the childrens’ heads, their gazes met. Not a trace of warmth showed in those icy blue eyes. They were diamond-hard and so bitterly cold she shivered, despite her leather jacket and the heat of the afternoon.
She forced her attention back to the minister, willing herself not to think about how those wintry eyes had once blazed with hot need and breathtaking tenderness.
A few more words, another prayer, and it was done. As the last amen floated away on the sea breeze, mourners stood and began to talk softly among themselves. Sophie stayed seated, feeling numb, her limbs leaden, listless.
“Is it over?” Zoe asked, her lisp making the last word sound like “ov-oh.”
She hugged the little girl close. “Yes, sugar. It’s over.”
“I don’t want Mommy and Daddy to be in Heaven.” The small voice nearly broke her heart.
“I know. Oh, honey, I know.”
Someone with more experience around young children than she probably would have added something wise and comforting but Sophie drew a complete blank. She was still trying to figure out what to say when Sharon glided to them, weeping copiously. Not even her thick waterproof mascara could hold up under those conditions. Black splotches underlined her eyes, pooling in the wrinkles she fought so hard against.
“Oh, Sophie. Isn’t this the most terrible thing that’s ever happened? My poor girl. My poor baby girl. I never thought one of my girls would die before me. Oh, I don’t know how I’ll bear it.” Sharon began to weep again and the barrel-chested man she’d brought along—another Earl, wasn’t it?—handed her a handkerchief and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
Sophie should be more compassionate toward her mother. She knew it but still she fought a wave of resentment that even now Sharon couldn’t stand to have anyone else be the center of attention. Not even her dead child or her suddenly orphaned grandchildren.
The instinct to flee was almost overwhelming. For one wild moment, Sophie wanted to grab her equipment and her suitcase and hop a plane to any destination, particularly one on the other side of the globe. A place where nobody knew her, where she could be just another anonymous face in the crowd hiding behind a camera lens.
Since she couldn’t leave, at least she should be able to crawl into a bed somewhere—anywhere—and sleep for the next forty-eight hours until she lost this jet lag and could begin to cope with the storm of emotions that had buffeted her since Thomas’s late-night phone call in Morocco.
Ten years ago she wouldn’t have needed a phone call to tell her something had happened to Shelly. For most of their life, they had shared an invisible bond, one of those weird psychic twin connections that defied logic or words. When Shelly had broken her leg jumping off the swings in second grade, Sophie had crumpled to the floor of her classroom howling in pain. When Sophie had sliced a finger cutting vegetables in Home Ec, Shelly hadn’t been able to finish a test in English class because her own finger throbbed too badly to write.
But that was all in the past. In the last ten years, Sophie had done everything she could to sever that bond, to put as much distance as possible between her and her twin, psychic or otherwise.
Obviously she had succeeded beyond her wildest dream. She hated that she had known nothing of the car accident that had killed Shelly—of that final terrible plunge off the soaring cliffs of Big Sur, of the impact so horrendous Peter had been flung from the Mercedes, his body dashed on the rocks below and then carried away by the violent sea.
Shelly had been dead three days before Thomas finally managed to learn what magazine she was on assignment for and could contact the photo editor and track her down.
Three days where she had been wandering from town to town, village to village. Eating, sleeping, laughing. Living her life just as always, with no clue her sister was gone.
She wanted to stand at that grave in this beautiful cemetery by the ocean and weep for the past and the physical and emotional chasm between them at the end.
“Can we go home now?”
Zoe’s question wrenched at her heart, filled her mouth with shame. She was no better than Sharon. How could she stand here feeling so sorry for herself when these children had lost everything?
Home. She thought of Peter and Shelly’s house on Seventeen Mile Drive, that huge estate in the gated Del Monte Forest that should have seemed elegant and cold.
For all its grandeur, Shelly had managed to make Seal Point feel like a home. That was just so Shelly. Her sister had plenty of experience building nests wherever they lived, from dingy apartments to run-down trailers and even the back seat of Sharon’s old Toronado when they had spent a summer living out of it.
There were mourners to greet, polite conventions to follow, but she realized the children were close to the breaking point. They were her responsibility now and nothing else mattered.
“Yes, sugar. I’ll take you home. Alison, are you ready?”
Her niece nodded tightly, and held on to Zach’s hand. She led the little entourage toward her rental car. They had almost reached it when Thomas slipped away from his father’s side and headed toward them.
“You’re leaving?”
How did he make those two words sound like an accusation, a denunciation?
She straightened her shoulders. “The children are tired. I think they’ve had enough. They need to be in their comfort zone.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw and he looked as if he wanted to say something, but he finally nodded. “I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
“That’s not necessary,” she answered coolly. “I’m sure the children and I will be fine.”
“I’ll see you at the house.”
She didn’t have the energy left to tell him he was the last person on earth she wanted to spend any time with today, so she just nodded and climbed into the rental car.
“It was a very nice service, don’t you think? I mean, as far as these things go.”
Tom glanced in the rearview mirror of the Jaguar. His father gazed silently out the window at the churning sea as they drove past Asilomar toward Country Club Gate. His Savile Row tie was slightly crooked, his silver hair a little mussed—things William Canfield never would have tolerated in better days. Maura McMurray sat beside him, solid and dependable as always, sympathy creasing her plump, no-nonsense features.
“Yes,” Tom answered the nurse. “Peter would have been pleased to see so many people there.”
Did that sound petty? he wondered. Yeah, probably, even though of course he didn’t mean it that way. He sighed. Nobody could say his and Peter’s relationship had been an easy one. He had loved his younger brother but they hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on many things.
They had always wanted different things. Peter, like their father, had thrived on the influence and power of being one of the Canfields of Seal Point. He had loved the social scene, moving and shaking with the other leading families of the peninsula.
Tom had no patience for the thin, transparent superficiality of it all. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he and his brother
