The Sunshine Sisters Page 12

  Lizzy was there when they arrived, Nell sailing in late with their mother. Lizzy was as manic as ever, ordering wine, chattering away with the waiters, some of whom she seemed to know. Nell was watching quietly from the sidelines. Ronni attempted to charm Derek, but Meredith could see instantly that they came from different worlds, that her dramatic, overbearing mother saw her boyfriend from the suburbs and disapproved.

  Thankfully, Ronni wasn’t her usual biting self. She looked ill and she was walking with a cane after a fall at home. And there was something wrong with her left hand, which must have been bruised in the fall. It was the first time Meredith thought there may have been something in her complaining. Meredith was starting to worry, was about to ask her mother what was really going on, when Derek excused himself to go to the bathroom.

  “You are joking, Meri, right?” Lizzy said, leaning over.

  “What are you talking about?” Meredith stared at her sister.

  “He’s just . . . I don’t even know how to say this. But really? For real? You’re planning on spending the rest of your life with that man?”

  Meredith instantly regretted having told her mother she thought this might be serious. Her mother had clearly passed on the news. Lizzy had put on an English accent when she asked her question, and did something with her mouth, with her teeth, that was very English, and very Derek, and shockingly accurate.

  Meredith stiffened. “Derek and I are serious, and we’re very happy together. I didn’t ask your opinion, Lizzy. If I wanted it, I would have asked, but I didn’t.”

  “Ouch!” said Lizzy. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Meri. It’s just . . . he’s such an . . . accountant.”

  “I’m an accountant,” said Meredith, the color rising in her cheeks, turning them the precise shade of raspberry she had always hated. “Why don’t you just learn to keep your mouth shut, Lizzy? You only ever open it to offend someone.”

  Lizzy’s eyes widened. “Oh, God, Meri, I’m sorry. I totally forgot! I swear. I just meant I thought maybe he was a bit . . . straight for you.”

  “When you say ‘straight,’ you mean boring?” Meredith happened to glance over at her mother then and saw she was trying not to laugh. “Forget this,” she said. “I’m not staying for this.”

  She started to walk out, only for Nell to come after her and apologize, remind her that Derek was still in the bathroom, and lead her back to the table so her mother and Lizzy could apologize as well. So she sat down even before Derek came back from the men’s room. She didn’t talk to her sister or her mother for the rest of the meal.

  The thing is, Derek probably is too straight for her, whatever that means. And he is boring. But not everyone can be interesting and he has so many other wonderful qualities. She is quite sure she will never find anyone as nice as Derek again, nor someone who loves her in the way he does. He cares enough about her to even order her dinner, stop her from making choices they both know she’ll regret in the morning.

  As for being boring, she has learned to nod in all the right places and look interested in what he’s saying even as she is thinking about how to redecorate the living room or what she should be making for dinner.

  Perhaps a bigger problem—although really, is it a problem or is it something that she actually prefers?—is the fact that Derek doesn’t really seem to see Meredith. Or hear her. Or listen to her. He has very clear views about who Meredith is and how she should dress (note the white tights) and what she wants (steak) and what she likes (spinach), and he refuses to consider the possibility that he might be wrong. If Meredith tries contradicting him, he laughs indulgently and pets her, stroking her arm or cheek as if she is a mischievous cat.

  Meredith has told him she feels she is too old for children, and that she has never wanted them anyway. She hasn’t told him the reason why. She hasn’t told him that she has always been terrified of being a mother, terrified of being the kind of mother her own mother was. She told him she just didn’t feel she had a maternal bone in her body.

  Derek surprised her with the mini schnauzer, partly, she suspected, to disprove her theory, to show her how capable she is of loving a small creature who is utterly dependent on her. But Meredith knows that dogs and babies are very different propositions, even if Derek doesn’t.

  The last time she mentioned she didn’t want to be a mother, he laughed and patronizingly said many women feel that way until their babies are placed in their arms. His eyes were all twinkly as he beamed at her, nodding, as if he understood something she did not, and it was the very first time she actually wanted to smack him. She doesn’t want children, and she knows she will not change her mind. She just isn’t sure how to help Derek hear her.

