Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 22
“Mail from America!” April called.
The excitement in her voice carried along the hallway into the living room, where Summer had taken up temporary residence following her departure from Jess’s family home.
Summer appeared in the kitchen and April waved the letter in the air.
“Zee little pink envelope,” April said, impersonating the Belgian fictional detective.
“I know it’s silly,” Summer said, slicing open the envelope with a bread knife, “but I miss Vern.”
“Not as much as he misses you, I bet.”
“I suppose,” said Summer, tugging at Rose’s letter.
A picture of her niece fell onto the table.
“I wrote to him,” Summer confessed, setting down the letter.
“To Vern?”
“Just a short note, to say that I thought of him often. But he didn’t reply.”
“Did you expect him to?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”
April feigned exasperation. “Doll! You can be so insightful and so blind at the same time. There was never going to be any Vern without Jess, we both knew that.”
“I guess you’re right,” Summer said, unfolding Rose’s letter, "I should just be grateful that I have a sister who loves me.”
“Ah, you must mean me!” said April.
Summer blew her a kiss and began to read.
Apple Valley, FL. Happy together!
Dear Little Sister,
I have news! (drumroll...) And I know you’ll be over the moon to learn that (more drumroll...) I’ve started a band! It’s called Brand New Day. What do you think of the name? My rhythm guitarist, Jem, came up with it. Jem’s also the reason I haven’t written in a while—I know what you're thinking, so get your mind out of the gutter, it’s nothing like that! Jem and I are just friends and these past weeks we’ve been immersed in auditioning the band.
But let me back up and tell you about Jem. He came to me through Father Moreton, whose idea it was to start a Christ Church St Lawrence band. As you know, having my own band is my dream. But since I had Sofia, I’ve become flighty and chaotic; Sal says I always was and I have to agree with him, I don’t have the skills to get a band together.
Summer paused; she did not know what to make of her sister’s admission. The Rose she knew had always been competent, pragmatic even—what did her husband see that her sister did not?—She read on.
Father Moreton probably saw this in me too (Ha! Ha!) when he cornered me after church a few months back with that ‘I know better than you, Rose’ smile and said: “This is Jeremiah Trader. He plays the guitar quite well. So, I’m giving him to you, Rose. I think you will find him a more than useful asset in your endeavors.”
I was totally thrown at first. Father Moreton had been the driver behind the band: he’d gotten financial support from the high committee; he’d promoted it from the pulpit as a vehicle for Christ; he’d even arranged for me to perform in our sister churches to help build enthusiasm. Then, right when we were about to begin auditioning for the band, he abandoned me! I remember looking Jem over, standing there behind Father Moreton like a gangly boy in his scruffy brown suit, stooping over his guitar and fingering his grubby tartan strap. I tried to imagine him on stage and I thought to myself: we haven’t even begun and it’s already over.
Turns out I was wrong though; Jem has been invaluable. In preparation for the auditions, he sifted through the hundreds of applications from hopefuls who all expressed deep conviction in God’s plan for their gift. During the interviews, Jem would press them on what they thought that gift was; few of them spoke about the craft or the commitment needed to bring their ‘greatness’ to life. The long and short of it is that, for four weeks we endured one musician after another pounding, crashing, screeching through the recital. At times, it was excruciating, but eventually the shortlists got shorter and callbacks ended and we had our finalists. We recalled them to see how we played together and to be sure the chemistry was there before making an offer, Jem said that it’s super important for everyone to get along. Then one week later, Brand New Day played together for the first time.
Summer, it was incredible. There was magic in the sound we created. At the end, we all just stood there grinning at each other. I looked over at Jem. His eyes were shut and he was strumming his guitar. The rest of the band were watching him too; we could all see God’s work in those fingers as they picked at the ballad. As I listened, I felt something ripple through me. It was like when you hear a riff from a song you love and it just stops you in your tracks, and I shuddered because I finally understood that God had sent a master to guide me to my destiny. You always said I would be famous, Summer, and for the first time in my life, I know I will be.
But that’s enough about me (for now... wink), lemme quickly introduce the band: Halfie is our drummer (that’s what his family called him after he stopped growing and they all agreed he would only ever evolve into half a man). Our violinist is Ruthie. She’s incredibly accomplished. She was a concert violinist and Jem says her classical training will be an important influence as we develop our sound. She and her husband have had trouble having babies, and after the last miscarriage the doctors told her she couldn’t have any more pregnancies. I suspect the band for her is part of her recovery. (I didn’t say this to Jem but I didn’t want any mothers in Brand New Day. Family schedules really mess up rehearsals, and I don’t want a baby wailing in the corner while we’re trying to practice. I know you’ll agree, Summer, having no children.) Our bass player is Randy, who’s in his early twenties and who Jem’s taken under his wing. I’m on keyboards and vocals, and everyone helps with the backing vocals. Jem, of course, is our rhythm guitarist.
