The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(5)

Hannah had little trouble finding her sister in the crowd. Amanda was a stiletto pump away from being six feet tall, with an Irish red mane that made her stand out like a stop sign. She stood alone by the ticket booth, a stately figure even in her bargain blouse and skinny jeans. At twenty-seven, Amanda’s sharp features had settled into hard elegance, a brand of uptight beauty that was catnip to so many artists. Hannah felt like a tavern wench in the presence of a queen.

Amanda spotted her and shined a taut smile. “Hey, there you are!”

“Here I am,” Hannah said. “Thanks for coming.”

After a clumsy half-start, the two women hugged. Hannah stood five inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than her sister, though she’d squeezed it all into a buxom frame that drove numerous men to idiocy. Amanda felt hopelessly unsexy in her company, the Olive Oyl to her Betty Boop. Her husband did a fine job fortifying her complex tonight. The only time Derek didn’t writhe in agony during the awful show was when Hannah graced the stage with her grand and bouncy blessings. Amanda had hacked a sharp cough at him, just to throw sand in his bulging eyes.

Hannah scanned the lobby for her brother-in-law, a man she’d met six times at best. “Where’s the doc?”

“He’s getting the car. He’s tired and we both have to be up early tomorrow.”

“Okay. Hope he didn’t suffer too much.”

“Not too much.” Her smile tightened. “He really enjoyed your performance.”

“Oh good. Glad to hear it. And you?”

“I thought you were terrific. Better than . . .”

Amanda stopped herself. Hannah’s brow rose in cynical query. “Better than what? Usual?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Then just say it.”

“I thought you were better than the show deserved.”

A frosty new leer bloomed across Hannah’s face. Amanda glanced around, then leaned in for a furtive half whisper.

“Look, you know I like Damn Yankees, but this whole idea of turning it into a Bollywood pastiche was just . . . It was painful, like watching someone try to shove a Saint Bernard through a cat door. But despite that—”

Hannah cut her off with a jagged laugh. Amanda crossed her arms in umbrage.

“You asked me my opinion. Would you rather I lie?”

“I’d rather you say it instead of coughing it!”

A dozen glances turned their way. Amanda blinked at her sister. “I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Now you’re lying.”

“Hannah—”

“You just couldn’t hold in your criticism. You had to let it out in the middle of my big number.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Bullshit. You know what you did.”

“Hannah, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Oh my God.” The actress covered her face with both hands. “You do this every time.”

“Well, I’m—”

“‘—sorry you’re upset,’” Hannah finished, in near-perfect synch with her sister. “Yeah. I’m well acquainted with your noble act by now. You might want to change it up a little. You know, for variety.”

Amanda closed her eyes and pressed the dangling gold crucifix on her collarbone. This, Hannah knew all too well, was the standard Amanda retreat whenever her mothersome bother and sisterical hyster became too much for her. Give me strength, O Lord. Give me strength.

The lights in the lobby suddenly faltered for three seconds, an erratic flicker that stopped all chatter. Hannah furrowed her brow at the sputtering laptop in the ticket booth.

Amanda checked her watch and vented a somber breath at the exit. “He should be out front by now. I better go.”

“Fine. Say hi for me.”

“Yup.”

The sisters spent a long, hot moment avoiding each other’s gazes before Amanda turned around and pushed through the swinging glass doors.

Hannah leaned against the wall, muttering soft curses as she gently thumped her skull. Between all her regrets and frustrations, she found the space to wonder why a battery-powered laptop would flicker with the overhead lights. She pushed the concern to the back of her mind, in the dark little vault where strange things went.

—

Seventeen years had passed since the madness on the Massachusetts Turnpike. The Givens never spoke a public word about the bizarre circumstances of their rescue. With each passing year, a welcome fog grew over their collective memories, until the family embraced the cover story as the one true account. They saw the truck teetering. They fled before it fell. That was just how it happened. End of subject.

Eight years after the incident, death came for Robert a second time and won. His cancer and passing had shattered Amanda in ways even her mother couldn’t divine. She spent her final summer at home like an apparition and then disappeared to college, coming home once a year with thoughtful gifts, a practiced smile, and at least one major change to her state of being. First she found God. Then Hippocrates. Then a credible shade of red. And finally, during her brief stint at medical school, she found Dr. Derek Ambridge, who was eleven years her senior. From there, the arc of her life went into gentle downgrade.

Hannah, meanwhile, had cratered early. A spectacular nervous breakdown at age thirteen ended both her and her mother’s resolve to turn her into a child star. After a year of therapy, she landed comfortably on the civilian teenage track, where she became lost in a routine tsunami of highs and lows, LOLs and whoas, breakups, makeups, and adolescent shake-ups. Upon graduation, she went west to San Diego State, where she dyed her hair black and experimented with all-new mistakes. On the upside, she rediscovered her theatrical ambitions. She stayed in town after college, found an office job, and began the slow process of rebuilding her résumé.