re supposed to look friendly. Now put on a happy face and get out here.”