On Second Thought(91)

I didn’t respond with a similar compliment, just took a sip of crappy wine and stared at her.

She huffed. “Whatever, Kate.” With that, she left, sauntered over to Daniel and squeezed his arm. Tilted her head against his shoulder and fake-laughed, her eyes on me.

“I always hated her,” Ainsley said.

“You know what?” I said suddenly. “I’m starving. Are you starving?”

“I am indeed.”

“Let’s go somewhere.” I waved to Greta, pointed at my watch as if I had somewhere else to be, and a second later, Ainsley and I were out on the street, walking down Flatbush Avenue toward where we’d parked. I glanced over my shoulder. Daniel was not following us. Not that he even knew we were there.

We got into the car, and Ainsley didn’t ask questions, didn’t grill me, didn’t judge me.

“You’re such a good sister,” I said, looking out my window, a little embarrassed at my statement. A second later, I felt her hand in mine.

“So are you,” she said. The spike pierced my throat.

“Not really.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“I wish I could do it over,” I said, swallowing. “I was so jealous of you—Dad’s favorite, the cute one, the boyfriend who adored you.”

“Oh, my God, I’m so jealous of you! The smart one, the cool one, the one who had a real career.” She glanced at me. “Seriously. I was jealous of Nathan, even. You got the best guy in the world.”

There was the spike again. “I should’ve been nicer to you.”

“I was the other woman’s kid,” she said. “You were allowed to have mixed feelings.” She was quiet for a minute, negotiating the streets with ease. “You know, you never told me to bug off,” she said. “It must’ve been irritating, having a little kid always knocking on your door. But you always let me in. You brushed my hair, you did my nails, you let me tag along with you, you came to see me at college, you invited me over. And I’m living with you! You’re a great sister.”

“I loved your mother,” I said unexpectedly, and again, the tears that were locked in my chest gave a mighty kick, wanting to get out.

“Really?” Ainsley smiled at me, delighted. “What do you remember? Oh, shit, the guy almost hit me. Watch it, idiot! Where are we going, anyway?”

I directed her to a rooftop bar in SoHo where I’d photographed an engagement party. The views of the city were breathtaking, and we managed to get a table by some miracle. The crowd was too sophisticated to be overly rowdy, so we could really talk.

“Should we call our worthless brother and see if he wants to come?” Ainsley suggested.

“Nah. Let’s just have it be us sisters.” I paused. “Do you think he’s worthless?”

She shrugged. “Not really. Not to you.”

It dawned on me that Sean was pretty worthless where Ainsley was concerned. I started to apologize for him, then stopped, as always torn between loyalty to my family of origin and sympathy for Ainsley, the outsider.

“Ooh! A lavender martini! I’m definitely getting that.”

For a very long time, I’d seen Ainsley’s übercheer as a character flaw, hiding some shallowness. Now, suddenly, I saw how thick her skin was, how much energy and strength it took to be so forgiving, and so happy, and so...nice all the time.

“This is so great,” I said. “Thanks for making me shower.”

We ordered a martini apiece and some appetizers. Tomorrow, I was photographing a newborn baby and his parents in one of those let’s all get naked and remind this child how he got started and then hide the portrait once he turns six shoots. I could use a drink.

The waiter brought our food, and we devoured it in true O’Leary fashion. One of the things about grief—my appetite sucked, and I was looking a little skeletal these days. But tonight, I was hungry, and the food tasted like food.

“It’s so pretty here,” Ainsley said, looking over SoHo, the pretty cornices on the building across the way, One World Trade Center looking a bit like a narwhal, its antenna piercing the low-hanging clouds. “We should do this more.”

“We should,” I said, and unlike a thousand times in the past when I’d said just that, it felt real this time. Like we’d really do it.

“So. Tell me about my mom,” she said, folding her hands.

I took a sip of my drink. “Well, she was really pretty, which you already know. And so nice. She never bossed Sean and me around when we went over, and she always made something fun for dinner.” Was this the first time I’d ever told her this? Shame on me.

“Like what?”

“Oh, macaroni and cheese, but the homemade kind, with these crazy curly noodles. And she bought special place mats for us. Sean’s had the solar system on it, and mine had these cute chickens on it.”

“Did she like you? I mean, she was pretty young to be a stepmom.”

“She was great. She was like this cool aunt. Not like Aunt Patty, who tells you about her irritable bowel syndrome the second she sees you.”

“Yeah, I know way too much about her colon.”

“Michelle really loved you,” I said, remembering. “She’d hold you for no reason, even if you were asleep. And she shared you. She let me play with you and hold you, and she always took pictures of the two of us, and the three of us, and the next week, there they’d be, in a frame.”