The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(8)

This is not a lifetime commitment, I remind myself. Maybe something else will come along.

A call from Anna pops up on my dashboard screen as I’m heading toward the day-care center to pick up Maisie.

“Mom told me what happened,” Anna says. “Are you okay?”

“Mostly,” I say. “I took a job at the Sunway Hotel on Marina Mile.”

“Oh God. That place is terrible.”

I laugh. “I know, right? If Satan designed a level of Hell specifically for me, it would be working at the Sunway for all eternity.”

“Did you try to find something better first?”

The question makes me bristle, even though I don’t think Anna means to be insulting. I don’t always know how to talk to my sister. Sometimes it feels like she leads a charmed life. I mean … no. That’s not fair. She lost her fiancé to suicide. Losing my job doesn’t even approach that kind of tragedy. But Ben was wildly in love with her, and after his death—when she foolishly went to sea in a boat she really didn’t know how to sail—she ended up meeting Keane. In the time I’ve spent trying to make one man love me, Anna’s had two. I try not to resent her for that, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I swallow my annoyance.

“I did,” I say. “But my choices were either a shitty job in a nicer hotel, or the same job in a shittier hotel. I made a lateral move. Sort of.”

“That makes sense,” she says. “And it will look better on your résumé.”

Not wanting her to think I’m completely pathetic, I tell her about the hotel in Ohio.

“Oh my God, Rachel, that sounds perfect for you,” Anna says. “Why aren’t you pursuing it?”

“Ohio is so far away, and Mom is here.”

“Are you planning to live with her forever?”

I bristle again, but this time I have legitimate cause. “Of course not, but I don’t want to take Maisie away from her.”

Anna sighs. “Did you ever think that maybe Mom deserves to put herself first for a change? I mean, she hustled to make ends meet when we were kids, and now she spends every night babysitting Maisie. Maybe she’d like to meet someone special or go out for drinks with friends.”

This is how we always end up arguing. She pushes my buttons and I push hers. “Maybe Mom is happy with the way things are.”

“Are you?”

The question throws me. Mostly because I’m not sure of the answer. I’ve always thought happiness was something on the horizon: that I’d get there eventually.

“You always say I was selfish for walking out of my life,” Anna continues. “Maybe I was. But I was so comfortable with my pain that if I had stayed in Florida, I’d probably still be miserable. Not everyone finds magic outside their comfort zone, but maybe you should learn more about that job before you reject the idea outright.”

“I, um—” Normally it’s my job to dish out the unsolicited advice. But she’s not wrong. “I’ll think about it.”

“Mom could come visit you up there,” she says. “Flying to Ohio is a lot cheaper than flying to wherever Keane and I happen to be on any given day.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re anchored in Little Bay in Montserrat,” she says. “We’ll be here for about a week, then head to Antigua.”

Anna sailed from Florida all the way to Trinidad—sometimes alone, sometimes with Keane—and they’ve been meandering their way back up the Caribbean chain for the past year. He takes delivery jobs to keep them afloat financially. Anna has talked about coming home so Mom and I can meet Keane, but they’ve also been preparing for a transatlantic crossing to Ireland, where his family lives.

“Do you ever get homesick?”

“Sometimes, but Keane is my—”

“I have to go.” I interrupt her with a lie, afraid she’s going to say that Keane is her home. I don’t want to hear that. Not now. I don’t want to end this phone call feeling jealous. “I’m picking up Maisie from day care.”

“Give her a big hug for me.”

“I will.”

“Ich liebe dich,” Anna says. We never say those words in English. It’s like we come right up to the brink of love with each other, but never go all the way over. “Call the guy in Ohio.”

“Fine.” I laugh. Sisterhood is complicated. “I will.”



* * *



Maisie is tucked in for a nap when I step out into the backyard and pull up Cecily’s text message on my phone. Mason Brown. 419-555-1769.

I settle into the hammock swing hanging from a thick live oak in the middle of the yard. It’s a messy old tree that drops a blanket of leaves so dense, there’s no grass beneath the circle of its canopy. When Dad was around, he’d set up a tent under the tree so Anna and I could camp. Invariably, I’d be frightened by the night sounds and end up in my bed, leaving Anna alone to face the imaginary dangers of the backyard. Maybe she’s always been braver than I am.

I take a deep breath for courage. Release it. And make the call.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested,” a gruff male voice says before I’ve even had a chance to say hello. “And take my number off—”