Mama nodded. "It's time for dinner."

"Dinner?" I looked around the room. Pulled from my thoughts, pulled from staring blankly at my canvas, I was thrust back to reality. The day had slipped away and darkness hovered around the edges of the room.

"You were lost in your work."

"Work? I haven't been able to work since I got to Los Angeles." Perhaps the complaints I'd heard from other artists were true. L.A. was so soulless, so filled with the frenetic energy of desperate and sad people that it was impossible to truly create within the confines of the city.

"Come to the house for dinner," Mama said. She turned and hobbled on her crutches back toward the house. I picked up my phone and glanced at the text messages and for any missed phone calls. But there were no new messages.

"Hurry," Mama said. "I have a surprise for you at the table."

She nearly burst with excitement over the word surprise, and she quickly hobbled toward the house. I followed her into the kitchen and stopped. There, at the table, stood Maeve with hair as long as mine, only red instead of my white-blonde.

"I can't believe you're here!" I raced to Maeve and threw my arms around my little sister. I clasped her in the tightest of hugs. I hadn't seen her in nearly nine months and I'd expected not to see her until the end of the year.

"How could I have you here getting all the attention from Mama?" Maeve said.

She crushed me into another hug. Her hair was long and swung out over her back. She looked rested and relaxed for someone who'd just had a long journey.

"When did you get here?"

"A couple hours ago," Maeve said. She looked from me to Mama.

"And you didn't come and get me?"

"We tried to call you," Mama said. "You were working. We didn't want to interrupt. I know from living with your father how hard it is to pull you from that creative s.p.a.ce in your head."

I glanced around the room; it would be a dream come true if Papa walked out from the hall or the back yard or through the front door. We hadn't all been together here, in this, our family home, for many, many years.

"Papa says h.e.l.lo," Maeve said, sitting down at the table.

"Did you go to Ireland?" I asked.

"No, he came to India," Maeve said. "Quick trip. He was doing some research for a new project."

"A project set in India?" I asked. "I haven't heard of that one." I poured three gla.s.ses of wine. "Did Mama know you were coming?"

"Not until I phoned her from the airport." A smile curved about Maeve's face. So much for advance notice; my little sister always had liked to make an entrance.

"Mama looks better than I expected," Maeve said with an impish smile.

"Well, thanks a lot." Mama took a sip of her wine, but she smiled at Maeve's teasing.

"I didn't know what to expect. What with crutches and casts and talk of surgeries." Maeve lifted the bowl filled with greens and scooped salad onto her plate.

"Oh, pish posh," Mama said. "There isn't going to be any surgery. I'm fine. In fact I can walk around-I've made it all the way out to the guest house and back several times on my own."

"That's a walk," Maeve said. She looked at me. "Are you staying out there?"

"She's painting out there," Mama said. "And, there are some other things." Mama's smile slipped from her face.

I had no intention of getting into the "other things" that Mama thought I might be doing in the guesthouse. She was right, of course, although her mind probably went much further than what had actually happened between Sterling and me. And what had happened? I'd wanted him, he'd wanted me, we'd started, but then he'd pulled away. Not typical behavior for the philanderer that Mama believed him to be.

"How is the painting going? Mama said the opening was a smash."

"All the paintings in the Malibu series have been sold." Pride entered my voice. I was proud of my work, but I was torn by my ego. I didn't want my art to be just about commerce, however cool it was to be embraced so warmly by Los Angeles and its art collectors.

"And the new series?"

I pursed my lips and shook my head. "It's all up here"-I tapped my finger to my temple -"but I haven't been able to get it onto a canvas yet."

Maeve scooped quinoa with avocado and black beans onto her plate.

"I want to do a series on Venice," I said.

"Not the one in Italy," Maeve smiled.

"No. I've been there and it didn't grab me the same way that Venice, California does. Amanda's gallery is in Venice."

"And isn't that where Sterling lives?" Maeve asked.

My eyes widened with surprise.

"You're not the only one who's stayed in touch with Amanda," Maeve said. She shoved a bite of bread into her mouth.

No, I guess I wouldn't be. An uncomfortable feeling settled in my chest. How much did Maeve know about Sterling and me?

"This is an amazing night," Mama said.

Maeve and I turned our gazes to her. She sat at the end of the table and light infused her face and eyes. Her eyes shone as though tears had formed, but a smile widened her face. "I can't remember the last time I had both of you here, at this table, at home."

