The Second Sister Read online

  I don’t remember a lot about it, except that the water was so cold that it was actually painful. All that comes back in the dream. I can actually feel that cold piercing through me like thousands of needles, but I didn’t start having that dream until a year or so after Mom and Dad died.

  Alice risked her own life saving mine. She lay belly down on the ice, reached down into the hole, grabbed me by the hair, and pulled me out. It was incredibly brave of her, but also incredibly foolish; we both could have been killed. She should have run for help instead of trying to save me alone.

  That’s what Dad said later. It was the only time I ever heard him yell at Alice. She wasn’t fazed a bit, though. She just looked at him and said that if she’d gone to get help, it would have been too late, which was probably true. I wouldn’t have survived long at those temperatures, and the nearest house was a half mile down the road.

  “I couldn’t let her drown,” Alice said simply. “She’s my sister.”

  So how could I resent Alice? If not for her, I probably wouldn’t be here.

  News of how eleven-year-old Alice Toomey risked her own life to rescue her little sister spread quickly through Nilson’s Bay and beyond. Somebody took it upon himself to call the papers, and soon reporters from as far away as Green Bay showed up on our doorstep wanting to interview my sister and take her picture.

  Sometimes they wanted to talk to me, too, but quickly lost interest in a little girl who refused to smile into the camera and supplied one-word answers to their list of tediously similar questions....

  How did you feel when you fell through the ice?

  Scared.

  How do you feel now?

  Fine.

  Are you grateful to be alive? Do you think your sister is a hero? Do you want to be like her when you grow up?

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  I was surprised that media people weren’t more creative. They all asked the same obvious and meaningless queries, questions they already knew the answers to. I’ve been interviewed dozens of time since then, and my opinion of the media hasn’t changed much. Maybe I expect too much. Few people are brave enough to pose a question unless they are fairly certain of and comfortable with the answer. I guess that’s just human nature, isn’t it?

  Alice was more cooperative than I was, submitting to having her picture taken over and over, and more forthcoming in her responses, giving illuminating answers that were neither too long nor too short, coming off as precocious and heroic but humble. Eleven years old and she’d already mastered the art of the thirty-second sound bite. It was impressive.

  On the fourth day the stream of reporters became a trickle, and on the sixth it stopped entirely. The news cycle turned and our lives went back to normal.

  But people in Nilson’s Bay have longer memories than the media. For months and even years afterward, they would talk about how Alice saved me, and though everyone already knew all about it, they’d ask my father, my mother, or Alice to tell the story, or they’d repeat it to themselves or one another if none of the principals was available.

  If I was in earshot, they’d ask me the same questions that those reporters had asked.... Were you scared? Are you grateful? Is your sister a hero? Do you want to be like her?

  Raised to be respectful of my elders, I said yes to everything, never pointing out that their questions were silly and that my answers should have been obvious.

  Of course I was scared.

  Of course I was grateful.

  Of course I thought my sister was a hero. Everyone did.

  Of course I wanted to be just like her.

  I’d never wanted anything else.

  A mournful yowl from one of the gray plastic cat carriers snapped me back to the present. I got down on my haunches and peered through the metal grating in front of the cages.

  The carrier on the left held a sleek black cat with green eyes, skinny and skittish, who shrank back toward the rear wall of the carrier when I stuck a finger through the grating, trying to touch his fur. The one on the right contained a huge blue-eyed calico with brown, gray, and cinnamon fur and a white chest and nose, at least twice the size of the black cat.

  I stuck my finger through the grate. “Let me guess. You must be Freckles,” I said. “The food thief. Am I right?”

  The cat stared at me for a moment, then yawned and turned her head away.

  I carried both crates inside before I unlatched the doors. When I did, Dave, the little black cat, shot out of the crate and hid under the sofa. Freckles squeezed her bulk through the cage door, sauntered into the kitchen, sat down in front of the cupboard to the left of the sink, and started to yowl. Not surprisingly, when I opened the cupboard I discovered a bag of cat kibble and half a case of canned cat food.

  Freckles began wolfing down a can of chicken liver and rice the moment I placed the bowl on the floor. I called and called and even meowed for Dave to come eat, but got no response, so I fixed up a smaller dish with kibble and wet food mixed together and set it on the floor, just at the edge of the sofa, before carrying my suitcase upstairs.

  There were three bedrooms upstairs. The largest, facing the front of the house, had belonged to my parents. You’d have thought that the master bedroom would be on the side with the better view, but my father hadn’t liked being woken by the morning sun reflecting on the lake. The other two bedrooms, one on each side of the hall bath, had belonged to Alice and me. Alice’s room was just the same, but mine had been turned into a sewing room.

  So that left me with the choice of sleeping in Alice’s bed or in my parents’—which seemed like no choice at all. Then I remembered the hide-a-bed in the living room sofa. My mother had nicknamed it the Iron Maiden and said it discouraged guests from overstaying their welcome. Not a very comfortable option, but it would have to do for now.

