A Time for Us - By Amy Knupp Page 0,24
“Sun-brewed tea—probably pomegranate, knowing my mom—milk, or diet cola?”
“I can help myself to water.” Cale went to the cupboard with glasses before she did and helped himself.
“I forgot you know your way around our house.”
He’d spent as much time here as he had at his own place. “It’s been a while. Rachel...”
The microwave beeped and she took out her food. “Yeah?” she said without looking at him, instead digging for a fork from the drawer and then jabbing a corner of her wedge of quiche.
He was about to speak when she put the bite in her mouth and yelled. “Damn! I cooked it too long.” She fanned the air in front of her mouth as if that would cool the piping-hot bite on her tongue. Cale slid his glass of water to her, and she took a drink and gave him a grateful look.
“Thanks. Can you hold that thought and give me two minutes to change my clothes while my food cools?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said as she rushed from the room.
Cale took a swallow of water and looked around at the familiar kitchen. It had been a while since he’d been here. Since the day of Noelle’s funeral, now that he thought about it. The Culvers had had people over after the service for a meal made up from the dozens of dishes friends, neighbors and even Noelle’s mom’s patients had brought with them. Nothing had changed since then, as far as he could tell.
He wandered toward the living room, glancing up the stairs as he passed by them to see if Rachel was on her way down yet. All three doors in the hallway were closed.
He was drawn to the bank of grade-school photos on the stairwell wall. He’d gone by these pictures countless times in the past, but he stopped and studied the ones of Noelle and Rachel again. He knew which sister was which in every single photo because he’d been fascinated with the subject soon after he and Noelle had started dating and she’d made a point of quizzing him for fun. But now he looked more closely, searching for differences between them.
Up through second grade, the girls looked as if they could be the same person dressed in different-colored, similar clothes. Their hair was the same length, styled the same. From third grade on, though, it was evident they’d started showing their opposite personalities in earnest. Rachel’s hair was always the shorter of the two and neater, as well. Her clothes were more conservative, in less vivid, less noticeable colors. Noelle’s smile was bright and natural in every last photo. Rachel looked as if someone had been holding a gun to her head off camera and threatening her if she didn’t smile.
One of the doors in the hall opened—Sawyer’s bedroom door, Cale noticed in his peripheral vision. Not Rachel’s room. He frowned and recalled his earlier conversation with Sawyer.
“I hated those things,” Rachel said, gesturing at the photos as she came to the top of the steps. “I could never figure out how to smile on cue and make it look real. Obviously.” She shuddered with exaggeration as she studied her fifth-grade mug shot.
“My hair was always, without fail, a mess in grade school,” Cale said.
“Guys’ hair is supposed to be a mess. Try having everyone and their grandpa compare your picture to that of your perfectly photogenic twin sister’s. As you can see,” she said as she gestured to the row of photos with a sweep of her hand, “Noelle’s turned out twenty times better than mine did every single year. I used to kind of hate her for that...until report cards came out and I trumped her every time. Of course, she claimed to not care about grades.”
Rachel whisked by him, down the stairs and back into the kitchen, leaving no question she was on a mission for food. That was the thing about Rachel, he was noticing—she always had a purpose. Noelle had been more of an in-the-moment kind of girl.
He silently reprimanded himself to stop comparing the twins. There was no comparison. Rachel was Rachel, a very competent, serious brainiac. Noelle was the woman he had loved and made plans to spend the rest of his life with. They just happened to look a lot alike, and he needed to get over that.
By the time he joined her in the kitchen, Rachel was standing with her back to the counter, leaning against it, digging in to her lunch.