California Sister

The sun hung low over Rosewood Lane, casting golden lines through chain-link fences and across freshly cut lawns of the tidy, identical houses that lined the street. The air smelled like grass, spring roses, and the faint warmth of a casserole left on a windowsill. Margaret Sinclair walked with her books hugged close to her chest, and her saddle shoes scuffled against the pavement in rhythm with her two best friends, Beth Holloway and Jenny Clarke. The three girls had just turned the corner past the schoolyard, their pleated skirts catching in the afternoon spring breeze as they laughed about the day's gossip.

"I swear, Tommy Miller was looking at me in gym class today," Jenny said with a satisfied little twirl of her honey-blonde ponytail. "Not just once either. Three times. During dodgeball!"

"Oh please," Beth replied, rolling her eyes. "He looks at everyone. He even looked at Mrs. Keene's ankles when she bent over to pick up the chalk."

The two girls burst into high-pitched giggles. Margaret smiled politely but stayed quiet while she trailed half a step behind them. It was easier to listen than to join in. Boys were a safe topic--popular and expected for 18-year-old girls--but for some reason, they didn't stir anything inside her. She had tried hard to flirt with the boy in her class, give them a wink or a flirty touch on the shoulder, but instead of feeling empowered or flirty--that warm, excited feeling her friends always described--Margaret just felt awkward. Like she was playing a part in someone else's story.

"Are you still coming with us to the lake house next Saturday?" Beth asked, pulling her back to the moment.

"Oh. Yes," Margaret replied, clearing her throat. "Of course."

Beth grinned. "Good. We got matching swimsuits. Jenny wanted polka dots, but I said red. Something va-va-voom, like Marilyn."

Jenny clapped her hands. "Margaret, you should do red too. It'd bring out your hair."

"I--maybe," she mumbled. "I don't know if my father would like it..."

"Your father isn't invited to spring break," Beth teased while bumping her gently with her hip.

As they passed the corner house with the ivy-covered trellis, a car door slammed softly behind them. All three girls turned and saw Ms. McCoran unloading brown paper bags from the back seat of her Chevrolet, one hip cocked elegantly to balance the weight. Her skirt was tight, her blouse tucked in just so to drape nicely over her large breasts, and her dark hair was swept up into a bun that made her neck look long and elegant. She was the sort of woman who wore lipstick even to water the plants.

"Good afternoon, girls," Ms. McCoran called, offering a polite smile as she shifted the groceries on her hip.

"Hi, Ms. McCoran," they said in unison, the way good girls always did. Margaret never really understood why, but whenever she saw Ms. McCoran, no matter what the reason, her heart would flutter in her chest, and she would sometimes feel a strange, dull ache between her thighs if she stared too long. When they had passed the house and were out of earshot, Jenny leaned in close and lowered her voice to a scandalous whisper. "I heard she's almost thirty," she said, eyes wide with mock horror. "And still not married."

Beth gasped as if someone had sworn in church. "Well, my mother says she thinks Ms. McCoran does unnatural things with women." Margaret's eyes dropped to the sidewalk. Her heartbeat picked up, though she couldn't say why. Ms. McCoran had always been kind to her--always remembering her name, always complimenting her dresses. But now the word unnatural floated through her mind like a wasp, buzzing and cruel.

Jenny giggled. "I bet she has all sorts of secrets in that house--velvet curtains, champagne, maybe even a radio that plays jazz."

Beth leaned in closer. "Do you think she actually makes love to women?"

"Beth!" Margaret snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. They both turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. Margaret cleared her throat before she tried to clean up her outburst. "That's not... it's just none of our business. And she's a very nice lady."

Jenny smirked. "Margaret's blushing."

"I am not."

Beth's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You always get prickly when we talk about that kind of thing. You'd think you were the one hiding velvet curtains."

"Again, I just think it's not our business," Margaret muttered as her finger began to scratch at her book, feeling uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation. She felt Jenny nudge her again.

"C'mon, Maggie. Don't be such a nun." Margaret didn't answer. She stared straight ahead, but she bit her lips as she began to think about Ms. McCoran-- her lipstick, her smooth voice, the way her eyes had lingered on Margaret a beat too long once. Did she actually do "unnatural things"? As Margaret searched her mind, she realized she had never really seen Ms. McCoran have a man over... or be seen with a man at all, for that matter. Perhaps she was simply a very private person.

The trio walked further up to where the sidewalk cracked slightly, where the maple roots pushed beneath it, and at the corner, they all split to make their way to their individual homes.

"See you tomorrow, Maggie," Beth called, already skipping up her driveway.

Jenny waved with a giggle. "Don't dream about Ms. McCoran too hard."

Margaret rolled her eyes and forced a smile, but her stomach fluttered uneasily. "Bye." She crossed the last block alone, and quiet fell around her like a lace curtain as the chatter faded. The sun dipped lower, casting golden stripes across the picket fences and driveways. A sprinkler arced gently over the neighbor's lawn. A dog barked once at their fence and wagged its tail as Margaret passed.

She climbed the three porch steps to her white-paneled house, opened the screen door, and stepped into a wave of warmth and something heavenly--rosemary, garlic, slow-roasted meat. "Mother?" she called softly.

"In the kitchen, darling!" came the reply, melodic and cheerful. The voice was like warm milk, soft, sweet, and reassuring. Margaret moved down the hallway past the polished console table and the smiling photographs in gold frames. Her mother stood at the stove, lifting the lid from a cast-iron pot with one hand and smoothing her apron with the other. Elaine Sinclair was the very picture of a suburban dream. She was tall and slender with a narrow waist, high cheekbones, and glossy chestnut curls that never dared to frizz. Her nails were always painted a dark red and filed to perfect ovals, and her lipstick never smudged, not even on the hottest summer days that their small, Virginia town had to offer. The white apron tied at her back was spotless and cinched over a pale blue dress that matched her eyes.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said, turning with a soft smile. "Dinner'll be ready in just a little while. Go wash up if you're sticky."

Margaret set down her books on the hall table and wandered closer, drawn toward her mother's perfume and the warm glow of home. "It smells amazing in here."

"It's a pot roast," Elaine said with a little wink. "I wanted to try that new recipe from Good Housekeeping." She leaned in and kissed her daughter's forehead gently, her touch light but careful--Elaine Sinclair didn't muss her hair or her lipstick, even in affection. Then she pulled back and looked her daughter up and down, something misty and maternal softening her features as she let out a sigh. "Eighteen tomorrow. I can hardly believe it."

Margaret lowered her eyes as she smiled warmly. "I can't either."

"I still remember the day you were born," Elaine murmured while she returned to dinner, her voice distant now, like she was speaking through a memory. "You were so quiet. So sweet. You hardly even cried." She smiled faintly. "Clara was the first to hold you, after your father. She wouldn't let the nurses near. She called you her little bunny from the very beginning. She was so proud to be a big sister." Elaine's voice drifted into silence for a moment, and Margaret caught the subtle shift in her face--nostalgia, yes, but something tighter beneath it.

Margaret chuckled as she sat down at the kitchen table, smoothing out the skirts of her dress like her mother always scolded her for. "Will Dad be home tonight?" she asked.

"Tomorrow," her mother replied over her shoulder as she tossed some butter and milk into the mashed potatoes. Margaret watched as her mother's face perked up, like she was happy for the sudden change in conversation. "His business trip ran long, but he will be back in time for your birthday." Margaret nodded while she picked at a stray thread on her skirt. She didn't mind, really, when her dad was away. It was always quieter without him--no lectures about grades or posture, no tight-lipped nods when she said please or thank you. Just her and her mother, moving around the house like pieces in a music box.

"Oh! I almost forgot! A letter came for you today." Elaine said as she turned to the pile of neatly sorted mail by the fruit bowl and plucked out a pale pink envelope. She handed it to Margaret with a little smile. "It's from Clara," she said, and she watched her daughter's face light up. "It came this afternoon. I thought it might make your day."

Margaret took the envelope slowly, and her heart skipped a beat while her fingers trembled around the delicate paper. It was addressed to Miss Margaret Sinclair in elegant, loopy handwriting. Her name looked so grown-up, so sophisticated. "I'll read it after I wash up," she murmured.

