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It was the day she had left home for France.
“Jilly, come down!” her mother had called. “It’s almost time to leave!”
She’d felt rooted to the edge of the bed, her ankles together, hands clasped in her lap. She was so thin the smart navy suit her mother had purchased for her hung shapelessly from her shoulders as though from a mannequin.
The lies and the secrecy of the past weeks had worn her out. She took a last, desperate look around the room, terrified, committing to memory the details, knowing instinctively that it would be a long, long time before she saw this room again.
“Jilly!” Her mother’s voice was strident.
Jilly rose, pausing to stroke her favorite stuffed bear, then she silently came down the wide staircase, beginning her longjourney of isolation from her family. She held her shoulders back and her chin high. Her eyes appeared glazed and directed inward. Already, she was unconsciously assuming the trademark walk that would later place her in high demand in the European fashion world.
Downstairs, her father moved silently from the garage to the foyer, shoulders stooped, carrying her suitcases back out into the car. He appeared saddened that she was leaving for Europe, but she couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t one to share his private feelings, and in the past weeks he’d taken pains to avoid her, spending long hours at the courthouse or in his den.
Birdie and Rose, fifteen and eleven, slouched against the door frame, whispering to each other. She offered them the briefest of smiles. She coveted their innocence.
Then, suddenly, it was time to go. The family moved quickly, as though caught by surprise.
“I want a picture!” her mother cried out, frantically waving her hands. She was clumsy, tottering, which meant she’d been drinking again. Jilly felt a wave of sadness, then, looking at her sisters, concern. She wouldn’t be there to draw their mother’s ire anymore.
“Bill, get the camera!”
“I will, I will.”
Jilly felt the press of the bodies as they crowded together for the photograph. Her sisters crowded close with a kind of silent desperation. Birdie put her arm around her shoulder and Jilly caught a quick scent of her emerging body odor, strong and pungent, not yet masked with deodorant. Birdie was squeezing her shoulder hard, firmly hanging on. Rose, smaller, stood in front of her, silently but determinedly nudging Merry away with her elbow in order to stay close to Jilly. Merry clung tenaciously to Jilly’s arm.
“Merry, Rose, stop wriggling,” their father ordered. “Look here, everyone. Okay, Four Seasons, smile for the photograph. Say, fromage!”
Jilly smiled wide, shoulder to shoulder with her sisters, feeling one of the family again in that frozen moment in time captured on film. This would be the memory she’d take with her to Europe, she decided. The four of them, close together. It ended too quickly. Bodies separated and Mother began directing again.
Have a good time! We’ll miss you! Bring me back a bottle of French perfume!
“Say goodbye, Merry,” her mother said, nudging her forward. “Jilly has to go now.”
“I don’t want her to go!” Merry wailed, shaking her head so violently her long pigtails swung around her neck.
Jilly turned her head away, not wanting to see the sorrow swimming in her sister’s eyes lest it break her own fragile hold on composure. “Bye, sweetheart,” she called out in a tight voice as she headed out the front door. If she could make it down to the car, she told herself, she could escape into the private darkness and end this charade forever.
Merry, however, burst into tears and tore after her, clinging to Jilly’s arm at the car and tugging her back toward the house. Their parents rushed forward and wrapped their arms around their youngest daughter.
“Jilly has to leave,” they said in singsong tones.
Jilly stood ramrod straight at the curb, clutching the car door handle and struggling not to cry. She’d vowed she’d play her role in her mother’s plan without fail. She’d failed her family enough already; it was the least she could do.
“No, she doesn’t!” Merry cried belligerently. “She doesn’t have to go. Make her stay! Ple-e-ase, Mama! Make her stay!”
Jilly held those cries in her heart like a talisman, loving her poor little shaman sister all the more. She let go of the car and slowly walked to her baby sister, kissing her cheek and hugging her, hard, all the while looking over the small, bony shoulder at her father with a gaze that challenged. You can let me stay if you want to.
“Jilly! You’re up!”
Jilly blinked and turned her head to the voice calling her name, dragging her back to the present.
