Page 52 of The Women of Wild Hill
Their cynicism wasn’t lost on Ivy. “You don’t believe me? Of course you don’t. The irony is, you never will unless you lose each other. Take it from someone who knows.”
Then she stomped out. The lecture was over. They’d spot her later on, sunning herself on the large flat rock that rose from the water a dozen yards off the beach. She stayed out there most of the day, as though she couldn’t bear to share the same plot of land with the two of them.
“Ivy was only a little older than you when Rose died,” Flora had reminded her daughters. “She still misses her sister.”
“She wasn’t cursed with the Bride of Frankenstein here,” Phoebe muttered.
“Fuck you,” Brigid sneered. “You’re not nearly as perfect as you think, Princess Buttercup.”
“Stop!” Flora shouted. At that point, even she’d had enough. “When are you two idiots going to realize that your gifts are meant to complement each other? If you worked together, you’d be unstoppable. But apparently, you’re both too stubborn to see it. You will never fulfill your promise until you stop this bullshit and learn to act as a team.”
“I never asked for any of this,” Brigid said.
“Neither did I,” Phoebe added.
“You’re both absolutely insufferable,” Flora told them.
Thirty years later and nothing had changed.
THE COTTAGE WAS DARK WHENBrigid made it back from the ancestors’ graves. She had no idea how long she’d been gone. Hours, she guessed. The Scotch bottle in her hand was far lighter than it had been. In the kitchen, she discovered a masterpiece left behind on the stove—a sunny frittata, its crust golden brown and its surface sprinkled with the colorful confetti of a half dozen vegetables. Onlya single large slice had been cut away. Sibyl must have eaten dinner alone and gone to sleep. It was a sad welcome to Wild Hill. If she hadn’t been so mad, Brigid might have been ashamed of herself.
Inside, Brigid charged up the stairs and locked herself in her childhood room. The minute she closed the door, she knew she’d made a mistake. Brigid found herself looking at the very same dress she’d worn to watch her mother be lowered into the ground. It lay crumpled up in the corner where she’d thrown it thirty years earlier. Her mother’s funeral had been a dour, depressing rite attended by three men who had no business being there. Flora deserved a wild, raucous bonfire. Instead, she got two girls dressed in hastily bought black dresses.
Brigid’s father had packed her clothes for her when she’d refused to do it herself. The drawers of her dresser had been pulled open and emptied. All the things he’d deemed worthless—the family photos and mementos—were right where he’d left them. The horror of that day on Wild Hill wound around Brigid and squeezed until she could hardly fill her lungs.
Finally, she pushed up a window and climbed out onto the roof below. She opened the Scotch and drank straight from the bottle. The more she consumed, the less inclined she felt to stick around with a sister who hated her. They may have argued, but over the sixteen years they’d lived together, she’d done everything she could to protect Phoebe. She’d heard other people say they’d be willing to kill for their families. Well, Brigid actually had. And not once—not once—had she ever regretted it. You’d think that Phoebe would know Brigid always had her best interests at heart. Or at the very least would give her the benefit of the doubt. But nothing Brigid had ever done was enough to make Phoebe trust her. Thirty years had passed, and the bitch couldn’t even be cordial.
Brigid wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when she returned to Wild Hill, but the atmosphere in the cottage was suffocating, andthe air on the estate felt thick with ghosts. The ancestors were all around her, watching and judging.Fuck you all, Brigid told them.I never signed up for this shit. She took another swig and climbed back into her room, unzipped her suitcase, and tucked the half-empty Scotch bottle inside. Then she closed the bag and hauled it downstairs. She’d call a car when she got to the gate.
BACK AT THE GRAVES, PHOEBEreached into the hidden pocket inside her left boot and pulled out her emergency cannabis. She’d toughened up over the years, but apparently, she hadn’t located and reinforced all her soft spots. The confrontation had hit her hard enough to leave her winded. The moment she’d seen her sister lying on their mother’s grave, she could tell Brigid was suffering. If Phoebe had hugged her or kissed her—hell, if she’d even shaken her hand—she might have known what it would take to fix her. Screw her, Phoebe thought as she struck her match. Brigid had made her own bed. Phoebe had no idea why she’d been brought back to Wild Hill, but she sure as hell wasn’t there to rescue her movie mogul sister.
By the time she was starting to feel the high, she’d decided to get the fuck off the Island. She hadn’t even brought a suitcase, since she’d had nothing to pack. The tornado had carried everything she owned away. All she had to do was walk back through the gate and never look back. Phoebe stood up, brushed herself off, and set off for a long walk. Just as she passed the mansion, the heavens opened up and a heavy rain began to fall. She stopped outside the caretaker’s cottage but did not go inside. Her sister was standing at the top of the porch stairs with her suitcase. She must have had the same idea.
“I didn’t see a storm on the weather report,” Phoebe noted, standing mere inches from where their great-great-grandfather had been killed by a lightning strike.
“It’s probably just a coincidence,” Brigid insisted. But she stayed right where she was.
“Sure.” Phoebe continued down the drive. A little rain wasn’t going to prevent her escape. The walk to Mattauk was just a few miles. She’d find a hotel, have her clothes laundered, and be on the first flight back to Ed in the morning.
“Maybe wait a few minutes before you leave?” Brigid shouted.
“Thanks for the advice, but I’ve got to get going,” Phoebe called back over shoulder.
Then the sky flashed white and both women were blinded. There was a loud crack, followed by a clap of thunder, and the sisters smelled woodsmoke and heard the rustling of leaves. A branch swiped Phoebe’s cheek as a giant sweet gum fell in front of her. She felt the whole hill shudder when it slammed into the ground.
Brigid’s vision slowly returned, revealing a massive tree blocking the drive.
With a huff, Phoebe turned and stomped back to the cottage. If she’d wanted to escape, she could have easily done so. A fallen tree wasn’t much of an obstacle. But the message was clear: neither Brigid nor Phoebe should be leaving that night.
Someone snickered. “Looks like the Old One has spoken.”
Both sisters spun toward the doorway of the cottage, where Sibyl was now standing, dressed in a pair of Ivy’s old Brooks Brothers pajamas with one of Sadie’s silk scarves around her head. She looked very much at home as she ate strawberries straight out of a colander.
“Sibyl?” Phoebe croaked.
“Hello, Mommy Dearest,” she said. “Boy, do you have a lot of explaining to do.”
Phoebe immediately turned on her sister. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me she was here?” she demanded.
