I smile tightly at her and take two plates to the kitchen table. “Dinner’s ready,” I call, moving back into the kitchen for three glasses and the pitcher of sweet tea I brewed yesterday. Daddy takes his seat at the head of the table, laying the clicker down next to the fork and napkin Paige laid out.
“I thought we talked about you bringing the remote control to the dinner table?” Paige says, scooting in her chair.
“Huh?” He looks down, spots the remote and shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t even realize he does it. Carrying the damn thing around like a phantom limb.
“You going senile on me, old man?” Paige places the back of her hand against his forehead. I don’t think you can detect dementia through a low-grade fever, but it’s not stopping her from trying.
“I’m fine. Let me be.” Swirling the noodles around his fork like spaghetti, he takes a big bite and returns his attention to the television.
Paige raises her eyebrows at me before digging in herself. At the first bite, she cranes her neck backwards, and moans. “So good.”
“Better than a bowl of seaweed?” I suck a noodle between my lips.
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Her eyes close against the pleasure of cooked beef.
For several minutes the only sounds are the scraping of forks against plates and the deep inhale of noses as we devour the meal. I miss this. Being with my family each night around the dinner table. After Mama died when I was twelve and Paige was eight, I became the homemaker. A miniature housewife who took care of the cooking and cleaning, the household scheduling, and the kissing of boo-boos.
Our dad did his best, but without Mama there to guide him, he often fell apart. It became my job to keep us all together. Moving into the little apartment above my bakery was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I was sure I’d come back home and find him in a bad state, sad and drunk with her picture clutched to his chest. But so far he seems just fine.
Of course, I come over most every night to make dinner, so he doesn’t get a lot of opportunity to get into trouble.
Our dinner plates cleaned, I look at my baby sister. She looks like she’s slipped into a coma. “You okay?”
“Cooked food is good,” she says dreamily, patting her stomach. “What’s for dessert?”
“I brought banana cream pie but I’m a little worried it’ll send you into cardiac arrest after two weeks of diet detox.” I clear the plates from the table and drop them into the sink. I’ll do the washing up later.
Paige rolls her head toward Daddy. “It feels good in here. You get a new a/c?”
Our father perks up, giving us his undivided attention. “Got a 12,000 BTU from the Home Depot. Luke installed it for me. Charlie? You know Luke got a promotion? He’s a Derrickhand now. Making
big
bucks.”
Luke Walker, the only topic my Dad loves more than Texas Longhorn football. “You mentioned it a time or two.”
“Yep, he’s goin’ places, that boy. Bought a new truck and everything. Super Duty. Four-door.” My dad nods pointedly. Owning a new pickup truck in Harlow County, Texas, is like earning the Nobel Prize. Only better.
“Daddy,” Paige groans, “when are you ever going to let that go? Charlie’s not interested in Luke Walker.”
“And why not? He’s a handsome guy. Does well for himself. The only reason your sister won’t go out with him is because he broke a date with her more than ten years ago.” He points the clicker at me.
“It was
senior prom
. I spent three hundred thirty-nine dollars on a dress and the closest I got to my prom night was letting Lawrence Cormier feel me up behind his grandma’s house.”
Daddy throws his hands over his ears as Paige’s face lights up. “Oh, Charlie, you bad girl!” she squeals.
My dad begs, “Don’t tell me that stuff.”
“Oh Daddy, please. That’s nothin’ compared to what Luke was doing with Colleen Ackerman. I got to hear all about it the following Monday at school.”
Paige giggles, reminiscing. “God, she was such a slut. What’s she doing now, anyways?”
A wild grin overtakes me. “She works in the office at Saint Michael Archangel.”
“Well…she always was good on her knees!”
A new round of laughter overtakes us.
“I’m sorry, Father,” our father prays, face raised to the ceiling. “I did my best with ‘em.”
“Oh Daddy.” Paige leans over to take his hand. “It’s not your fault. With the aunts always around to give us their version of good advice, we were bound turn out a little wicked.”
Dad rises from the table, suppressing a smile. “I’ll leave you two heathens to clean up. Try not to break any more commandments while you’re doing the dishes.” The Lazy-Boy creeks loudly as he falls against the cushions.
Paige helps me clear away the glasses then runs a damp dishtowel over the counter.
“You sleeping here tonight?”