“Rose!” Jilly’s voice squeaked out of her dry throat. She opened her arms to the slender, smaller sister as she hurried up the stairs to hug her, fiercely, in her surprisingly strong arms. They hugged for a long time, rocking back and forth in tender glee. No more yesterdays. This is now, she told herself, relishing the familiar scent of sweet roses in her sister’s hair.
“You were daydreaming,” Rose said. “Miles away.”
“More like years away,” she replied, then cast a sweeping glance at the house. “It’s being back here again.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Rose said, pulling back yet keeping their arms linked. “I’ve read all about jet lag and thought you might want to sleep straight up until the funeral. But oh, Jilly, I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” Jilly’s hungry gaze devoured her sister. Although Rose was only six years younger, Jillian still felt a twinge of envy that Rose looked much the same as she did in high school.
“You look tired,” Rose said, her eyes searching with concern. “Are you sure you had enough sleep?”
Tired and old, she thought to herself. “I’m sure I haven’t, but I’ll catch up later. Besides, who could sleep? Such a racket! The birds were relentless and I swear I heard bells all morning.”
“That must have been the deliveries. We’re having a light luncheon here after the funeral.”
“What a charming idea,” Jilly replied, yawning. “I thought we were going to some stuffy old restaurant. Much nicer this way.”
Rose beamed. “Do you think so, Jilly?” She turned and led the way down the stairs, through the wide foyer to the dining room. She pointed out the stacks of china plates, bowls, cups and platters, tableware and silver bowls desperately blackened and in need of polish.
“Mom had all these lovely dishes stashed away. And there’s more in the attic. We have to sort through them, anyway, so we can divide them. Think about the ones you’d like.”
“Doesn’t matter to me in the least.”
“You’ll have to have some! You’re the eldest. You get first pick.”
“Tell you what, chérie. You pick for me, and then you can keep them.”
Rose was taken aback by her generosity. “I want to use the china for the luncheon, but it’ll mean a lot to wash and polish, I’m afraid. Do…do you want to help?”
“Sure. Of course,” Jilly replied, looking with longing at the kitchen door. “But have mercy on me. I smell the tempting aroma of coffee and if I don’t get some of that, a few aspirins and a gallon of water down my throat soon I swear I’ll drop right here and be useless to anyone.”
Rose tilted her head and laughed brightly, excited by Jilly’s willingness to back her luncheon. “Come on, then. I’ve made a petit déjeuner,” she said, emphasizing the French. “Nothing special, just a few things I picked out that I thought you might especially like.”
Jilly appreciated not only the breakfast but the obvious effort Rose extended to make her feel welcome, down to the use of a few common French phrases. She touched her shoulder, delaying her for a moment before joining the others in the kitchen.
“Rose, thanks for the flowers in the bedroom,” she said in a soft voice. “You remembered how much I love yellow roses.” Then with a crooked smile she added, “For that matter, thanks for putting me in my old room. It meant a lot.”
“I thought it might,” Rose replied in a conspiratorial whisper. Then, in a swift change of mood, she smiled brightly and said, “You’d better grab something to eat before Dennis devours everything.”
Dennis…Jilly reached up to smooth her hair with her palms, straighten her shoulders and make her entrance.
The kitchen was warm, bustling and smelled deliciously of hot coffee and rolls. Here, too, there was chaos. White bakery boxes were stacked high on the counters, plastic bags of fresh vegetables lay beside cutting boards and knives, ready for free hands, and there were dozens of plastic containers filled with all sorts of deli items. Nonetheless, at the table she found Dennis and Hannah sitting back in their chairs, leisurely munching croissants as though they had nothing in the world to do.
“Good morning to all,” she murmured, heading straight for the sink.
Hannah’s eyes widened at the sight of her exotic aunt whose legs seemed to go on forever under the short, sexy kimono.
“Good morning, Aunt Jillian.”
Jilly held up one finger to indicate that everyone should wait while she drank the water thirstily. Then, after a lusty “Ah,” she peered over at the pale, dark-eyed, rather plump teenager slouched in the chair across the room. Her red hair was the mark of a Season.
“Hannah?”
The girl nodded, eager.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you if not for the hair. You’ve grown!” She caught the nanosecond of anguish in the eyes and the faint blushing of her cheeks and instantly understood, as one woman does with another, that this was a teenager sensitive about her weight. “You’ve become a woman!” she amended smoothly.