"Of course," her mother said with a nod. "Dinner in ten."

Margaret stood, pressing the letter against her chest like something fragile and forbidden, and climbed the stairs slowly. She pushed open the bathroom door and stepped inside. The soft scent of rose soap clung to the tile walls. She closed the door behind her and looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection stared back, wide-eyed and flushed as she took a steady breath. She reached for the letter with trembling hands and peeled it open.

Inside was a folded page of pale stationery, the kind Clara always used. The handwriting swirled across it like music.

Dear Maggie,

My darling Bunny, I can't believe you're turning eighteen.

I remember when you were just a little thing, always trailing behind me and asking questions. You would always look up at me like I hung the moon.

You probably don't know this, but that meant the world to me.

I miss you so much, Bunny. There isn't a day I don't think about you.

I wanted to call so many times, but I knew Dad wouldn't allow it. I'm sorry I left the way I did. I wanted more for myself, and I think that deep down, you understood that. I really hope so.

I've thought about how much you must've grown.

You were always so thoughtful and intelligent, and I bet you've blossomed into a young lady who stuns people without even realizing it.

Would you come visit me? I'd love nothing more than to spend time with you again, just the two of us.

There's a plane ticket included for Saturday, if you can come. I know you probably have plans with friends, but maybe you could make a little time for your big sister.

All my love, always,

Clara

Margaret's eyes widened as she read the last part of the letter. She turned the paper around, and sure enough, attached was a tri-folded paper, and at the bottom was a crisp one-way plane ticket taped.

Los Angeles, California. Departure: Saturday, April 8th, 9:36 A. M.

It was the day after her birthday, the day she was supposed to leave to go to the beach with Jenny and Beth. She stared at the name on the ticket. Miss Margaret Sinclair. Margaret folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into the envelope. She placed it on the bathroom counter, as if it were something fragile and sacred, then turned on a slow stream of water to wash up. The water ran warm over her hands while she splashed her face, trying hard to calm the rush of thoughts, and the warmth in her chest that wouldn't go away. She smiled at herself as she re-read the letter in her head. "Bunny". It had been so long since she had been called that, and only now did she truly realize how much she missed that name.

The smile that had bloomed across her face when she first read it had faded now, replaced by something quieter and sadder. The edges of a memory came fast, soft, and golden like the summer they never got back. She remembered the last time she saw Clara--the late July night, when the house had long since gone quiet. The windows were cracked open to let in the light breeze of the night air. They'd been lying in Clara's bed, tangled in blankets, whispering. Clara had been talking about California again, and Margaret admired how her sister's voice was full of certainty and hope.

"I want to be someone," Clara said in a hushed voice as she stared up at the ceiling. "Not just a name on a mailbox. I want to be remembered."

Margaret had watched her talk, and her heart was full. She'd always looked at her sister like she was already glowing from some spotlight the rest of the world couldn't see yet. She adored her big sister more than anyone else in the world. They had fallen asleep like that, side by side, their fingers just barely touching between the sheets. Margaret woke in the middle of the night and turned to see if Clara was somehow still awake. Clara had shifted in sleep, causing her nightdress to slip open. The soft light from the window traced the slope of her collarbone, and one side of the gown had fallen aside, exposing the gentle curve of Clara's breast, her nipple dusky in the moonlight.

Margaret had never seen a woman like that before--not real, not so close. Her chest ached with something strange and warm and wrong. This was her sister, and looking at her like this was sinful... but why couldn't she look away? She should've turned over, or closed her eyes, but instead, she looked at Clara's face, so peaceful in sleep, and felt something profound and strangely pulsing take hold of her. There was no true desire, not yet. Just an aching curiosity that wouldn't go away, wanting to understand.

Her hand twitched where it rested on the blanket, oh so close to her sister's perky, pink nipple. Margaret's breath hitched. She didn't mean to stare, but the growing curiosity was too intense. Clara looked like something out of a dream, like the women in the old paintings at church, only softer, realer... forbidden.

Her fingers inched forward, then hesitated. Just a brush. Just a graze. She never truly knew whether she had actually done it or if it was just the memory of wanting to that haunted her. Still, she remembered the way her breath stuttered, how her thighs pressed together under the blanket with an ache between them that was desperate to be satiated, how heat had bloomed low in her belly like a fire from hell. And then, Clara stirred, rolling onto her side, her back to Margaret. The moment was over. But the feeling stayed. Top of Form

Bottom of FormNow, in the bathroom mirror, she pressed her lips together and looked away. She wished Clara had never left. She wished she still lived in the room across the hall, still wore her hair up with ribbons, still came in smelling like lilac and peppermints.

Margaret picked up the letter again and held it close to her chest. She didn't know what her feelings meant, not then, and not now. But she knew one thing for sure. She needed to see Clara again. She folded her letter up and placed it inside her bra, then dried her face gently before switching off the light and heading downstairs.

The dining room was aglow with warm lamplight, and the table was already set with the usual delicate china, linen napkins, and silverware that gleamed like her mother's earrings. A vase of carnations sat at the center that her father had gifted her mother before leaving for his trip. The pot roast sat steaming on its platter beside creamy mashed potatoes and buttered green beans.

Her mother was pouring iced tea into matching glasses when Margaret entered. "There you are," she said with a smile. "All washed up and fresh-faced."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her mother placed the pitcher down and gestured toward Margaret's seat. "Sit, darling. Let's enjoy this while it's hot." They began eating in silence at first, the quiet, polite kind, filled with the clinking of forks and the soft hum of a large old clock ticking in the hallway. Margaret couldn't help but feel the envelope still pulsing against her chest like a second heartbeat. Her mother cleared her throat lightly and glanced at her. "Did you read Clara's letter?"

Margaret nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Elaine's eyes softened, but something shifted behind them. "I miss her. I really do. I wish she'd come home and give up on this... acting nonsense."

Margaret looked down at her plate, then up again. "She had big dreams, Mother. She always did. And I think... I think if anyone was born to be a star, it was Clara."

Elaine's knife paused over the roast. "Now, Margaret," she said gently but firmly, setting her utensils down. "Hollywood is no place for a girl like Clara. People out there sell their souls. They get used up and turned into something they're not. You know what those women end up doing to get ahead." Margaret said nothing, but a quiet protest stirred in her chest. "She would've been much better off marrying that nice McAllister boy when he proposed at nineteen," her mother continued, shaking her head. "Now he has a good job at the bank. She could've been a wife and a mother by now. She would have security and her dignity."

Margaret focused on her green beans, the edge of her fork, the feeling of being very small and very loud inside her head--anything else besides her mother's criticism. Then, Elaine gave a breathy sigh, as if the subject had worn her out, and changed her tone. "Anyway," she said, softer, "do you still need to go shopping for a bathing suit?"

Margaret blinked, adjusting to the shift. "No, ma'am. I figured I would wear the one I already have."

"Are you sure? I can take you after school tomorrow, just after you spend a little time with your father." She smiled, trying to ease the tension. "He misses you when he's gone so long."

Margaret nodded slowly. "Okay. That sounds nice."

"Something modest," her mother added with a teasing wink. "But still cute. You're eighteen now--almost. You can be modest and stylish."

Margaret smiled politely and lifted her glass of iced tea. They finished their dinner with general conversation about church, their surrounding neighbors, and her upcoming graduation. When they were finished, Margaret helped her mother clear the plates, stacking them with care before carrying them to the sink. They moved with practiced rhythm, with Margaret washing, and her mother drying. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the space, a sound that was both easy and familiar.

Elaine hummed the soft tune of Blue Moon under her breath. Her nails were still perfect, even as she wiped each dish dry with the embroidered towel, and her hair hadn't fallen out of place once. When the kitchen was spotless again, they moved to the living room. Elaine sat in her favorite chair, one foot tucked elegantly under the other, her knitting needles clicking gently as she worked on a pale blue cardigan. Margaret curled up on the sofa beside her, her own legs tucked under her skirt as I Love Lucy flickered black and white across the screen.

