up in the fact that her sister had come to New York and not contacted her. Of course, Nicole hadn’t invited her to the wedding, either.
“A lot of the men on tour sleep around,” Claire said. “It’s kind of their thing. They find a new woman in every city. I was lucky—I grew up on tour, so I watched it all while I was too young for them to be interested in me. When I was older, I’d already learned my lesson. Of course a lot of the women sleep around, too. There’s plenty of sex in orchestras.”
Not for her, she thought glumly. Sex was something she seemed to avoid, or it avoided her. She’d never quite figured out which.
“How nice for you,” Nicole murmured.
“Most people think orchestral musicians are nerdy or boring, but that’s not true. They love to party.”
“Was that how it was for you?” Nicole asked. “Sleep all day, party all night?”
“No. I had practice and lessons and meetings and interviews. I never got into the party circuit. I did get to go to some celebrity events, though. I met George Clooney a couple of times. He was nice. And Richard Gere, who really plays piano. We played together one night.”
“How thrilling,” Nicole said, glaring at her. “This may come as a surprise, but I don’t need you reminding me how much more exciting your life is than mine. I’m totally clear on that.”
“What? That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it? You certainly take every opportunity to talk about how wonderful things are with you. A New York apartment big enough for a piano. Hanging out with George Clooney and Richard Gere. Fabulous you.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. She’d only been trying to fill awkward conversation space. “You seem to really enjoy thinking the worst about me,” she said at last. “I was trying to figure out something for us to talk about. Something we wouldn’t fight about. I guess I picked wrong.”
“You did. Do you think this is working? You pretending to be a real person? It’s not.”
Claire put down her fork. “I am a real person.”
“You can’t even do laundry.”
“Is that the definition of a real person?”
She didn’t bother pointing out that, thanks to Amy and the instruction book, she could now wash clothes, just like everyone else.
This was so unfair, she thought. She felt trapped. It wasn’t as if she could lash out at her sister. Well, she could, but pointing out that Nicole couldn’t bring an entire concert hall to its feet in screaming applause wasn’t going to draw them closer.
“We live different lives,” she said instead. “That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
“So speaks the woman with the perfect life.”
Claire thought of all the time she’d spent alone. All the nights she went to bed so lonely, she ached. “It wasn’t perfect.”
“Oh, poor little rich girl. Was the fame too much for you?” Nicole dropped her fork onto her plate. “At least you weren’t stuck here, with a baby sister to raise and parents who only wanted to talk about their famous daughter. I hated you for taking Mom away, but I hated her more, because she wanted to go.”
Nicole paused and swallowed, before continuing. “When Grandma came home, saying it was too much work and she couldn’t travel with you anymore, Mom jumped at the chance to take her place. She wanted to go and see all those other cities. She wanted to be with you.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. She’d been grateful to have her mother with her. A piece of home was always welcome. She’d never thought about the family left behind.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t bother to know. While you were off running around with other rich, famous people, I was stuck here. I started looking after Jesse the day she was born. When Mom left, she became my primary responsibility. I was twelve. Grandma was in a nursing home and Dad never knew what to do with us kids. As I got older, I went to work in the bakery, as well. I never had time to do the stuff I wanted to because there was always Jesse to worry about, or my shift at the bakery. I was an adult by the time I was fourteen. Everything I wanted was stolen from me by you.”
Claire had taken more than enough. She pushed back the chair and stood. “Poor Nicole, stuck home with her family. While you were going to school and making friends, I was alone. Alone with a tutor, alone in a practice room, alone in a hotel room. I never met anyone my age. I lived out of suitcases. I never saw the cities we visited. I was either studying or practicing or getting ready for a concert or sleeping. That was my life.”
“At least you had Mom with you. Until you killed her.”
“Stop saying that,” Claire yelled. “I lost her, too, you know. She was my only link to my family. I was trapped in the car with her and I couldn’t do anything while she died. Do you know what that’s like? You had Dad and Jesse and I had no one. She died and the hospital sent me back to the hotel. Do you know what my manager said? That I had to play anyway, because the event was sold out and people would be disappointed. What did I know? I played. The night my mother died, I played onstage because there wasn’t anyone around to say it was okay to grieve.”
She shoved in the chair. “Apparently our father had a long talk with my manager and together they decided I was mature enough to continue on my own, without a chaperone or guardian. That’s right. I was sixteen and I’d just lost my mother and they cut me loose. My job was to follow the rules and I did because the rules were all I had. I don’t expect you to get any of this. God forbid you should see anyone’s side but your own. Being famous which, by the way, I’m not, is a lot less interesting than you think. I’m going to guess being a professional victim also gets really tiring, as well.”
With that, she turned and walked out of the kitchen. She was pleased that she made it all the way to her bedroom before giving in to tears and collapsing on the floor in a puddle of pain and grief. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to comfort herself, as she always did. Coming home hadn’t mattered at all. She was still very much alone.
Her pity party continued for about ten minutes. Then she stood and went into the bathroom to wash her face.
“You knew this wouldn’t be easy,” she told her reflection. “Are you just going to give up?”
She reminded herself she’d never been a quitter, and that there were a lot worse things in life than fighting with her sister. So what if she’d had the fantasy of returning to Seattle and finding her family excited to welcome her back? It was going to take a little more work—that was all. She was good at working hard.
She crossed to the dresser where she’d unpacked her clothes and opened the top drawer. Under her bras and panties was a slim journal. She wasn’t the diary type, but she did keep lists of goals and read them every day. That helped her stay focused. Her current list included—connect with family, start dating, have sex, fall in love, be normal.
The last one was going to be the hardest. Or maybe they all were. Have sex? Who was she kidding? She’d managed to go twenty-eight years without finding a single man interested in seeing her naked.
She