We have our eye set on the Icthcus Music Festival. It’s America’s premier Christian music event where tiny little church bands, like Brand New Day, can go from being nobody to world-famous overnight! Watch out little sister, here we come!
Write me soon,
Your loving sister,
Rose xx
PS. I’ve been fiddling with some of those poems you sent, trying to put music to them. I’ll have to change some words to make it work but I wanted to say that they’re good Summer. You’re a good writer and you’ll make a great speechwriter to Australia’s Prime Minister. Write me about it. It sounds like a fun job.
“A fun job?!” Summer said to April, looking up.
But April had gone; Summer could hear her in her bedroom. She set Rose’s letter aside and laced her fingers together, prayer-like, as she wrestled with her disappointment. Why hadn’t Rose made more of my new role? Perhaps she, Summer, had played it down, though she did not recall being especially modest about it in her correspondence. And even if she had, her job title alone should have alerted Rose to the importance—as an American citizen, Rose must surely understand the rare privilege inherent in writing speeches for a head of state, not to mention the power to influence; to move the masses in ways that a simple piece of journalism cannot.
But it’s not just that, Summer admitted. Rose had known she was holding out for the right position; the role that would accelerate her career, propel her into a new phase in her life. She had shared with Rose her concerns about the gamble she was taking in giving up her byline, her calling card, and becoming a sort of ghostwriter—an invisibility that could be perilous if it lasted too long and disastrous if it did not. She strained to recall the note she had dashed off to Rose after accepting the Prime Minister’s offer. The call from the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff had come the day before she was due to leave Jess’s family home. It was early in the afternoon, Vern had answered the telephone.
“This is the Office of the Prime Minister calling for Ms. Summer O’Flynn,” the voice had said.
After bringing Summer to the phone, Vern lingered—out of sight but within earshot—during her conversation with the Chief of Staff, then reappeared moments after she returned the phone to its cradle.
“You’ll do well,” he said, when Summer, unprompted, confirmed both the offer and her acceptance. “You’re clever.”
Summer’s heart opened.
“That means a lot to me, coming from you,” she said.
Then Vern put out his hand, shaking Summer’s with vigor, just as he had when he met the Prime Minister at the Returned Servicemen’s League.
Yes, Summer confirmed. Vern’s pride was palpable.
Whereas her sister seemed blasé about Summer’s news, acknowledging it as an afterthought. But Summer could not believe that Rose would intentionally undermine her. She knew Rose loved her, and this, she decided, was likely behind the dismissiveness in Rose’s letter. She’s just worried about me! Summer decided, while reminding herself that she had seen this behavior in Rose before. It had happened when she moved to Sydney and Rose had been fearful for her safety, assuming the worst and counseling her about the “dangers awaiting a young, single, beautiful girl who is blindly following her dreams.” Summer had laughed at that, but now she saw that she had misunderstood Rose and that what her sister needed was reassurance that Summer was capable of navigating her new life, and also that Summer was with her as she, Rose, embarked on her own exciting adventure.
Summer suddenly had the idea to telephone Rose. Why make her wait for a letter? Especially now that she could afford the expense with her new salary. She looked toward the alcove in the hallway that had been specially designed for privacy. April had placed a stool with a cushion in the space beneath a push button analogue phone that hung on the wall. Summer imagined herself, knees pulled up chatting happily to Rose. But she hesitated, recalling an earlier time when she had attempted to surprise Rose on her birthday. She had left a message on the answering machine but Rose had not acknowledged it in the letter that came afterwards. Neither had she responded when, in subsequent letters, Summer inquired about the greeting. Though Summer had been perplexed, she was forced to admit that this was not the first time Rose had been selective in her responses. She wondered why she had accepted, rather than challenged, this new order but she could not recall when the self-censoring; the small formalities, the taboos, had entered their dialogue, altered the flow of their conversation—the openness they used to enjoy, now seemed so far away.
On the wall clock, she noted the time and felt a sudden urgency to tackle the list of tasks that had, just hours ago, seemed so burdensome. She was expected in Canberra in two weeks to start her new role in the Prime Ministerial speechwriting team, and she still had to find accommodation in the Parliamentary circuit. I’ll write to Rose this evening, she promised herself, sliding her sister’s letter back into its envelop and now embracing its contents as a good omen; a natural portent heralding a new and exciting beginning, not just for Summer but for her sister as well.