Two Sisters: A Novel (7 page)

Madalyn squealed. “I
do
know. And it
is
important, silly. I knew something was up. Why, after last weekend, I can barely walk!” She giggled girlishly as she whispered, “I’ll wear that backless dress you like.”

Owen pressed his fingers to his temple. “Please wear something warmer, Madalyn. It’s winter.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?
Owen wanted to retract the entire phone conversation. He’d badly miscalculated. Apparently, breaking up with a woman in the town’s best restaurant
wasn’t
the gentlemanly thing to do. He should have scheduled a meeting instead of a date. In stark daylight. One quick jab to the heart, not a three-course prix fixe with charcuterie! She would expect wine, too, maybe even champagne, she was so deluded.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, a knot of anxiety already forming in his gut. Madalyn replied with a sigh. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”

Dear God.

When the dreadful night arrived, Owen’s stomach muscles were so tight he could barely swallow his own spit. Mother Nature mocked him by releasing the season’s first snow. On the drive up to the Summit section of Providence, Madalyn strained in her seat belt to drape her hand over his on the steering wheel. Dreamily she said, “We’ll remember this magical night forever.” He couldn’t help but notice she’d had a fresh manicure. The gold pinky ring she normally wore on her left hand was gone. A blank canvas awaiting the ultimate decoration. He considered pulling over then and there and blurting out, “It’s over.” Wasn’t that the
kind
thing to do? Why ruin the woman’s dinner? But there was a bit of traffic. If he pulled over on the main drag he’d get a ticket for sure.

While Owen searched for the ideal place to stop, kill the engine, then douse Madalyn’s dreams of their future together, Le Chez came into view. People were laughing inside, bathed in the flattering light of disposable income. Across the street from the restaurant were several open parking spots. He pulled his car into the nearest one, stepped out, and galloped around the back of the car to help Madalyn out through the passenger-side door.

“My, my,” she said all singsongy, holding her hand up the way a princess would. “Such a gentleman.”

Owen considered taking her hand and
not
lifting her up. In a dignified tone he’d calmly announce that he had no engagement ring for her professionally manicured finger and never would. But not to worry. They could still have dinner as
friends.
He would pay the entire bill, wine included. But Madalyn’s face looked so damned expectant! Telling her right then felt unduly mean. The least he could do was soften the blow with alcohol. Besides, she would tell everyone in Pawtucket that he dumped her in a snowy parking lot. Word might get back to Lidia and alter their steamy encounters behind Cogswell Tower.

“Milady,” he said, attempting to be a sport. Madalyn, of course, took it all wrong and beamed as Owen guided her out of the car and placed his hand on her elbow to escort her across the slippery street to the front door of Le Chez. On the way he noticed they were on
Hope
Street. Was there no end to his punishment for falling in love? And he had. Fallen in love with
Lidia
, that is. Though, hand to God, he’d been a perfect gentleman.

Number one, though Lidia seemed to prefer “their spot” behind Cogswell Tower to his warm apartment with a double bed and shower, he said nothing about feeling chilly. Who was he to pass judgment if fresh air made her frisky? Number two, he said not a word when Lidia burrowed under his heavy coat and rested her hand in his lap. Sure, he
thought
it, but he never uttered, “What are you doing?” That would have been rude. He let her massage him if that’s what she wanted to do. God knows, he wasn’t going to force himself on her no matter how much she excited him. Why, he’d given her
ample
opportunity to refuse him. Never once did she say, “Stop,” when he so clearly responded to her touch. Quite the contrary. Lidia had pulled him toward her, kissed him urgently, and warmed his cold hands by slipping them underneath her cashmere sweater. It was
his
suggestion that they slow down. Didn’t he offer to run down the hill to buy protection?

“I’m ready,” she’d moaned, somehow removing her own bra when his hands were a trembling mass of icy thumbs.

What did God expect? He wasn’t a
saint
.

