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CHAPTER 1
Summer watched the traffic snake slowly toward the city. She took her eyes beyond the highway to the cobbled path and tracked its worn uneven stones all the way to the foreshore. An angel oak, fat and squat, weaved and curved its complex limbs in the early morning sunshine. In the distance gray cloud crept silently across a deceptively blue sky. Tightening the knot in her robe, Summer let out a sigh. The mist from her breath left a circle on the windowpane. She punched three dots in a triangle: “Therefore…” she said aloud. Then she began to massage her shoulders as if to dislodge the slow burning rage that had propelled her out of bed an hour earlier than planned.
If you were looking up from the busy village three floors below, you would not think that the woman framed elegantly in the floor to ceiling window was getting married later that day.
Down on Old South Head Road, out front of Cockfosters Store, the cheese man snapped the legs of the trestle table into position. He flipped it on its feet. Shaking open a tablecloth, he threw it over the top. With his large hands he smoothed out the folds then he began arranging his cheeses. When he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the boom box behind him—the monstrosity his teenage son would not be ‘seen dead with’. He pressed the play button firmly then crouched and peered though the window to check the cassette was spooling. He ran his fat fingers over his pate and felt pleased he did not have to negotiate the digital world.
Turning to his first customer he asked, “What can I interest you in today?”
The music kicked in. He reached behind and nudged down the volume.
“I’m after more than my usual,” Summer said, scanning his wares. “We have people coming.”
The cheese man raised his eyebrows approvingly.
“Ah, you have a Roquefort,” said Summer.
“Always, Madame... for you.”
They slipped into a familiar dance. He: attentive, resourceful, prudent. She: meticulous, deferential, circumspect. They tasted, debated, gesticulated and eventually agreed on five: an English-style cheddar, two non-pasteurized blues, including the Roquefort, and two softs: a washed rind and a ripe Brie.
The cheese man wrapped each portion individually, his eyes glancing back and forth as Summer rummaged in her purse.
What a waste, he told himself, a woman like her choosing a life like that.
“That’s Grieg’s piano concerto?” Summer said, catching his eye and nodding toward the boom box then, blushing, she added: “It was the theme to The Little Mermaid... I listened to it on the radio… as a child.”
“I don’t mind the classical stuff... now and again,” the cheese man admitted, bagging her goods.
Summer hurried back across the street. Pushing through the freshly painted crimson door she recognized her sister’s impatient cursive on one of the envelopes scattered over the floorboards. She swept up the post and hastened upstairs, depositing her packages heavily on the hall table.
Frankie had put music on in the living room but Summer had no awareness of the melody as she tore at the letter. Neither did she register the hollow, rhythmic chop, chop, chopping of Frankie’s sharpened knife against the cutting board. Tugging the soft pink parchment from its envelope, Summer was conscious of only two things: the faint scent of her sister’s 4711 cologne and a feeling of doom.
Frankie’s frame threw a long shadow down the hall, blocking the natural light.
“It’s from Rose,” Summer said, waving the letter at Frankie.
“I wish, just once, she’d pick up the phone like ordinary people do,” said Frankie.
“You were right,” Summer said, ignoring the remark.
Frankie laid an arm around Summer, kissed her temple then began to read over her shoulder.
“Hmm,” she murmured, easing the letter away from Summer and dropping it onto the hall table. “We mustn’t let it ruin our day.”
Summer stepped away, “That’s easy for you to say,” she said, turning her eyes to the floor.
“Summer,” Frankie said sotto voce.
Frankie spoke softly when their conversation entered dangerous territory and where Rose was concerned an easy observation could descend into peril without notice. But that had changed after Summer’s visit to the United States last month, or at least Frankie thought it had. The trip was supposed to be an opportunity for the sisters to re-bond after a twenty-year hiatus. But their past had caught up with them and—as often happens when girls become women—narrative and truth collided, exposing their differences and the lie that had long ago bound them together in sisterly love. A good thing too, Frankie thought at the time—getting things out into the open is healthy.
