Between Sisters

“So, how’s work going?”

“Good. And the camp?”

“Resort. We open in a little more than two weeks. The Jeffersons are having a family reunion here with about twenty people. ”

“A week without phone access or television reception? Why am I hearing the Deliverance theme music in my head?”

“Some families like to be together,” Claire said in that crisp you’ve-hurt-me voice.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I know you love the place. Hey,” she said, as if she’d just thought of it, “why don’t you borrow some money from me and build a nice little Eurospa on the property? Better yet, a small hotel. People would flock there for a good body wrap. God knows you’ve got the mud. ”

Claire sighed heavily. “You just have to remind me that you’re successful and I’m not. Damn it, Meg. ”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . . that I know you can’t expand a business without capital. ”

“I don’t want your money, Meg. We don’t want it. ”

There it was: the reminder that Meg was an I and Claire was a we. “I’m sorry if I said the

wrong thing. I just want to help. ”

“I’m not the baby girl who needs her big sister’s protection anymore, Meg. ”

“Sam was always good at protecting you. ” Meg heard a tiny flare of bitterness in her voice.

“Yeah. ” Claire paused, drew in a breath. Meghann knew what her sister was doing. Regrouping, climbing to softer, safer ground. “I’m going to Lake Chelan,” she said at last.

“The yearly trip with the girlfriends,” Meghann said, thankful for the change in subject. “What do you call yourselves? The Bluesers?”

“Yeah. ”

“You all going back to that same place?”

“Every summer since high school. ”

Meghann wondered what it would be like to have a sisterhood of such close friends. If she were another kind of woman, she might be envious. As it was, she didn’t have time to run around with a bunch of women. And she couldn’t imagine still being friends with people she’d gone to high school with. “Well. Have fun. ”

“Oh, we will. This year, Charlotte—”

The intercom buzzed. “Meghann? Mrs. Monroe is here. ”

Thank God. An excuse to hang up. Claire could talk forever about her friends. “Damn. Sorry, Claire, I’ve got to run. ”

“Oh, right. I know how much you love to hear about my college dropout friends. ”

“It’s not that. I have a client who just arrived. ”

“Yeah, sure. Bye. ”

“Bye. ” Meghann disconnected the call just as her secretary showed May Monroe into the conference room.

Meghann pulled the headset off and tossed it onto the table, where it hit with a clatter. “Hello, May,” she said, walking briskly toward her client. “Thank you, Rhona. No calls, please. ”

Her secretary nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

May Monroe stood in front of a large multicolored oil painting, a Nechita original entitled True Love. Meghann had always loved the irony of that; here, in this room, true love died every day of the week.

May wore a serviceable black jersey dress and black shoes that were at least five years out of date. Her champagne-blond hair fell softly to her shoulders in that age-old easy-care bob. Her wedding ring was a plain gold band.