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“It’s not about being bitter.” Bobbi looked exasperated. “You don’t get it. For most regular folk, life isn’t about dreams. It’s about working and putting food on the table and making sure the bills get paid. It’s about being realistic. Not everyone gets to reach for the stars no matter what dad told you. I didn’t. My stars are here. In in this house. In this town that I’ll never be able to leave.”
“It’s not my fault you stayed.” Billie was breathing heavy.
“Someone had to,” Bobbi retorted. “So I did. I was the responsible one and it drives me bonkers that you’re moping over something as stupid as hockey. Did you really think you’d be on the ice forever?”
Bobbi shook her head, disgusted. “You’re twenty-five years old and you have no degree because you quit college to move to Europe and play hockey. You followed a money trail that dried up and kicked you to the curb the moment your head hit those boards.”
Stunned, Billie could barely form words. “You think I played hockey for the mon
ey?” Did her sister understand so little of what make her tick?
“Yes I do. Money and glory go hand in hand and you basked in it as long as you could, both you and Betty. The two of you were always in the limelight, soaking up the attention and not thinking about a future without it. Now you’re home with nothing to show for all the sacrifices this family has made over the years.”
[i]Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry[i].
The words were like a mantra in Billie’s head. She repeated them, over and over again. When that didn’t work she focused on the way Bobbi’s perfectly straight bangs hung like a curtain over her brows, the edges wisped just so.
[i]Breathe. Don’t cry[i].
“Maybe that knock to the head did a lot more damage than the doctors think. I’m not [i]jealous[i] of you, Billie-Jo. I feel sorry for you.”
Those words nearly undid her, but Billie hung on until the roaring in her head subsided and she was empty inside. It was like taking a penalty shot in a big game. She made everything disappear and focused, except instead of taking a shot, at this moment she was just trying to hold it together.
For several long seconds, nothing but silence filled the gaps between them. And the gaps were huge—they were wide and deep—nearly insurmountable.
Gramps cleared his throat, his faded blue eyes kind in their regard as he gazed upon her—maybe a little sad even—and Billie had to look away or she would start bawling. There was no way in hell she was going to give her sister that kind of satisfaction.
Billie slowly exhaled and reached for her wine glass. Gramps handed her the half empty wine bottle and she accepted it without hesitation, though even a case of wine wasn’t going to ease her pain tonight.
“Well, then. I have no idea how a conversation about men’s hockey devolved into a discussion on the sad state of my life, but thanks for your…honesty, Bobbi,” she swallowed. “Much appreciated.”
Billie took a step back from the dining room table. “Oh and Gerry?”
Gerald Dooley, who’d been standing near the doorway for the last five minutes, unsure whether to flee the Barker family madness or stay, looked a tad shell-shocked when he met her gaze.
“You’re flying low and though it’s nice to know you match your boxers to the color of your dress shirt, I don’t need to see it.”
Billie paused by Gramps side and kissed him softly on the cheek. His gnarled hand, brown with age and sun, grabbed hold of her wrist. “She’s been having a hard time dealing with your Dad. Bobbi doesn’t mean any of it.”
“Liar,” she whispered.
With a heavy heart, Billie pulled away. “I’m going to sit with, Dad.” She tossed a dark look over her shoulder. Her sister watched, from beneath lowered lashes and had the good grace to at least look a tad uncomfortable. “Hopefully all the screaming didn’t upset him.”
Less than a minute later Billie let herself into the darkened master suite at the end of the hall upstairs. A frail figure near the window tore at her heart and she watched him in silence for a few moments as he read his paper, near the soft glow from a lamp on his desk.
He seemed to have shrunk even more than the day before, if that was possible. At six foot two, her father had always been a big, brawny man—a person with wide shoulders and generous hugs. A man who was confident enough to raise three young daughters alone and tough enough to do it on his terms. A man who’d always been there for her.
For the first time she wondered if she’d truly stolen most of his time. And love.
She shook her head. It wasn’t possible, was it?
He paused, glanced her way, and the play of light along the sharp planes of his face made her heart turn over. When had he gotten so old?
The sadness inside her doubled and the pain was nearly unbearable. It was like a hard fist, twisting into stone and it wouldn’t let her go.
“Chantal, is that you?” He smiled and gestured, his fingers thin, nothing more than flesh over bone. “Come closer darling, I can’t see you.”
She shook her head. “It’s me, Dad…Billie.”