But Summer and Rose’s union was not healthy. This had been evident to Frankie from the first letter Summer shared with her nine years ago, when they began dating and when Frankie had recoiled at Rose’s condescending tone—was it a joke? A family peculiarity?—Summer seemed unaware of it, just as she was oblivious to the child-like way she clapped her hands in response to the arrival of a letter from Rose; or the way she clasped the envelope between her thumbs and forefingers in anticipation; or the intimacy in the way she inhaled the perfume that her sister had applied, inside and out. The dichotomy troubled Frankie at first. She attempted to raise it with Summer one time, but Summer swiftly dismissed Frankie’s observation: “What are you suggesting?” she shot back, from what seemed like a place of defensiveness. Frankie backed down. Over time she acquired an appreciation for the internal warning that would lodge in her throat when innocent shapes on the parchment seemed to morph into a weapon. Don’t. Say. Anything.
When a letter from Rose arrived, Frankie would place it on the mantle above the fireplace then address it: “What’ll it be this time, Rose? You’ve been dormant. We must be due a lashing of some description.” But Frankie knew better than to share her playfulness with Summer who attached such ceremony to her sister’s tidings; waiting until after dinner then pouring them each a glass of wine, she’d make certain Frankie was relaxed and comfortable before reading aloud her sister’s news from America. Tales that lacked substance to Frankie, whose habit was to flip through the photos, the perennially happy scenes that accompanied the pink perfumed paper upon which Rose curated her life. Instead, she asked questions that became part of the event, acting as a cue for Summer to delve into the anomalies between her and Rose, which she did in a covert way before teasing Frankie for not being able to read between the lines, as she could.
“What does she mean when she says: “...it’s your duty to have children’?” Frankie emphasized duty. “She understands you chose career over family, right?”
Summer giggled. “She’s referring to those times when we were children, and we’d stand before the mirror in her room and she’d pretend to be jealous of my childbearing hips.”
“You have childbearing hips?” Frankie exclaimed, looking quizzically at Summer’s narrow physique.
“Apparently so!” said Summer, pretending surprise.
And they would laugh.
After a while Frankie became immune to Rose’s tone—or perhaps it mellowed, as people do—knowing all too well the traps inherent in family mores. The correspondence, Frankie reminded herself, brought such happiness to Summer and, short of meeting Rose in person, there was no way of really knowing whether Summer’s devotion to her sister was blind or justified. A hands-off approach, to Rose’s incomprehensible hold over Summer, Frankie surmised, was safer than attempting to navigate the fragile bond that binds one to another who might otherwise pass like ships in the night.
Summer brought her eyes to Frankie’s. She reached for her hands.
“I want to put our wedding off,” she said. “Until I can fix this.”
Concern spread over Frankie’s brow.
“Rose is my family!” said Summer, defensively.
“So am I,” said Frankie.
Summer nodded, deliberately as though considering this information for the first time. She took her thoughts to the previous evening. To the picnic she and Frankie hosted for a group of friends who had travelled from Queensland for their wedding. Among them The Annes, two longtime companions from Summer’s youth; women she had met in somewhat awkward circumstances.
The occasion, almost twenty years ago, had been the girls coming out; a rite of passage that would have passed them by had the event organizer, a confident, plain-looking lesbian called Jude, not explicitly pointed out to the three sixteen-year-olds that their decision to show up to a wimmin-only gathering and without the knowledge of their families, amounted to a political act of defiance—one they would repeat often throughout their lifetimes. On the night, Jude introduced Summer to The Annes as ‘another young dyke’—a label that, at the time, made Summer’s stomach churn. Unaware of Summer’s discomfort, The Annes welcomed the information, embraced it even, nodding warmly, expectantly while Summer, her thoughts disjointed, her emotions in disarray, struggled to take in their enthusiasm. She recalled the long pause that had ensued as she fought to comprehend the idea of being a dyke, and the reception it engendered in The Annes. When at last she was able to bring herself to focus on the moment in hand she almost immediately lost control, this time overcome by hilarity at the sight before her: Anne and Anne, opposites in everything; one short, one tall; one scrawny, one rotund; one poker-faced one inquisitive. To everyone’s surprise, Summer burst into laughter.
