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Authors: Nora Roberts
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weeks.”
“This would be flat-tire sister?”
“Sorry? Oh.” And when she laughed, he could see her click back to the night they’d met when they’d nearly run into each other on a deserted county road as each of them traveled toward Hawkins Hollow. “Yes, the same sister who’d borrowed my car and left a flat spare in my trunk. The same who routinely ‘borrows’ what she likes, and if she remembers to return it, generally returns it damaged or useless.”
“Then why did you lend her your car?”
“Excellent question. A weak moment. I don’t have many, at least not anymore.” Annoyance darkened her eyes now, the steely kind.
“I bet.”
“She’s in New York, flitting back from wherever she flitted off to this time and doesn’t see why she and whatever leeches currently sucking on her can’t stay at my place for a couple weeks. But golly, the locks and the security code have been changed—which was necessary because the last time she stayed there with a few friends, they trashed the place, broke an antique vase that had been my great-grandmother’s, borrowed several items of my wardrobe—including my cashmere coat, which I’ll never see again—and had the cops drop by at the request of the neighbors.”
“Sounds like a fun gal,” he commented when Cybil ran out of breath.
“Oh, she’s nothing but. All right, I’m venting. You have the option of listening or tuning out. She was the baby, and she was pampered and spoiled as babies often are, especially when they’re beautiful and charming. And she is, quite beautiful, quite charming. We were children of privilege for the first part of our lives. There was a lot of family money. There was an enormous and gorgeous home in Connecticut, a number of pied à terres in interesting places. We had the best schools, traveled to Europe regularly, socialized with the children of wealthy and important people, and so on. Then came my father’s accident, his blindness.”
She said nothing for a moment, only continued to walk, her hands in her pockets, her eyes straight ahead. “He couldn’t cope. He couldn’t see, so he wouldn’t see. Then one day, in our big gorgeous home in Connecticut, he locked himself in the library. They tried to break down the door when we heard the shot—we still had servants then, and they tried to break it down. I ran out, and around. I saw through the window, saw what he’d done. I broke the glass, got inside. I don’t remember that very well. It was too late, of course. Nothing to be done. My mother was hysterical, Marissa was wild, but there was nothing to be done.”
Gage said nothing, but then she knew him to be a man who often said nothing. So she plowed on.
“It was afterward we learned there’d been what they like to call ‘considerable financial reversals’ since my father’s accident. As his untimely death gave him no time to reverse the reversals, we would have to condense, so to speak. My mother dealt with the shock and the grief, which were very real for her, by fleeing with us to Europe and squandering great quantities of money. In a year, she’d married an operator who squandered more, conned her into funnelling most of what was left to him, then left her for greener pastures.”
The bitterness in her tone was so ripe, he imagined she could taste it.
“It could’ve been worse, much worse. We could’ve been destitute and instead we simply had to learn how to live on more limited resources and earn our way. My mother’s since married again, to a very good man. Solid and kind. Should I stop?”
“No.”
“Good. Marissa, as I did, came into a—by our former standards—modest inheritance at twenty-one. She’d already been married lavishly, and divorced bitterly, by this time. She blew through the money like a force-five hurricane. She toys with modeling, does very decently with magazine shoots and billboards when she bothers. But what she wants most is to be a celebrity, of any sort, and she
“This would be flat-tire sister?”
“Sorry? Oh.” And when she laughed, he could see her click back to the night they’d met when they’d nearly run into each other on a deserted county road as each of them traveled toward Hawkins Hollow. “Yes, the same sister who’d borrowed my car and left a flat spare in my trunk. The same who routinely ‘borrows’ what she likes, and if she remembers to return it, generally returns it damaged or useless.”
“Then why did you lend her your car?”
“Excellent question. A weak moment. I don’t have many, at least not anymore.” Annoyance darkened her eyes now, the steely kind.
“I bet.”
“She’s in New York, flitting back from wherever she flitted off to this time and doesn’t see why she and whatever leeches currently sucking on her can’t stay at my place for a couple weeks. But golly, the locks and the security code have been changed—which was necessary because the last time she stayed there with a few friends, they trashed the place, broke an antique vase that had been my great-grandmother’s, borrowed several items of my wardrobe—including my cashmere coat, which I’ll never see again—and had the cops drop by at the request of the neighbors.”
“Sounds like a fun gal,” he commented when Cybil ran out of breath.
“Oh, she’s nothing but. All right, I’m venting. You have the option of listening or tuning out. She was the baby, and she was pampered and spoiled as babies often are, especially when they’re beautiful and charming. And she is, quite beautiful, quite charming. We were children of privilege for the first part of our lives. There was a lot of family money. There was an enormous and gorgeous home in Connecticut, a number of pied à terres in interesting places. We had the best schools, traveled to Europe regularly, socialized with the children of wealthy and important people, and so on. Then came my father’s accident, his blindness.”
She said nothing for a moment, only continued to walk, her hands in her pockets, her eyes straight ahead. “He couldn’t cope. He couldn’t see, so he wouldn’t see. Then one day, in our big gorgeous home in Connecticut, he locked himself in the library. They tried to break down the door when we heard the shot—we still had servants then, and they tried to break it down. I ran out, and around. I saw through the window, saw what he’d done. I broke the glass, got inside. I don’t remember that very well. It was too late, of course. Nothing to be done. My mother was hysterical, Marissa was wild, but there was nothing to be done.”
Gage said nothing, but then she knew him to be a man who often said nothing. So she plowed on.
“It was afterward we learned there’d been what they like to call ‘considerable financial reversals’ since my father’s accident. As his untimely death gave him no time to reverse the reversals, we would have to condense, so to speak. My mother dealt with the shock and the grief, which were very real for her, by fleeing with us to Europe and squandering great quantities of money. In a year, she’d married an operator who squandered more, conned her into funnelling most of what was left to him, then left her for greener pastures.”
The bitterness in her tone was so ripe, he imagined she could taste it.
“It could’ve been worse, much worse. We could’ve been destitute and instead we simply had to learn how to live on more limited resources and earn our way. My mother’s since married again, to a very good man. Solid and kind. Should I stop?”
“No.”
“Good. Marissa, as I did, came into a—by our former standards—modest inheritance at twenty-one. She’d already been married lavishly, and divorced bitterly, by this time. She blew through the money like a force-five hurricane. She toys with modeling, does very decently with magazine shoots and billboards when she bothers. But what she wants most is to be a celebrity, of any sort, and she
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