Tempted. Megan Hart
brother. I’m out.”
James shouted. I shuddered. We came together, saying nothing, listening to Alex Kennedy speaking from the other side of the world.
Chapter 02
“She’ll be late.” My sister Patricia sniffed as she looked over the menu. “Let’s not wait for her.”
My other sister Mary looked up from the text message she was busy answering from her cell phone. “Pats, she’s not late yet. Relax.”
Patricia and I shared a look. We’re the closest in age. Sometimes it feels like our family has two sets of daughters, separated by a decade instead of the four years between Patricia and Mary. There are an additional two years between Mary and our youngest sister, Claire. I’m not old enough to be Claire’s mother, but there are times I definitely feel like I am.
“Give her a few more minutes,” I told Patricia. “Yeah, she’ll be late but we can wait a few minutes, can’t we?”
Patricia gave me a stony look and looked back to the menu. I didn’t care for Claire’s lackadaisical attitude any more than my sister did, but Patricia’s attitude surprised me. She could be opinionated and bossy, but she wasn’t usually nasty.
Mary closed her phone with a click and reached for the pitcher of orange juice. “Whose idea was it to meet for breakfast, anyway? I mean, c’mon … you know she doesn’t get up before noon if she can help it.”
“Yes, well,” said Patricia as she snapped her menu closed. “The world doesn’t revolve around Claire, does it? I have things to do today. I can’t be hanging around all day long just because she was out late partying.”
This time Mary and I exchanged a look. Sisterhood is complicated business. Mary raised a brow, passing the responsibility of soothing Patricia to me.
“I’m sure she’ll be here in a few minutes,” I said. “And if she’s not, we’ll go ahead and order. Okay?”
Patricia didn’t look mollified. She snapped up her menu again, hiding behind it. Mary mouthed “What’s with her?” To which my only answer was a shrug.
Claire was, indeed, late, but only by a few minutes, and thus, by her standards, considered herself on time. She breezed into the restaurant like she owned the world, her black hair spiked out around her head like a sunburst. Thick black liner rimmed her eyes, making them stand out against her purposefully pale skin and crimson lips. She slid into the seat next to Mary and reached at once for the glass of juice Mary had poured for herself. Claire’s bangle bracelets jangled as she tipped the glass to her mouth and ignored Mary’s protest.
“Mmm, good,” she said when she set the glass down. She grinned, looking around the table. “You all thought I’d be late.”
“You are late.” Patricia glared.
Claire didn’t look fazed. “Not really. You guys didn’t even order yet.”
As if by magic the waiter appeared. Claire’s sultry stare seemed to fluster him, but he managed to take our orders and leave the table with no more than a glance over his shoulder. Claire winked at him. Patricia sighed in disgust.
“What?” Claire said. “He’s cute.”
“Whatever.” Patricia poured juice and drank it.
Chickens have a pecking order; sisters do, too. Past experience has led my sisters to believe I can be counted on to dispense advice and mediate arguments. They rely on me to keep the surface of our sisterhood polished and shiny, the way we trust Claire to shake us up and Patricia to put us all in order and Mary to make us feel better. We all have our place, usually, but today something seemed off.
“I told them expecting you to be here before noon was ridiculous.” Mary reached for the basket of warm croissants. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”
Claire laughed, taking a croissant for herself. Forgoing butter, she pulled apart the flaky crust with her black-painted nails and stuffed the pastry into her mouth. “Didn’t.”
“You didn’t go to bed last night?” Patricia’s lip curled.
“Didn’t go to sleep,” Claire corrected. She washed down her croissant with a mouthful of juice. “I went to bed, all right.”
Mary laughed. Patricia made a face. I did neither. I studied my youngest sister, spotting a telltale suck mark on her throat. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or at least not one she’d ever bothered to bring around to meet the family. Considering our family, I wasn’t necessarily surprised.
“Can we just get started? I’ve got stuff to do,” Patricia said.
“Fine with me,” Claire replied nonchalantly. “Let’s go.”
She couldn’t have irritated Patricia more with her blasé response. The disregard for her anger made Patricia even more snappish. Though she and Claire had butted heads in the past, this seemed excessive. I set out to defuse the inevitable blowup by pulling out my notebook and pen.
“Okay. First thing we need to decide is where to have it.” I tapped the pen to the paper. My parents’ anniversary was in August. Thirty years. Patricia had come up with the idea for a party. “At their house? At my house, or Patricia’s? Maybe at a restaurant.”
“How ‘bout the VFW?” Claire smirked. “Or the bowling alley?”
“Very funny.” Patricia tore apart her croissant but ate none of it.
“Your house, Anne. We could have a pit beef barbecue, or something, on the beach.” Mary’s phone beeped again, but she ignored it.
“Yeah … we could.” I didn’t hide my lack of enthusiasm for that idea.
“Well, we can’t have it at my house.” Patricia sounded firm. “I don’t have the space.”
“And I do?” My house was nice, and by the water, true, but it was far from spacious.
Claire scoffed, waving at the waiter, who came over at once. “How many people do you really think are going to come? Hey, hon, bring me a mimosa, will you?”
“Jesus, Claire,” said Patricia. “Do you have to?”
For a second Claire’s insouciance slipped. “Yeah, Pats. I do.”
“We could have it at Caesar’s Crystal Palace,” I suggested quickly to fend off an argument. “They have lots of receptions and stuff there.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Mary said. “The food there’s super pricey, and honestly, you guys, I just don’t have the cash to put toward this party like some of you do.”
She gave me a significant look, then one to Patricia. Claire laughed. Mary looked at her, too, with a wiggle of brows.
“Yeah, me and Mary are poor.” Claire looked up at the waiter who brought her drink. “Thanks, sugar.”
He actually blushed when she winked. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Claire had no shame.
“I think keeping the cost down is a good idea, too.” Patricia said this stiffly, looking at her plate and its desiccated croissant. “Let’s have it at Anne’s. We can buy the paper goods at the wholesale club and make a bunch of desserts. The pit beef barbecue would be the most expensive thing, but they include the corn on the cob and rolls and stuff.”
“Don’t forget the booze,” Claire said.
Silence ringed the table. Mary’s phone beeped and she flipped it open, her face blank. Patricia said nothing. I didn’t, either. Claire looked around at each of us.
“You can’t seriously be thinking of not having booze,” Claire said. “At the very least, you have to have beer.”
“That’s up to Anne,” Patricia said after a moment.