ChapterTwelve
The following morning, several states to the south, Fiona sat on a sidewalk bench wearing her favorite calf-length Burberry puffer coat. This particular bench was positioned outside a luxury apartment building called The Dorchester. And The Dorchester was positioned on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
As always in Manhattan, all types and ages of people were striding busily past. Only Fiona and the potted miniature pine tree with red pansies encircling its base were still in this city of perpetual motion.
She'd flown in from Maine last night and dressed to the nines today in wool-lined leather gloves, a magenta scarf and matching cap from Jimmy Choo, and what they'd called a “power suit” back in the eighties.
Oh, how she’d loved the eighties.
She'd been here for forty minutes, sipping from a to-go cup of coffee. If need be, she could remain here comfortably for quite some time, though she didn’t think she'd have to wait much longer for her sister Isobel to emerge.
Their younger sister Alice had always kept Fiona apprised of Isobel's address but determining when Isobel might come and go from her apartment building had been more difficult.
Last week, Fiona had found an article highlighting the Pilates instructor of famous model, Isobel O'Sullivan. The piece mentioned that Isobel enjoyed private sessions at the woman’s studio. She was quoted as saying she particularly enjoyed her Saturday morning session because she found it a great way to begin her weekend. Fiona had called the studio, pretended to be a prospective client, and inquired about the instructor's schedule. They'd told her she taught private sessions from eight to ten on Saturdays, followed by group classes.
Which meant Isobel either had the 8:00 or 9:00 a.m. slot.
Fiona had arrived on the park bench at 6:45.
Draining the last of her coffee, she lobbed her empty cup into a black metal trash can. She’d skipped breakfast because her stomach was too busy wrestling with angst, guilt, predictions over how Isobel would respond, doubt about whether this approach was best.
Fiona was a decisive person. A conflicted mental state was neither her norm nor her preference.
She was putting herself through this out of sheer determination. Determination had motivated her to book a ticket to New York. Determination was keeping her bottom situated on this bench.
She was fifty-eight, plenty old enough to have learned that achieving goals did not come easy. If you wanted something, it would require sacrifice from you. And she wanted to reestablish communication with her sister.
Several taxis came and went. At 7:35, a limo pulled up to the curb. The doorman exchanged a few words with the driver, making it clear that they were familiar with one another.
The limo waited.
Fiona waited.
The doorman opened the door and a tall, thin woman with brown-gold hair caught back in a ponytail emerged. She wore large Cartier sunglasses, but Fiona didn't need to see her face without them in order to make a positive ID. She'd know that body, that bearing, that profile anywhere.
Fiona rose, standing tall in her high heels. “Isobel,” she said calmly but loudly.
Isobel's head turned toward the sound, then her gait sliced to a halt, and she faced Fiona. From the pink laces of her Nikes to the fashionable bag slung over her shoulder, every inch of Isobel's workout look spoke of good taste.
She was still a great beauty. Her bone structure was so in-your-face amazing that it almost dared you not to acknowledge it. Her sister would always be more attractive than Fiona and a full five inches taller—truths that still rankled.
“I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry,” Fiona said.
Isobel didn't reply.
They hadn't looked each other in the face in thirty-five years and Fiona felt an ocean of memories shift between them. Holding hands as they ran into the living room Christmas morning to see what Santa Claus had brought for them. Making mud pies on the driveway. Fiona, watching Isobel dance in the part of angel inThe Nutcracker. Lying side by side on the hood of their dad's car, stargazing as he pointed out the constellations and planets. Fighting over a sweater Fiona had worn without Isobel's permission. Laughing uncontrollably during Mass when their brother had belched. Both of them leaning toward the small bathroom mirror to put on their makeup before school.
“I'm sorry,” Fiona repeated. “What I did was terrible. I betrayed you and our relationship and . . . there's nothing I can say to defend myself because my actions weren't defensible. I was jealous of you. And obsessed with Felix. I regret my actions deeply.”
People flowed around them on both sides. The limo's motor ran. Fiona's heart beat fast.
“I returned your letter unopened,” Isobel said in a dignified voice that shook slightly, “because I don't want communication between us.”
“Okay.”
“Yet here you are. Outside my home.”
“Yes.”
