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Informationen zum Autor Elizabeth Joy Arnold Klappentext Two sisters who shared everything. One unforgivable moment. And a second chance...There's something to talk about in every chapter of Elizabeth Joy Arnold's poignant! insightful debut novel—the perfect summer read for all those who loved Elisabeth Robinson's The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters! Judy Blume's Summer Sisters! and Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper. Once! Kerry and Eve Barnard did everything together: sailing the Block Island harbor with their father! listening to their neighbor Justin's magical fairy tales! and all the while longing for their absent mother. They were twin girls arm in arm! secrets entwined between two hearts. Until the summer of their seventeenth birthday! when their extraordinary bond was shattered. And thirteen years later! it will take all the courage they can summon to put the pieces back together—at a time when it matters most.... Chapter One I GLANCED DISCREETLY at the wall clock above the ballet barre. Estella Baker had been holding me imprisoned in the YMCA dance studio for the past half hour, talking about everything from her grand-nephew to her gout. Every week after class she'd thank me for the lesson, and then reminisce about some scene from her youth that the taped music had brought to mind. I let her because I assumed she had no one else to talk to, and I knew what sort of poison loneliness could be. Five-thirty. Shit. By the time I got home it would already be dark out, and I hated walking in the dark. Walking alone at night was like lying in bed waiting for sleep: there was nothing to distract you from yourself. "Hessie's always been narsistic," Estella said. "Narsistic, is that the word? I seem to be losing my vocabulary lately. You know she's had her breasts done." She pulled a tissue from the arm of her leotard, dabbed at her nose and then tucked it back inside. I gave her a polite smile. When I'd come up with the idea of teaching dance, I'd pictured a class full of women who looked like belly dancers, with long dark hair and perfect waists, women who, like me, had once imagined they'd grow up to be dancers but had never managed to get past the imagining stage. Instead what I got was a class of ladies in their sixties, wearing leotards that bulged in odd places, who had about as much grace as overstuffed sofas. It was okay, though. They were very appreciative. "Well, they sure don't look done," I said, since she was obviously expecting disdain. "Maybe they're a work in progress." "I know!" Estella said. "They're so tiny. You know she had her arms done, too? Her arms!" When she'd gone I threw a dress on over my leotard, pulled on a pair of sneakers and jogged the twelve blocks home. The streets were crowded with tourists deciding where to eat, mostly young couples alone or burdened with strollers and diaper bags. Cities were made for couples. Go to a restaurant or movie and I'd be stared at, whereas on the island single people were embraced, befriended, invited to join. Here I didn't even like calling for pizza; I was sure the delivery boy pictured me scarfing down the whole pie, wallowing in grease. I climbed the stairs and locked the inside of my apartment: doorknob, deadbolt, chain. After thirteen years, I still hadn't gotten used to the idea of such surplus safeguards. On the island we'd leave home with our windows and door open wide to vent the dead inside air. In this city you weren't safe unless you fastened a trip wire to the entrance and connected the other end to a hydrogen bomb. The message light was blinking on the answering machine. I was pretty sure I knew who was calling. Seth Powell lived downstairs. We'd met in the elevator last month and he'd latched onto me immediately, and since he was a single man in a city without any single men, I'd let him latch. He was funny, and ...
