The Sisters Club Read online

  Of course, despite Artemis’s propensity toward the bitchy bon mot, there was an underlying truth to what she’d said on the phone: I was lonely in Connecticut. There was nothing for me to do there. When Dan wasn’t around, there was no one for me to be.

  I was grateful that Dan found me beautiful, and I was grateful he married me; I was grateful he stood up for me to the sot once upon a time, and I was grateful he never asked me to lose weight. But none of that was why I married him. I married him because I loved him. Still, sometimes it was lonely being Mrs. Dan Taylor, CEO.

  • • •

  Dan called on the mobile to say he wouldn’t be home in time for dinner, again, and something about working late with a client. I might’ve been resentful if I didn’t recognize the truth in what he’d said earlier: one of us did need to work around here. Not wanting to eat alone, yet again, although I did need to eat, I decided to go to the bookstore. Maybe I’d have a sandwich or two in the café area while cracking the spine on a new thriller.

  When I went to pay at the cash register, I saw they had out new copies of the store newsletter. I picked one up, perusing the contents while I ate my smoked turkey with roasted red peppers and fresh mozzarella on focaccia bread.

  The newsletter listed notices of upcoming store events, story times in the children’s department, author appearances, that sort of thing. On the flip side, there were schedules for groups meeting in the bookstore: book-discussion groups, writers groups, even Scrabble groups. As I glanced around the crowded café, I realized that must be the Scrabble group meeting in the corner right over there. I recognized the colorful board and the wooden tiles, even though I’d never played the game myself. There were also two women who looked remarkably similar to one another sitting at a corner table, laughing over their coffee and cake as though they truly enjoyed one another’s company; I envied them, sure they were sisters.

  Then the thought occurred to me: If other people could place ads in the store newsletter for all these other clubs, why couldn’t someone place an ad for something different, for a sisters club? Certainly, there must be other women in the area who had a sister they were missing who, for one reason or another, was not physically on the scene. Sure, in the modern era, a sister need only be a phone call or mouse click away, but you can’t hug a telephone when you’re feeling lonely. You can’t hug a computer. And maybe, like me, there were others whose relationships with their sisters were not all books and TV would have you believe they are, and yet they wanted that sister-like bond, dreamed of it.

  Yes, I thought, a sisters club. Why had no one else ever thought of it? Of course I knew I couldn’t just blatantly call it that from the start—other women would think I was balmy—but it’s what it would be nonetheless.

  In my excitement, in my haste to find the store manager, I forgot all about my smoked turkey with roasted red peppers and fresh mozzarella on focaccia.

  I had more important things to do.

  I was going to find some sisters. Whether they knew it or not, it was what they were going to be.

  Four Women

  Recommended Reading:

  Sylvia: When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Harold Kushner

  Cindy: The Notebook, Nicholas Sparks

  Lise: More Like Wrestling, Danyel Smith

  Diana: She’s Come Undone, Wally Lamb

  • • •

  “This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard in my life!”

  It didn’t start out that bad, but it was awkward.

  Diana was the first to arrive at the bookstore, getting there at six forty-five, fifteen minutes early. Since she was the one to organize the whole thing, she felt a responsibility to be there to greet everybody else. Plus, still getting used to the horrors of driving on the wrong side of the road, she always allotted herself extra time to get anywhere.

  She sat at the table for four in the café with a gigantic cinnamon bun on the white plate before her, filling up the time with nervous nibbles and taking in the familiar room around her: the cone-shaped light fixtures hanging down over the square and round tables, the soothing periwinkle walls, some amateur photographer’s work displayed on them—she liked the one of the cat on the windowsill, at least—and the people at the other tables. The ones in groups of two or more all looked like easy friends with fun or important things to discuss. The loners looked content to be so. Next to the cinnamon bun, Diana had a copy of a bestseller from a few years back with an Oprah’s Book Club sticker on it; since the ad she’d placed said she was looking for women who were also book lovers, she’d figured it would be prudent to arrive with a book.

