The Sometime Sister, Katherine Nichols [the little red hen read aloud .txt] 📗

Stella. In her last letter she said something about a big change in her life. Something’s not right.”

“So, Grace,” Mike said as he walked back into the room. “I’ll book a flight to Ecuador as soon as possible.”

I wanted nothing more than to believe Mike was the one to find Stella and end the nightmare. But sending him to Montañita wouldn’t be the most effective way to uncover what had happened to my sister.

“I appreciate the offer, but this is something I have to do. No one knows her better than I do,” I said. And, although it was true, that wasn’t the only reason I had to go. The need to see my sister, to talk to her, to hold her was so strong my arms ached. Whether Stella was in trouble or just being her usual charmingly inconsiderate self, I was the one who could discover the truth.

“Then I’ll go with you,” Mike suggested. He sat where my mother had been and patted my knee. “Your Aunt Rita can come stay with your mom.”

“She needs you, Mike. I love Rita, but there’s no way she could keep Mom from going off the deep end.”

“Grace is right,” Lesroy chimed in. “My mom is a basket case. She’d have Aunt Marilyn climbing the walls. Mike’s right, too.” He took a deep breath. “My passport’s hardly been used, and work is slow this time of year, so I’ll go with you.”

“That’s sweet,” I said, “but you recall what happened the last time you got on a plane, don’t you?”

My cousin was as terrified of flying as Stella was of storms, maybe even more so. A few years ago, he and his latest boyfriend set off for a vacation in Costa Rica. Lesroy refused to admit to his companion how much flying frightened him. Instead, he swiped a bottle of his mother’s anxiety medication and downed several before take-off.

Once the plane was airborne, he polished off an unknown quantity of alcohol. He never told me what happened between the departure from Atlanta and the layover in Houston—I’m not sure he could remember—but my cousin did not make his connection. He returned to Atlanta alone on the bus and never heard from the boyfriend again.

“I thought we agreed never to discuss that incident.” He glared at me. “Besides, I’m better now.”

I hated myself for bringing up the traumatic event, yet I couldn’t risk an airborne crisis slowing me down.

“I’m sure you are, and it means a lot you’d get on a plane for me. But you know how Ben is about you.” My ex-fiancé detested Lesroy, and I suspected the feeling was mutual. “If it’s just me, I think he’ll open up more.”

By the time I left to go see Alisha, we had formed a plan. Mike would handle the travel arrangements and talk to an old Army buddy of his who lived in Ecuador. Lesroy would make the ultimate sacrifice and keep Scarlett O’Hara.

And I would go find my sister.

Chapter 5

I was in Alisha’s trendy Atlanta neighborhood by a little after eleven. The houses were at least thirty years old. Most had undergone extensive and expensive renovations. The Simmons’ house was no exception.

The pale green brick structure sat on a corner lot. Its front steps were a darker shade, as if they’d been rebuilt. The façade looked lovely from a distance, but up close you could see repaired cracks and bolstered saggy spots. Serious potholes marked the steep driveway, suggesting Alisha and her husband had run out of steam or money before they’d finished the upgrades. I parked at the curb and trudged past sculptured shrubbery, followed the stone path, and rang the bell.

“Grace, come in,” Alisha, in yoga gear, greeted me. She was thinner than I remembered and very tan, with a ponytail so tight it tugged the corners of her eyes upward.

I stepped into an elaborate foyer in front of a wide, curving staircase. Like an Artic explorer plunging through the icy tundra, I was blinded by light reflecting off the snow. The whiteness of it all threatened to smother me: thick, off-white carpet; smooth, creamy-white walls; ivory-white sofa.

“Wow.” The sound of my voice echoed down the hallway.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Alisha squealed. “We just had everything redone.” She glanced at my feet. “Would you mind taking off your shoes?”

I slipped out of my flats, wishing I’d had that pedicure I so desperately needed, but Alisha didn’t seem to notice. She ushered me through the formal living area to a cavernous family room, more beige than white—or did everything appear dimmer in the aftermath of an attack of snow-blindness? She pointed to the center of a three-piece sectional.

“Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea or Coke? There’s Diet and Zero Sugar.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I sat next to a fluffy pillow that exploded into a fat white cat who hissed as it shot off the sofa.

“Sassy, you naughty kitty! You’re not supposed to get on the furniture.” She brushed off the seat beside me and took a pink leather book from the ottoman. “Everything’s digital now, but I still like to keep albums. I guess I’m an old-fashioned girl.”

More like a modern narcissist, I thought, but smiled and nodded.

“This is from the last time I saw Stella.”

She scooted closer and balanced the album between our knees. My sister stared out at me, clad in a tiny orange bikini, hair flying wild around her perfect face.

“She’s as beautiful as ever, isn’t she?” Alisha spoke in a whisper, touching Stella’s face with her fingertips. “This was on Ben’s boat. Greg wanted to go to Montañita with me, but he couldn’t get away and insisted I go without him. He knows how much I loved, I mean love, Stella. He is absolutely the most considerate husband.”

She had captioned each picture with the date, location, and occasion. She documented the day on the boat with pictures of Stella sunbathing, Ben drinking beer behind the helm, and Alisha and Stella lounging on