  I left the suitcase in the hall and went back downstairs. Freckles was hunched down like a plump mushroom next to the sofa, scarfing down the food I’d left for Dave. I clapped my hands and hissed. Freckles looked up and then ran around me and up the stairs. Considering her weight, her speed was impressive.

  I got down on my hands and knees and tried to coax Dave out of his hiding place, but he wouldn’t move. All I could see was glittering eyes. I carried the empty food dish into the kitchen and rinsed it out.

  And, after that . . . I sat down on a dining room chair and stared for close to an hour at the big round thermostat that sits outside the window. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  “Just living” comes harder to some people than to others.

  Chapter 18

  The next day, I called Jenna. She sounded harried.

  The winning team had gone into full, victorious transition mode, and word had quickly gotten around the office that Ryland had tapped her to help manage the process. Every campaign donor, staffer, and intern within a five-hundred-mile radius was stopping by to congratulate her—and drop off a résumé.

  The fourth time we were interrupted by someone who popped in unannounced and just wanted “thirty seconds” of her time, I told her to lock the door and turn off her office lights until we were able to finish our conversation.

  “Maybe they’ll think you’ve gone to lunch.”

  Jenna groaned. “I can’t get anything done! I bought a door sign that says, ‘Don’t Even Think About Knocking: History Being Made.’ Didn’t help.”

  “Funny, but too subtle,” I said. “Get a Doberman, one with really big teeth. Let’s wrap this up before somebody else comes barging in. Now, before you forward any of those résumés for the slots in the DOJ, be sure to—”

  “Run them by Joe Feeney,” she said. “I know. You told me that twice already.”

  “I did? With all the interruptions, it’s hard to keep track.”

  “How are you doing?” Jenna asked. “You sound tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep at all last night.” I yawned. “There’s this metal bar in the sofa and no matter how you lay, it hits you right in the back. And
then, just to make things extra fun, Alice’s cat, the big one, jumped on me and started yowling at about two-thirty in the morning. Wouldn’t leave me alone until I got up and fed her. The jerk.”

  Just then, as if she’d heard me, Freckles sauntered from the kitchen into the dining room and started to rub against my legs.

  Jenna clucked her tongue. “You slept on the couch? What’s wrong with the bedroom?”

  I picked up my coffee mug and slurped my tea. Hopefully, the two bags of that nasty, perfume-tasting Earl Grey, which were all I was able to unearth in the kitchen, would deliver close to the same amount of caffeine as one cup of real coffee. Pathetic. How could Alice not have coffee? Or any cereal that didn’t contain flaxseeds and raisins? The second I could summon up enough energy to get dressed, I was going to the grocery store for supplies.

  “Nothing’s wrong with the bedrooms,” I said. “But I just don’t . . . I don’t know. I felt funny about sleeping in Alice’s bed.”

  “Well, you can’t sleep on the sofa bed for the next seven weeks. Maybe if you change the sheets, get some new blankets, or move the bed to another part of the room it’ll feel more like your own.”

  “Maybe. Listen,” I said, changing the subject, “I know you’re leaving for DC on Wednesday, but I need you to do me a favor before you go, kind of a big one.”

  “Okay,” Jenna said.

  She sounded hesitant, and I didn’t blame her. She had so much on her plate, and, technically, she didn’t really work for me anymore, but I just had to have someone go over to my apartment to open the door for the movers and hang around while they packed up my stuff and put it in storage. I’d tried to think of other people I could ask, but couldn’t think of anybody who owed me that many favors—except Jenna. I’d hired her for her very first grown-up job, and now, not quite three years later, she was on her way to Washington. Plus, when I followed her to the capital in a few weeks, she’d undoubtedly be working for me again. As her benefactor and future boss, I was allowed to impose.

  I explained what I needed, and she said, “So all I have to do is sit there while they pack? That’s not so bad. I’ll take my computer. Bet I’ll get more done at your apartment than I would—No! Out!”

  I jerked the phone away from my ear. Jenna’s sudden shout startled me so that it was an involuntary reaction. When I got back on I heard a thunk, as if she’d dropped the phone on her desk, and then her voice, still agitated but farther away. After a moment, she was back.

  “Sorry. I had to yell at Graham Needham—”

  “The weaselly press intern? The one who wears bow ties?”

  “That’s him. I told him three times that he has to put in his application and go through the process like everyone else, but he won’t give up. He barged in without knocking. Brought me an azalea plant.”

  “Uh-huh. Because nothing says ‘I’m the guy for the job’ like a potted plant. You know,” I said, glaring down at Freckles, who was still rubbing against my legs, feigning affection when all she really wanted was to be fed—again, “I was feeling bad about missing all the fun, but I’m starting to think there are worse things than being banished to the wilds of Wisconsin.”

  “There are,” Jenna agreed. “Listen, I’ve got to go. When will your movers arrive?”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow. Should be done by lunchtime. There isn’t that much stuff. And could you do me another favor? I wasn’t planning on staying more than a few days, so I only brought a couple of outfits—”

  “Two navy blue suits and a pair of khakis?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “I’m going to need some warmer things—sweaters, jeans, jackets—just casual stuff, and some gloves and boots. Could you pull some stuff out of my drawers and send it up here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.... There’s two cases of Samoas in the utility closet. Could you send one of them?”