  Diana’s gaze shifted back and forth between the round analog clock on the wall, the hands of which seemed to sweep so slowly, and the front entrance. Perhaps no one would come? Even though three people had RSVP’d to her plea in the newsletter, maybe they were all just having her on. With just two minutes remaining before seven o’clock, Diana thought of getting up and giving up. Her first serious attempt to make new friends in her new country, and already it was an obvious failure.

  Sylvia walked into the bookstore at exactly two minutes to seven and went straight to the café, scanning the faces there. When she saw a large woman with gorgeous, thick blond hair wearing a pants ensemble all in winter white starting to gather her things as though she might be leaving, Sylvia approached her. On the phone, Diana had said, with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ll be easy to spot. I’m a bit bigger than most people.”

  As Diana shook Sylvia’s offered hand, she took in the other woman’s appearance. Sylvia, obviously older by a handful or more of years, had a natural thinness to her, like she’d never had to worry about a calorie in her life. She was petite but with a hard edge, as though you wouldn’t want to cross her in an alley; her taut body was clad in jeans and a long-sleeve yellow T-shirt you’d expect to see on a younger woman. Sylvia had red hair that had to be a dye job, but it was cropped in the neat short cut of someone who couldn’t be bothered with much fuss. Her brown eyes, encased with lines, looked as though she’d laughed a lot at one point; but the steely expression on her face said that had been a long time ago and she saw nothing funny about life right now.

  And when she talked, she sounded more like a man.

  In short, she was nothing like Diana.

  “So, you’re a fan of Oprah?” Sylvia observed as soon as they were seated.

  “Well,” Diana laughed nervously, “everything can’t be Dostoevsky and Dickens, can it? What kind of books do you favor?”

  “Everything,” Sylvia said, “I read everything.” She drummed her hand on the table. “Crap, this is awkward.”

  “Excuse me?” Diana said politely. But she never got an answer, because just then, at seven on the dot, Lise walked in.

  Lise strode with purpose up to the other two, still wearing her usual teaching outfit of tweed and denim. She didn’t offer to shake hands, claiming she thought she’d caught a cold from one of her students, someone named John. Instead, she just took a seat next to Diana, across from Sylvia, Diana looking like the warmer of the two.

  “That’s three of the four of us, then,” Diana said brightly. “I suppose we could start telling a little bit about ourselves, although it doesn’t seem quite fair to do so before the fourth arrives. After all,” she laughed nervously, “we wouldn’t want her to think we’d been talking about her.”

  “We don’t even know her to talk about her,” Sylvia said. “And anyway, I hate people who are late. If you’re late, you deserve to go to bed with no supper.”

  “Perhaps we should just wait a few more minutes?” Lise offered Diana helpfully. “After all, the roads aren’t all that great tonight.”

  Lise and Sylvia went and ordered cups of coffee. When they returned, Diana addressed Lise. “Sylvia says she reads everything, while I,” she lifted her paperback and waved it ruefully, “favor popular fiction. What sort of books do you like?”

  “Oh,” Lise said with an easy smile, “I sup
pose you could put me down in the everything camp too.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Diana said. “The two of you have something in common already.”

  Lise tried to smile again encouragingly, but Sylvia just scowled and the conversation thumped into awkward silence as the three watched the clock tick together.

  “This is—” Sylvia started to say at seven fifteen, but she never got to finish her thought, at least not then.

  “Omigosh, I am so sorry!” Cindy threw her brown suede satchel down on the table in a move so sudden, the coffee cups would have flown if the other women hadn’t moved quickly to grab them out of the way. Then Cindy shrugged out of her patched, tan, suede coat, letting it fall onto the chair behind her. She rooted in her satchel, pulling out a brand-new red spiral notebook and a cheap pen, flipped the notebook open to the first pristine blue-lined page, and then, pen in hand, looked up at the others expectantly. “What did I miss?”

