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“Are you crazy? They never wanted you to become a cop. That would have been bananas. No. But you know how I feel about you, Ophelia.”
Ophelia closed her eyes and sat down next to Katie, then wrapped her in her arms. “I’m sorry. It’s not something I even wanted you to know about.”
Katie set her blonde head against Ophelia’s shoulder. “But you knew if you called or texted, I would know something was up.”
“Yes. You are too perceptive.”
“I love you, Ophelia. In case I don’t say it enough. Please don’t leave me out of the loop again.”
“You’re going to worry now.”
“I always worry.”
“Fair enough. What brought you by?”
“Mom is going bonkers again about the coming out party next year. She wants me to look for a dress already. I thought you could talk her down. I’m happy to do all the debutante stuff, but you know what I really want to do is dance.”
“And you’re talented enough to make it.”
“I am. I know that, but it’s hard to take sometimes, being talented. Mom still pushes so hard.”
“She’s scared you’ll somehow disappoint her like I did. You’re their special child. I went off the rails at seventeen.”
“Right. With Dean Teller. Was that him?”
“Yes, but please don’t tell Mom and Dad. It’ll only make them crazier.”
“My lips are sealed. Believe me, I don’t need any more heat.” She grinned and hugged Ophelia harder. “I got the part of Sleeping Beauty in our school production. Say you can make it.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She hugged her sister back, realizing that Katie had her own dreams that she was sacrificing for. They just happened to line up with what their parents wanted for her.
CHAPTERSEVEN
After Katie left,Ophelia couldn’t sit still. Maybe it was all that dredging up of the past with Dean yesterday and the wobble of stress in Katie’s voice. She should be relieved that her mother had found her sister as an outlet for her own suppressed or thwarted dreams. Better yet, that Katie was totally on board with the path their parents wanted her to take. Instead, Ophelia was ticked off, irritable. Frustrated.
She loved her little sister and sitting by while she was hurting triggered Ophelia. The memories of her own childhood pumped through her, the pain, the misery, the feelings of inadequacy. With that driving her, Ophelia grabbed her car keys and drove over to Beverly Hills.
Before Katie had left for her dance class, she said their mother was home preparing for a party. Ophelia pulled up to the immense stone and glass house, pushed the button for the gate, and waited for it to open. She had lived here until she was seventeen and then went to Paris to finish out her schooling. Once she graduated, she had declined to return home.
This house might broadcast her parents’ wealth and standing in Beverly Hills society, but she could never feel anything but regret and loss when visiting here—regret for the childhood she had endured instead of enjoyed, loss for the fragile and beautiful relationship with the “undesirable” boy who was associated with unsavory characters in a motorcycle club.
She’d had nothing but her clothes and a small stash from her “allowance” when she applied to the LAPD Academy and worked her butt off to become a police officer while using her nights to put herself through college to get her degree in criminal justice. She’d been fortunate that her grandmother had never turned her back on Ophelia, but willed her the beautiful little cottage she lived in.
Trying to tamp down suppressed anger that kept surfacing, she parked in front of the five-car garage and opened the car door. There was a catering truck that was parked off to the side of the driveway. She wondered who her parents were either wooing or schmoozing.
She went to the front door and her mom’s housekeeper opened it.
“Miss Ophelia. So good to see you. It’s been ages.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Frieda. My mother?”
“She’s outside supervising,” the woman said with a wink.
Ophelia smiled. She loved that the woman could take her mom with a grain of salt. “Thanks. Say hi to Josh for me.” Josh was Frieda’s wonderful husband who did all the driving and fetching for her mother.
She walked through the house and couldn’t help but note how it was filled with pictures of Katie everywhere—at pool parties, as a little girl and various stages of growth, birthdays, ballet classes, performances. As she made her way through the living room to the back patio, she saw the large portrait of the four of them over the mantel. It was the only picture of Ophelia in the house.
It wasn’t the dwelling that mattered. It was the memories.
