Chapter
One
Finley McGowan loved her niece Aubrey with all
her heart, but there was no avoiding the truth—Aubrey had not been born with
tap dance talent. While the other eight-year-olds moved in perfect rhythm,
Aubrey was just a half beat behind. Every time. Like a sharp, staccato echo as
the song “Counting Stars” by OneRepublic played over the dance studio’s sound
system.
Finley felt a few of the moms glance at her,
as if gauging her reaction to Aubrey’s performance, but Finley only smiled and
nodded along, filled with a fierce pride that Aubrey danced with enthusiasm and
joy. If tap was going to be her life, then the rhythm thing would matter more,
but Aubrey was still a kid and trying new things. So she wasn’t great at dance,
or archery, or swimming—she was a sweet girl who had a big heart and a positive
outlook on life. That was enough of a win for Finley. She could survive the
jarring half-beat echo until her niece moved on to another activity.
The song ended and the adults gathered for the
monthly update performance clapped. Aubrey rushed toward her aunt, arms
outstretched for a big hug. Finley caught her and pulled her close.
“Excellent performance,” she said, smoothing
the top of her head. “You weren’t nervous.”
“I know. I don’t get scared anymore. I really
liked the song and the routine was fun to learn. Thank you for helping me
practice.”
“Anytime.”
When Aubrey had first wanted to study tap,
Finley had gone online to find instructions to build a small, homemade tap
floor. They’d put it out in the garage, and hooked up a Bluetooth speaker.
Every afternoon, before dinner, Finley had played “Counting Stars” and called
out the steps so Aubrey could memorize her routine. Next week the dance
students would get a new routine and new song, and the process would start all
over again. Finley really hoped the new music wouldn’t be annoying—given that
she was going to have to listen to it three or four hundred times over the next
few weeks.
They walked to the cubbies, where Aubrey
pulled a sweatshirt over her leotard, then traded tap shoes for rain boots.
April in the Pacific Northwest meant gray, wet skies and cool temperatures.
Finley made sure her niece had her backpack from school, then waved goodbye to
the instructor before ushering Aubrey to her Subaru.
While her niece settled in the passenger side
back seat, Finley put the backpack within arm’s reach. Inevitably, despite the
short drive home, Aubrey would remember something she had to share and would go
scrambling for it. Finley didn’t want a repeat of the time her niece had
unfastened her seat belt and gone shimmying into the cargo area to dig out her
perfect spelling test. Going sixty miles an hour down the freeway with an
eight-year-old as a potential projectile had aged Finley twenty years.
“We got our history project,” Aubrey announced
as Finley started the car. “We’re going to be working in teams to make a
diorama of a local Native American tribe. There’s four of us in our group.” She
paused dramatically. “Including Zoe!”
“Zoe red hair or Zoe black hair?”
Aubrey laughed. “Zoe black hair. If it had
been Zoe red hair, my life would have been ruined forever.”
“Over a diorama? Shouldn’t your life be ruined
over running out of ice cream or a rip in your favorite jacket?”
“Dioramas are important.” She paused. “And
hard to spell. We’re going to pick our tribe tomorrow, then research them and
decide on the diorama. I want to do totem poles. The different animals tell a
story and I think that would be nice. Oliver wants a bear attacking a village,
but Zoe is vegetarian and doesn’t want to see any blood.” Aubrey wrinkled her
nose. “I eat meat and I wouldn’t want to see blood either. Harry agrees with me
on the totems, but Zoe isn’t sure.”
“So much going on,” Finley said, not sure she
could keep up with the third-grade diorama drama.
“I know. Could we stop at the cake store on
the way home? For Grandma? She’s been sad.” Aubrey leaned forward as far as her
seat belt would let her. “I don’t understand, though. I thought being on
Broadway was a good thing.”
“It is.”
“So Grandma was a good teacher for her
student. Why isn’t she happy?”
Finley wondered how to distill the emotional
complexity that was her mother in a few easy-to-understand concepts. No way she
was getting into the fact that her mother had once wanted to be on Broadway
herself, only to end up broke and the mother of two little girls. The best
Molly had managed for her theater career was a few minor roles in traveling
companies. Eventually motherhood and the need to be practical had whittled away
her dream until it was only a distant memory. These days she taught theater at
the local community college and gave intensive acting classes in her basement.
It was the latter that had been the cause of her current depression.
“Her student wasn’t grateful for all Grandma
did for her. When she got the big role, she didn’t call or text and she didn’t
say thank you for all of Grandma’s hard work.”
Molly had not only found her student a place
to stay, she’d worked her contacts to get the audition in the first place.