  She has wanted to smack him a few times since then. She is quite sure that isn’t a good thing. But Meredith, the good girl, the people pleaser, is on a path, and she has absolutely no idea how to get off. So she just keeps telling herself that Derek will surely make a wonderful husband—and he wants to marry her! He thinks she is special enough to marry her. No one else had even thought she was special enough to have a relationship with in years.

  Who is she to say no?

  Her phone vibrates suddenly, which is strange. She pulls it out of her bag to see who it is, and her mother’s name is on the screen. How odd. She hasn’t spoken to her mother, or in fact either of her sisters, since that disastrous trip when Lizzy called Derek boring.

  Her calling can’t be a good thing. She would only be calling if something were wrong. Meredith excuses herself from the table and walks quickly outside the restaurant to take the call, astonished that however detached she thinks she is, there is a sliver of anxiety in her heart.

  sixteen

  The sun is beating down as Lizzy stands with her clipboard, directing the men hauling hydrangea trees in huge square wooden pots onto the roof.

  “No, no!” she barks, rushing over. “Not there. I said five feet apart. And it’s not straight. See that? They need to be straight.” She sighs as the men bring back the dolly and slide it under the pot, move it as they keep looking at her, checking that it’s okay, nervous of her disapproval.

  “Okay. Good. Thank you. How many more do you have? Three?” The men nod as they shuffle back along the rooftop. “Great. I’ll stay until they’re all here to make sure they’re placed properly.” She slides a loose tendril of hair back and tucks it into her bun. At least today her hair is clean. These days she tends to wash it only once a week, if she is lucky, scraping it back and out of the way when she cooks and when, like tonight, she is running a supper club.

  The rooftop has been transformed from a blank slate with simple wooden decking to a lush, elegant wonderland. Huge Balinese daybeds now occupy one side of the terrace, with white cushions and piles of pillows that invite you to sit and lounge. Groupings of white furniture sit around low Indian coffee tables covered with lanterns and tea lights. Everywhere there is greenery, trees and shrubs that have been brought in for the occasion; afterward they will go back to the farm they have found just outside Tarrytown that rents them out.

  Tonight they are seating the guests at one huge table that snakes around the edges of the living room on the rooftop they have created with the furniture and accessories. They have covered the table in burlap, with Lizzy’s signature candles, all different heights and sizes, running down the middle. The chairs are bamboo, the linens a mixture of natural and white. On each person’s plate will go a small galvanized steel pot containing a starter salad, with white ramekins of ingredients the guest can add if he or she chooses: maple-chipotle-glazed pecans, cubes of golden fried halloumi cheese, caramelized onions, crispy lardons from a farm in Ridgefield. Everything served at Lizzy’s dinners is organic, grass fed, and as local as she can find.

  Some of the produce comes from her sister Nell’s farm. Not that Nell is involved, beyond giving Lizzy a good price. Lizzy invited her, frequently in the beginning, when
she finally got the supper clubs right and knew she was onto something big. But Nell was always busy, always sent texts saying so sorry, maybe next time. Lizzy has stopped asking, but hasn’t stopped buying her lettuce, collard greens, tomatoes, and strawberries, not least because she has yet to find better.

  The men bring the rest of the plants up as Lizzy checks everything is in place. They always string fairy lights across the rooftops; it is part of her signature style. But now they have large poles with concrete bases and hooks at the top to hold the lights. Now the lights never come crashing down, instead creating a magical arbor over people’s heads and making them forget they are in New York City, imagining they are, perhaps, on a country farm. But now she notices the job hasn’t been finished properly.

  “Can someone secure these lights, please?” she shouts over her shoulder, to no one in particular, for there are plenty of workers milling around, each of whom really should have already done this. “Christ.” She shakes her head and mutters to herself as she tries to loop the string of lights over the hook, but it is too high and she can’t reach.