“Anne One and Anne Two,” she announced, with a girlish giggle. “That’s what I’ll call you.”
Taken aback and, as yet, with only Jude’s beaming smile to reassure them, The Annes simply nodded.
And now, twenty years later in Sydney’s Royal Botanic Gardens where her pre-wedding picnic was taking place, Summer took a moment to recall that momentous night. This time observing her friends from beneath the shade of a Scribbly Gum tree—unaware that she, herself, was being observed by a Kookaburra from high above. Anne One: her acerbic tone, a characteristic worthy of its own epitaph, giving crisp instruction to Anne Two on how and where, precisely, to position the picnic rug on the dry, patchy grass. Anne Two, endlessly jolly, between wheezes, and innately forgiving as she awkwardly maneuvered her rotund frame in an effort to satisfy Anne One’s directive. The simplicity of the scene brought back the invigoration Summer had experienced that night; a feeling of belonging inherent in the knowledge that she had, at last, located her tribe then, later, when the three friends had parted, the relief in assuaging a terror she had harbored for at least three of her sixteen years: that she might be the only lesbian in Australia. A smile appeared on her lips as she recalled her adolescent despair. Again, she looked over at her friends. That’s when she became aware that Anne One was studying her.
“It’s about time you two tied the knot,” said Anne One, dropping onto the rug as Anne Two was still smoothing it out.
“Why do you say that?” asked Frankie, tossing a tablecloth over a hand-carved sandstone bench.
“You’re the poster girls for lesbian relationships,” Anne One replied, holding up her arms in dramatic exaltation: “still in-love, long after the seven-year lezzie death knoll and still fighting the good fight.”
Frankie and Summer exchanged a grin.
Anne Two rolled her eyes.
“It’s true,” Anne One insisted, pretending indignation. “You’re role-models in a divided world and you might as well acknowledge it.”
Anne Two laughed. “Gird your loins gals, she’s just warming up.”
“I’m stating a fact,” said Anne One. “Young dykes today aspire to all the wrong things. They hate queer politics; they detest gay marriage. All they want is to be ordinary, whatever that means!”
“I keep hearing that,” said Frankie, arranging wine glasses on the tablecloth. “Ordinary. What does it mean?”
“God only knows,” said Anne One. “But I can tell you what it looks like. Its twenty-something Rebecca, or ‘Bex’ on Facebook, who shows up at work in sensible knee-length skirts, stiletto heels and a sickening deference... no!... let’s call it what it is: servility, to the male executives. She barley acknowledges me, the only out lesbian in the office, dare I expose her straight mask. But every weekend there she is at Ruby’s dressed in tight leather pants, a muscle t and hobnail boots, pulling in the babes with her sexy moves and warm whispers.”
“You still go to Ruby’s?” Anne Two teased.
“We’re Facebook friends,” Anne One replied, avoiding eye contact with Anne Two “Well, I’m one of several thousand.”
“That’s just corporate culture,” said Frankie, opening one of the coolers and bringing out a platter, “it’s always been aggressively heterosexual and deeply uncomfortable with non-conforming women.” Frankie snuggled the platter between the Rosemary Focaccia and the flat bread, “peach, herb and avocado rolls,” she said, pointing.
Anne Two helped herself to one of the chickpea shawarma wraps stacked nearby. “What’s this sauce?” she asked.
“Spicy Zhoug and tangy yogurt,” Frankie said, adding, “it was a favorite of our former Prime Minister...” then turning toward Summer, “...and now it’s a favorite of my wife-to-be,” she beamed.