She smiled to herself as the laugh track chimed, but her gaze drifted more often to her mother than the television. There was something so peaceful about her, and her contentment in keeping house, cooking meals, and polishing silver. Elaine Sinclair never rushed. She never complained. She never looked out the window and dreamed of California.

Margaret thought about how nice it must be to have a home like this in the future. To wake up and prepare breakfast for a husband who loved her. To make a house beautiful and be proud of it. She wanted that--honestly, she did. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how carefully she smiled, how neatly she dressed, how sweetly she spoke, something never quite fit. Boys flirted. They always had at church picnics, at the soda counter, after school. They offered her milkshakes, movie tickets, and their jackets on chilly evenings. They told her she was "really sweet," and that she had "kind eyes."

She sat in the dark theaters with her hands folded in her lap, watching the flickering screen while a boy beside her reached for the popcorn and sometimes her knee. But even then, something didn't feel right. She waited for that spark her friends always talked about. The thrill, the heat, the hunger. She waited to want someone the way they said she should, but so far, it hadn't come.

Sometimes she wondered if something was wrong with her. Other times, like now, she wondered if maybe that spark wasn't meant to be found in dark theaters with boys who only saw a pretty girl in a skirt. Perhaps it was meant to be found somewhere else... or with someone else. She shook her head, trying to push the thought away. She had always done her best to be a good girl. A normal girl. The kind who dreamed of a tidy kitchen and a man who kissed her on the forehead every night before bed. For her, that truly would be enough once she found it. But no matter how often she told herself that was enough, something deeper stirred in her chest, something she couldn't name. And lately, it sounded an awful lot like Clara's voice.

She felt herself getting sleepier, her eyes heavy, the flicker of the television blurring into soft shapes. She looked over at her mother, who was still knitting steadily, lips pursed in concentration. Margaret stood and stretched. "I think I'm gonna head to bed."

Elaine looked up and smiled. "All right, darling. Sleep well."

Margaret leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mother."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

She padded upstairs, her fingers trailing the polished railing as she went. The house was so quiet at night, a gentle humming like it breathed softly around her. In the bathroom, she drew a warm bath, letting the water rise slowly while she undressed. She sank into it with a contented sigh, and she closed her eyes, letting herself drift. She wondered what Clara's bathtub looked like. It was probably marble, with soaking jets that soothed sore limbs after a long day. Maybe she had a vanity full of expensive creams and lipstick, and her robes were trimmed with feathers.

After bathing, she dried off and slipped into her nightgown, buttoning the collar at her throat and brushing out her hair in long, slow strokes. She moved with a quiet grace, part of her still pretending she was already grown, already married, already settled into the soft, certain rhythm of life. Margaret crawled into bed, placed her sister's letter in her nightstand drawer, and turned off the lamp. The room was dark and warm, and she tucked her blanket around her shoulders like a second skin.

She stared at the ceiling for a while, her thoughts drifting back to Clara. She could still picture her, even after all this time. The way she tilted her head when she laughed--the way she used to sneak Margaret pieces of chocolate after dinner. Margaret smiled softly to herself. It would be nice to see her again. To talk and be close. She closed her eyes, imagining what it might feel like to step off the plane into the bright California sun, her sister waiting at the gate in big sunglasses and red lipstick, arms open wide. It was a beautiful thought, and as she drifted off to sleep, that's where her dreams began.

Margaret awoke to the sound of her clock alarm and the smell of sizzling bacon and something sweet and warm wafting up from the kitchen. For a moment, she lay still beneath the covers, her hair fanned across her pillow, heart fluttering with the quiet knowledge that today was her birthday.

Eighteen.

She rose with a gentle stretch, her cotton nightgown brushing her ankles as she stood. The sunlight spilled softly through her lace curtains, golden and kind, as if the whole house had agreed to treat her gently today. She padded down the stairs in her slippers, fingers trailing the banister. The scent of blueberry pancakes greeted her first, followed by the soft clink of china and the sizzle of crispy bacon. Her mother stood at the stove in a pale pink dress and matching apron, hair already curled into perfect waves, and her lipstick precisely applied. The breakfast table was already a vision--Soft scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, a stack of golden pancakes bursting with blueberries with a little square of butter melting in the center, and a pitcher of orange juice.

Elaine turned with a beaming smile. "Happy birthday, darling."

Margaret smiled sleepily. "Thank you, Mother."

"Sit and eat. You deserve something special this morning." Margaret took her seat at the table, her heart warmed by the simple beauty of it all. Her mother gracefully placed food on her daughter's plate, then put the tub of syrup next to her. As she took her first bite, her mother finished pouring a small glass of juice, then reached into her apron pocket and brought out a small, velvet box. "I wanted you to have this," she said gently as she placed it on the table.

Margaret wiped her fingers delicately before lifting the lid. Inside sat a pair of pearl drop earrings, delicate and glowing. She gasped and her eyes widened. "Mother..."

"They were your grandmother's," Elaine said softly. "She gave them to me when I turned eighteen. And now they're yours."

Margaret touched one with reverence, her fingers trembling slightly. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart." Her mother smiled, reaching over to smooth a lock of Margaret's hair behind her ear. "You've always had her grace. She would've loved you." Elaine finally sat, making her own plate before taking a sip of her coffee. The moment felt full, soft around the edges, like the kind of memory that would settle in her chest for years to come. "Oh," Elaine added lightly, setting down her cup, "your father called this morning. He caught an early flight home and said he should be here before you're back from school."

Margaret brightened. "Really? I didn't think he'd make it."

"He said he didn't want to miss your big day." She smiled, though her eyes flickered just slightly. "So you'll have a little time with him before the weekend."

Margaret nodded, finishing the last bite of her pancakes. "I'll go get ready." Upstairs, she moved quickly. She picked out a soft pink blouse and a gray skirt that flared gently when she moved. After brushing her hair up into a ribboned ponytail, she carefully fastened her gifted earrings, smiling at the feeling of familial warmth that came with them. Then, with a quiet boldness, she reached for her makeup tin. She didn't do much, just a touch of powder, a little mascara, and finally, a swipe of red lipstick. Not too bright, but enough to make her lips feel grown-up. Clara had always said red lipstick could change a girl's whole mood.

She glanced at the clock, ran to grab her letter, and hurried downstairs, grabbing her books just as she reached the front hall. Her mother turned from the hall mirror and blinked once. "Margaret."

She paused. "Yes, ma'am?"

Elaine stepped closer, a thoughtful look softening her expression. "A little makeup is fine, I suppose... you are eighteen now." Her tone was cautious but not cold. "But wipe off that red lipstick, sweetheart. It's too grown for school."

Margaret's face fell just slightly. "I thought--"

Her mother reached up and brushed her cheek, smiling gently. "You're a woman now, it's true. And you should be allowed to express yourself a little more. But there's a difference between being lovely and being bold. You're lovely already. Don't rush the rest." Margaret smiled faintly and nodded, then slipped into the powder room and blotted her lips with a tissue. When she came out, her mother gave her a quick once-over and handed her a wrapped apple muffin in wax paper. "Share with your friends," she said with a wink.

"I will," Margaret said before giving her mother a quick kiss on the cheek. Outside, the morning was bright and crisp, the lawns glistening with morning dew. Jenny and Beth stood at the curb, both in matching saddle shoes and plaid skirts, holding small gift bags with pink ribbon handles.

"There she is!" Jenny squealed. "Birthday girl!"

Beth grinned. "Happy birthday, Maggie!"

Margaret beamed as she walked closer. "Thank you." They handed her the bags. Inside one was a hair scarf in rose silk, and in the other, a bottle of pale-pink nail polish and a cream-colored blouse. As they began walking down the street toward school, Margaret clutched the gifts close and smiled to herself. The air felt clearer somehow. Like today, anything might be possible--even California.

The girls made their way to school, the morning sun casting long shadows across the lawns. Birds chirped from telephone wires, and sprinklers spun lazily, misting flower beds full of marigolds and petunias. Jenny looped her arm through Margaret's, grinning. "So? How's it feel? Eighteen at last."