Inside Le Chez, Madalyn removed her coat to reveal the backless black dress Owen had once found so sexy. He bit his lip, looked away. Following the maître d’ to their table, Madalyn sashayed through the dining room the way Lidia had seductively swiveled her hips along the walkway to her front door on Halloween night. But few patrons looked up from their menus. Owen looked down at his feet. He felt embarrassed for his date, as if she only owned one cocktail dress and wore it no matter what the weatherman said. At the table, he stretched his lips across his teeth in the approximation of a smile.

“Shall we order champagne?” Madalyn chirped before they even had a chance to properly settle into their seats. Owen glanced up at the maître d’ and asked, “Do you sell champagne by the glass?”

Scoffing, Madalyn said, “He’s joking. We’ll have a bottle of your best. And please tell our waiter we’d like a few minutes alone. I’m not ready to order just yet.”

It was exactly that sort of pushiness that shoved that Owen into the arms of another woman. At least that’s what he told himself.

The moment the maître d’ retreated, Madalyn reached her bare left hand across the table and leaned so far over that Owen noted her bralessness. The powdery aroma of her perfume slapped him in the face. Suddenly she looked grotesque with that heavy eyeliner and magenta goo on her lips. It was all he could do to keep from excusing himself and running back to the car.

“I’m all ears,” she said in a kittenish whisper.

“Oh. Well. Yes, then.” Owen cleared his throat. “I have news.”

“News? As in an
announcement
. As in a certain section of the Sunday paper?” In Madalyn’s Cheshire cat grin, Owen saw a lipstick smear on her two front teeth.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said. Then he held his breath.

“Someone?”

“Actually, I’ve fallen in love.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that, silly.”

“With someone
else
.”

He pressed his lips together and watched the news sink in. Slowly it covered Madalyn like a thundercloud, sucking the air out of her body. She seemed to contract right there in front of him, looking like one of those shrink-wrapped turkey legs they sold at PriceRite.

“What are you saying?” she asked, blinking.

“It’s over. I’m sorry.”

“But—” She struggled to find the right words. “What’s all this?” Her bare arms spread open to include the restaurant.

“The last supper?”

As if materializing from the darkness that had descended upon their table, a waiter appeared and presented a chilled champagne bottle draped in a white linen napkin. “Duval-Leroy, vintage nineteen seventy, brut.”

Owen nodded glumly. Madalyn pushed back her chair and ran to the ladies’ room just as the cork went
pop
.

Chapter 8

“I
CAN SKIP
the gym today.”

That’s the first thing Pia said when she arrived at her sister’s door, coughing and breathless from the four-story climb. Muriel quashed the urge to cluck her tongue. By now, she’d heard every version of that. After years in a walk-up, no one simply said hello.

“You must have great thighs.”

“I guess you’re used to this by now.”

“My day’s calories are officially burned!”

“If I lived here, I’d never go out unless I absolutely
had
to.”

None was true, except the last one.

“Club soda?” Muriel asked her sister. “With lime?”

“Lovely.” Kiss-kissing Muriel’s cheeks, Pia coughed again on her way into the apartment, setting her fussy buckled handbag on the café chair in Muriel’s microscopic kitchen. She looked pale even after four flights of pumping ventricles, but Pia had always been fair skinned and slender. The river of light between the length of her boyish legs had always been a marvel to Muriel. How could it possibly feel to have thighs that didn’t collide in a fleshy pucker?

“Spiced almonds? A pear?”

Without answering, Pia smoothed the tan linen slacks she wore and ran her hands down her perfectly styled blond hair—shoulder length, razor side part, slight flip at the collarbone. She looked around, frowned, and exhaled disapproval. As she always did. Then she untied the flowery silk scarf she had expertly looped around her milky neck, lifted it off her shoulders, and said, “Isn’t this pretty? I bought it in a boutique in Paris that sells
only
scarves. Can you imagine? It’s like standing in a Matisse.”