Hannah’s face relaxed. “I’m fifteen, Aunt Jillian. Almost sixteen.”
“You must call me Jilly. We’re all adults here,” she replied, winking before sipping more water.
Dennis lowered his Chicago Tribune. His was a considerably cooler gaze than his daughter’s. He masked it with a politely rigid smile of greeting. The house suddenly felt several degrees colder. Jilly tightened the kimono about her neck.
“So, the prodigal sister returns,” he said, more as a pronouncement, folding the paper and placing it in his lap.
Jilly felt a stab of annoyance. How like Dennis Connor to pull some biblical quote laced with criticism as his greeting after ten years. She wasn’t hungry, but to mask how upset she was, she casually reached out for a croissant.
“Prodigal?” she replied, with an arch to her brow.
“Prodigal is apt,” he replied, crossing his arms. “The long-lost child returning to the fold from her wanderings.”
Jilly picked a corner from her croissant and delicately put it between her lips. “I wasn’t aware that I was wandering.”
“She lives in Paris, Daddy,” Hannah said, as though he were a dolt.
“In this family, living anywhere beyond a day’s drive is clearly exploring the wilds.” His countenance lightened. Then with a crooked smile he added, “And we do rejoice that you’ve returned.”
She cracked a smile, forgiving him a little.
Rose set a cup of coffee at the table beside a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of sugar. She clasped her hands, studying her table anxiously. “I know this isn’t as good as what you’re used to, but…”
Jilly gratefully accepted the steaming cup of coffee and ignored the cream. “Mmm, Rose,” she said with an appreciative groan. “It’s better.”
Rose’s chest swelled.
While she sipped, Jilly discreetly eyed Dennis as he returned to his paper.
Dennis Connor…He had aged exactly like she’d thought he would. He was always handsome, even in high school, in a mature, intellectual way that she’d once found attractive. Back then he’d worn his blond hair long to the shoulders and parted down the middle. His heavy eyeglass frames were a statement over his dark and piercing eyes and thick, arched brows. And that cleft in his chin. Lord, that dimple had turned quite a few heads back in high school. Hannah had his eyes and the cleft in her chin, she realized, amazed at genetics.
His hair might have thinned at the crown, his body thickened at the waist, but he’d aged very well indeed. She might even say he was more attractive now, having grown into his mature appeal. There was no denying that Birdie was a lucky woman.
“I can’t imagine living in Paris,” Hannah said with her chin in her palm. “How can you stand to come back to boring old Chicago? Or Milwaukee?” She rolled her eyes and reached for another croissant.
“Are you sure you want that?” Dennis asked his daughter from over the newspaper.
Hannah’s arm stiffened and she furtively glanced at Jilly. A faint red blush crept up her neck and ears. She slid her hand back into her lap, slumping her shoulders forward as though to somehow make herself smaller.
Jilly’s heart cringed for her. She knew Dennis was trying to be helpful, but men could be such idiots! The last thing he needed to do to an overweight teenager was draw attention to that horrid fact.
“Hannah,” Jilly said in a breezy manner, “pass me some of that grapefruit, would you? One of the first things I learned in modeling was to eat lots of fruit and drink gallons and gallons of water. It flushes out the system and leaves your skin glowing. It’s de rigueur. Here, darling, won’t you split a grapefruit with me? You know,” she continued, slicing through the fruit, “when I’m exhausted like I am now, I tend to pick at food all day without thinking. And I am absolutely exhausted now. So be my friend, would you? When you see me nibble, tell me to stop. I swear I won’t bite your head off.” She laughed, pleased to see Hannah’s frown lift to a shy smile. Lifting her spoon, Jilly dug into the grapefruit with relish.
Hannah’s dark eyes lost their dullness as she reached for the other half of the grapefruit.
Jilly was well aware of the lure modeling held for teenage girls. Her career gave her status. Eyeing Hannah, she thought her niece wasn’t so much fat as she was big, much as Birdie had been at that age. Except that Birdie was a champion swimmer with long, defined muscles as sleek and smooth as an otter’s. With her physique, coupled with her blazing confidence, she was magnificent. In contrast, Hannah was soft, slumped-shouldered and recalcitrant. That glorious sparkle of confidence that was such a hallmark of girls at this age was missing in this child.
