“I know, I know,” Zan says, muttering something I can’t catch under her breath.
“Is someone else there?”
“Just my staff,” Zan says. “We’re in the middle of something big, or I’d go look for Lizzy myself. But I can’t leave town for at least a few more days.”
“She’s probably fine,” I say, even as my conscience twinges again. “She didn’t answer the phone for days when I first got here, either, but she did text me back eventually. And she was okay. Just caught up in work.”
“I’d be more inclined to believe that if she hadn’t had a run-in with Andrew’s brother right before she disappeared. He sounds like a creep.”
“He’s not.” I bite my lip as I bob my head back and forth. “I mean, he’s not the most pleasant person, and he looks scary, but Andrew trusts him implicitly, and he seems to be a good judge of character.”
“Except when it comes to his fiancée,” Zan shoots back. She never pulls punches, but that’s okay. I need tough love right now.
“I’ve done as little lying as I can,” I say. “Mostly because I suck at it. And there’s a chance he already suspects I’m not Lizzy.” I tell Zan about the sewing class I barely avoided this morning and the odd way Andrew pressured me to be honest with him during our breakfast. “I almost told him the truth then,” I continue, “but I didn’t want to make a leap like that without Lizzy’s blessing.”
“You don’t need Lizzy’s blessing, Bree,” Zan says. “She never wanted to marry Andrew. If you’ve decided that you do, then you should go for it. Even if he gets pissed and sends you packing, at least something good will come from it. Lizzy will be free. And if you need money for house repairs, or for Mama and Papa, I can help. I’m not as flush as I was before the divorce, but I’m still doing fine. I can spare money any time you need it. All you have to do is ask.”
“Sometimes you make it hard to ask, Zan,” I say, figuring I might as well start spilling my guts now. Being honest with my sister will be a breeze compared to what I’m going to have to confess to Andrew. “You’re always so busy, and you seem…”
“Seem what?” she presses. “Spit it out.”
“Well, you seem…irritated by us a lot of the time.”
“I’m not irritated by you,” Zan says. “I’m irritated by Mama and Papa and the way you and Lizzy humor them.”
“See,” I challenge. “You just said it yourself. You’re irritated by us.”
Zan sighs. “Our parents aren’t invalids, Bree. They’re capable of getting jobs and contributing to their own upkeep. At the very least, Papa could sell some of his paintings instead of hoarding them in his studio. But you and Lizzy keep stepping up to save them from taking responsibility for themselves. So, yes, it’s frustrating to me. But I don’t love you any less for it.”
“I don’t think our parents are as capable as you think,” I say even though I know there’s not much chance I’ll get through to her. Once Zan’s mind is made up, it’s very tough to unmake it. About anything. Ever. “They’ve never been a part of the real world, and they’ve aged a lot since you left to go to boarding school. They’re both pushing seventy, and it shows in their physical and mental health. You come home so seldom, I know you don’t see it, but Lizzy and I do. Getting Mama out of her pajamas and locked into a set routine would be a full-time job on its own. And if you took Papa away from his familiar surroundings, I’m not sure what would happen. I’m guessing he’d get even more floaty and vague than he is already.”
I take a deep breath and push on, though the silence on the other end of the line is far from encouraging. “And call me crazy, but I feel a responsibility to take care of them as they age. It’s the compassionate thing to do. They’re our family, and they’re on their way out of this life. I want to make them as comfortable as I can for as long as I can. Just because they couldn’t give us what we needed when we were small doesn’t mean we can’t give them what they need now. We have to break the cycle of selfishness sometime, don’t we?”
Zan’s quiet for another beat before she says, “I’ve never thought of it that way. In my head, they’re still in their fifties and making us stay up in the drafty tower while they throw loud parties they can’t afford.”
“We were eight,” I remind her gently. “We haven’t been eight for a long time.”
“No, we haven’t,” she says, a little sadly. “I miss you, Bree. We should talk more often.”