Take It To The Grave Bundle 2

When I take another step toward them, Alice comes into view. She’s clutching a pair of lethal-looking pruning shears, waving them in my sister’s direction in a way that makes me nervous. Where on earth did she find those? I make a mental note to warn Joel, our gardener, to be more careful while Mother’s staying with us. Alice is not to be trusted with sharp objects.

Lurching toward my sister, Mother throws her arms around her. “You have no idea how much nurses helped me when your daddy was sick. Sometimes I felt like they were the only ones who cared.” She wipes tears from her eyes as she beams at Maisey. “And to think you’re one of them now.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Mother shrieks with laughter, stumbling a little. She grabs my sister’s shoulder with her free hand, and Maisey holds on to her arms, steadying her. “My baby doll,” Alice says. “You always were my baby.”

Yeah, right. Until Frankie came along. Then it was like neither one of us existed.

How can Maisey stand it? I’d had enough of our mother’s drunken antics by the end of the first day of this “reunion,” but my sister continues to humor her, repeatedly trying to connect with her. Why does she bother? Maybe Mom was right all along—maybe I was adopted. Maisey and I don’t share the same connection with Alice, that’s for sure.

Perhaps my sister has forgotten the many days our mother passed out on the sofa, leaving us at Peter’s mercy. Alice watched as he forced my sister to eat those rotten eggs, that moldy cheese, and never did a thing to stop him. She obviously didn’t care that her husband was making Maisey sick.

How can my sister forgive her for that? Screw Peter—Alice is the reason we didn’t have a childhood after we lost Dad. It would have been sad without him, but we would have made it through together. We would have been fine. We were fine...until she brought Peter into our lives.

Is my sister a better person, or just more gullible? Maybe she’s able to be more forgiving because she’s not a mother herself. Since I’ve had Elliot, my rage toward Alice has grown. How could she have done that to us? How could she have allowed us to be treated that way? And how could she have let Peter take custody of us while she was in prison? She should have told the judge how abusive he was. She should have told someone.

“Sarah?” Maisey has a funny expression on her face, and no wonder, since I’ve been lurking there, not saying anything. “Were you looking for me?”

“Come join us.” Mother lets go of my sister to wave me over. Maisey steadies her once again, holding her around the waist. “I was just telling your sister again how proud I am. A Nurse Without Borders—isn’t it great?”

I swallow hard. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Meeting my sister’s eyes, I say it as sincerely as I can. Even though I feel odd about her cozying up to Caleb, that doesn’t minimize how proud I am of her. Mother’s right—Maisey’s already done more to better the world than the whole sorry lot of us combined.

“And you. You’re a great mother, Sarah.” Mom flashes her teeth at me in a drunken grin. “I’m very proud of you, too. My girls, my beautiful girls.”

She moves to include me in the embrace but I step away, wary of the pruning shears, which she has apparently forgotten. Then I notice Mom’s hands. They’re smeared with dirt, and there is blood trickling down her arms. Her pink sundress has two bright smudges of green on the skirt, as if she’s been kneeling on the grass. There are a few strands tangled in her hair, along with something that appears to be twigs.

“Mom, what on earth have you been doing?”

Jumping around like an overgrown toddler, she thrusts the shears in the air. “I’ve been taking care of your rosebushes.”

“Oh, no...” I push past them to inspect the garden, cursing Alice under my breath. Why does she have to destroy everything?

Eleanor insists on growing some of her prize tea roses here, claiming the light is better on our side. While some of the plant’s leaves are a bit mangled, none of the delicate yellow blooms have been touched—yet. How fortunate I’d decided to look for Maisey. If I hadn’t, it might have been too late to save the garden.

Pressing my hand against my chest, I will my racing heart to calm down, silently counting to ten. But Alice is determined to continue her reign of terror. When she sees I’m not going to stop her, she heads directly toward the rose Eleanor plans to enter in an upcoming garden competition.

That’s it. She’s been coddled long enough.

Intercepting her, I jerk the shears away from Alice with a little more force than necessary. As Mother loses her balance, Maisey rushes to grasp her by the elbow. She scowls at me.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting, Sarah? What’s the big deal? She’s trying to help, and besides, they’re just flowers.”

Yeah, like Ferraris are just cars. As my sister continues to look at me like I’m crazy, I feel my face getting hot. While I have every right to prevent our drunken mother from destroying my garden, the Sarah she remembers never would have put flowers before family.

What she must think of me.

We spend more on these roses in a week than her entire village in Thailand will see in a lifetime. Recalling how chummy she’d been with Caleb on the beach, I wonder if they’d been talking about Warwick and me, making fun of how elitist we are. Well, screw Maisey and her high-minded ideals, and screw Caleb, too. Not everyone is meant to be a nurse or a soldier. Maybe Eleanor’s prize-winning roses aren’t important to them, but they’re important to her, and they’re important to Warwick.