Looking up she was caught by surprise to see Dennis leaning back in his chair looking at her intently. The disapproval she had seen in his eyes was replaced by open gratitude for her rescue. She smiled briefly, acknowledging.
The back door swung open and Birdie swept in with a gust of cool air. Her arms were overflowing with plastic bags and she was fired up with a sense of accomplishment.
“What a morning I’ve had!” she announced, her voice as blustery as the wind. “The sun is shining and melting the snow. Nobody will have a problem making it to the funeral. Come see. I’ve bought all sorts of paper products: plates, napkins and cups. And tons of plastic tableware.”
“Paper products?” Rose went directly to the bags and began sifting through them.
“Take a look at the pattern, Rose. The gray is somber but not too dark, don’t you think?” She wasn’t asking as much as thinking out loud. She came up for air, looking around the room.
Everyone sitting at the kitchen table stared back at her in silence. One face caught her attention.
“Jilly!” she exclaimed, catching sight of her sister at last. “You’re up!”
Birdie’s face registered delight, surprise, then maybe a hint of disapproval at seeing her so scantily clad and barefoot. Her gaze darted to Dennis, but she regrouped quickly, set down her bundles and hurried to Jilly’s side. They hugged a bit awkwardly, what with Jilly still seated and Birdie bending low. The wind had chilled Birdie’s cheeks and the ice on her woolen coat soaked straight through Jilly’s silk. Yet it was the chill in her greeting that Jilly wondered about.
“You were three sheets to the wind last night,” Birdie said in a scolding manner. While she spoke, her eyes studied Jilly with a clinical thoroughness. “And you’re pale as a ghost this morning.”
Jilly immediately brought her hand to her face, smoothing it. “It was a horrible flight, followed by a horrible drive from the airport.” She was gratified to see a flash of guilt in Birdie’s eyes for not having picked her up as promised. “Then, of course, there was the jet lag. But Rose took care of me, as always the perfect hostess. I’ve had coffee and fruit and feel much more myself.”
She wanted to ask Birdie what her excuse was for looking so bad. She hoped her face didn’t reflect shock at seeing how much her sister had aged since she last saw her. She looked ten years older than her forty-one years, more bulky and pasty. The vivid red highlights in her brown hair had faded and competed now with a new crop of gray. And to make matters worse, the hair was cut in an unflattering, mannish style. Birdie had always been bigger than the other Season girls but she’d been lithe and strong and had carried herself like a queen. Now she was so changed. Was it age or food or just no longer caring that led her to let herself go? She watched as Birdie unwound a brightly patterned fleece scarf and slipped out of her navy pea coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. Crossing the room to Rose, she unconsciously stretched her Fair Isle sweater over her wide rump.
Rose looked up from the bags, her face crumpled with worry. “But, Birdie, we don’t need all this.”
“Of course we do,” Birdie replied decisively, coming to her side. She reached in the bag and began unloading the contents.
Dennis sighed deeply and lifted the paper high to block his view.
“Really, Rose,” Birdie continued, oblivious. “We’ll go along with the luncheon at home. We have no choice. But this notion of yours to use china and crystal is far too romantic. This is a funeral and we don’t need to be theatrical. It’s too much work to set up, then wash up after all those people. If you’re worried about the expense of paper, don’t be. I’m happy to cover it.”
Rose’s back was ramrod straight and she had laid her hands over the bags as though to forcibly keep the contents in. “But…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve already unpacked the china.”
“Rose, be sensible. We cannot use Mother’s dishes.”
Jilly glanced at Hannah and saw her face set in fury, the same as her father’s, as they listened.
“Why not?” Rose wasn’t backing down.
Birdie stopped unpacking and rested her hands on the counter. After an exaggerated pause she said, “For one thing, there isn’t enough of any one set of china to serve this size a crowd. For another, there are not enough salad forks or matching wineglasses. It would all be an embarrassing mishmash of patterns. And it’s much too late to call for rentals.”
“Who the hell cares?” Dennis snapped, obviously fed up with his wife’s interference. “If she wants to use the damn dishes, let her.”