“No.” She leans against the Formica and discards the towel in the sink. “I’ve gotta get back. I’ve got my first dress fitting tomorrow.”
The idea of my baby sister wrapped in white silk, walking down the aisle, makes me misty eyed. “I wish I could be there but--”
“I know. You’ve got the bakery.” Her tone borders on sarcastic.
“Paige, I would be there if I could. You believe me, right?”
Her eyes on the wall behind me, she nods, her lips pursed together. “Yeah, I know.”
An awkward silence wedges between us. I’ve been playing the role of substitute mother for so long, I think Paige has gotten used to having me at her beck-and-call. Her light-blue eyes turn doe-like on me. This is a practiced look. It says,
“I’m helpless without you, Charlie.”
And it works. Every.Damn.Time.
“Maybe I could close a little early tomorrow…”
Her reaction is instantaneous and predictable. She jumps, clapping her hands together in delight. “Really, Charlie? You’ll come?”
Two button-size dimples sink deep into her cheeks. I’ve known those dimples since she was five minutes old and I’m still powerless against them. “Yes, I’ll come.” I’m unable to deny her a smile as she bounces happily around the kitchen.
“Yay! I’m happy now.” She beams. “Alright, first things first. I need to find that birth certificate.”
“I think it’s in the metal box. Follow me.”
The metal box is exactly what it sounds like. When Paige and I were little girls, we used to imagine our parents kept treasure maps inside. We spent hours looking for the little key that opened it. When Mama died, I found it in her things, hidden inside her grandma’s ivory pillbox. I placed the key in the varnished lock and held my breath. But there was no treasure hidden amongst the letters, forms and report cards filed inside. Even now, as I repeat the process, I can’t help but wish a map would magically appear.
An envelope marked
Paige’s B.C.
lays near the top of the pile, and I hand it to her.
Paige looks at me sheepishly. “I was hoping…”
“I know. Me too.” I return the box to its hiding place in the closet then join Paige on the bed.
“About that thing I was talking about earlier.” She fidgets. “I want you to know how much I love you.”
Here it comes. The big question. I’ve got stay strong this time. I can’t be Paige’s Maid of Honor. But Lord, help me if she turns those big blue eyes on me again. I try preemptively to cut her off. “Paige, I can--”
“I asked Cadence to be my Maid of Honor,” she blurts out.
I shake my head, stupefied, confident I’ve misunderstood her. “What?”
She bites her bottom lip and squints. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I know it should be you. Please don’t be mad at me.”
She slumps over, twisting the large diamond ring on her left hand. My heartbeat stopped at her announcement and now jumpstarts back to life. She’s making Cadence Maid of Honor? Cadence? The demon debutante from Preston Hollow? “You’re shittin’ me.”
Paige reaches for my hands but I stand and back away. “Please, Charlie, let me explain.”
“Yes, Paige, please explain. Explain how you can pick that bottle-blonde bitch as your Maid of Honor and not your only sister!” I pace, rage coiling inside me like a snake. Alright, yes, I didn’t want to be Maid of Honor, but that doesn’t excuse her from picking someone else for the job without even asking me. Especially someone who loathes and insults me at every possible turn.
Paige clambers to her feet and plants heavy fists on each hip. “Let’s drop the act, big sister. I know you didn’t want to be my Maid of Honor. Aunt Brook told me.”
Her words stop me cold. I told Brook in the strictest confidence. I was having misgivings about taking on the position. “She didn’t dare.”
“Oh yes, she did. She came up to Dallas last week to talk about the wedding favors. And three margaritas in, she blabbed all about how nervous you were about being Maid of Honor.”
Damn you, Brook. Trading a family confidence for tequila and Cointreau? “Well that doesn’t change the fact that you should’ve asked me first.” I mirror Paige’s stance, jutting my chin for good measure. I may be self righteous, but I’m not losing my sister to a porcelain-skinned Kardashian imitation without a fight.
Paige throws her hands in the air and sinks onto the mattress. “You’re right,” she says, defeated. “I did want to ask you, Charlie, but I just thought it’d be too much for you. I mean, this wedding…it’s going to be a big event, and Cadence knows all the right people. I just didn’t think you could…” Her voice trails off, leaving what remains unsaid hanging in the air.
