Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards
their gaggle of kids came up to visit. How long has it been now—five years?
Waiting to disembark the small commuter plane, I stand last in line behind the ten people who were on my connecting flight from Atlanta. Who would’ve thought such a crowd had reason to come to Dahlia Springs? Had the entire population been on a field trip?
Everyone except for Nick Russo, my ex-husband.
My stomach pitches at the thought of being within miles of him. Okay, I’ll confess, I’ve never gotten over him. I’m not morose about it, but of all the guys I’ve been with since Nick and I split up eight years ago, none has compared.
It’s like being infected with a virus (as unromantic as that sounds). For the most part, I live a satisfying life—have the occasional date or lover, and then comes the Nick outbreak and I realize I’m better off on my own.
I called him to let him know I was coming.
To warn him? Ha.
But he did sound happy to hear from me, even suggested we get together.
Oh, God, it’s been a long time.
Don’t get too carried away. People change.
Yes, they certainly do.
I’m dying for a cigarette, but I know it might be a while, since you can’t light up inside the airport, and I know Skye will have a fit if I ask her to wait while I smoke.
I take a deep breath and hitch my purse up on my shoulder, mentally preparing myself for what I’m about to walk into. Like a prisoner marching to her death, I follow the person in front of me as we walk single file down the metal steps onto the tarmac.
Humidity envelops me, and I can feel my hair expanding with each stride across the hot pavement. It’s hot in New York, but God, there’s nothing like the Deep South in the dead heat of August.
Geographically speaking, Dahlia Springs is in north Florida—just over the Georgia line, but it’s the unofficial southernmost border of the Deep South. That’s not an insult. The fine people of Dahlia Springs pride themselves on being the deepest of the Deep South.
As you travel farther into Florida, the less Southern it becomes, until around Fort Lauderdale, it’s almost as if you’ve crossed the border into a different country.
When I finally enter the tiny airport, it’s eerie how it looks exactly as it did that day I flew out all those years ago. It even smells the same—a blend of Juicy Fruit gum, jet fuel and floor wax—for a moment, it takes me back to the day I left. That day when for the first time in my life, the world held so much possibility.
Well, Toto, I’m certainly not in Oz anymore. It’s confirmed when I look over and see Skye waiting for me on the other side of a cordoned-off area that separates the gates—all two of them—from ticketing and baggage claim.
There she is: Skye Woods, my twin sister. Once upon a time we looked so much alike people couldn’t tell us apart, but that’s where the similarity ends. We’re as different inside as summer and winter. In fact, I always used to tease that Ginny misnamed Skye. She should have called her Winter. Apply that any way you choose….
Yes, we’re that different. We never had that twin-bonding thing going on; never could read each other’s minds; never shared a secret twin language or anything cute like that. Until we were about six years old, Ginny used to dress us alike—as if we were her very own living baby dolls. But right around that time is when everything changed, including my sister and me.
Skye sees me walking toward her, but she doesn’t smile. Oh, great. For a split second I worry that she has bad news, but there’s something in her icy expression that says she’s mad because I didn’t drop everything and get here sooner.
I did the best I could. She better get over it.
She’s changed her hair. It’s a brick-red bob. The color reminds me of the redhead on Desperate Housewives. That character always makes me think of my perfect sister and her Southern belle Cinderella existence.
Skye’s life seems like a ball and chain to me. I’d take being happily single—well, unhappily divorced—and living in the city over her perfect life, with her perfect lawyer husband in their perfect three-quarters-of-a-million-dollar Tallahassee ivory tower. Her existence is so—perfect—even Martha Stewart would gag.
Unfair of me, I know. I guess that makes me the evil twin. That’s fine.
“I’m glad you could finally make it.” She leans in and air-kisses my left cheek. “Let’s get your bags and we’ll go right to the hospital.”
“How’s Ginny? Any change?”
She shakes her head. “Mama’s still the same. We’ll talk to the doctor when we get there. He’s usually in around three o’clock.”
A sound like a foghorn blasts, signaling that the baggage is ready to start its turn around the carousel. Skye walks ahead of me toward it.
As I follow, I notice with perverse satisfaction my sister’s put on weight since the last time I saw her. She’s a little fuller in the hips. Her waist is less defined. I suppose that’s what happens after popping out three kids.
It’s a wonder she hasn’t had work done. You know—a nip here, a tuck there. She and Cameron have the money.
Since they can afford it, my sister’s probably staunchly against it. I’m just surprised Cameron hasn’t insisted. A high-profile attorney doesn’t want a fat wife.
Skye turns around and catches me eyeing her.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “You look…tired. Are you okay?”
She smoothes a strand of hair behind her ear, smiles her gracious Junior League smile. “I’m fine. Just concerned about Mama.”
My bag appears around the bend and I grab it.
As we walk out the door into the muggy Dahlia Springs afternoon, a feeling of dread washes over me. Coming home is going to be harder than I ever imagined. Maybe that’s because no matter how I’ve tried to kid myself since I purchased the ticket, I know you can’t go home again.
Skye
On the trip from the airport to the hospital, the conversation goes something like this:
Summer (digging in her purse): “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Me (gripping the steering wheel at ten and two): “You can’t smoke in here.”
Out of my peripheral vision I see her pull out one of those nasty things despite my request. She doesn’t say anything for a few beats, just looks at me like she smells poop on my shoe.
My blood pressure rises. If she has the audacity to light up in my SUV, I will stop this vehicle and put her out along the side of the road.
Summer (sighing a long, exasperated sigh): “Fine.”
Me (offering nothing but a short, oh-well shrug): “If it’s so darned urgent, why didn’t you have a smoke before we got in the car?”
She doesn’t put the cigarette away. She fidgets with it as she stares out the passenger window. Her silence annoys me, and I know I shouldn’t say it, but—“I can’t believe you’re still smoking. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad it is for you.”
“No, you don’t.” Her words are a warning.
I smooth a wrinkle out of my polished cotton skirt. I know the cigarette lecture presses her buttons. But she’s pressing mine sitting there so smug in her haute couture with her expensive haircut—I’m sure it’s expensive. I can just tell. The color’s beautiful—shiny, rich mink with chestnut highlights. And it’s a good cut, even if the style’s too long for a forty-year-old woman.
I know what I pay to have my hair done in Tallahassee—certainly not New York City