Margaret smiled softly. "Strange, but good, I think."

Beth leaned in with a mischievous smirk. "Did your mom give you the talk? You know--what it means to be a woman now." She added a dramatic flair to the words, eyes sparkling.

"Beth!" Jenny gasped.

Margaret laughed, shaking her head. "No. Just blueberry pancakes and a pair of earrings."

Jenny sighed dreamily. "That sounds perfect."

Margaret hesitated, then added, "Oh... I got a letter from Clara, too."

Both girls turned toward her with wide eyes. "Clara?" Jenny squealed. "Is she still in California? I swear she probably wears expensive furs and drinks martinis before noon."

Margaret blushed. "That's not exactly--"

"She was always so elegant," Beth said. "She used to walk through the halls like she was already famous. I swear, every boy had a crush on her. I wish I could be her."

Margaret's heart swelled a little. "She asked if I wanted to come visit her in California."

Jenny nearly tripped over her own feet. "What?"

"She sent me a plane ticket," Margaret added, her voice soft and unsure. "For Saturday."

Beth's jaw dropped. "Shut up. You're joking."

"I'm not. But... there's no way I could go. My parents would never allow it."

Jenny frowned. "Well, obviously not. You just turned eighteen. You can't fly off to California without their permission."

Beth, meanwhile, had gone quiet, lost in some daydream. She looked at Margaret with a slow, building smile. "But imagine it," she whispered. "Meeting movie stars. Watching your sister on set. Drinking coffee in those tiny porcelain cups and wearing sunglasses inside."

Margaret laughed under her breath. "It does sound nice."

Beth leaned in a little closer. "You could always come with us to the beach--at least that's what your parents could think."

Margaret froze mid-step. "What?"

Jenny stopped walking and turned around. "Beth, no."

"Just think about it," Beth pressed on. "You tell your parents you're spending the weekend with me and Jenny at the lake house. We all do it all the time. But instead of sunburns and lemonade, you get to ride on a plane and see your sister."

Jenny looked horrified. "That's lying, Beth."

Beth shrugged. "It's not lying. It's... withholding." She smiled at Margaret. "This could be your only chance to see what life looks like outside this neighborhood."

Margaret chewed her lip, torn. The idea stirred something in her chest--excitement, fear, curiosity. But also, guilt. "I don't know... I couldn't just leave like that. What if something happened?"

"Nothing will happen," Beth said confidently. "And I'll cover for you. We'll make it all sound normal. Jenny will, too--once she calms down."

Jenny pulled ahead of them, shaking her head. "I don't want to hear anymore. You're both crazy."

Beth watched her go, then turned back to Margaret, eyes gleaming. "This is your moment, Maggie. You don't want to wake up in twenty years wondering what would've happened if you'd said yes." Margaret looked down at the sidewalk. She wasn't sure what she would do, but the way her friends talked about the glitz and glam of California definitely enticed her.

Margaret spent most of the school day looking at the clock instead of the chalkboard. Miss Emerson's lesson on the Revolutionary War droned on like distant thunder. Notes blurred on the page as Mr. Johnson went on about math equations, her pen hovering above the margin as her thoughts floated elsewhere--toward palm trees, movie sets, and the way Clara's handwriting curled around her name.

She imagined Clara's apartment. Long curtains, golden lamps, and perfume bottles lined on a mirrored tray. She imagined her sister's laugh echoing through a sunlit room, full of confidence, full of everything Margaret wasn't. She barely touched her lunch. Even the chatter of her classmates, the whispers about boys and dances and swim meets, felt like static. When the final bell rang, Margaret met Jenny and Beth at the school gate, her books held close to her chest as usual.

They walked home along their usual path, kicking pebbles and waving to passing neighbors, the spring air sweet with the scent of budding roses. "So?" Beth asked, her voice low but electric. "Have you decided?"

Margaret hesitated. "I don't know... I want to. But I don't know."

Jenny let out a huff. "It's too dangerous, Margaret. What if something happens to you? What if you get kidnapped? Or assaulted?"

"I'm not going to be wandering through alleys at midnight," Margaret muttered.

"She's not going to a war zone," Beth added, rolling her eyes. "She's going to her sister."

Jenny crossed her arms. "Still. You've never even been on a plane before."

Margaret glanced at the sidewalk, then up toward the sunlit rooftops. "She said she misses me. And... I miss her, too. It's been two years. That's a long time."

Jenny stayed quiet for a moment. Then Beth gently nudged her shoulder. "Come on, Jenny. You can help us. You don't even have to lie--you just don't mention a few details."

Jenny chewed her lip. "You really want to do this?"

Margaret looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."

Jenny sighed heavily, then finally nodded. "Fine. But if your parents find out and I get grounded, I'm blaming both of you."

Beth grinned, linking her arm with Margaret's. "That's the spirit."

They veered off their usual path and walked toward Jenny's house, a white brick home with a red porch swing and bright green shutters. Jenny's mom was tending to a flowerpot on the front step. "Well, if it isn't the birthday girl!" she said warmly. "Happy birthday, sweetheart!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Clarke."

Jenny led the way inside. "Mom, Margaret just needs to use the phone really quick for a birthday call. Is that okay?"

"Of course, honey. Just don't tie up the line too long--your uncle's supposed to call later."

The girls slipped into the den, where the rotary phone sat on a little side table beside the armchair. Jenny and Beth hung back while Margaret pulled the note from her skirt pocket, unfolding Clara's letter to find the number scribbled at the bottom. Her heart beat faster as she picked up the receiver and slowly, carefully dialed.

The ring sounded loud in her ear. Once... Twice... Then a soft click.

"Hello?"

Margaret nearly forgot how to speak. "... Clara?"

There was a pause. Then a familiar breath of laughter. "Bunny?!"

Margaret smiled so wide it hurt. "You still call me that."

"I always will," Clara said warmly. "I can't believe it's you. Happy birthday, my sweet sister."

Margaret's voice cracked with quiet emotion. "I miss you."

"Oh, honey," Clara breathed, "I miss you, too. Every single day." Margaret glanced at Jenny and Beth, who stood nearby pretending not to listen. She lowered her voice.

"I'm coming to see you."

The pause on the other end was filled with such joy that Margaret could feel it through the wire.

"You are?" Clara gasped. "Oh, Bunny... you have no idea how happy that makes me. I'll be at the airport early. I'll wear that yellow scarf you loved to steal from me so that you can spot me."

Margaret smiled, her heart racing. "I can't talk long. I have to go. I just... I wanted to tell you."

Clara's voice turned tender. "Thank you for calling me. I'll be counting the hours until tomorrow morning comes."

"Me too."

Clara hung up gently, the dial tone humming in her ear for a moment before she placed the receiver back on the hook. She turned to her friends, cheeks flushed, hands trembling just slightly. "I'm actually going."

The sun was low when Margaret finally walked up the front steps of her house, a quiet excitement bubbling in her chest. Her schoolbooks felt lighter in her arms. She could still hear Clara's voice in her head, soft and familiar and full of warmth. Margaret opened the door and stepped inside, where the smell of roast chicken and fresh bread greeted her.

"Hello?" she called as she closed the door behind her.

"In the kitchen, dear," her mother answered.

Margaret stepped around the corner and stopped short, her eyes lighting up. Her father was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty glass of scotch in front of him, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. His suit jacket was draped over the chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. The newspaper lay folded beside his drink, his brow furrowed in quiet thought until he looked up and saw her.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, dropping her books and rushing to him.

He smiled, weary but pleased, as she flung her arms around his neck. "There's my girl," he murmured, patting her back with a firm, familiar hand. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

She pulled back, beaming. "When did you get back?"

"Early this afternoon. I didn't want to miss seeing you turn into a young lady." He reached down to the floor and retrieved a small, wrapped package from his briefcase. "Picked this up in New York. Thought you'd like it."

Margaret took it, carefully unwrapping the brown paper to find a delicate leather-bound journal with gilded edges and a tiny golden key. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you."

"I figured you'd want to write down all your deep, eighteen-year-old thoughts," he teased, his voice gruff but fond.