  “You want me to mail you a case of Girl Scout cookies?”

  “Humor me, okay? Samoas are my comfort food. I need all the comfort I can get right now. Have you talked to the president-elect today?”

  “Just for a second this morning. He added a name to the list of associate DOJ candidates. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I said, taking a quick slurp of tea and pushing Freckles away with my foot. The cat took the hint and slunk off, giving me a spiteful glare. I glared back, unfazed. If Her Plumpness wanted another meal, she could go catch a mouse.

  “Just wondering if he needs anything. The computer connection is fine here; I could work remotely with no problem.”

  “Lucy,” she said in a tone that hovered somewhere between motherly and patronizing and was starting to irritate me, “it’s not like everybody has suddenly forgotten about you—you’re supposed to be resting.”

  “Yeah, well. Resting turns out not to be my strong suit. I’m better at doing.”

  “So do something. Go for a walk. Or shopping. Get a hobby.”

  “A hobby?”

  “Don’t make it sound like a dirty word. People can have lives outside of work, you know. I took up knitting last year. It’s a great stress reliever. Plus I got all those cute scarves.”

  I remembered Jenna’s scarves. She must have had twenty of them, all exactly the same except for the yarn. I’d have sooner poked a knitting needle in my eye than used one to make the same scarf two dozen times.

  “I don’t think I’m the knitting type. But it probably would be a good idea to get out of the house. Come to think of it,” I said, “hold off on sending the clothes. I spotted a consignment shop in town. I think I’ll go see what they’ve got.”

  “You still want the cookies?”

  “Oh, yes. As quickly as possible. Express mail, dog sled, helicopter—whatever it takes. I’m in withdrawal.”

  “Drop them out the back of Air Force One?”

  “Is that an option?”

  Jenna laughed. “As long as you don’t mind being the subject of a congressional investigation.”

  “So maybe just call FedEx instead.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  Chapter 19

  As I poured more hot water for another disgusting cup of Earl Grey, the first having failed to give quite the caffeine jolt I’d been hoping for, the phone rang—the house phone, not the cell phone.

  Jenna was the only one who had that number, so when I answered I said, “Hey, can you send both cases of cookies? I really think I’m going to need them.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The deep male voice on the other end of the line definitely did not belong to Jenna.

  “Oh. Sorry! I thought you were someone else. Someone from my office. I was . . .” I stopped myself, realizing I didn’t need to explain myself to a stranger.

  “You know what? Let’s just start over. Hello, this is Lucy Toomey.”

  “Lucy, this is Ed Glazier. I’m a builder, the owner of Peninsula Property Professionals. We’ve built three homes in your neighborhood in the last five years.”

  As he described the houses he’d built, I could picture them in my mind. None of them was anything I would have wanted, just too big for my taste and too . . . well, just too. Too much. But they’d been built with somewhat more taste and sensitivity for the surroundings than most of the surrounding McMansions. Glazier favored a sort of pseudo–prairie style with big, chunky pillars on the porches and leaded glass in the windows. His work was a nod to Frank Lloyd Wright that, if not completely convincing, made more sense in Wisconsin than the pseudo-Tuscan and overwrought Greek Revival styles of some of the neighboring properties. And Mr. Glazier’s houses actually left room for grass and some of the larger trees.

  “I was talking to a Realtor friend of mine,” Mr. Glazier continued. “He told me you might be considering selling your place. If that’s true, then I’d sure like to discuss that with you.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything to discuss yet, Mr. Glazier—”

  “Ed,” he said warmly.
“Call me Ed.”

  “Okay, Ed. But you’re a little premature. I don’t actually own the place yet.”

  Pausing now and again to take sips of my tea, I explained the unusual nature of Alice’s will to Ed Glazier. I felt sure that the complexities of the situation would cool his enthusiasm, but I was wrong.

  “I’m willing to wait. A piece of property like this, with that kind of lakefront view and that kind of size, doesn’t come along very often. Even if you were ready to sell today, we wouldn’t be able to start work until the spring.”

  “Right. And I won’t be in a position to sell until at least . . .”

  I paused, mentally calculating how long it would take me to make up the remaining weeks of residency Alice’s will required, glancing at a wall calendar to estimate how many weekends I could slip away from Washington without jeopardizing my work, definitely not more than once a month.

  “I can’t see me getting possession of the deed until at least the end of April, possibly even as late as July.”

  “Well,” he said, “April would be better than July, but, like I said, I’m willing to wait. I’ve had my eye on that land for a long time.”

  “Okay, then,” I said, feeling kind of odd talking about selling our cottage to a total stranger, but also knowing that was what it would come down to in the end anyway. “So why don’t we talk again in the spring. Say, March? I won’t be around by then, but you can call my cell.”

  “Lucy, I don’t mean to push you, but I’d really prefer to start the ball rolling now so I can start making plans over the winter and be ready to break ground in the spring. We’ve got a short building season here. I can’t afford to waste a day of it.”