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  “Maybe. But is it fair for us to crucify them for something they should have or might have done?”

  I shrug, not exactly comfortable with saying my answer out loud, which is Yes, I do think it’s fair to blame them. Amber will become angrier about it than she already is if I continue to call her out on this, but I do think it’s fair to call a spade a spade. They rejected our moms in word and deed. Three precious and pregnant young women—our mothers—were willing to give these men their hearts and souls, and yet, they were rejected . . . and then a henchman sent them packing. What kind of men allow that to happen? Amber has just confirmed that’s what went down, so it’s no longer just conjecture. No. Sorry. The kind of men who would do something like that are not welcome in my life.

  “What about Ted?” I ask, not yet willing to totally let this slide. “Seems like they’d be pretty angry at him.” Or they’re not, because he did exactly what they wanted him to do. Ha! They have Amber so bamboozled . . .

  She pauses, shrugging as she stares into her glass. “Who knows? He may have lost his job now that they know the extent of his treachery; the jury is still out on that.” She sighs. “The fact is, now that I know his job a little more, his dedication to the music, I can kind of see in a tiny way why he might have thought he was doing the right thing.”

  I feel like I’m having a heart attack . . . She understands how he could do it? What?

  “But that’s not important. The important thing is, once Darrell started making waves, they got the whole story from Ted and Lister, and Ted came clean. Call it a crisis of conscience, maybe . . . I don’t know. But as soon as they found out that these women they still remembered fondly had left under false pretenses and pregnant, they immediately hired a private investigator through their attorney to find them. To find us.”

  It all sounds too neat to me. Too convenient. There are too many holes in the story. Normally, Amber is so sharp, but she obviously has blinders on in this situation. “I’m not sure I can believe the band knew nothing about our mothers or us all this time. Why didn’t they ever try to find our moms before? How could these men not have known our mothers were pregnant? Didn’t anyone stay in touch? Didn’t they hear rumors, at least? Two men totally involved with the band—the manager and their bassist—knew, but the rest of them didn’t? That’s a pretty big secret for people to keep for all that time, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t have all the answers. Not yet, anyway. Nobody’s been talking about this stuff very much because they’ve been so busy getting Ty up to speed and preparing for their trip to Japan. And you know our mothers . . . The only thing they’re thinking about right now is being groupies again. Explaining and rehashing their pasts is probably the last thing on their minds. Heck, knowing them, they’ll never bring it up. You know how they are about letting bygones be bygones. They’ve always been about forgiveness and not judging.”

  “Yeah. I guess now we know why,” I say bitterly.

  “You don’t begrudge them this second chance, do you?” Amber asks, a hint of censure in her voice.

  I smile sadly, shaking my head at the image of our moms finding out they were going with the band to Japan. I wasn’t there to see their reunion, but I can picture it perfectly in my mind. Sally probably lost consciousness. “No, I don’t. Not really. They are so crazy. They’re going on fifty but acting like they’re twenty.”

  “I know.” Amber pauses, searching my face. “Are you mad at them?”

  “No.” I sigh, long and loud. To be mad at my mothers for being in love, for making stupid decisions when they were just kids . . . now that would be unfair. “Why would I be? They’re happy.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just not getting the impression that you’re happy about any of this.” She uses her wineglass to indicate the room, and maybe her life along with it.

  I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping I can calm my nerves and my emotions enough to be fair. “I will admit . . . I am very confused and unsettled right now.”

  My sister scoots closer to me on the couch. “What can I do to help? You know I don’t like to see you sad.”

  I shake my head. “There’s nothing you can do. I just need time to adjust. I guess maybe I’m one of those people who has a difficult time dealing with change.”

  “Rose told me you were painting again a while ago, but then I didn’t hear anything more about it, and I haven’t seen any of your new work. How’s that going?”

  “It’s not.” And I don’t want to talk about it, so I hope she takes the hint when I stare at the wall and don’t say anything else. My sisters are usually pretty good about being sensitive to my creative issues. The moment I realized our lives were going to be drastically altered by Amber’s decision to go to the city, my creative vibe vanished. But I don’t want her to feel bad about that; it’s not her fault that my emotions are so tightly strung sometimes.

  “What else is bothering you?”

  I look at her, wondering how she could be so clueless. She used to be tuned in to my emotions and unspoken thoughts. “I guess what’s bothering me is that this is all so easy for you.”

  She frowns. “What’s so easy for me?”

  “All this!” I throw my arm up, losing my tenuous hold on my temper. “This place! This life! You’re in love with this guy Ty, but you hardly know him, you two have this ultra-secure, high-rise prison apartment, and you’re living like the Prince and Princess of Wales.” I want to stop, but I can’t. “And you’re working for these men, who for twenty-five years and with unlimited funds never bothered to check up on the women they supposedly loved? And you’re, like, best friends with them now? How does that happen?!”

  Silence descends between us, and the only things I can hear are the hum of the refrigerator in the next room, the pounding of my pulse in my ears, and my heavy breathing. I cannot believe I just said all of that out loud. My chest is burning.

  “Wow. That was a mouthful.” Amber sits deeper into the couch cushions, no longer smiling at me.