Finley might not understand the drive to stand in front of an audience,
pretending to be someone else, but if it was your thing, then at least act
human when someone gave you a break.
Finley glanced in the rearview mirror and saw
Aubrey’s eyes widen.
“You’re always supposed to say thank you.”
“I know.”
“Poor Grandma. We have to buy her cake. The
little one with the sprinkles she likes.”
Finley held in a grin. “And maybe a chocolate
one for you and me to share?”
“Oh, that would be very nice, but we could
just get one for Grandma if you think that’s better.”
Finley was sure that Aubrey almost meant those
last words. At least in the moment. Should she follow through and not buy a
second small cake, her niece would be crushed. Brave, but crushed.
Nothing Bundt Cakes wasn’t on the way home,
but it wasn’t that far out of the way. Finley headed along Bothell-Everett
Highway until she reached Central Market, across from the library. She turned
left and parked in front of the bakery. She and Aubrey walked inside.
Her niece rushed to the display. “Look, they
have the confetti ones Grandma likes. They’re so pretty.”
The clerk smiled. “Can I help you?”
“A couple of the little cakes,” Finley told
her. “A confetti and a chocolate, please.”
Aubrey shot her a grateful look, then tapped
on the case. “Could we get a vanilla one? I see Mom on Saturday afternoon. I
could take her a cake.”
The unpleasant reminder of Aubrey’s upcoming
visitation had Finley clenching her jaw. She consciously relaxed as she said, “It’s
only Wednesday. I don’t know if the cake will still be fresh.”
“Just keep it in the refrigerator,” the clerk
told her. “They’re good for five days after purchase.”
Aubrey jumped in place, her enthusiasm making
her clap loudly. “That’s enough time.” She counted off the days. “Thursday,
Friday, Saturday. That’s only three days. Mom will love her little cake so
much.” She pressed her hands together. “Vanilla is her favorite.”
Finley told herself that of course Aubrey
cared about her mother. Most kids loved their parents, regardless of how
irresponsible those parents might be. It was a biological thing. Sloane was
doing better these days. Maybe this time she would stay sober and out of
prison. Something Finley could wish for, but didn’t actual believe.
Finley nodded at the clerk. “We’ll take all
three, please.”
Aubrey rushed toward her and wrapped her arms
around her waist. “Thank you, Finley. For the cake and coming to my performance
and helping me practice.”
“I seem to be stuck loving you, kid. I try not
to, but you’re just so adorable. I can’t help myself.”
Aubrey laughed, looking up at her. Finley
ignored how much her niece looked like Sloane—they had the same big blue eyes
and full mouth, the same long curly hair. Aubrey was a pretty girl but like her
mother, she would mature into a stunning woman one day, as had her grandmother
Molly before her. Only Finley was ordinary—a simple seagull in a flock of
exotic parrots.
Probably for the best, she told herself as she
paid for the cakes. In her experience beautiful women were easily distracted by
the attention they received. Little mattered more than adulation. Relationships
were ignored or lost or damaged, a casualty of the greatness that was the
beautiful woman. Finley, on the other hand, could totally focus on what was
important—like raising her niece and making sure no one threatened her safety.
Not even her own mother.
******
“What is it?” Jericho Ford stared at the
picture on the tablet screen. The swirling tubes of metal twisted together in
some kind of shape, but he had no idea what it was.
“The artist describes this creation as the
manifestation of his idea of happiness,” Antonio offered helpfully.
“It looks like a warthog.”
“It’s art.”
“So a fancy warthog.”
“It’s on sale.”
“I don’t care if it’s left on the side of the
road with a sign reading ‘free.’ It’s ugly and no.” Jericho looked at his
friend. “Why would you show that to me?”
“You said you needed some pieces for your
family room.”
“I meant a sofa and maybe a bigger television.”
“You could put this on the coffee table.”
“That’s where I put my beer and popcorn.”
Jericho pointed to the tablet. “If you like it so much, you get it.”
Antonio’s brows rose. “Absolutely not. My
house is all about midcentury modern these days.”
“The warthog isn’t midcentury enough?”
“No.” Antonio slapped the tablet closed and
put it in his backpack before removing two gray subway tiles and setting them
on Jericho’s desk. “I want to make a change in the kitchen backsplash for
number eleven.”
Antonio pointed to the tile on the right.
“This was the original choice. I like the shine and the texture, but I’ve been
thinking it’s too blue.” He tapped the tile on the right. “This has more green
and goes better with the darker cabinets in the island.”
Jericho loved his job. He built houses in the
Seattle area, good-quality houses with high-end finishes and smart designs.
They sourced local when possible, had a great reputation and frequently a
waiting list for their new-construction builds. Castwell Park—the five-plus
acres he’d bought in Kirkland, Washington—had been subdivided into twenty
oversized lots where Ford Construction was in the process of building luxury
houses.
