the moving ramp. “Is that it?” Renee directed her sister toward an old navy-and-brown canvas suitcase that looked vaguely familiar. “Kathryn, is that your suitcase?” she asked again, before reaching over and pulling it off the ramp. She checked the name. Kathryn Metcalfe Wright, the tag read. “Are there any more? Do you remember how many suitcases your friend packed?”
Kathryn shook her head. “I think just one.”
Renee half carried, half rolled the heavy bag out of the terminal, her other arm tightly wrapped around her sister’s waist. Reaching her white Mercedes—a gift from Philip on their last anniversary—she threw the bag into the trunk and led Kathryn to the passenger door. “Get in,” she said gently.
Renee pulled the car out of the airport terminal and onto the road leading to I-95. She patted the top of her sister’s hand gently, as if she were touching a fragile piece of china, and watched as her sister’s eyes closed. A few minutes later, she heard Kathryn’s soft, steady breathing and was relieved to discover that she had fallen asleep.
“Hello? Is anybody home?” Renee called as she guided her sister into the mirrored foyer of her condominium. She saw Kathryn wince at the sight of her own reflection, and quickly ushered her sister down the hall into the living room. The ocean sprang into immediate view. “I guess Debbie went to the beach,” Renee said, seating her sister on the white sofa facing the floor-to-ceiling window, hoping her voice didn’t betray the relief she felt at finding the apartment empty.
“This was a terrible time to do this to you,” Kathryn said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You already have Debbie staying with you. The last thing you needed was your crazy sister.”
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that’s what condominiums in Florida are for? Hey, that was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh.”
Kathryn managed a wan smile. “I could really go for a glass of water.”
“Don’t move. I’ll get it.” Renee went immediately to the kitchen, poured Kathryn a large glass of water, then opened the fridge door and peered inside. “Do you want anything to eat?”
“No, thanks. Water is great.”
Renee fumbled with a bag of miniature 3 Musketeers chocolate bars at the back of the refrigerator, popping one quickly into her mouth before returning to the living room. “You should eat,” she told her sister. “You have to keep your strength up.”
“I’m not hungry. Maybe later.” Kathryn’s eyes drifted around the room. “Do you realize that I’ve never been to your apartment before?”
“That’s because you never leave New York.”
“Arnie doesn’t like to travel.”
“So, what do you think?” Renee asked, ignoring her sister’s reference to her husband as if he were still alive. “Like it?”
For a moment, Kathryn said nothing. Renee wondered whether she had heard the question and was about to repeat it when Kathryn spoke. “It doesn’t look like you,” she remarked, as if she were examining a photograph.
“Well, it isn’t. I mean, it is, but it isn’t,” Renee stammered, feeling foolish. “It was Philip’s apartment, but it’s so perfect, we didn’t see any reason to move. It’s right on the ocean and it’s certainly big enough for our needs. There are three bedrooms. It’s perfect,” she repeated.
“It’s so white.”
Renee tried seeing the apartment through Kathryn’s eyes, trying to remember what her first reaction had been when Philip brought her here some six and a half yearsago. “Philip doesn’t like clutter. He says he sees enough of it at the office every day without having to come home to it at night. He likes things neat and clean.”
“And what do you like?”
“What do you mean?”
Kathryn said nothing.
Renee watched her sip gingerly at her water. “I like things exactly the way they are.” She followed Kathryn’s eyes as they swept across the walls of the living room, taking in
Kathryn shook her head. “I think just one.”
Renee half carried, half rolled the heavy bag out of the terminal, her other arm tightly wrapped around her sister’s waist. Reaching her white Mercedes—a gift from Philip on their last anniversary—she threw the bag into the trunk and led Kathryn to the passenger door. “Get in,” she said gently.
Renee pulled the car out of the airport terminal and onto the road leading to I-95. She patted the top of her sister’s hand gently, as if she were touching a fragile piece of china, and watched as her sister’s eyes closed. A few minutes later, she heard Kathryn’s soft, steady breathing and was relieved to discover that she had fallen asleep.
“Hello? Is anybody home?” Renee called as she guided her sister into the mirrored foyer of her condominium. She saw Kathryn wince at the sight of her own reflection, and quickly ushered her sister down the hall into the living room. The ocean sprang into immediate view. “I guess Debbie went to the beach,” Renee said, seating her sister on the white sofa facing the floor-to-ceiling window, hoping her voice didn’t betray the relief she felt at finding the apartment empty.
“This was a terrible time to do this to you,” Kathryn said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You already have Debbie staying with you. The last thing you needed was your crazy sister.”
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that’s what condominiums in Florida are for? Hey, that was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh.”
Kathryn managed a wan smile. “I could really go for a glass of water.”
“Don’t move. I’ll get it.” Renee went immediately to the kitchen, poured Kathryn a large glass of water, then opened the fridge door and peered inside. “Do you want anything to eat?”
“No, thanks. Water is great.”
Renee fumbled with a bag of miniature 3 Musketeers chocolate bars at the back of the refrigerator, popping one quickly into her mouth before returning to the living room. “You should eat,” she told her sister. “You have to keep your strength up.”
“I’m not hungry. Maybe later.” Kathryn’s eyes drifted around the room. “Do you realize that I’ve never been to your apartment before?”
“That’s because you never leave New York.”
“Arnie doesn’t like to travel.”
“So, what do you think?” Renee asked, ignoring her sister’s reference to her husband as if he were still alive. “Like it?”
For a moment, Kathryn said nothing. Renee wondered whether she had heard the question and was about to repeat it when Kathryn spoke. “It doesn’t look like you,” she remarked, as if she were examining a photograph.
“Well, it isn’t. I mean, it is, but it isn’t,” Renee stammered, feeling foolish. “It was Philip’s apartment, but it’s so perfect, we didn’t see any reason to move. It’s right on the ocean and it’s certainly big enough for our needs. There are three bedrooms. It’s perfect,” she repeated.
“It’s so white.”
Renee tried seeing the apartment through Kathryn’s eyes, trying to remember what her first reaction had been when Philip brought her here some six and a half yearsago. “Philip doesn’t like clutter. He says he sees enough of it at the office every day without having to come home to it at night. He likes things neat and clean.”
“And what do you like?”
“What do you mean?”
Kathryn said nothing.
Renee watched her sip gingerly at her water. “I like things exactly the way they are.” She followed Kathryn’s eyes as they swept across the walls of the living room, taking in
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