Muriel turned away to slice a lime. Shopping in a Parisian boutique that sold only scarves was not something she would
ever
do. The very thought of it made her squirm—the saleswoman’s noticeably lifted brow when she walked through the door dressed in black outlet, her poseur smile.

“I also have popcorn if you’re feeling adventurous,” Muriel said over her shoulder. “Cheese or CaramelCr—” Suddenly, Muriel felt the warmth of her sister’s body press against her back. Pia rested her chin on Muriel’s clavicle and seemed to breathe in the scent of her hair. Stiffening, Muriel asked, “What’s going on?”

“Here.”

Still warm from her body, Pia draped the silk scarf around the back of her younger sister’s neck. “I want you to have this,” she said, turning Muriel around to face her. Poofing and twisting, she arranged the scarf exactly the way she liked it. Muriel didn’t move. Sticky with lime juice, her hands dangled in midair. She held her breath until her chest burned. Muriel disliked people this near, close enough to smell her, feel the heat in her cheeks. Especially Pia, whose grooming seemed to go on forever.

“Voilà.” Pia finally stepped back and looked pleased. Muriel exhaled hard, wiped her hands on her jeans, and walked over to the mirror she’d hung in her kitchen to make it appear twice as big. “Oh my,” she said.

The billow of silk felt too tight on her neck. It created jowls. Her chin seemed to sit directly on her chest, the scarf spilling over her breasts like a melted Creamsicle. Swallowing was nearly impossible with the restriction on her Adam’s apple. She hated it, couldn’t wait for Pia to settle into her makeshift living room so she could slip into the bathroom and rip it off her neck.

“Bee-hee-yoo-tee-ful!” she said, sounding ridiculous. “Thank you.”

“Now that you’re properly accessorized—on your top half at least—I’m taking you to lunch.”

Muriel blurted out, “Why?” Then she softened it with, “I have food other than popcorn. That was just one suggestion.”

In her feline way, Pia smiled patiently and changed the subject. “Emma has always loved your little apartment,” she said, wandering over to the window that Muriel had opened a crack. “So very recycled.” With that, she perched elegantly on the secondhand love seat beside Muriel’s bed and stared out the window with the same half smile on her lips. “Logan would kill for this light.”

Fizzing glasses of club soda in her hands and a silk noose around her neck, Muriel followed her sister into the living area and stood before her.

“Baguette? Asparagus spear?”

N
O QUESTION
, Owen had maintained his composure at Le Chez. When Madalyn returned to their table all puffy eyed and purple faced, he calmly asked her to sit down so he could tell her the truth. She deserved as much.

“I never planned this,” he said, starting from the first moment he met Lidia in the movie line. “As you may recall, I wanted to see
Death Wish II
.”

“Man-stealing bitch!” Madalyn screeched. A restaurant full of heads swiveled their way. But Owen kept his cool. He endured the glares and let Madalyn rant. He knew how high strung she could be. Not once did he mention the fact that Lidia gave him a full erection merely by sucking his earlobe; that would be cruel. Quite deliberately, he chose not to let slip that he’d been unable to get Lidia out of his mind since the night they met. Madalyn would surely remind him of how easily he forgot her birthday and their six-month anniversary. Why pour salt in the wound? Owen wasn’t that kind of guy. In full control of his dignity, he filled Madalyn’s glass with bubbly and ordered the pâté appetizer for two. He did
not
point out the obvious: had nosy Madalyn kept her mouth shut that evening in the movie line, they might have continued to make lukewarm love every Saturday night. Owen said nothing of the sort. He was not the venomous type.

After drinking champagne and eating pâté in choked silence, Owen offered to continue the meal, but Madalyn wanted to go home. On the way out of the restaurant, he held his head high in spite of the embarrassing bareness of her dress. He tried not to notice the imprint of the chair back. When she sat shivering in the passenger seat of his car, waiting for the heater to rev up, he resisted the urge to remind her that he’d specifically suggested she wear something warmer.