Jericho enjoyed the entire building
process—from clearing the land to handing over the keys to the new owners.
While he’d rather be doing something physical with his days, he was the site
manager and owner, and all decisions flowed through him. Including tile changes
suggested by his best friend and the project’s interior designer.
“Those tiles are the same color,” Jericho said
flatly.
Antonio grimaced. “They’re not. This one—”
“Has more blue. Yes, you said.”
He grabbed the tiles and walked out of the
large construction trailer set up across the street from the entrance to Castwell
Park. He’d made a deal with the owners of the empty lot to rent the space while
construction was underway. When his crew finished the twentieth home, he was
going to build one for the lot’s owner. Jericho didn’t, as a rule, build
one-offs, but it had been the price of getting a perfect location for the
construction trailer, so he’d made an exception.
Once out in the natural light, he rocked the
two tiles back and forth, looking for a color difference. Okay, sure, one was a
little bluer, but he doubted five people in a hundred would notice. Still,
Antonio’s design ideas were a big reason for the company’s success. He had a
way of taking a hot trend and making it timeless.
“Email me the change authorization and I’ll
okay it,” Jericho said, handing back the tiles.
“I knew you’d agree. These will make all the
difference.”
“No more changes on house eleven or twelve,”
he said, leading the way back inside the trailer. “The designs are locked in
and we’ve placed all our orders.”
“I know. This is the last one.” Antonio
smiled. “Besides, I’ve already checked with the distributor and she said it was
no problem to substitute one for the other.” He settled in the chair by
Jericho’s desk. “Dennis and I were talking about you last night.”
“That never means good things for me.”
Antonio dismissed the comment with a wave.
“We’re inviting a woman to our next party.”
Jericho knew exactly what his friend meant but
decided to pretend he didn’t. “You usually have women at your parties.”
“A woman for you.”
“No.”
Antonio leaned toward him. “It’s time. You and
Lauren split up nearly seven months ago. I know you’re still pissed at your
brother, but that’s separate from getting over your ex-wife. They cheated,
they’re hideous people and we hate them, but it’s time for you to move on.”
Antonio had always had a gift for the quick
recap, Jericho thought, appreciating his ability to distill the shock of
finding out his wife and his younger brother were having an affair and the
subsequent divorce into a single sentence.
“I’ve moved on,” Jericho told him.
“You’re not dating. Worse, you’re not picking
up women in bars and sleeping with them.”
Jericho grinned. “When have I ever done that?”
“You’re a straight guy. Isn’t it a thing?”
“I hate it when you generalize about me because
I’m straight.”
Antonio grinned. “Poor you.” His humor faded.
“It’s time to stop pouting and move on with your life.”
“Hey, I don’t pout.”
“Fine, call it whatever you want. Lauren was a
total bitch and I honestly don’t have words to describe what a shit Gil is for
doing what he did. But you’re divorced, you claim to have moved on, so let’s
see a little proof.” His mouth turned down. “I worry about you.
“Thanks. I’m okay.”
Mostly. He hadn’t seen his brother in six
months, which had made the holidays awkward. His family was small—just his mom,
him and his brother, with Antonio as an adopted member. Gil’s affair with
Lauren had rocked their family dynamics nearly as much as his father’s death
eight years ago, shattering their small world. Their mother had taken Jericho’s
side—at least at first. Lately she’d been making noises about a reconciliation.
As Gil and Lauren were still a thing, he wasn’t ready to pull that particular
trigger just yet.
“Dennis is a really good matchmaker,” Antonio
murmured.
“Did I say no? I’m kind of sure I said no. I
can get my own women.”
“Yes, but you won’t.”
“Now who’s pouting?”
The first five notes of “La Cucaracha” played
outside, announcing the arrival of the food truck. Antonio’s face brightened.
“Lunchtime. You’re buying.”
“Somehow I’m always buying.”
“You’re the rich developer. I’m a struggling
artist. It’s only fair.”
“You have a successful design business. And if
that wasn’t enough, your husband is a partner at a fancy, high-priced law firm.
You married money.”
Antonio laughed. “Wasn’t that smart of me?”
Jericho followed him out of the trailer. “You
would have married him if he was broke and homeless. You love him.”
“I do and now we need to find someone for you
to love. Not another redhead. That last one was a total disaster.”
“I’m not sure the failure of our marriage had
anything to do with the color of her hair.”
“Maybe not, but why take the chance?”
Excerpted from The Sister Effect by Susan Mallery, Copyright © 2023 by Susan Mallery,
Inc.. Published by Canary Street Press.
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