Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards
It’s plain and simple as that. The image of me during those times is scarred into my mind. Some of the snapshots are dark and stained, and others are grainy and hard to look at, but I don’t want them to go away. Because periodically, I take them out and look at them and remind myself of the monster I was.
I suppose I could argue that as a single parent, I did the best I could. That it was a struggle to make ends meet when the girls were growing up. Blah, blah, blah. That doesn’t change a damn thing.
It’s just too bad I didn’t have the money I have now, which I came into the old-fashioned way—I married it. But times were different when the twins were young and my good fortune can be a sore spot with them, so we don’t talk about it much. Not that I haven’t offered to share. They’re just too proud to take it.
Strange how money changes everything. If I weren’t a strong person, it could take me on a real mind trip. But given what’s happened to me—Chester dying, the accident, the choices I’ve made—even if I wasn’t in my right mind back then, it’s enough to make a gal reevaluate her entire life.
I know what I have to do, and I’m prepared to do it. In fact, if I have my way—and I usually do—not only will I make everything right with the twins, I’ll finally bring my Jane home, too.
I just hope I don’t lose all three of them in the process.
Summer
We push open the door to Ginny’s room. She’s lying with her eyes closed, the arm that isn’t full of tubes and needles over her eyes.
Skye and I stand at the foot of her bed. Bruises mar her porcelain-doll face. She always reminded me of a blond Naomi Judd. So small and fragile looking. On the outside, that is. There’s nothing fragile about Ginny on the inside. Still, despite everything, the sight of her bruised and battered makes me feel sick.
She opens her eyes.
“Mama?” says Skye.
I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything.
Ginny blinks at us, then smiles. “My precious angel twins. As I live and breathe.” Her eyes well and a tear breaks free to meander down her cheek. “I was just thinking about y’all and here you are. Like magic.” She holds out her hand to us and we move toward her, Skye first. I trail behind her.
“Mama, we’re here.” Skye takes her hand and I step up to the bed and put my hand on top of my sister’s. It reminds me of that stupid game we used to play when we were kids—the one where everyone sticks in a hand, one on top of the other, and the person whose hand is on the bottom pulls it out and puts it on top and it keeps going until someone gets tired and quits.
Funny, the parallels—both Skye and me vying to be top of the heap, beating ourselves up to keep from getting stuck on the bottom. No wonder Jane divorced the lot of us.
Ginny eyes me up and down. “You’re so skinny, girl. We’ll have to fatten you up while you’re here.” She looks at Skye. “And you could stand to give a few pounds to your sister. Oh, but you’re both beautiful. Both of you. My beautiful, beautiful babies.”
My nerves are shot, and I can’t look at my sister. I don’t know how she’s going to take Ginny’s comment. I can’t deal with any more drama.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Where’s Jane?” Ginny says. “Did she come, too?”
I blink, wondering if she remembers asking for her earlier. Surely not.
“No, but I know where she is. She’s in Springvale, Mama,” Skye says. “You got better so fast I didn’t have a chance to get a hold of her.”
Ginny closes her eyes, and her hand droops beneath ours. As Skye and I pull our hands away, Ginny’s face contorts.
“I know I was a bad mother to you girls.” She swipes away the tears flowing down her cheeks. “But I tried. Lord knows I tried. You have to know I did the best I could. Still, I know things weren’t like they should’ve been, and I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I’m going to anyway.”
She takes a deep breath. The exhale comes in ragged shudders. “Since y’all know where Jane is, will you take me to her? Please?”
Her eyes beseech us.
Skye and I look at each other. I can almost read my sister’s thoughts because this is one of the rare occasions when she and I seem to be on the same page. I feel it.
“Mama, I’d be happy to call Jane for you.” Skye opens her purse, pulls out a notebook and flips to a phone number. “We can tell her what’s happened, but—”
“No!” Ginny struggles to pull herself into a sitting position, but she eventually gives up and falls back into the bed. It’s strange to see her like this.
“Please. No,” she pleads. “Don’t call her. She’ll just run away. She’ll disappear somewhere I can’t find her. Please. I need my three girls all together.”
Skye glances at me, then back at Ginny. “Mama—”
“There’s things you need to know.” Her voice raises a few notches. “Things you must know.”
“Ginny, don’t do this now. It can’t be good for you. The doctor said you’ll probably get to go home tomorrow, but if you get all worked up, it might set you back.”
She turns her face toward the window, away from us.
“I don’t know how to make you understand.” Her voice is low and serious. “I could have died.”
Skye touches her shoulder. “But you didn’t. Mama, never once did we lose faith that you’d come out of this fine.”
Mama silences her simply by holding up her hand. Just like she used to when we were children.
“I am going to die—someday. What I have to tell you cannot go with me to the grave.” She swallows as if the words are stuck in her throat. “But first, I need Jane here. Because it concerns her as well as you. So please, I am begging you, my sweet babies. Please let’s go get your sister. Let’s all three bring Jane home. Please tell me you’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 5
Summer
The hospital staff move Ginny to a regular room since she’s doing so much better. Skye and I stay until Raul arrives at the hospital and then we go to our mother’s house to try and figure out what we’re going to do. Or should I say try and figure out how we’re going to get out of this road trip she’s trying to rope us into.
As we pull up to the wrought-iron gate that surrounds the huge estate, the first thing I see is Welcome to Hamby Hall written in ornate script across the top of the gate. The ironwork alone probably cost as much as a small house.
Skye punches in the code as if she goes to Ginny’s place every day. The gate swings open and she drives for what seems like miles up the brick driveway that’s lined by gnarly coastal trees and lush north Florida vegetation.
This is the first time I’ve seen Ginny’s house. I’d seen photos of it when she sent me the Better Homes and Gardens spread that ran in an issue shortly after construction was complete. She was so proud of the place—a sprawling, two-story number designed to look like a castle, complete with turrets and a front door that looks like a drawbridge. The place must be worth millions, even if it is a little out of place on a southeastern beach. My mother always has marched to her own tune.
“Mama did all right for herself, huh?” says Skye.
“Or should we say Chester Hamby did all right by Ginny?” I quip.
Skye shrugs and maneuvers the car under the port cochere.
The one and only time in Ginny’s life that she got married was to Chester Hamby. They had been married for fourteen