She smiled shyly. "Maybe I will." He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back, swirling the last of his scotch. "So," she asked, pulling out a chair. "How was your trip?"

"Busy," he said with an exhausted sigh. "Too many meetings, and not enough sleep. But productive."

Elaine turned from the stove, setting a dish on the counter. "Your father closed a big deal. Something with the rail lines."

He nodded. "Might mean a promotion."

"That's wonderful," Margaret said with a glowing smile. "I'm proud of you."

He gave a small nod, pleased. Elaine moved to the fridge and spoke lightly over her shoulder. "Oh--and Clara sent Margaret a letter for her birthday."

The change in the room was immediate. Her father's expression shifted. His eyes dropped to the table, and she watched as his jaw tightened. The air between them thickened, as if someone had turned down the radio and all the warmth bled out of the room. He took a long sip from his glass. "Is that so?"

Margaret's smile faded a little. "Yes, sir. She... she wrote to say happy birthday. That she misses me."

He didn't look up. Instead, he reached for the newspaper again, unfolding it with a snap of the pages. "Well, isn't that nice of her." Elaine's lips pressed together, her hands suddenly very busy. He finished the rest of his scotch, then stood and softly rubbed Margaret's shoulder. "Go on and wash up for dinner. Your mom made you your favorite tonight."

Margaret glanced between them, and she felt her chest tighten just slightly. She swallowed. "Yes, sir." By the time she came back downstairs, the table was already set, and plates were already filled with roasted chicken and roasted veggies. Dinner was quiet, almost too quiet, after the mention of Clara. The clink of silverware against china filled the silence, interrupted only by polite questions and the occasional comment about the weather, the garden, or what color Margaret's swimsuit might be.

Elaine refilled everyone's glasses with iced tea and gave Margaret a warm smile. "When we come back from shopping, I'll help you pack your suitcase. Make sure you don't forget your sunhat and that new lotion from the pharmacy. Jenny's mother said the sun at the lake can be vicious."

But before Margaret could answer, her father cleared his throat. "She doesn't need a new bathing suit." The room quieted, and Elaine's hand froze on her glass. Margaret's smile dimmed. "She still has the one from last year," he continued, cutting into his chicken with slow, deliberate motions. "No reason to waste money on something that barely covers anything these days."

Elaine opened her mouth to speak, but the look he gave, firm, unquestioning, made her go still. She pressed her lips together and looked back down at her plate. Margaret swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "That's fine, Daddy," she said quickly, trying to smooth things over. "The one I have still fits." He gave a small nod of approval. Elaine offered her a tight smile but said nothing more on the matter.

Her father cleared his throat, clearly having something else to say. "I'm still not sure I'm comfortable with the three of you girls going to the lake house without an adult."

Elaine gave him a soft, placating smile and took a while to speak, as if thinking of what to say not to upset him. "Now, Jeff, they've been friends since they were children. Jenny and Beth have proven themselves trustworthy, and Margaret is now a young woman. She knows to call every morning and before bed. Don't you, darling?"

Margaret swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."

Her father didn't look entirely satisfied, but he nodded slowly. "Just be careful, Margaret. You don't know how fast things can go wrong."

Margaret offered him a small smile, but inside her chest, guilt twisted like a knot. "I will. I promise."

That evening, after the dishes were washed and the house had grown quiet, Margaret climbed the stairs with her mother, suitcase in hand. The bedroom was bathed in a soft lamplight, the mirror catching glints of the earrings she still wore. Elaine opened the wardrobe, pulling out neatly pressed summer blouses and folding them with care. "I laid out your cotton skirts. And your bathing suit is in the drawer. You'll bring that cardigan in case it gets cool?"

"Yes, ma'am." They worked in silence for a while, until Margaret glanced up from rolling a pair of socks. "Mother

"Yes, darling?"

"Why doesn't Daddy talk about Clara anymore?"

Elaine's hands stilled for just a moment before she returned to folding. "It's easier for him that way."

Margaret sat on the edge of the bed. "But he should still call her. Or answer when she calls."

Her mother's lips tightened faintly. "That's enough talk about Clara."

Margaret blinked. "But--"

Elaine turned to her with a gentle but firm look, smoothing her hands over the stack of clothes. "I know you miss her. I know it hurt when she left. But I won't have you fall under the same influences."

Margaret looked down at her lap, and a little spark of something, anger maybe, or sadness that glowed quietly inside of her. Elaine sighed softly and brushed Margaret's hair off her shoulder, her voice warmer again. "You're not Clara. You're better off without all those big, reckless dreams. Your path will be steady. Safe. And someday, when you're married and you have your own home, you'll understand what I mean."

Margaret nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They finished packing in silence, and when they were done, Elaine kissed her forehead, smoothed her pillow, and turned off the light. That night, Margaret lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the packed suitcase tucked quietly beneath her bed. The room was shadowed and still, the only sounds the soft ticking of the hallway clock, and soft, barely audible conversation between her parents. Tomorrow, she'll see Clara again. She imagined her sister's arms around her, the scent of her perfume, the sound of her laugh. And despite the knot of guilt and the warning in her mother's voice, a smile curved across Margaret's lips. California was waiting.

Saturday morning came wrapped in stillness. Margaret's alarm buzzed just after dawn, the faint sound muffled under her pillow. She jolted upright, heart racing. She hadn't slept a wink, for today had finally arrived. She dressed quickly, pulling on her cream blouse and soft gray skirt, her cardigan folded neatly over her arm. Her fingers moved with quiet determination, buttoning, brushing, fastening the clasp on her shoes.

From the vanity, she picked up the pearl earrings her mother had given her for her birthday. She hesitated, then slipped them into a small velvet pouch and tucked them into her satchel. Her journal went next--its pages still blank, waiting to be filled with something brave. She reached for the handle of her suitcase... then froze.

The letter.

The ticket.

She turned back, breath quick, and opened her drawer. The pale blue envelope with Clara's handwriting peeked out from beneath her hair ribbons. She grabbed it and the ticket folded inside, quickly stuffing them between the folded blouses in her case. A voice called up from downstairs: "Margaret! Your friends are outside!"

It was her mother, chipper as always. Margaret's throat tightened. "Coming!"

She gave her room one last look. The soft pink curtains. The rosary on the nightstand. The neatly made bed. Then she closed the door. Her mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, adjusting a fresh vase of flowers on the hallway table. Her father stood near the front door, tying his watch around his wrist. Margaret kept her steps light and fast while she carried her suitcase by her side. "Be good," her mother said, smoothing Margaret's collar. "Call us if you need anything."

Her father gave a single nod. "And remember what I said. Be careful."

"I will," Margaret said, trying to keep her voice steady. Her heart thudded harder than ever. Outside, Jenny's mother's car idled in the driveway, and the back door was already open. "Bye, Mother. Bye, Daddy."

"Have fun, sweetheart," her mother called.

"Don't forget to call," her father added.

Margaret climbed into the back seat, her breath shallow. Beth turned around from the front passenger seat and grinned. "Look at you--Miss Runaway."

Jenny didn't smile. "I still think this is a bad idea."

"Will you stop being such a worrywart?" Beth groaned. "Let the girl live." Margaret smiled faintly, caught in the pull between guilt and giddy relief. Beth twisted around again and handed her a small paper-wrapped package. "Here. Open it." Inside was a little Kodak camera--yellow, plastic, with a fresh roll of film. "So you can take pictures," Beth said. "Of everything. And of your sister."

Margaret felt her throat catch. "Thank you."

They drove through the slowly waking town, past the soda fountain and the corner bakery, past the whitewashed church and the gas station. The sky was still pale, the light golden and thin. "I bet Clara's already landed some glamorous role," Beth mused aloud. "Some noir film where she plays the dangerous dame with a cigarette."

"Or she's dating someone famous," Jenny added reluctantly, softening. "Like that one actor... what's his name? The one from East of Eden." Margaret smiled, her heart beating faster just at the thought. They turned onto the airport drive, and Beth jumped out first, grabbing Margaret's suitcase from the trunk. Jenny followed the camera. "Call us the moment you get there," Jenny said as she pulled Margaret into a tight hug.