  “Introductions, for starters,” Sylvia snorted. “By the way, you’re not really going to take notes, are you?”

  Cindy blushed, dropping her pen as though it had burned her. “I guess I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Who has?” Sylvia snorted again.

  “Perhaps we could just talk a little bit about ourselves first?” Diana suggested. “It would probably be a little bit easier to have a conversation if we actually knew who we were talking to.”

  The others looked at her.

  “So talk,” Sylvia finally challenged Diana. “This was all your idea, after all.”

  “Oh, no,” Diana said. “I mean, it was my idea, but I couldn’t possibly go first. I’d feel as though I were hogging the limelight. But,” she added, “I do think it would be nice if whoever does go first tells us a little bit about what she wants out of life, what her goals are. You know, if we’re going to become, um, close, it’s important that we help each other achieve our best selves.”

  As Diana spoke her last sentence, Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think that’s forcing things a bit?”

  “I don’t mind going first,” Lise said with an easy confidence. “I’m Lise Barrett. I’m thirty-seven years old. I work at the university, teaching writing. I have a younger sister who threw over her job to do peace work in Africa. I envy her. Most days, I love my job. Most days, I also love one of my colleagues, who I’ve been dating secretly for the past three years. But this was never what I wanted out of life. Oh, the romance part of it is fine, just not the work. What do I really want? I want to write a novel.”

  “A novel?” Diana gushed. “Oh, my. I love reading novels so much, I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than writing one.”

  “I just can’t imagine being smart enough to write a novel,” Cindy said. “All those words!”

  Sylvia said nothing.

  Cindy picked up her pen, rolled it between her fingers.

  “I’m Cindy Cox,” she said, taking a deep breath and following Lise’s lead. “I’m twenty-three. I work in a lingerie store, which I absolutely hate. I live with my boyfriend, Eddie, who I absolutely love. He’s a musician and singer. My sister Carly just got out of the hospital. Again. She has a problem with drugs, only this time she tried to kill herself. She wouldn’t talk afterward for the longest time and was put on suicide watch. Now she’s back living with our parents. I wish I could talk to her—we used to talk so much! But now I never feel it’s right to burden her with my problems. She’s got too many of her own. Plus, I don’t really have any problems. Well, except for the job. But other than that, everything’s just great. What do I want?” She screwed up her face, as though considering the question for the first time, ever. Then her eyes lit up as though the thought had just occurred to her. “I want a baby.”

  “A baby!” Diana said warmly. “You know, I’ve never been at a place in my life where I thought it was the right time to have a baby.”

  “I know what you mean,” Lise said. “I’ve often thought it would be wonderful to have a baby, but the timing was never right.”

  Sylvia said nothing.

  Diana looked at her expectantly, but when no words were forthcoming from the other woman, Diana shrugged. “Well,” she said, “I guess it must be my turn. I’m forty-two and on New Year’s Eve I was married to the man of my dreams.” As Diana spoke, she picked up breathless speed, like a prisoner encountering a priest after a month in solitary confinement. “Dan is everything I ever fantasized about wanting in a man but never imagined I’d have, not in this lifetime. Our wedding ceremony was magical! Well, except for the fact that the bride looked like something of a white whale in all that white satin, while her sister—that would be my sister, Artemis—looked like a sylph standing at the altar beside her. And then there were all the nasty bees Artemis kept putting in the bride’s ear that Dan couldn’t possibly love her, not really.”

  Diana looked embarrassed. “I suppose it’s silly, isn’t it, talking about oneself in the third person like that.”

  “That too,” Sylvia said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Diana asked.

  “Well, it’s also a bit silly to be telling so much about your wedding to three women you’ve only just met.”

  “Diana did indicate in the ad she put in the newsletter,” Lise said, rising to Diana’s defense, “that she wanted to meet other women who loved books to talk about that as well as their lives.”