“I’m sorry.” My mother’s lower lip trembles. It’s all I can do to keep from wincing when I see how bloodshot her eyes are. Around her nose, burst capillaries mar her otherwise lovely complexion. “I didn’t mean to hurt your roses. I was only trying to help.”

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be patient. “I appreciate that, Mom, but Joel takes care of the gardening for us. That’s his job. You’re our guest. We want you to relax and have a good time.”

Eleanor isn’t even comfortable with Joel touching her roses, so we leave them to her. With the preparations for the party and the christening consuming her time these days, she let her precious plants get the tiniest bit overgrown. How my mother noticed this is beyond me.

“I was tryin’ to help,” Mom says again, as if I’ve argued with her. Maisey wedges herself between us, as if to protect Alice. The sight of my baby sister looking so fierce makes me want to laugh.

What does she think I’m going to do, attack our mother? Not that I haven’t been tempted. I glance at the gold wristwatch Warwick gave me for my birthday. How am I going to survive this day?

“Look at the time. I guess I should go check on Elliot. He’ll be waking up from his nap any minute, if he hasn’t already. See you later.”

The forced cheer in my voice makes me want to cringe. Where and when did I acquire this singsong way of speaking? Genny’s and Tessie’s influence must have rubbed off.

Maisey is still glaring at me, and Alice stares at her shoes, a chastened little girl, unable to meet my eyes.

“Okay,” my sister says, squinting at me like I’m someone she doesn’t recognize.

That uncomfortable sensation of being a Stepford wife returns. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.

But what does Maisey know about the pressures I’m under? She probably sees all this luxury and assumes my life is easy. She doesn’t get how difficult it is to keep Warwick and his mother happy.

As I leave, my sister puts her arm around our mother, but Alice pushes her away, staggering deeper into the garden. Maisey’s face falls, and she gives her fingers a vicious twist. Once again, I wonder what’s wrong with her.

Why does she keep trying? Can’t she see Alice is a lost cause?

I leave them be. It’s nothing I’ll ever be able to resolve.

The house is quiet and blissfully cool when I return. After checking to ensure no one is around, I let myself into Warwick’s office. It’s an exaggerated expression of his masculinity, all dark wood and oversize chairs. His desk is bigger than most people’s beds, even though I’ve yet to see him do any work here. For all his talk, work has never been Warwick’s thing.

My husband’s bar is concealed in an oversize globe. Despite the hour, I fix myself a vodka tonic. How Mother would love access to this room. In preparation for Alice’s visit, any alcohol in the house had been put under lock and key. Bridget had thought I was overreacting until she met my mother. We give Alice just enough to keep her from going into withdrawal, but there’s more to it than that. My mother would cause a scene if we didn’t let her have a cocktail with everyone else, or wine with dinner. I imagine Eleanor’s reaction if she ever witnessed one of Alice’s full-blown temper tantrums. I’d rather die.

The ice-cold bite of the tonic water is refreshing. It’s not long before the smooth warmth of the vodka makes me feel better, stronger. I pour myself another before locking Warwick’s office and checking on Elliot. He’s fast asleep, his fingers curled into a teeny fist.

Lucky baby. I wish I could sleep through this day. Wake me when it’s over.

With my son napping, I’m at loose ends. It’s tempting to accidentally wake him, but that would be cruel. Might as well make good use of the time by putting some effort into finding the perfect outfit. I want Warwick to be proud of me again, to appreciate what a gorgeous wife he has.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

Caleb invades my mind. I remember the way he looked at me yesterday, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I wish you would come with me, Sarah...”

No, not Caleb. Don’t think about Caleb. Caleb is dangerous. Think about Warwick. You’re married to Warwick. Caleb rejected you, remember? He had his chance and he blew it. It’s too late to go back now.

It’s impossible to please both, in any case. Warwick prefers it when I’m fully made up, with heavy shadow and red lips. Caleb was always into natural beauty, fresh-faced Nivea girls (like Maisey?) with clean, shining hair pulled into ponytails. He’s the reason I didn’t wear a stitch of makeup as a teenager. After that I’d piled it on in a pathetic attempt to get back at him, even though he wasn’t around to notice or care.

Compromising, I apply another layer of mascara and some eyeliner and leave it at that. Slipping one of the 1950s-style dresses my husband loves over my head, I’m pleased to discover it’s no longer a battle. The fabric slides over my hips without a whimper of protest. It hasn’t fit this well since I learned I was pregnant with Elliot.

Turning to the side, I smooth the dress as I check my figure. My stomach howls, sounding mournful, but I ignore it. I may be starving most of the time, but it’s worth it. I’m finally starting to resemble myself again, no toilet paper or popcorn required.

As I drain the second vodka tonic, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The booze, the gaunt, strained expression, the haunted eyes surrounded by thick makeup. The resemblance is terrifyingly clear.

My God, I’m turning into Alice.

The thought makes me shiver.

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