"Promise," Margaret whispered.

Beth hugged her too, her voice muffled by Margaret's shoulder. "Take lots of pictures. Bring us back a story." Margaret stepped back, clutching her suitcase handle. She took a breath, grabbed her camera, then she walked toward the airport doors.

Inside, everything moved quickly, faster than life in Rosewood ever did. The announcements echoed overhead, people bustled past in coats and hats, and the scent of coffee and diesel was thick in the air. Margaret made her way to the gate, showed her ticket, and passed through to the terminal. Boarding the plane was surreal--her legs shaking as she climbed the narrow steps into the cabin. She found her seat by the window and clutched her handbag to her chest.

The seats were stiff, and the noise of the engines was already a dull roar. She looked out at the tarmac, at the tiny town behind her, at everything she had ever known. And for a moment, her stomach knotted. But then she reached into her satchel and touched the edge of Clara's letter.

I'll be at the airport early. I'll wear that yellow scarf you loved...

Margaret exhaled slowly, and a new kind of calm settled over her. The plane jerked forward, the engines rumbling louder. Her fingers dug into the armrest as the ground fell away beneath her and the town grew smaller, smaller, and then disappeared beneath the clouds. She closed her eyes and drifted off to a soft sleep.

A gentle touch on her shoulder stirred her from sleep. Margaret blinked at the soft blur of a flight attendant's smile. "Miss? We've landed."

"Oh!" she gasped, sitting up quickly. "Oh! I-I'm sorry."

The attendant smiled politely. "No trouble at all. Welcome to Los Angeles."

Margaret's heart thumped as she reached for her satchel, her hands still stiff with sleep. She rubbed her eyes, smoothed her skirt, and stood, waiting for the small remainder of passengers to move past her. Her knees felt weak--part nerves, part excitement--as she grabbed her suitcase and followed them down to the tarmac. The warm, California sun beat down, almost blinding her. She raised her hand to shield her eyes as she walked faster to follow the man in front of her. When she stepped into the wide terminal, she gasped to herself, believing she was somehow still in a dream.

Bright light poured through massive glass windows. Palm trees swayed beyond the glass, tall and almost surreal. The air was warmer and saltier somehow, even inside. The scent of it hit her all at once--citrus, heat, perfume. Everything felt bigger here. Louder. More alive. The women wore sunglasses indoors, their heels clicking smartly on the tile. Men in fine suits laughed over espressos. Flight attendants passed by like movie stars, their skirts crisp, their hair tucked perfectly into hats. Somewhere overhead, a record played--Frank Sinatra, crooning something smooth and romantic through the speakers.

Margaret stood still for a moment, overwhelmed. She clutched her satchel tighter and looked around. Then she turned in a slow circle, and her brow furrowed. How on earth do I get out of here? Spotting a man in uniform, she stepped forward politely. "Excuse me, sir? How do I get to... um... traveler's pickup, I guess?"

He smiled politely and pointed toward a glass wall with silver lettering. "Straight down that corridor, miss."

"Thank you," she said. She walked with careful steps, her breath quickening again. Her heels clicked across the floor like they didn't belong to her. Her palms were damp. Her heart wouldn't slow.

And then--

"Margaret!"

The voice was soft at first, faintly carrying over the noise of the terminal. She stopped and searched for who said her name.

"Maggie May!"

It was louder now, and unmistakable. She turned toward the sound, her eyes scanning the crowd, and then she saw her.

Clara.

She was radiant. Her hair was swept up into a soft twist, tied with the yellow scarf she said she would wear. Big dark glasses were perched on her head like a crown, and her dress--a pale blue with white buttons and a cinched waist--looked like something out of Harper's Bazaar. She looked exactly how Margaret had imagined her. No--better.

Margaret didn't think; she ran as best she could, luggage still in hand. Clara did the same, her heels clicking fast. They met in the middle of the concourse and threw their arms around each other. For a moment, Margaret couldn't breathe, not from the run, but from the feeling. Clara held her so tightly that it made something deep in Margaret's chest ache. She buried her face in her sister's shoulder, the smell of lilac making her tear up, the scent being absolutely Clara.

"I can't believe it," Clara whispered, breathless. "You're really here."

Margaret nodded against her. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you more, Bunny." They stood there, wrapped in each other, the hum of the airport fading into nothing. For the first time in two years, Margaret actually felt like she was home. Clara couldn't take her eyes off her younger sister. Margaret grabbed her suitcase again, and the siblings began to walk to the doors that led outside the airport. Clara's hand was brushing Margaret's arm every now and then, and Clara smiled like someone trying to recognize an old song in a new voice. "Look at you," she murmured, her eyes twinkling. "All grown up."

Margaret looked down shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess I am."

"You guess?" Clara laughed. "You were still in pigtails the last time I saw you. Now you're... taller. And you've got cheekbones, for heaven's sake. I almost didn't recognize you as I watched you coming off that plane."

Margaret blushed, half smiling. "You haven't changed at all."

"Flatterer," Clara said with a wink. She linked her arm through Margaret's and pulled her in closer. "So, tell me everything. How's school? Are you going to college after graduation?"

"I-I think so. I haven't decided yet. Maybe something with literature or art history."

Clara gave a dramatic groan. "My sweet, smart girl. Always with her nose in a book."

Margaret smiled, but the compliment made her shy. As they continued to walk and talk, Margaret couldn't stop sneaking glances at her sister. Clara's presence was dazzling up close--her perfume, her painted lips, the way people glanced at her as she walked past. She wasn't just Margaret's older sister anymore; she was a presence. They headed for the exit, weaving through the terminal. "And boys?" Clara asked playfully, bumping her hip. "There must be some tall, charming young man writing you bad poetry."

Margaret's face burned. "I-no. Not really. No one's really caught my eye."

Clara raised a perfectly arched brow. "Of course not. Not while you're dressed like that." She looked her over with a half-smile. "That cardigan's practically screaming, 'take me to Sunday school.' First thing tomorrow--we're going shopping."

Margaret laughed, her blush deepening. "It's not that bad."

Clara gave her a teasing smirk. "Margaret May, I love you. But you look like you got lost on your way to a tea party in 1940." Outside, the sun was bright and golden, the city alive with movement and motion. Palm trees lined the street like tall, glamorous guardians. Clara raised her hand to hail a cab, and within seconds, a yellow taxi rolled up to the curb. She opened the door and guided Margaret in first, then slid in beside her with a practiced grace. "1348 Westbrook, please," she told the driver.

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Clara lowered her sunglasses over her eyes, leaned back, and crossed her legs, one arm draped casually across the seat behind Margaret's shoulders. Margaret sat stiffly, her hands folded in her lap. Everything felt surreal. Clara, even just sitting there, looked like a woman who truly belonged in magazines.

"You're quiet," Clara said after a moment, her tone light.

"I'm just... taking it all in," Margaret murmured. "You really live here."

"I really do." Clara smiled. "Isn't this place the bees' knees?"

Margaret looked at her. "You're like someone out of a movie."

Clara laughed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Bunny. I auditioned for a movie. That's not quite the same thing."

Margaret turned back to the window, watching the palm trees glide past. She felt small next to her sister, but in a way that wasn't bad, just new. The taxi turned onto a quieter street and pulled up in front of a tall, cream-colored building with curved balconies and green ivy climbing up the sides. A man in a neat uniform leaned down and opened the taxi door, tipping his hat as Clara stepped out. Margaret followed, wide-eyed. Margaret grabbed her belongings and walked behind her sister through large, French door. The lobby had marble floors and a chandelier. The walls were painted in soft rose and gold tones, and a wide mirror reflected the two of them as they passed. "Even the elevator is fancy," Margaret whispered as another man opened the large, gold-framed doors leading inside.

"Only the best," Clara said, punching in the top floor. They rode up in silence, Margaret's heart fluttering in her chest. When the doors opened, Clara led her down a hallway with soft carpet and potted palms, stopping in front of an elegant black door. She unlocked it with a flourish. "Welcome to my palace," she said before stepping inside.

