The Sullivan Sisters - Kathryn Ormsbee Page 0,64

greatest feat, worthy of a standing ovation.

So far, the act was going according to plan. The best way to describe her sisters’ expressions was … wonderstruck.

“Whoa,” Claire said, stepping into the room and reaching for the hanging quilt that doubled as both wall and castle entrance. “I haven’t thought about this in ages.”

“Two years,” Murphy supplied.

“Princess Paprika,” Claire said, under her breath. She turned heel, pointing at Murphy. “And Prince Pepper.”

Murphy beamed. It was working. Operation Memory Making was a go.

She pulled back the door-quilt and said, “Go in.”

Eileen and Claire didn’t protest; they ducked their heads and walked through the castle gates. Murphy followed them, seating herself on the circle of couch cushions she’d arranged inside.

“The throne room,” she explained. “I mean, the whole castle’s kind of the throne room. It’s a big downsize from last time, but there weren’t a lot of blankets.”

Eileen was wearing a crooked smile. “You’re weird, Murph.”

“Thanks,” Murphy replied.

“Do you remember?” said Claire, eyes unfocused. “Remember the year I was trying to bake? Like, all the time?”

“Because of the British show,” Murphy said, encouragingly. She meant to coax out every memory she could.

“I made those holiday Bakewell tarts,” Claire said, before laughing a goosey honk, “and I forgot about them, because we were playing Apples to Apples.”

“Oh my God,” groaned Eileen, swiping a hand down her face. “And you still made us eat them. Damn, they were bad.”

“Yeah, whatever, Leenie. You ate, like, a bite.”

“And you spit it out,” Murphy added.

“Yeah!” Claire said. “And Murphy was a trouper and ate the whole thing.”

Murphy felt luminescent. Claire remembered that, too: Murphy had consumed her entire slice of charred peach-mint tart, so Claire wouldn’t feel like a failure.

“The icing was … good?” Murphy offered.

Claire turned up her nose and smacked Eileen’s knee. “Hear that? It was good. I had a perfect feathering technique.”

“Remember when Mom tripped?” asked Eileen.

“Oh man,” said Murphy, giggling. “Oh man.”

That had been one for the books. Leslie Sullivan had made a rare and unexpected appearance early in the evening of December twenty-first. She’d opened the front door and run straight into the west wall of the castle—a fitted sheet tied taut between two curtain rods. The girls had seen it from outside the castle, where they were drinking ginger ale on the west veranda. The sheet had smacked into Mom’s forehead, sending her reeling out the open front door, tumbling backward onto the rain-slick porch, and from there, careening into the yard. The sight had been so cartoonish, and the sisters so shocked, they’d broken into stifled laughter.

Then, of course, they’d run out to be sure Mom was okay, watching as she pulled herself out of the wet mulch. She’d laughed a little too and vaguely patted the girls on the shoulders, telling them she was fine. Then she’d slunk down the hallway, shut herself in the master bedroom for a rest, and that had been that.

Mom, the originator of the closed bedroom door.

But before that door had closed, a memory had been made, and it had the sisters laughing louder than they’d dared to then.

“It was ridiculous,” Claire said. “Like something from Looney Tunes.”

“Exactly!” cried Murphy.

Eileen had turned quiet, looking around the castle’s fabric walls. “Can you imagine Dad living here?” she said. “As a kid. Growing up in this huge house. I wonder how rich the Enrights were, how he and Mom ended up the way they did.”

“You mean not rich,” Claire clarified.

“Cathy said he never came back from college,” Murphy said. “Not even for the funerals. Maybe he wasn’t on good terms with the family. Maybe they’d disinherited him.”

“Well, obviously something like that happened,” said Eileen, “or Uncle Patrick wouldn’t have a whole house and its contents to give away.”

“Maybe that’s why he left it to us,” said Claire. “Guilty conscience about inheriting everything?”

“Maybe,” said Eileen, looking thoughtful. “Though if that’s the case, why didn’t he leave it to Mom?”

Murphy considered what she knew of her mother, which admittedly wasn’t much. The long work hours, her frazzled trips to the grocery, the glaze Murphy had seen in her eyes when she passed by the bedroom and found Mom propped on the bed, watching late-night TV.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess Mom could use an inheritance too.”

“What?” Eileen snorted. “Look, Murph, we’re not telling Mom about any of this.”

“When did we agree to that?” asked Claire.

“You were the one who suggested it,” Eileen challenged. “When we first got here, remember? Don’t get on your Harper Everly high horse now.”

“I didn’t say