  A young man appears, takes the string of lights from her hand, and does it effortlessly, smiling at her. His eyes twinkle in his suntanned face, his thick, bushy, hipsterish beard setting off his blue eyes.

  “I hope this is okay to ask, but may I have your autograph for my girlfriend? She’s a huge fan. I mean, I am too. We’re both huge fans. She went to the Culinary Institute of America because of you, and she watches your show all the time.”

  “Thank you,” says Lizzy, who is still unused to dealing with people who treat her like a celebrity. “Of course. Do you have a pen? What’s her name?”

  She will never get used to this. She’s not a celebrity, she’s a chef, who happens to have made a huge success of the supper clubs and of creating gorgeous rooftop scenes for New Yorkers willing to pay almost five hundred dollars per person for a unique experience, and possibly one of the best meals they will ever eat.

  It helps that she was approached by the Food Network three years ago and offered a weekly show on garden parties. Initially she said no, it seemed like too much work, but they persisted, offering her a producer and team of researchers to put together the ideas for the shows. All she has to do, other than show up for filming, is approve, or veto. The first season were all her ideas, and the show was a huge hit. Her golden looks, her easy charm, the fact that she is Ronni Sunshine’s daughter made her an instant star.

  Now she is in discussion with one of the large chain stores about a line of Lizzy Sunshine products, all to do with entertaining. Her candles in their woven holders, signature linens with the frayed edges, uneven ceramic bowls and plates, her huge Dutch ovens, dark gray with copper handles, her bread boards and cheese domes and marble pastry slabs, will soon be coming to stores near you.

  She has a cookbook coming out next year. Never has she been busier, but she can’t forget the thing that made her, can’t stop cooking for the supper clubs, because now she’s as big a draw as the event; now people travel from all over the country to try her food and maybe, maybe, get a glimpse of Lizzy herself.

  Her assistant, Candy, taps her on the shoulder. “Sean is downstairs; he wants you to come and sample the main course.”

  “Thanks, Candy.” Lizzy smiles and squeezes Candy’s arm, no longer seeing the tattooed sleeves, the dyed jet-black hair, the piercings in her ears, her nose, her lips, and God only knows where else. Candy is the best assistant she has ever had.

  The elevator rumbles downstairs to the apartment where she and Sean are cooking, or, at least, overseeing the cooking. Every time she does this, she remembers their very first one, the tiny galley kitchen, three of them working their asses off to get the food ready with no help.

  Now they consider rooftops only if a large apartment with a professional-quality kitchen is part of the deal. There has to be room for the sous-chefs to cook, for them to plate, for the staff to get a family meal before the event.

  She walks into the apartment, into the kitchen, marveling at how amazing these kitchens are. Who said New York City apartments were small, she often thinks. This particular kitchen is ten times bigger than her own at home in Brooklyn. The equipment is always top of the line—La Cornue ranges, or Ilve, or Wolf. This one has Sub-Zero refrigerators that line an entire wall, a Nantucket farmhouse sink, and marble countertops that are as thick as an encyclopedia.

  Sean is stirring something by the stove. He’s in his chef pants, an apron tied around his waist, a thin, worn, white T-shirt showing off his dark tanned arms. He turns to see Lizzy approaching and goes back to stirring.

  “How’s the taste?” She checks there is no one around before snaking her arms around his waist and pressing her body into his, burying her nose in his T-shirt and inhaling his smell, amazed that the simple aroma of a man can drive her so wild.

  “It’s gorgeous. Here.” He takes a spoon and turns to face her, dipping it into her mouth, never taking his eyes from hers.

  “Mm-mm. That’s wonderful. That’s the perfect amount of butter. Well done.”

  “Speaking of wonderful,” he says, putting the spoon down, “you know it’s just you and me in the apartment right now. Everyone else is up on the roof.”

  Lizzy leans back against the island as Sean keeps advancing. “It is? How nice.”

  “You know what I’m thinking?”

