The Secret Sister

She hadn’t kept up. Three years ago, she’d been too busy, if not too happy, to stay in touch. And once she’d lost her family and her ability to write and illustrate, she’d been too miserable.

They stopped outside the decorative iron gates surrounding Coldiron House. Then Keith pushed the button that made those gates grind open, and she saw the mansion where she’d grown up—with its columns and double-story verandas, hanging flowerpots and carpet-like lawn—for the first time in ten years.

Nostalgia warred with anxiety.

So much for her great escape, she thought. She’d just made a perfect circle.

4 (#ulink_f89e2d74-455c-5848-9e9c-ff48145bfb78)

HER MOTHER, DRESSED in a highly tailored burnt-orange skirt and jacket with matching pumps, was expertly made up and coifed. She was even wearing lip-liner with her lipstick. But just because she appeared to be on her way to Love’s in Bloom, or somewhere even fancier, didn’t mean she’d be leaving the house. Josephine always looked as if she belonged in the pages of a fashion magazine, and she never seemed to age. She did everything she could to prevent it.

As a child, Maisey had been proud of her. When Josephine walked into a room, people noticed, especially men. And the way she carried herself, so regally, helped her win over anyone her beauty might not have captivated.

It wasn’t until Maisey grew older that she began to perceive her mother’s vanity—and the many hours she spent getting Botox and other treatments—as more desperate and self-indulgent than admirable. But she didn’t want to see through that carefully prepared veneer. She wished she could still be under Josephine’s spell, like almost everyone else.

“Hello, Mother.” She nodded respectfully as she stood at the threshold of the drawing room where her mother waited to receive them. She wished she was one of those daughters who could fall into her mother’s arms and sob out her pain, but she knew Josephine wouldn’t truly welcome her.

“You’ve arrived.” Although her mother put down the small dog she’d been holding in her lap and got to her feet, her smile was cool. “Come in. You must be hungry and tired. I’ve ordered tea.”

Maisey was grateful when her brother preceded her. She needed another moment to compose herself, another moment to prepare that aching, empty spot inside her for a fresh jolt of life as a Lazarow.

Here we go, she thought.

Focusing on the dog, which looked like a Yorkie, she gathered her courage, marched toward her mother and gave her the requisite air kiss on each cheek. She knew she’d be criticized if she didn’t perform this family ritual, although it meant nothing.

When she breathed in the scent of her mother’s perfume, the memories of her childhood began to assault her. “You look lovely, as always.”

“If only I could lose a few pounds,” her mother responded with an air of lamentation.

Josephine murmured something similar whenever she received a compliment. Not because she truly believed she needed to lose weight; she considered it gauche not to avoid the appearance of conceit.

Annoyed by the pretense, Maisey nearly grimaced. She felt as if she was playing the magic mirror in Snow White.

Magic mirror, in my hand, who’s the fairest in the land?

My queen, you are the fairest in the land.

“What a beautiful outfit,” her mother said.

Maisey was tempted to indulge in the same game her mother did by saying, “What, this old thing?” But knowing Josephine would easily figure out that she was the brunt of that joke, Maisey overrode the impulse. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Keith’s been so excited about your arrival. How was the trip?”

They hadn’t seen each other for ten years, and yet it was Keith who was excited? Keith had visited her several times in New York. He’d last seen her at Ellie’s funeral. Fortunately, he’d also come earlier, when she was born, or no one in Maisey’s family would ever have met her baby.

But Josephine could never admit to needing or missing anyone who’d dared to question or criticize her. Or maybe she really hadn’t missed Maisey... “Not too bad. Still, I’m glad it’s over.”

Josephine scooped up her little dog. “This is Athena.”

“She’s darling.”

Cuddling her dog, Josephine stepped to one side and peered into the entry. “Where’s your luggage?”

Maisey hadn’t wanted to break the news that she’d be staying elsewhere so soon. But now that the question had been posed, she had no choice except to answer it. “I, um, stowed it over at Smuggler’s Cove.”

Her mother’s eyes flashed with an emotion she quickly suppressed, and she put her dog down again. “Why would you leave it there?”

“I’ve decided to move into one of the bungalows. I like the idea of being so close to the beach.” She mustered a smile as if she couldn’t feel the torrent of her mother’s displeasure. “It reminds me of Dad.”

The mention of her father didn’t distract Josephine for a second. “But the bungalows aren’t ready for occupancy.”

“Unit 6 isn’t so bad,” Keith said, obviously trying to smooth the way.

“And I can manage until your contractor gets around to the rehab,” Maisey added.

There was a protracted silence. As a child, Maisey would’ve caved in and said something to relieve the tension, something like, “But I’ll stay here, if you’d rather.” She’d always been a pleaser. Even as an adult, it required determination not to succumb to her mother’s powerful will.

“You’d rather move into a damaged shack than return to Coldiron House?” her mother asked.

“I’d hardly call the bungalows shacks, Mother,” she said, choosing to skirt the real issue. “They’re structurally sound and will be quite cozy once they’re restored. In all honesty, I’d like to assist with the restoration if I can. I enjoy do-it-yourself projects.”

“Since when?” Josephine demanded.

“Since I married Jack,” she replied coolly.

There was a slight pause. “Yes, Jack brought out a lot of things in you I didn’t know existed.”

Maisey almost reacted to her sarcasm by saying, “You mean like a backbone?” But her mother was still talking. And, determined to maintain the peace, Maisey stifled that rejoinder.

“You’re no contractor,” Josephine was saying. “And I’m already paying Raphael Romero. Why would you get involved?”

“Because I think I’d find it...therapeutic.”

Her mother waved her words away. “Therapeutic how?”

Was she serious? “It’ll give me something to concentrate on to get my mind off...the recent changes in my life.”

“Surely you have better things to do,” her mother said. “Why impinge on your writing time?”

Now wasn’t the ideal moment—if there could ever be an ideal moment—to tell Josephine that she hadn’t been able to produce more than a few words, which she’d edited right off the page. She hadn’t been able to draw, either. Not for months. “I’m sure I can fit everything in.” These days she had nothing but time.

“At least you get paid for writing. You’ll get nothing in exchange for working on the bungalows.”

“I’m not expecting anything.”

Josephine’s chin went up as she sank back into her seat. “Except free rent.”

She just had to make Maisey acknowledge the financial help she’d be receiving. Her mother had inherited a fortune from her father, who’d inherited it from his father. Yet she acted as though she’d earned every penny. “I’m willing to pay rent,” Maisey said. “How much would you like to charge me?”