To Love and to Perish by Lisa Bork Page A

the Mecca for boaters, bathers, and water sport enthusiasts. We were known as the western portal to the Finger Lakes region, and our town’s population more than doubled in the summertime. Although the official tourist season had ended on Labor Day, the town still seemed bustling this bright and cheery Sunday morning.
    At the edge of our village, a few yards beyond the quarter mile of original and picturesque brick and clapboard buildings lining the shopping district, a small but charming park offered visitors an area to swim under the careful watch of a lifeguard. The lush grass surrounding the area cried out for picnics. Yesterday I’d called and left a message for Erica to meet me there.
    The park also showcased the loading dock for a paddleboat that offered luncheon and dinner cruises on the lake. With the sun shining at full blast and temperatures in the seventies, a line to board today’s luncheon cruise wound across the park and around the white band gazebo. Through the crowd, I spotted Erica sitting on one of the gazebo benches, dressed in jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, and flip-flops, just like me, and holding a paper bag. If her V-neck hadn’t revealed cleavage and her jeans had been a little less tight, holey or frayed, our clothing would have matched. As it was, even with only five years difference in age between us, I looked like the conservative mom and Erica, a teen on the prowl.
    As soon as she spied me, Erica rose and pointed to the sidewalk. I nodded in agreement, welcoming the exercise. My blue-eyed sister with her long, blond ringlets, who used to be a size four, was not so happy at her current size eight, a result in equal parts from her medications and the richer cuisine of married life. Still, she could give Kate Hudson a run for her money any day, in my humble opinion. The two looked quite a bit alike.
    We fell into step and left the park, strolling down the sidewalk past the stately village homes dating as far back as the 1790s. Their magnificent porches decorated with overflowing hanging baskets of purple petunias, red geraniums, yellow marigolds, and fuchsia verbena made the view all the more spectacular. Blessed with a black thumb, I always admired other people’s flowers.
    Erica handed me the bag. “I made you something.”
    This was a first. Surprised, inordinately pleased, and curious, I reached inside the bag and pulled out a pillow. In uneven cross-stitch, it read, “I smile because you’re my sister. I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it.”
    Never were words so true. We looked at each other and burst out giggling.
    I shook the pillow at her. “If you only knew how many Finger Lakes gift shops have items with this saying on it. I think of you every time I see it.”
    She seemed pleased, always happy to be the center of the universe. “What do you think of my pillow?”
    â€œI’m impressed. When did you take up cross-stitching?”
    â€œLast week. I’m unemployed, you know.”
    A sobering fact. Erica spent most of her adulthood unemployed, able to get a job but always losing it when either the depression or the mania along with the phone calls to her coworkers at all hours of the night arrived. All the restaurants and shops in town flipped the “Closed” signs in her face now whenever she tried to apply, having learned either firsthand or through the grapevine just how unreliable or disruptive she could be.
    â€œI’m glad you’re putting your time to good use. I love the pillow. Thanks.”
    I broke our companionable silence after a few yards, beginning my ritual questioning. “So how are you?”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œHow are things going with Maury?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAre you happy with him?”
    â€œSure. He loves me.”
    I waited for Erica to say that she loved him, too. And waited. At least it didn’t sound like she had another man. She would have told me.