  “I couldn’t possibly begin to imagine what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking there’s a pantry around the corner that is bigger than my whole house, and I’m almost certain it hasn’t been . . . christened.”

  “Why, whatever do you mean? What are you suggesting?”

  Sean steps forward until his body is pressed to hers. He looks down at her, taking her hands and entwining his fingers with hers as her breathing deepens and her pupils dilate. He dips his head to meet her lips, but as soon as they brush hers, she pushes him back.

  “Not here,” she says quietly, her eyes glazed with lust. “Pantry.”

  He leads her to the room, which is ridiculously big, and moves her back against the spice jars, closing the door and taking her face in his hands as his tongue sweeps her lips. He pulls the hair band out of her hair and moves his fingers through it, gathering it up as he pulls her close.

  He pulls her T-shirt up, impatient, cups her breasts out of her bra, tonguing her nipples as she writhes against him and slides her hand under the waistband of his trousers. She pulls them down and opens her legs, pulling her panties off, kicking them out of the way as he pushes inside her, banging her back against the spice jars, but she doesn’t care. All she feels is him thrusting quickly, hard, inside her, his mouth seeking hers, his tongue, his cock, his fingers rubbing her, the excitement, the smell of him, his feel, his taste, and—oh! oh! I’m there! I’m there! And the wave of her orgasm crests and washes over her.

  She inhales sharply, quickly, repeatedly, moaning in a high-pitched quiver, as quiet as she can be, her legs trembling as Sean explodes inside her, as he collapses against her, pulling his head back to kiss her on the lips and smile into her eyes, just as her phone starts buzzing.

  “Who the fuck is that?” he whispers. “Talk about inopportune timing.”

  Lizzy reaches down for the phone and bites her lip. “Oh, shit,” she says. “It’s my husband.” She pushes him away, frowning at the screen as she reads the text. “Connor has a fever and he’s coming home from day camp. I have to get home. Shit, shit, shit.” She pulls down her T-shirt, finds her underpants on the other side of the pantry, and tucks herself in, makes herself neat again, scrapes her hair back into the tidy bun.

  “We’re not doing this again,” she says to Sean. “I mean it this time. I can’t do this again. I can’t stand the lying.”

  “Whatever you want,” says Sean, who has heard her say this many, many times before.

  “Shit,” says Liz
zy again, grabbing her purse from the apartment. “Do I even have time to get to Brooklyn and back? What time is it?”

  “You’re good,” Sean says. “It’s noon. We’ve got it all covered. Everyone should be arriving any second, so as long as you’re here by four, we’re good.”

  “Thank you.” She looks at him, drinks him in, turns to go, then turns back and walks toward him. “Oh, fuck,” she says, as she drops her bag and puts her arms around his neck. “What the hell do you do to me?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmurs into her neck, “but whatever it is, it’s the same thing you do to me.”

  seventeen

  For months now Stephen has been dropping in to the Coffee Barn at Fieldstone Farm, pretending to be getting his daily coffee and having a quick read of the papers, when everyone in town knows he is there to admire Nell.

  Nell knows. She always knows when men are looking her up and down appreciatively, and she knows why—they admire her strength, her fearlessness, the fact that she runs the farm and has built it into a real business all by herself. She has turned the big barn by the road into the Coffee Barn, bringing in gourmet coffee from a small-batch roaster in northern Connecticut, with freshly baked goods and sandwiches every day. She doesn’t do full cooked breakfasts—they have the Olde Blue Bird Inn for that—but her scones and muffins are the best for miles, and her coffee is untouchable.

  The Coffee Barn quickly became the local hub to catch up on news, gossip, read the papers, and run into everyone you’ve ever met in town. The men would come early, on the way to their jobs, with young mothers and children dropping in before school. The men thought she was a “handsome woman.” She knew this because they would tell her so, ask her whether they could introduce her to a friend, in some cases invited her out themselves. She always said no. Raising her son and running the farm were full-time jobs; there was no time for a relationship.