Chapter 4 - The Sister’s Burden
Down on the third floor, in room 308, Sophie Carter was sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, staring at her left hand.
The diamond was two carats, cushion-cut, set in platinum. It was very bright, very clean, and completely cold. Julian had bought it at a family jeweler on Madison Avenue, using an installment account that his mother had co-signed. Sophie had been told, repeatedly, during the six months of their courtship, how fortunate she was.
*“The Whitmores don't usually marry outside the circle, darling,”* Eleanor had told her over watercress sandwiches at the Colony Club. *“Julian had his pick of the debutantes from the Assembly. But he sees something fresh in you. Unspoiled. We just have to smooth down the rough corners.”*
Sophie had smiled. She had nodded. She had allowed Eleanor to select her dress, her shoes, her hair stylist, and the color of the napkins. She had spent six months smoothing herself down until she felt like a river stone—round, featureless, and slipping helplessly toward the drop of a waterfall.
Julian was in the bathroom, shaving with his silver-plated safety razor. The steam drifted out through the open door, carrying the scent of sandalwood and bay rum.
"Babe," Julian called out over the sound of running water. "Did your sister check into an airport hotel or did she go back to New York?"
Sophie flinched. The question hit her like a small stone thrown against a windowpane.
"I... I don't know, Julian," she said, her voice barely audible. "I haven't called her."
"Good," Julian said, stepping out with a white towel draped around his bare neck. His torso was lean, tanned from an October trip to Bermuda that his father’s frequent-flyer miles had funded. "Look, I know my mother was a little intense last night, but you have to admit, your sister didn't read the room. Coming to a black-tie engagement in an overcoat like that? She looked like she was there to audit the kitchen staff. My mother’s friends were watching. Bitsy Van Der Bilt asked my mother if she was the new event coordinator."
"Claire works very hard, Julian," Sophie said, her knuckles turning white around her phone.
"Sure she does," Julian said easily, applying aftershave with brisk, self-satisfied slaps to his cheeks. "Lots of people work hard. My dad works hard. But there’s a way you carry yourself. There’s an understanding of the environment. My mom was just setting boundaries. Once we're married, we’re going to be hosting a lot of people from the firm. We can't have people dropping in unannounced who don't fit the profile."
*Who don't fit the profile.*
Sophie looked at her phone screen.
Five years ago, when their father’s coffin was being lowered into the damp red clay of the cemetery behind the rail yards, the rain had been relentless. There had been no marquee, no folding chairs with padded velvet seats, no silver urns of hot tea. There had been four men from the municipal works department in yellow slickers, leaning on their shovels, waiting for the two girls to finish so they could fill the hole before the four-o’clock shift ended.
Sophie had been nineteen, hysterical with grief, her cheap black stockings soaked to the skin, shivering so violently her teeth clicked.
Claire had stood beside her. Claire was twenty-six then, her coat threadbare at the cuffs, her face gray with the bone-deep fatigue of three jobs. But Claire had not cried. Claire had taken off her own wool scarf—the only warm thing she owned—and wrapped it three times around Sophie’s neck.
*“Look at me, Sophie,”* Claire had commanded that day, her fingers digging into Sophie’s shoulders with bruising intensity. *“Look at me. We are not going under. Do you hear me? I have the books. I have the schedule. You are going to finish school. You are going to have a clean life. But you have to keep your eyes open. Never look at the ground. If you look at the ground, they’ll bury you while you're still breathing.”*
For five years, Claire had kept that promise.
Every tuition bill: paid. Every dentist bill: paid. When Sophie’s first marriage to Mark had collapsed in a flurry of bad checks and drunken shouting matches in an apartment complex outside Newark, it wasn't Julian Whitmore who arrived at three in the morning with a U-Haul truck and two professional movers. It was Claire. Claire, who had paid the three months' back rent Sophie had hidden from everyone. Claire, who had sat on the floor of that greasy kitchen, sorting through utility bills with a red pen, never once raising her voice, never once saying: *I told you so.*
*“Sophie,”* Claire had said last night, under the five-thousand-crystal chandelier of the Grand Ballroom. *“Is this really what you want?”*
And Sophie had looked away. She had looked at Eleanor Whitmore’s diamond choker, at Julian’s tailored tuxedo, at the three photographers from the society desk of the *Chronicle*, and she had said: *“Please don't make a scene.”*
She had chosen the chandelier over the scarf.
Sophie’s fingers began to shake. She unlocked her phone, opened her messaging app, and stared at the thread between them. The last message from Claire had been sent at noon yesterday:
*Landing at four. Brought Dad’s pocket watch for Julian if he wants it, and Mom’s pendant for you. Can't wait to see your face.*
Sophie pressed her thumb to the keyboard.
*Claire, please. Where are you? Julian’s mom was just stressed about the seating. Can we have breakfast? Just the two of us? I'm so sorry about how it looked.*
She stared at the little gray bubble. She waited for the three pulsing dots that indicated Claire was typing.
One minute passed. Two minutes.
The screen remained blank.
"Hey," Julian said, walking over and placing his hands on her shoulders. His touch was heavy, possessive, scented with almond soap. "Stop staring at your phone. My dad just texted. He says we need to be downstairs at the main dining room by nine sharp. Some big corporate thing is happening tonight—the hotel’s owner is flying in for the annual gala. Dad says we need to look sharp because the entire regional board will be there, and he wants to introduce me to the managing director."
Sophie looked up at Julian’s handsome, symmetrical, utterly vacant face.
"Julian," she whispered. "What if my sister doesn't come tonight?"
May you like
Julian laughed, a bright, careless sound that bounced off the vinyl walls. "Babe, she’s not going to miss a free dinner at the Meridian. People like that always come back once they've had a chance to pout. Now put on that cream-colored dress my mother bought you. The one with the conservative neckline. We have appearances to keep up."
***