  “Huh,” Sylvia said. “Except for mentioning Oprah and ‘everything,’ not much has been said about books.”

  “Well, I did say I wanted to write one,” Lisa said pointedly before turning to Diana with an encouraging look. “Go on.”

  Diana took a nibble off her cinnamon bun. “OK, then. Everything for me this past month has been wonderful. There’s just one problem.”

  The others looked at her.

  “Well, look at me!” Diana said. “I’m huge! You know it’s funny, or maybe it’s not funny at all, but when I lived in London I couldn’t wait to get out of there. You know, Londoners make fun of Americans all the time. They see the pictures in the newspapers and on the telly, and they just think everyone over here is so fat. Back home, I always felt like this anomaly. Not that everyone is thin there, but nothing like the obese Americans you see on the news. Back home, I always felt as though I’d done something wrong. I just figured it would be so much different here. And it is different here, in many ways. I have Dan. I have this great house. But everyone here seems to be either obese or too thin. There’s no happy middle! I still get disgusted looks from people, and some days I feel as though I can’t take it anymore. So what do I want? Isn’t it obvious? I want to be thin.”

  Lise gave Diana a sad and sympathetic smile.

  “That must be so hard,” Cindy said. “I just can’t imagine—”

  “You people think you have problems?” Sylvia cut her off. When she spoke again, she spoke with authority, like a drill sergeant barking out orders. “You want to know how to solve your problems?” She pointed at Lise. “You, write a book.” She pointed at Cindy. “You, have a baby.” She pointed at Diana. “And you, go on a diet.” She brushed her hands against each other as though getting rid of annoying crumbs that weren’t there. “Problems solved.”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand anything!” Diana was angry. “Do you think I like being like this? Do you think it’s my choice?” She paused, gathering momentum. “You ever watch the celebrity shows on TV or leaf through the gossip mags, and you see some gorgeous man with some woman on his arm who looks like she doesn’t quite fit in the picture? Maybe she’s older, or she doesn’t dye her hair. Or maybe she’s even fat. Or, what about that first Bush president of yours and his Barbara? People were always making cracks about her looking like his mother. Everyone laughs, snickers. How would you like to be that woman? Hmm? How would you like to be that woman who the airlines demand pays for two seats on the plane unless that woman is flying first class? How would you like to be that woman who never fits in the pictu
re, who people are always laughing at, looking from her gorgeous husband to her, and people’s eyes always saying, ‘God, what could he possibly see in her?’”

  At last, Diana ran out of steam.

  Sylvia had been looking straight at Diana the entire time the other woman was speaking. She eyed her a moment longer. Then: “But he loves you, doesn’t he, this Dan? And you’re sure of that?”

  Still visibly angry, Diana nodded.

  “Then what’s it to you,” Sylvia said, “what anyone else thinks? Seems to me, that what they think says more about them than it does about you. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

  Diana opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. In her own peculiar way, it seemed as though Sylvia was sticking up for her.

  “Crap,” Sylvia said. “And this is why I never bother with other women. My mother raised me not to be a joiner, and she was right.”

  Sylvia got up and put on her coat.

  “You’re not leaving already?” Diana said. “But you never told us about yourself.”

  “Of course I’m leaving,” Sylvia said. “This won’t work. It can’t work. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Whoever heard of such a thing? You can’t just decide to be close to other people. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “If that’s your attitude, then why did you ever come here anyway?” Diana called out to her as the other woman walked away.

  But Sylvia never turned. Instead, she walked right out the door.

  Diana

  Well, that went well.

  Oh, it wasn’t totally horrible, not after Sylvia left, never having answered my challenge about why she’d come in the first place. Why had she come? She was like some surly person showing up at an AA meeting with every intention to go out drinking afterward. But in a way, I could see she was right: it was damned awkward trying to forge a bond with people one didn’t even really know. Still, at least Lise and Cindy were making the attempt. In fact, Lise and Cindy had been quite comforting.