  I wilt and my voice comes out as a whine. “Why did you ask me if you didn’t want to hear the answer?” Now I’m mad at both of us. I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m never one to make waves, and this is why; I hate it when I don’t get along with my sisters. I always regret speaking my mind; it causes conflict and hurt feelings . . . two things I hate being responsible for.

  “I did want to hear the answer. I just wasn’t expecting that particular answer. Don’t get mad. I’m not angry with you, I’m just processing.”

  My response is to pout, to keep from bursting into tears. “Process it with a nicer look on your face, would you, please?”

  She gives me a half smile. “You are such a brat sometimes.”

  I feel like crying, but mostly it’s just emotional exhaustion fueling that desire. I had no intention of coming here to confront my sister over things that don’t really matter in the long run. Whatever I say about these men is not going to change the trajectory of either of our lives. Amber is too stubborn to move off the track she’s taking, and I’m too smart to fall for the baloney being served around here. Regardless, it won’t change the fact that she and I love each other and will always be close sisters . . . and that relationship is far more important than any other. “I’m not a brat. I’m just telling you what I think and what I feel. I’ll shut up about it now.”

  She nods. “That’s fair. You don’t have to shut up about anything. I do think it would help you to talk to the band, though. It really helped me. They’ve tried so many times to contact you, to set up a meeting, but you never take their calls. They’d come to see you, you know, if you didn’t want to come here.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not interested and neither is Rose. We’ve told you several times, Amber. You need to let it go. We sent you here to handle everything, and you did. You told them exactly what we wanted them to hear: we’re not interested in their money, and we’re not interested in DNA tests or father-daughter rel
ationships. Nothing has changed.” I plead for forgiveness with my eyes, not wanting her to feel bad about the things I’ve said. “I know you’re working for the money they pay you, so that’s not the same as taking ten million dollars from them for nothing other than sharing genes.”

  She nods. “I get it. But you know, I like this place. I like this life. I think it really suits me. I don’t think it makes me a bad person.”

  “It does suit you.” I reach out and touch her arm. “Perfectly. I’m not saying otherwise. And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing that it suits you either. I’m actually kind of jealous that you found something that makes you so happy.” I can’t believe I just said that. Is it true?

  Unfortunately, I think it is. I think I am jealous of my sister. Not that I want her life, because this lifestyle is totally not me and I wouldn’t want it to be, but I’m envious that she’s found her thing . . . the thing that makes her jump out of bed in the morning with purpose in her heart and a smile on her face. I’m not exactly sure I have that. I do love the farm and all the animals . . . but I’m not sure I ever leap out of bed. It’s more like I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling for a while before I can manage to drop my feet to the floor. I always thought that this meant I was content. Is it possible it means that I’m not? That I’m lost? Amber’s very clear and definite declarations about her happiness with her new life have me questioning everything.

  I knew it was a mistake to come here.

  “Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to be jealous of me. You have so many wonderful things going on in your life.” She puts her hand on mine, giving me puppy-dog eyes.

  I wave her off, pulling my arm away. “I know. I don’t know why I said that. I have a beautiful, perfect life, and I am not sad about it at all.”

  She stares at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. I finish off my wine and stand up, going into the kitchen to pour another glass. If we’re going to continue this conversation, I’m definitely going to need more alcohol. What did you say, Mr. Clock on the Wall? It’s not quite noon yet? Oh, well . . . screw it.

  “What would you like to do while you’re here?” she asks. “Now that the band is gone, my schedule is pretty much clear for a few days. We can go to some museums, see the Empire State Building, Times Square, a Broadway show . . . We’ll do anything you want.”

  I fill my glass and take another sip of the wine, imagining myself fighting crowds of strangers to visit things I could easily read about in books or see on the Internet. “Just hanging out here could be fun.” I look around and nod, pretending like this place is the best place on earth to be, which it is when compared to that stinky, loud, impersonal, and pollution-filled city beneath us.

  She twists around to stare at me. “In here? Are you kidding me? You can’t come to Manhattan and just sit in my apartment the whole time.”

  I shrug. “Why not? It’s awesome.”

  She slowly shakes her head, frowning at me. “If you stay here, I’m buying you some painting stuff. We’re getting some canvases and some brushes and paints, and you’re going to create something, dammit.”

  I laugh. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. You need to earn your keep if you’re not going to be any fun.” She points at a blank wall. “I’ve got a spot for your next masterpiece right there.”

  I know she’s only joking about being so demanding and she doesn’t mean to be rude, so I won’t take offense. Besides, it could help my situation to have something to do, to take my mind off all this . . . stuff. And if it buys me more time in the apartment rather than out there in that loud city, good. “Fine. I’ll paint something.” It’ll get her off my back. My studio is the one place I can find complete and utter tranquility, and I might be able to recreate that ambiance here in one of these rooms she doesn’t use. When I paint, everyone leaves me alone. Maybe I could make it work here.