I returned her smile. A small sigh escaped me. Perhaps enough time had pa.s.sed so that now only joy would be remembered and created with our visits to the ranch.

"Of course, I wish I didn't have to break my ankle to get you girls to come home." Her lips curled up into an even bigger smile. She lifted her gla.s.s of wine. "To family," she said.

The three of us clinked our gla.s.ses. Yes, we were family, but did they feel what I felt? The absence of Papa was so heavy in my chest. I looked across the table filled with bowls of food to the chair at the far end where Papa always sat. He would be in that chair now if he and Mama were still a couple and we were still a family. He wasn't here, nor would he return to this place unless forced to by some unforeseen circ.u.mstance.

Ireland was Papa's home now and forever more. He had returned to the farm of his youth and intended to stay there, locked up in the drafty old Irish farmhouse on the coast. Much like the way Mama sat alone here on her Malibu hill. Each without the other, but still married, yet intentionally separate. Could they ever heal the rupture between them? I guessed no. Had they ever even tried?

"It's good to be here, Mama," Maeve said.

"Where do you think you'll go next?" I asked.

"Next?" Maeve tilted her head to the side as if I'd asked her a perplexing question. "I haven't really thought about it."

Maeve traveled the world with abandon and no plan.

"I don't ever think about where I'm going next," Maeve said. "I really just think about where I am now."

I shivered. Unplanned freedom caused a fear to latch into me. My art was my freedom. I had my life all planned. I'd planned where I wanted to go and when I would go. While there were big gaps in that plan, I could give a general estimation of my future. And yet, I knew from experience such plans could float away like smoke in the wind. Hadn't I planned to attend Archer with Amanda? Hadn't I planned that Sterling and I would remain together while we finished school and then forever and for always? Hadn't I planned that I would live here, on this hill, for part of my life until I found my own quiet little place for me and Sterling and my art and the babies that Sterling and I would make? Yet those plans, those horribly naive teenage fantasies, had been dashed by not only my youth and Sterling's and my undeniable pa.s.sion for each other, but by the bad behavior of our parents.

I'd run away from my life here and, while running I'd formulated a new plan. A plan that didn't include Los Angeles and Sterling. The new plan didn't really include anything but Paris and my art. But now here I was, in Malibu. I was here to help Mama and, it would seem by the pictures dancing through my head and the desire to paint them that I was here for a while to paint Venice. Now, I had a new plan, but how much did that plan mirror the original plan that had included Sterling? But the other night, up here with Sterling, the mirror cracked and I could see no reflection on its scarred surface.

"Well, I'm here to help," Maeve said with a little gleam in her eye. "Maybe now you can concentrate on your work."

"What seems to be the problem?" Maeve walked slowly past the giant wall in the guesthouse that contained my photos of Venice. I sat on the white overstuffed couch in the center of the room. My knees were tucked up under me and a cup of tea rested on my thighs. Maeve turned away from my photos and her blue eyes pierced me. She was sharp and knew me well. In some ways she knew me much better than Mama.

"You seem to have your subject matter for the next series. So why can't you paint?" She walked to my blank canvas that was spread out and framed and shockingly devoid of any color.

I closed my eyes and lay my head back on the couch. "I don't know. The pictures are there, I see them in my mind, but I can't get them to translate the way I want."

I didn't tell her about the niggling thought in the back of my mind. The little voice that told me the Venice series shouldn't be my next series. Other visions flitted through my brain. There was another direction that my creative self wanted to explore.

Her eyes drifted across the open room toward the bed. "Has Sterling been staying here?"

"Once," I said. "Quite by accident."

Maeve walked to the chair beside the couch and sat. "How's that?" She poured hot tea into the bone china cup and added a dollop of clotted cream.

I raised my shoulder. I might be able to feign nonchalance with Mama but not with Maeve. Her sharp blue eyes would see through any attempt I made to pretend that Sterling, and what went on between us, meant little to me.

"Sterling wants things that I can't give."

"Such as?"

"Guarantees of my presence here in L.A.," I said. I locked gazes with her. "Words, thoughts, feelings that I don't know how to express."

"He wants a commitment." Maeve sipped her tea. "Or at least to know that he won't become involved with you and wake up to find you gone."

My heart wrenched in my chest at hearing my sister's words.

"Can you blame him?" she asked.

I closed my eyes and bit my bottom lip. "I guess not." I met her eyes. "No."

