The Weird Sisters Read Online Free PDF Page B

disastrous experiment on Cordy’s part, the employment of an antique colonial warming pan that had obviously lost its ability to insulate the coals and keep them from burning through the sheets.
    Bean arrived in the afternoon, clad in a designer suit completely inappropriate for Barnwell, sweating desperately and cursing violently. Rose heard a car pull into the driveway and, closing her book carefully around a bookmark, peered out the window. Bean hoisted herself from the front seat of a cheap white compact with a painful scrape down the driver’s side. She bent over, reaching into the backseat, and Rose could see a run down the back of one unquestionably posh stocking. Bean’s hair had escaped from the tight French twist she had spent countless hours in front of her bedroom mirror perfecting. She looked as though she’d slept in her clothes (which, as a matter of fact, she had, pulled over into a rest stop parking lot when she was too tired to drive anymore, her legs draped over the gearshift, her suit wrinkling in the heat). Rose climbed up from the window seat in her bedroom and went downstairs.
    “You look dreadful,” she said, opening the door for Bean. The heat rushed in, pressing itself against the coolness inside, leaving Rose struggling for breath.
    Bean glared at her. “Thanks,” she said. “That makes me feel loads better.”
    Instantly contrite, Rose reached out to take one of the bags our sister was lugging. “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing. I’m just hot and I’ve been in the car forever. Will you move?”
    Rose complied, and Bean stepped into the foyer, her eyes casting around for changes in the landscape. She brushed past Rose, dropping her bag beside the staircase and heading into the kitchen. Rose followed dully, feeling underdressed, as she always did next to Bean. Even after what looked like an unfortunate encounter with a herd of angry cats, Bean still looked elegant, chic. Rose looked like our mother—they both favored loose linen skirts, wide-legged pants, batik-print tunics. Normally, Rose felt exotically comfortable, but suddenly she felt dowdy. She tugged at the back of her pants, felt the line of her staid cotton panties, and swallowed a bubble of irritation, whether at Bean or at herself, she didn’t know.
    When she walked into the kitchen, Bean was standing by the sink, one hand resting on the silver faucet, drinking water greedily from a jelly glass. She drained it with an exaggerated smack and leaned over to refill it, leaning on the counter. Rose saw, with some relief at the crack in Bean’s bedraggled perfection, a wet spot spreading on the fabric of her red suit where she had leaned against the counter. “What are you doing here?” Rose asked. “Mom and Dad didn’t say you were coming.”
    Bean, halfway through another glass of water, raised her eyebrows over the rim. “I didn’t tell them I was coming.” And then, more to change the subject than to give any additional information, she said, “Oh, and I heard about you. Congratulations.”
    “Thanks,” Rose said, her finger flicking to her ring. Not that we didn’t tell you all this months ago, Beany. Don’t rush on our account. It’s not like Mom might be dying or anything.
    “Ah, the ring,” Bean said, seeing the movement of Rose’s hand. “ I gave my love a ring and made him swear never to part with it. Let’s see.”
    Rose took an awkward step forward, holding her hand out stiffly. Bean grasped our older sister’s thick fingers with her own manicured talons and peered at the ring. A gleaming sapphire set in antique worked white gold. Rose had treasured the romanticism and uniqueness of the ring when she and Jonathan had selected it. In front of Bean, however, she was sure it looked cheap.
    “Pretty,” Bean pronounced. “Different. It’s better that way. Diamonds are so boring.” As she released Rose’s hand, Rose caught a flash of Bean’s pinky finger, the fake nail snapped off in a jagged edge.