Margaret stepped into a dream. The apartment was warm and bright, filled with vibrant colors and natural light. A cream-colored couch with velvet pillows faced a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks, sheet music, and framed photos. French doors led to a little balcony, and the scent of lilac hung in the air. There was a piano tucked in the corner. A vanity with crystal perfume bottles. A little kitchen with pale pink tile.

"It's just like I imagined," Margaret breathed.

"I hoped you'd like it," Clara said, voice softer now. "I know it's a lot.. but I hope you still feel at home."

And for the first time in a long time--maybe since before Clara had left--Margaret did. Margaret set her suitcase just inside the entryway and turned to Clara. "I should... make a couple of phone calls. Let Mother know I've arrived safely. And Beth and Jenny, too."

Clara nodded as she sat on her sofa to unfasten her heels. "Of course. Phone's by the window." She pointed toward a pale pink rotary phone on a small end table. "Take your time. I'll put your suitcase in the bedroom."

She disappeared down the hall into her room, Margaret's suitcase in hand. Margaret lifted the receiver and dialed home first, tucking the cord between her fingers as the line rang. Her mother answered with a singsong tone. "Sinclair residence."

"Hello, Mother," Margaret said with a tired smile. "We made it. safe and sound." She could hear her father's voice in the background, asking questions. Her mother relayed the message that the girls had arrived safe, and Margaret felt her stomach drop at the fib she was telling.

Elaine's tone softened slightly. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. You'll call again tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Stay safe, my darling. And have fun."

"Yes, ma'am." They exchanged polite goodbyes, and Margaret hung up. Then she dialed Beth's number at the lake house from memory. Jenny picked up.

"Margaret?! Finally! Did you land? Is she there?"

Beth's voice chimed in behind her. "Let me talk to her!"

Margaret laughed softly. "Yes, I'm here. You wouldn't believe it. The apartment is... gorgeous." She described the velvet couch, the bookshelves, the balcony, and the pale-pink tile in the kitchen. They gasped and giggled and demanded more. Then Margaret trailed off mid-sentence. Her eyes had drifted toward the open bedroom door, where Clara stood in front of her mirror. She was unfastening her dress, her back to the doorway. Slowly, the garment slipped down her shoulders and fell in a soft whisper to the floor, revealing her long legs and pale silk undergarments--high-waisted, delicate, and perfectly fitted.

Margaret's breath caught. Clara stood for a moment, adjusting the straps of her bra absently, utterly unaware of the eyes on her. Margaret knew she should look away. She meant to. But her body stilled--her fingers tightening slightly around the phone cord as Clara reached for another dress. It was simpler, darker, something casual, and she slipped into it quickly, smoothing the fabric over her hips.

"Hello?" Jenny's voice snapped her out of the trance. "Maggie?"

Margaret blinked. "Yes--sorry. I--I think she's going to take me shopping tomorrow." There was a beat of teasing from both ends, but Margaret barely heard it. Her cheeks burned. After a few more quick exchanges, she said goodbye, hung up the phone, and stood there for a moment, heart fluttering, unsure what to make of the way her body felt--like it had held its breath and still hadn't exhaled.

Clara appeared a moment later in the doorway. "You look tired," she said, soft and smiling.

Margaret nodded faintly. "I didn't sleep much last night."

Clara stepped closer and reached out, taking her sister's hand. "Come on," she said gently. "I have to work for a few hours anyway. Go nap in my bed. It's the most comfortable thing in the world, I promise." Margaret followed her sister, her hand still wrapped in Clara's warm fingers. They entered the bedroom--sunlight spilling across the floral comforter, the scent of Clara's perfume hanging gently in the air. Clara guided her to the bed and sat beside her for a moment. "I'll be back by nine," she said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Margaret gasped softly at the act, and she immediately readjusted herself as she felt an intense pulse between her thighs. "And I'm bringing home the best Chinese takeout in town," Clara continued.

Margaret gave an awkward smile. "Okay."

Clara stood and smoothed her skirt before grabbing her handbag from the dresser. She paused at the door and looked back. "I'm glad you're here, Bunny."

Then she was gone. Margaret sat still for a moment, the room suddenly much quieter without her sister's voice in it. She stood and sauntered around the space. Clara's bedroom was unlike anything Margaret had ever lived in--rich fabrics, a queen-sized bed with ruffled pillows, and an entire wardrobe of dresses in silk, chiffon, and lace. Her vanity gleamed with neat rows of perfumes, lipsticks, powders, and hairpins. A framed photograph of the two of them--taken years ago--sat in the corner of the mirror.

Margaret slipped out of her shoes and went to sit back on the bed, curling onto her side and resting her cheek against the pillow. It smelled like lilacs, and she inhaled deeply, as if the scent would disappear forever if she didn't. Her eyelids drifted shut, and within moments, she was asleep. Dreaming of stars and city lights and the sound of Clara's laugh echoing in the night.

Margaret stirred to the feeling of a soft touch on her shoulder. "Dinner's here," Clara said gently before standing and leaving to the kitchen. Margaret sat up slowly, the room now glowing with a golden lamplight. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then she saw the lace curtains swaying and the glimmer of perfume bottles across the vanity, and it all came back in a rush--Los Angeles. Clara.

She stood and padded into the living room, still in her travel dress. Clara had changed again--now in sleek black slacks and a loose satin blouse. Her hair was pinned back, her lips freshly painted red. She was arranging takeout boxes onto real plates; a bottle of red wine was already opened on the table.

Margaret blinked. "You drink wine?"

Clara laughed softly. "Of course I do. One of the perks of working in film--no one makes you wait to be legal." She poured a glass for herself, then filled another halfway and slid it across the table. She watched as Margaret hesitated.

"I shouldn't."

"You're not at home, my sweet sister," Clara said, sitting across from her. "You're in California. It's your first night in a new world. Live a little."

Margaret flushed at the nickname and slowly lifted the glass. She brought it to her lips and took the smallest taste. Her nose wrinkled. "It's... sharp."

Clara grinned. "You'll like it after a few more sips." They began to eat--crispy spring rolls, lo mein, tender beef, and vegetables over rice. The flavors were so bold and rich, unlike the soft, safe meals Margaret was accustomed to at home. The wine warmed her throat slowly and began to bloom something in her chest like a secret. Clara asked more questions, about school, Beth and Jenny, her favorite books, and whether she still played the piano. Margaret answered in quiet bursts between bites, growing bolder with each sip of wine. She surprised herself by finishing her glass.

Clara refilled it without asking. When the meal was done, Clara stood and gathered the dishware. "I'll help--" Margaret started.

"No," Clara said firmly. "You're the guest." Margaret leaned back in the chair, her head feeling light, her fingers warm against her lap. From the kitchen, Clara called over her shoulder, "You know, I don't believe for a second you've ever had a boyfriend."

Margaret blinked. "I mean... It's not entirely true."

"Mm-hmm, I knew it. What was his name, then?"

Margaret laughed, a little too loudly. "There is no name. I just... haven't found the right one."

"And why not?" Clara asked with genuine curiosity.

Margaret looked down. "... I'm not like you." There was the sound of water turning off, and a soft gasp. Then Clara appeared in the doorway again, drying her hands on a towel. Her eyes were warm, but sharp with disbelief.

"Bunny, I will hear none of this. You are beautiful." Her expression softened as she studied Margaret's downturned face. "Come with me," Clara said and reached out for her sister's hand. Margaret stood slowly, wobbling a little as she let herself be led back down the hall, past the little bookshelf, into Clara's room. Clara opened the wardrobe and pulled out a long silk robe the color of rosewater. "Get undressed and put this on. Use my bathroom." Margaret hesitated, holding the robe like it might melt in her hands. "Trust me," Clara said softly.

Margaret closed the door behind her. When she returned, the robe swirled softly around her ankles. It was luxurious against her skin, barely there, just a whisper of fabric. She stepped into the bedroom, flushed and feeling uncertain. Clara turned and looked at her like someone studying a work of art. Then she crossed the room slowly and guided Margaret to the vanity. "Sit."