Summer abandoned the shade of the Scribbly Gum and made her way toward the group.
“I’m not sure it’s just lesbians,” she said, “all women have to play the game if they want to get ahead.”
“My point is that the younger generations go out of their way not be seen as lesbians,” said Anne One impatiently. “They’re OK being perceived as straight by the straights. Whereas we fought the patriarchy, they bow to it.”
“True,” said Anne Two, “but at their age we were afraid of our families not our bosses and sailing beneath the radar wasn’t an option, not if you wanted membership in the gay community; you were out and you were proud and that’s all there was to it.”
Frankie tore open a bag of ice and poured it into the bright pink polyethylene tub where Summer was arranging bottles of wine and champagne. “And gay marriage?” she said. “What’s their issue with that?”
“Politics. They see it as politics not recognition,” said Anne One.
“I get that,” said Summer, peeling the aluminum wrap off a bottle of champagne, “it is politics. When has social progress happened without a political fight?”
Anne One shrugged her shoulders.
“But I want to be clear,” Summer continued, “I’m not marrying Frankie to make a political statement about my human rights.”
“Why are you marrying me?” asked Frankie.
“...well... you make me feel safe... and because I love you, of course.”
Anne One sucked air in between her teeth. She resisted the urge to pursue Summer; to clarify. Sensing something off in Summer, she turned to Frankie.
“Well, aren’t you the knight in shining amour!” She declared.
Everyone laughed.
Summer continued to worry at the champagne cork with her thumbs. In the pocket of her jeans she felt her phone vibrate and wondered if it might be her sister. Pop! The cork flew out of the bottle. Frankie sprung to action, passing around glasses.
“By the way,” said Anne Two, “I’ve been meaning to ask when your sister arrives.”
Summer pretended to concentrate as she filled the glasses.
“We’re not sure if Rose is going to make it to the wedding,” Frankie offered.
“You mean her flight is delayed?” said Anne One.
“Meaning, we’re not sure if she’s even on the flight,” said Frankie.
“Gosh!?” said Anne Two, turning to Summer.
“Rose is having a difficult time right now,” Summer said, taking her gaze toward the harbor where a flotilla of yachts was unfurling colorful spinnakers. Then with forced optimism, she added, “But she’ll be here, one way or another.”
“I should think so,” said Anne One, in a school-marmish tone, “she’s your sister, she should be here.”
Anne Two raised her glass but held off proposing a toast.
“What did you two get up to yesterday?” Frankie asked, changing the subject.
“We took a ferry out to Fort Denison, which is... that little island right there, right?” Anne Two pointed beyond the yachts to an island no more than a mile wide. “But we missed the canon firing,” she chuckled, casting an apologetic look at Anne One and cringing dramatically, “I didn’t think to reserve seats on the ferry.”
“Oh, yes,” said Frankie, “it’s a popular attraction. Though why anyone wants to pay to watch a gun go off is beyond me.”
“Tradition,” Anne One offered as though it was obvious. “People like to be reminded of their origins; it shapes identity.”
***
Summer let go of Frankie’s hands.
“Yes, you are my family. But Rose is my blood and the only sister I have... she should be here.”
Frankie pinched the bridge of her nose, “Please don’t do this,” she said.
Summer dropped her defensiveness and buried her face in her hands, “I’ve made such a mess of things,” she said, her voice cracking.
Frankie seized Rose’s letter. She unfolded it, then folded it, then unfolded it again and read aloud.
“...I often wonder where we would be if that dreadful event had not happened to us as children. And I honestly don’t know. But what I do know is that our parents never meant to abandon us and if they were here today you would not be making this mistake. I’m only telling you this Summer, because you’re my sister and I love you.”
“That’s not love,” Frankie laid the letter back on the table, “it’s spite.”
Summer felt a flash of defiance but reined it in. Even after all these years she could feel intimidated by the precision of Frankie’s observations.
