Between Sisters

“Helga made a cheesecake last night. I’ll bet she has a few extra pieces. ”

“My friend is bringing dessert. ”

“Ah. Sort of a potluck, huh? That isn’t how we did it in my day. ’Course in my day, us men never cooked a thing. ” He winked. “Not on the stove, anyway. Have a nice night, Joe. ” Humming a jaunty tune, he headed back to the workbench.

Joe shoved the oily rag in his back pocket and left the shop. On his way to his cabin, he stopped by Smitty’s house, talked to Helga for a few minutes, and left carrying a small hibachi. He set up the barbecue on the front porch, filling the black hole with briquettes that he’d bought that morning at Swain’s.

Inside the house, he looked around, making a mental list of things to be done.

Oil, wrap, and stab the potatoes.

Shuck the corn.

Season the steaks.

Arrange the flowers in the water pitcher.

Set the table.

He looked at the clock.

She’d be there in ninety minutes.

He showered and shaved, then dressed in his new clothes and headed for the kitchen.

For the next hour, he moved from one chore to the next, until the potatoes were in the oven, the corn was on the stove, the flowers were on the table, and the candles were lit.

Finally, everything was ready. He poured himself a glass of red wine and went into the living room to wait for her.

He sat down on the sofa and stretched out his legs.

From her place on the mantel, Diana smiled down at him.

He felt a flash of guilt, as if he’d done something wrong. That was stupid; he wasn’t being unfaithful.

Still . . .

He set his glass down on the coffee table and went to her. “Hey, Di,” he whispered, reaching for the photograph. This was one of his favorites, taken on New Year’s Eve at Whistler Mountain. She wore a white fur hat and a silvery parka. She looked impossibly young and beautiful.

For three years, he’d poured his heart out to her, told her everything; suddenly he couldn’t think of a thing

to say. Behind him, candles flickered on the table set for two.

He touched the photo. The glass felt cold and slick. “I’ll always love you. ”

It was true. Diana would always be his first—maybe his best—love.

But he had to try again.

He collected the photographs, one by one, leaving a single framed picture on the end table. Just one. All the rest, he took into the bedroom and carefully put away. Later, he’d return a few of them to his sister’s house.

When he went back into the living room and sat down, he smiled, thinking of Meghann. Anticipating the evening.

By 9:30, his smile had faded.

He sat alone on the couch, half drunk now with an empty bottle of wine beside him. The potatoes had long ago cooked down to nothing and the candles had burned themselves out. The front door stood open, welcoming, but the street in front was empty.

At midnight, he went to bed alone.