She doesn’t think I can do it. I may be her older sister but first and foremost I’m a country girl. I wear cowboy boots instead of Jimmy Choos and getting dressed up means wearing my dark-wash blue jeans. She doesn’t think I can hold my own against her new inner circle. “Fine, so I’m not an expert on seating arrangements or signature cocktails. But did you have to ask Cadence? I don’t understand what you see in that girl.”
“She’s not--”
“Manipulative, spoiled, narcissistic?”
“-so bad. Charlie, stop.” The dimples are nowhere in sight. Paige’s eyes are serious and imploring. “I know you and she don’t get along but she’s been a really good friend to me. She took me under her wing when everyone else was calling me a hick behind my back and whether you understand it or not, our friendship is very important to me.”
“Like a brain tumor is important?”
A small grin fights its way onto the corners of Paige’s mouth. “You two really do bring out the worst in each other.”
“What can I say? Everyone’s got their gift.” I shuffle reluctantly to the bed and drop, claiming a piece of bedspread next to her. She leans into me slowly, resting her head on my shoulder.
“Please don’t be upset with me.” Her voice quivers slightly, as though she’s holding back tears.
Will there ever come a day when I’m not the one being put-upon? When I’m not sacrificing my own happiness for that of my family? The hole Mama left behind is big and try as I might, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fill it. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and press my lips against the bright-blonde hair that so closely resembles my own. “Whatever you want, baby girl.”
Chapter Two
56 Days Until Barry Belches During the Vows
The soft, slightly sticky feel of dough between my fingers lulls me into a happy hypnosis. Some girls do yoga; I make cinnamon rolls. The clock over the interior doorway to my right reads five forty-three a.m. I yawn soundly. I hardly got a wink of sleep last night. My argument with Paige replayed over and over in my mind. Bested as my own sister’s Maid of Honor by a girl who can’t name a single George Strait song. That’s sacrilegious in Texas.
But my fight with Paige wasn’t the only thing disturbing my sleep. Images of tan skin and strong hands had me bolting upright three times last night. I’d nearly managed to put him out of my mind after almost two years of no contact. Then my baby sister announced her happily ever after, and ruined all hope of me sustaining ignorant bliss for the rest of my life. I know he’ll be there. I nearly asked Paige about him last night but the desire to live just a little while longer with my head buried in the sand proved too tempting.
I reach for a ball of cooled dough. The best thing in the world for a busy mind is a pair of busy hands. I roll out the dough on the flowered granite countertop. It thins easily under my practiced hands. The softened butter gets lathered on next before I add my secret blend of sugar, cinnamon, and a little something else; something that drives the customers crazy. I’ve been offered as much as five hundred dollars for my secret recipe, but I’ll never sell it. Mama handed down the mysterious blend of sugar and spices, and I promised her I’d never tell a soul.
A loud and unexpected knock on the glass front door gives me a fright. I squint through the dark blue of pre dawn. At first I don’t think anyone’s there, then a figure, cloaked in black, steps into the shop’s exterior light. I place a hand over my heart and breathe a sigh of relief. I run over and throw the lock. The pale, pointed face of my upstairs neighbor emerges from beneath a black hood. “What’re you doin’, sneaking around out there?” I step back to allow her in.
Amber, dressed in black from head to toe, plods loudly against the checkerboard tiles. “I lost my key.” Not waiting to be invited, she lets herself behind the counter and opens the cash register, unearthing a key beneath the change drawer.
“Amber, you can’t just open my cash register.”
“Why not?” Her tone is as bland as the expression she levels at me.
I stutter, always caught off-guard by her bluntness. “Because, because you just...you can’t. That’s why.”
“Whatever.” Instead of taking her key and leaving, Amber reaches inside the display case and removes a warm croissant from the tray I just pulled out of the oven. Before I can raise a hand in protest, she tears off one end with brilliantly white teeth and chews loudly.
I’m too tired to lecture her on good manners and besides, I’m a little afraid of her. I don’t know what she gets up to inside that apartment but there’s a little too much chanting and invoking for my liking. I resume my post behind the counter, cutting long strips from the dough, and then rolling the tender sections into perfect pinwheels, placing each in a deep baking pan. Sprinkling the top with brown sugar, I place the whole thing in the oven. Amber pops the last bit of croissant into her mouth and brushes the flaky crust off her fingers. “I’m still hungry.”