“It’s awful of you to call my sister spiteful.”
Frankie tugged at a scarf on the vintage coat rack.
“I’m exhausted,” she said, “from not being allowed to say anything because Rose is your sister and because blood is thicker than water and because poor Rose isn’t as strong as you are and, and, and—”
“I didn’t know you were suffering,” said Summer with a look of surprise.
“Suffering? Yes, I suppose that’s love... well, suffering’s the expectation at least, and most people live up to it.”
Frankie threw the scarf over her shoulders.
“You and I are just hours from making a commitment that we have been talking about for years. A promise between you and me. Not you, me and your sister.”
From the row of bronze hooks, she seized a dog’s collar. Almost immediately Hammer came limping along the hallway his eyes fixed on Frankie. Frankie massaged his head, her long, tanned fingers spread and caged, spread and caged. The dog leaned in. His cloudy eyes assumed a drunken pleasure and he began to drool. Frankie took out a Kleenex and wiped away the flow from around his grey muzzle.
“The Iron Maiden closed on your sister a long time ago,” Frankie said. “There’s nothing you can do to fix that.”
Frankie slipped Hammer’s collar over his head and reached for his leash. The chain rattled. Hammer moved toward the door and pressed his nose to it. Summer felt envy at the security of Hammer’s world, a place where he could retreat with impunity. This was the world Frankie had built for her. A safe space that had carried them through the trials of early love to this day. There had been a time though when things might have worked out differently. Summer shivered, as she always did when truth appeared: had luck not intervened she and Frankie would not be here today. And yet luck might never have been required to play its part had Summer not been so eager to listen to her sister’s advice.
But sisters are natural allies guiding, protecting. Rose had offered some much needed mothering when Summer had been feeling low and Summer, somehow seduced by the divine state of her sister’s life: marriage, motherhood, had listened to Rose. So why then did Rose deploy such disdain against Frankie? What did she have to gain? Summer did not know. Perhaps Frankie was right, maybe she did cut Rose too much slack. But she had only ever wanted Rose to be safe and after her visit to the United States, Summer saw that her sister was not safe. Rose was trapped and Summer would not abandon her. She loved her sister in spite of the antagonism, the betrayal, the rivalry, and even in spite of that sinister something that had made its way between them. Summer dug her fingernails into her skull and fought to arrange her thoughts. The melodic contours of a solo piano trickled along the hallway. Frankie’s fingers unconsciously tapped at the shiny silver links on Hammer’s leash: up and down, up and down as though scaling a wall. Summer’s eyes met Frankie’s but it was Frankie who broke the silence.
“I’m going to walk along the foreshore.”
Summer held her gaze.
“I’m not sure I can go through this again,” Frankie said. “You need to find the courage to put me and us front and center in your life.”
Summer waited for the click as Frankie pulled the door shut. She pressed her back into the cool rendered brick and slid down the wall, pulling up her knees. She pushed thoughts of Frankie aside and brought her sister into focus. But Frankie’s shape, malleable and fluid, refused to stay away; determined as lava spilling from a volcano it rolled back into Summer’s thoughts. The truth was that at Frankie’s core there resided not rage at life but joy. It had endured for thirty-eight years propelled, in most part, according to Frankie’s mother, by a stubborn refusal to submit to the ugliness of life.
Summer stood. She pulled opened the hall closet door, reached for her suitcase and pressed down on the old-fashioned locks, click, click, the springs released and flung open. She ran her hand over the raised bumps in the dark leather and paused before lifting the lid; it had been her father’s case. On the hall table she spied the letter laying open, where Frankie had dropped it. She peered at the exposed section:
The bible says that folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. I fear that I have failed you, Summer and that fills me with despair because I promised our mother that I would protect you.
Summer let out a sob. She wiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks then ran her palm over her father’s suitcase. With the tip of her finger she drew a triangle in the leather.
“...therefore,” she whispered.