"So why won't you do it? Why can't you tell him-?"

"Because I don't know and I refuse to lie." My tone was harsher than I wanted. Frustration throbbed in my chest. I pressed my fingertips against my skirt, ironing out unseen wrinkles. "I absolutely don't know how long I'll be here. And I don't know how I feel about being with him."

"That's a lie," Maeve said. "You've known how you feel about Sterling since you were fifteen. Those feelings never changed. No matter how far you ran from him or how long you refused to communicate with him, those feelings never changed, Rhiannon. Your love for him has remained steadfast for years."

"I don't know if it's love."

"I do," Maeve said. "You gave up what many women would call the perfect man because of Sterling."

Maeve alluded to my most serious relationship. An American photojournalist I'd met in Paris. We'd dated and become close. I might have loved him, if not for my feelings for Sterling.

"Gerard wasn't the perfect man."

"Okay, not perfect. But pretty d.a.m.n close. You turned away from him and, from what I remember, and I think this is a direct quote, 'When I'm with Gerard all I see when I close my eyes is Sterling.'"

"G.o.d, I hate having a sister," I said. I sighed and played with the fringe on the throw, avoiding Maeve's direct gaze.

"I do remember everything," Maeve said. She sipped her tea. "And I do call you on your bulls.h.i.t."

"There are just so many memories. And so much heartache. Being with Sterling seems to make it worse."

"Can you talk to him about this?"

"How do I do that? The beautiful memories that Sterling and Amanda have of Joanne are all they have left of their mother. I don't want to be the one to dispel those ideas. Mama has never said a thing to them and she's had plenty of opportunity. Not even Steve told them, and if anyone was going to tell those tales it would be Steve during one of his drunken rants. He's got a huge ego and it's amazing, really, that he's never said a word. You've got to give him credit for that."

"I hear he's sober these days."

"Whatever. He's still a complete narcissist. Did you know he's been married four times since Joanne died? Four times in seven years."

"I think you should tell Sterling," Maeve said.

"No, absolutely not. I cannot be the one who conveys that horrible truth to Amanda and Sterling. It is a family matter and, if anything, they should hear it from their father. Besides, I've already broken his heart once and I have no intention of doing so again."

"Mama said he's trying to make The Lady's Regret."

"He is," I said.

"Don't you think he deserves to hear about why you left from you, instead of reading about it online or in some slanderous rag? If The Lady's Regret actually gets made there will be press. It won't take much for someone to dig up what happened. It's not as though anyone has tried to hide the truth. People have been content to merely accept the simple fact that Joanne died, end of story. But, if someone wanted to expose the truth it wouldn't be hard to do."

I looked at Maeve. She was direct in every way. A bit in your face and, while I loved her for her loyalty and honesty even for me, sometimes, her words could be harsh. "Their mother died, Maeve. Think about how that must feel."

Maeve stared past me, appearing to mull over the idea of what it would be like if our mother pa.s.sed away.

Finally she looked up. "I see your point." She set her teacup on the table. "I can't imagine how I would ever get over losing Mama, but if the primary reason that the love of my life could not commit to me was because of my mother's past, I would most certainly expect him to tell me. I would expect that person to let me in on the facts so that I could understand and so I could make an informed decision for myself.

"But, to me, it feels as though you're using this knowledge to distance yourself from Sterling. If you told him the whole story-the truth-and you both worked through it, then how, Rhiannon, how would you ever be able to walk away from him? Wouldn't you then be trapped into making a commitment that you are so desperately afraid of?"

Was I afraid? Am I terrified of being locked into a commitment, a life, being so in love that I could never leave? Wasn't that the very thing that I felt was wrong with Mama and Papa's relationship? After their marriage died, and their hearts had been broken, they'd succ.u.mbed to the past, their youth, and the security that represented.

Witnessing the rupture of my parent's marriage had sown the seeds of fear in me, making it nearly impossible to give myself away. I put up a protective barrier to shield me from pain. And, in leaving, in abandoning Sterling, I'd sown the seeds of fear within him. Truly it was a Gordian knot that I had no idea how to untangle.

"I don't know what to do," I whispered. "I'm simply very afraid. Maybe that's why I can't paint. " My gaze moved to the wall. The voice in my head whispered.

"If you're afraid and can't paint," Maeve said, "you're going to have to go and confront that fear. That is no way to live, Rhiannon."

Chapter 11.