  The problem is, I’ve never been able to use my gift as an escape or a cop-out. I can only create when I’m feeling inspired. And as my sisters have both noticed, I haven’t been feeling that way lately. I wish I knew why, because I miss it. My muse has taken a vacation to parts unknown, and I don’t know when I’m going to see her again. Maybe I could just splash paint all over the canvas for two weeks and call it done. Amber doesn’t seem to mind the fake Jackson Pollock look. The very idea makes my artist’s soul sick, though.

  I started to work on something when my sister first left for New York, but when I found out that she was staying, it killed my motivation. Rationally, I know that what she has going on in her life shouldn’t have anything to do with mine; we’re adult women, and none of us made any kind of plan to stay together forever. We’re close, but we’re not the Siamese triplets our mothers accuse us of being. Not really. But her news still managed to make me sad enough that painting was no longer fun.

  “Okay, then, we have a mission,” Amber says. “We’re going to find an art supply place.”

  “You know . . . ,” I say, fiddling with the label on the wine bottle, “you could probably order all of that stuff online and have it delivered, just like you do with your food.”

  “Forget it,” she says, cutting me off with a sharp tone. “We’re not doing that. You are going to get out of this apartment at least once in the ten days you’re here, and that’s final.”

  I drink some more of my wine. “Fine.” I know hiding out up here in this tower is weird, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it. If I get out once, though, I can say I’m not a total recluse.

  “And I’m buying you some clothes, too, and don’t try to argue with me about it. I saw what you pulled out of that suitcase. You were planning on wearing the same outfit over and over again, weren’t you?”

  “So?” Amber has never had a problem with that before, especially when she was the person in charge of doing everyone’s laundry.

  “You can’t do that here,” she says, sounding a little outraged.

  It makes me laugh. “Why not?”

  “Because! You’re not on a hippie commune, you’re living in Manhattan now . . . for the next ten days, anyway. And I say you’re going to have fun and buy new clothes here, whether you like it or not.”

  I can’t stop smiling. “Damn, you are twice as bossy as you ever were back at the farm.”

  “Believe it, sister.” She finishes off her wine and holds her glass above her head. “Come over here and fill me up.”

  I grab the bottle and go back into the sitting room, refreshing her glass and then mine, taking the spot on the couch right next to her as I place the bottle on the coffee table.

  I face her, an apology in my eyes. “I love you a lot . . . you know that, right?” I’m sorry I’m so lame, so afraid of change, so uncomfortable in your new world. I’m sorry that I fear losing you, my sister who I love so much, because we no longer have anything in common.

  She leans her head against mine and touches our glasses together. “I love you too, little sister. Even if you are slightly agoraphobic, afraid of strangers, and a terrible dresser.”

  I don’t say anything; I just sip my wine. I hate that her description of who I am is accurate, and I wonder if it’s possible that New York could work its magic on me like it worked its magic on my sister . . . or if I even want it to.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Amber’s in the bathroom when the phone in her kitchen begins to ring. I remain in the sitting room staring at it, wondering what I should do. This isn’t my house, so I don’t feel comfortable answering a call without permission.

  Her voice comes from another part of the apartment. “Would you grab that? It’s the doorman downstairs.”

  I hop up from the couch and stride over, feeling bad that I made the caller wait so long for a response. I pick the handset up from the hook, and it’s so light, I nearly hit myself in the head with it because I’m expecting it to be like the one we have at home. I gingerly place it against my ear, not even sure it’s going to work. It feels like I’m holding a hollow child’s toy. �
��Hello?”

  “Hello, Ms. Fields? You have a visitor downstairs named Sam who says you’re not expecting him until a few weeks from now but you’re going to want to see him anyway.” The voice is that of a young man, but since we came in through the garage, I have no idea who he is. What if he’s not the doorman? What if he’s one of those paparazzi people trying to sneak in? Panic starts to seep in.

  “Hello? Ms. Fields? Is everything okay?”

  I glance to my left and see a second phone right next to the one I’m using—the real telephone. Duh. Of course this call is coming from the reception area downstairs; I’m on an intercom. And now I’ve got the doorman worried about me. I can’t believe I’m being so paranoid.

  I clear my throat, forcing the panic away. “Okay, hi, um, this isn’t Amber. This is her sister. She’s not available right now.” Where in the heck is she? She left me in the sitting room five minutes ago saying she’d be right back.

  “Oh. Hello, Amber’s sister.” The doorman’s voice drops to a near whisper. “To be honest, he doesn’t seem like the patient type. Could you get Amber on the line or ask her if it’s okay to send him up?”

  “Yeah, sure. Hang on a minute; I’ll go ask her.”

  I let the handset dangle from its short cord and rush through the apartment. “Amber? Where are you?”

  “I’m in here,” comes her muffled voice from the hallway.

  I stop outside the door that I assume leads to a bathroom. “There’s somebody downstairs named Sam. He wants to come up. He says you’re not expecting him yet.”

  “Did you say Sam?” She sounds stressed.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? You have to be sure.”

  Now I’m doubting myself. Did he say Sam, or was it a word that rhymed with Sam, like a man? Or Dan? Or a lamb? Okay, I know there’s not a lamb down in the lobby, but now I can’t even be sure he said something that rhymes with Sam. That wine is seriously kicking my butt. “I’m pretty sure.”