Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards
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turn on the radio. Willie Nelson’s “Georgia On My Mind” is playing.
“Did you know Nick’s back in town?” she says.
I dart a glance at her. She’s looking at me with eyes just like mine—same shape, same slightly faded shade of green-blue.
A shiver courses through me.
“I didn’t know that.”
I do know he’s here. Mama told me, but I don’t care. I relax my grip on the steering wheel and signal before I turn left onto Orange Peel Street.
“I just thought you might like to know.”
Well, you thought wrong. I don’t give a darned dried apple about your ex-husband’s whereabouts.
Why would she bring up Nick? Because I won’t let her smoke? Well, too bad.
She twirls the cigarette between her fingers. The odor of tobacco and her spicy perfume waft toward me. There’s another note in the air I can’t quite put my finger on, but if I had to name it I’d call it eau de holier-than-thou.
I stop at a red light and steady myself before I look at her. “Are you going to look him up?” Even as much as I don’t want to know, I want to know.
“Maybe for a conjugal visit.”
Well, that’s vulgar. “Maybe not. I heard he’s involved with someone.” I don’t know if he is or not. I just say it to be spiteful and I know I should be ashamed of myself. I don’t know why this unbearable urge to one-up my sister takes over when we’re together.
Summer snorts. It’s amazing what she can imply in the resonance of a single, unladylike sound. Suggestions that tempt me to retort, Why, are you still trying to rub my nose in the fact that you stole him from me? That was another lifetime ago and you’re not even together anymore.
And Cameron and I are happily married.
The light turns green. I accelerate too fast, and the SUV bucks a little bit as I let off the gas pedal.
We ride in silence past the red Ford pickup that was broken down at the side of the road when I got into town two days ago. It’s still stalled in the same place. For all I know it’s been there years; past the Dairy Queen where I count five cars in the parking lot—the same Dairy Queen Mama used to take us to if she was in a good mood when we were kids; past the old Bargain Bin Dollar Store with the neon S that’s burned out so it reads Dollar tore. Was it always like that? I can’t remember.
Dahlia Springs looks every bit the same as it did when we were kids—like it’s stuck in a time warp. Oh, but a lot’s changed. Things that go way deeper than burned-out signs and Nick Russo and growing up and pretending you’ve moved on.
I take a deep breath, determined to change the subject. “I found Jane.” I glance at my sister to gauge her reaction. She stares back at me with wide eyes, surprise washing her face clean of contempt.
“How’d you find her? Where is she?”
“She’s in Springvale, Missouri. She’s living in a homeless shelter.”
CHAPTER 2
Skye
Summer goes pale. “Oh, God. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Do we need to send her money so she can get here?”
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t talk to her.”
My sister looks at me as if I have two heads. “Why not? She needs to know about Ginny.”
“I thought that if she knew we’d found her she might bolt. I wanted to talk to you so we could figure out a plan.”
By the time we get to the hospital, we’ve reached no conclusions. We can’t go get her ourselves on account of something possibly happening to Mama while we’re gone. We want to be here. We can’t send Raul or Cameron after her (not that Cameron has time to go traipsing after my wayward little sister), because there’s no way she’d come back with them. In fact, she’d probably run.
A letter or a telegram?
Perhaps. But we’ll talk about that later.
We walk to the elevator, which lifts us up to the third-floor ICU. I wave hello to the head nurse, a heavyset, fiftyish woman with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
As we approach, the door to Mama’s room opens and Dr. Travis leads his gaggle of med students out. He greets us, instructs his charges on what to do while he talks to us, then pauses, looking askance at Summer.
Summer flips her long, dark hair off her shoulder in that sultry way of hers. She’s always had the ability to render men stupid—including Nick, though it didn’t take much when it came to him.
I don’t know whether it’s some sort of pheromone she emits or if it’s a gene that she got a double helping of and I got none.
“Dr. Travis, this is my sister, Summer Russo. She’s just flown into town.”
As she slips her French-manicured fingers into his outstretched hand, I notice a certain flash in the good doctor’s eyes—like a power surge that makes the electricity burn brighter for a brief moment before it falls back into normal range.
Mama’s nice-looking, young, married doctor is not impervious to my sister’s wiles and that irritates the soup out of me.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
Her silver bangles clatter as she pulls her hand from his and crosses her arms under her ample chest. Boobs too big for her skinny little body. She was flat as a board the last time I saw her. Where did she get those?
“Manhattan.”
He smiles and nods.
The good doctor hasn’t as much as spared me a second glance. Not that it matters. I mean, I am happily married. And he’s married—happily or otherwise. It’s just that before Summer arrived, I didn’t notice that he hadn’t looked at me. You know, in that appreciative way a man looks at a woman he finds…attractive.
I stand up straighter, shoulders back and suck in my stomach.
As they make small talk, his gaze darts to the bounty thrusting out of her red silk blouse. I’ll bet her cleavage is compliments of one of those water bras I’ve heard so much about. If she had implants installed, wouldn’t it throw off her mannequinlike proportions? And wouldn’t it interfere with her job? And wouldn’t it be too bad if she had an accidental collision with a hypodermic needle and sprang a leak?
I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling at the thought. Oh, shame on me.
Positive thoughts. Only positive thoughts.
But seriously, I really wish the doctor on whom Mama’s survival depends would remove his eyes from my sister’s boobs and focus on his patient.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
Much to my relief, he slips back into professional-neurologist mode. “There’s been no change.”
My heart sinks. I was thinking— Oh, it’s silly. I don’t know what I was thinking—that, maybe while I was at the airport getting Summer, some sort of miracle would happen and she’d be awake when we got back? I give myself a mental shake. Being morose won’t do Mama any good. We all need to remain positive. “I’m just sure it won’t be long before she’s awake and talking our ears off.”
He nods, but the expression on his handsome face seems like he’s humoring a silly child. Irritation flares inside me.
“It’s been nearly forty-eight hours,” I say. “Can’t you give us a prognosis?”
“Comas are notoriously unpredictable. A person can be out for hours or years. There’s really no way to know when or if a person will come out of one.”
Summer