Margaret did as she was told. Clara began brushing her hair gently, then applied soft powder to her cheeks, mascara to her lashes, and a gentle coral shade to her lips, all the while moving slowly and carefully. Then she stood Margaret in front of the mirror. Margaret gasped. She barely recognized herself. "I look..."

"Like a movie star," Clara whispered. They stared into the mirror together, and Margaret could feel her sister's breath ghosting across her ear as she leaned in. A shiver ran down Margaret's spine. Her pulse thudded low in her belly, strange and electric. Her skin felt sensitive wherever the silk robe touched it, every inch of her body suddenly aware of the warmth of Clara's hand on her waist, and of the way her voice sounded sweet like honey when she spoke.

Margaret tried to steady her breathing, but her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her thighs pressed together without her realizing it, a faint heat beginning to stir deep inside her. The kind of heat she still didn't fully understand--one that confused her, thrilled her, and filled her with guilt all at once. "Do you see?" Clara said, her voice a murmur now, as if they were sharing a secret. "How lovely you are?"

Margaret nodded, barely. Her throat was too tight to speak. And still, Clara stood behind her, unmoving, her eyes locked with her sisters in the mirror. Then Clara's voice lowered. "Margaret... can I ask you something?" Margaret nodded, her heart fluttering. "Have you ever... touched yourself?"

Margaret let out a soft laugh, startled. "Clara--!" But when she looked at her sister's reflection, she wasn't smiling. Margaret's face sobered quickly. "No. Never. That's... that's sinful."

Clara rolled her eyes. "No, Bunny. You must stop thinking that way." She took a step closer and rested her hands on Margaret's shoulders. "There is nothing shameful about knowing yourself," Clara said. "Touching yourself isn't sinful or dirty. It's your body, Margaret. You should know it and love it."

Margaret's voice dropped to a whisper. "No. It's wrong."

Clara smiled, her tone turning warm. "It's not." Margaret watched as Clara bit her lip and her eyes filled with mischief... or something else. "I bet you haven't even looked at yourself nude. Am I right, Bunny?" Margaret's face went hot. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came from them. Instead, she looked away, now embarrassed by where this conversation was going. You should," Clara said, her voice gentle and soothing. Before Margaret could protest, Clara's fingers found the sash of the robe and began to untie it slowly.

Margaret tensed, and her hands shot up to her sisters, stopping her. "Clara..."

"Shh," Clara whispered. "Just look."

Margaret froze, then slowly lowered her hands back to her side. The silk sash slipped loose with barely a sound, and the robe opened just enough to expose the hollow of her throat, the soft slope of her chest. She didn't move or speak, and looked up to the ceiling, unable to bring herself to watch. Clara opened the robe fully, then continued to stand behind her, hands back on her shoulders, eyes steady in the mirror. "Look, Bunny," she whispered again.

Margaret's gaze drifted downward, reluctant and nervous, until she fully herself. Her skin was pale in the lamplight, freckled faintly across her collarbone. The robe hung open slightly at the middle, framing her in a way that felt... foreign. Her arms looked softer than she imagined, and her neck seemed longer. Her breasts were small and perky, with smooth, pink nipples that already ached with how stiff they were. She couldn't remember ever looking at herself like this. Not without clothes, and more so, not without shame.

She took in the soft curve of her hips, the way her stomach rose and dipped with every nervous breath. There was a small gap between her thighs, and a birthmark near her ribcage she'd forgotten was there. Her eyes finally stopped on the latch of light brown curls that covered what her mother called "her special gift."

For a moment, she had forgotten Clara was in the room. When her eyes met her sister's in the mirror, she instinctively tried to cover herself up again. She didn't want Clara to see her like this. But at the same time... she didn't want her to stop looking. That thought made her stomach tighten, and her mind even dizzier than the wine had already made it. She studied her sister and noticed that Clara wasn't laughing. She wasn't teasing. She was quiet and focused, like she was looking at something sacred. "I..." Margaret swallowed. Her voice was barely there. "I don't know how to feel."

Clara gave her sister a soft smile, then leaned in and kissed her on her cheek. Margaret swallowed hard as she felt her heart begin to beat violently in her chest. Then, she felt another kiss on her neck, then on her shoulder. Clara's hands squeezed the flesh of her younger sister's arms, then her hand slowly slid to the front of Margaret's body and cupped one of her breasts. Margaret gasped out loud, and Clara's eyes met hers in the mirror once more. "Does that feel nice, Bunny?" She asked in a voice that Margaret had never heard before, one that made her knees weaken. She nodded in response, unable to actually form words.

Clara smiled and moved her other hand to cup the other small breasts. Margaret let out a soft moan as she watched her sister's polished hands gently squeeze her flesh. "Pleasure shouldn't be a forbidden thing, my sweet sister," Clara purred as she rolled a nipple between her fingers, enjoying the way Margaret gasped loudly at the act. "It can be a beautiful thing... especially if you share it with someone who truly loves you." She kissed her shoulder again and kept her eyes on Margaret's face in the mirror as her hand moved from her breast down to the soft curls that covered her pussy. She didn't press too hard. She didn't rush. She slid a single finger up and down the wet slit, then began to circle on her clit, barely grazing, as if her only goal was to make Margaret feel every second of it.

The first touch had shocked Margaret, making her thighs twitch and her breath gasp. Her eyes flew wide in the mirror; her lips parted in ecstasy and disbelief at what they were doing--at what she was allowing. Clara's fingers continued to move in lazy, teasing circles over her sister's clit, barely there, but enough to make her squirm. She didn't push for more--she didn't need to. Margaret was already unraveling. Heat continued to bloom in Margaret's chest, her skin tingling everywhere Clara touched, and even where she hadn't yet. But beneath the pleasure, a sense of wrong began to creep up.

"This isn't right," Margaret whispered, barely audible. "It's wrong. We shouldn't--"

Clara didn't stop. Her mouth stayed near her sister's ear, gently nibbling on it before speaking. "Why is it wrong, Bunny?" she asked gently. "Because someone told you it was? Or because it actually feels wrong?"

Margaret couldn't answer at first, for she was too distracted by the slow, perfect rhythm of Clara's fingers gliding over her, coaxing an intense wetness that she could now hear as her sister continued her perfect assault. "I--" Her voice broke. "I don't know."

"Then trust your body," Clara murmured. "Tell me what it's saying." She pressed just a little harder now, barely more pressure, but enough to make Margaret's head tip back and lean on her sister's shoulder. Her mouth opened in another gasp, and her body began to move involuntarily, her hips tilting forward into Clara's hand.

Clara smiled into her skin. "Do you like how it feels?" Margaret's breath caught again, and she let out a soft moan. She looked in the mirror--really looked--and saw the truth of it, her flushed face, her heavy-lidded eyes, and her parted lips. She knew she should say no, but like her sister said, her body was answering for her.

"Yes," she whispered, tears filling her eyes, ashamed of how desperate she sounded.

Clara's eyes lit up. "Good," she breathed, her voice warm and low. "Let your big sister take care of you." She kept her rhythm slow, steady, as if she wanted Margaret to memorize every second. Her other hand resumed its place on her breast, her thumb brushing over her nipple again, and coaxing another moan from her lips. Margaret's body arched, caught between wanting to retreat and wanting to surrender completely.

Her mind was a storm--shame, desire, fear, hunger. She'd never felt this before, never allowed herself even to attempt to feel it. And now it was too big to contain. But Clara's voice steadied her. "You're not bad, Bunny," she whispered, as if reading Margaret's thoughts. "You're not sinful. You're my beautiful sister, who deserves all the confidence and pleasures that life has to offer."

Margaret whimpered, thighs trembling as heat built again in her belly. She didn't notice that her stance had shifted, something she consciously chose. Little by little, her thighs began to part, driven by something instinctual and deeper than thought. Her legs opened just enough to give Clara better access, her body yielding without asking for permission. Her body was a collection of sensations now, her nipples stiff under Clara's fingers, her skin flushed and prickling with heat. She whimpered as she felt Clara's fingers stop rubbing her clit, her head falling back on her sister's shoulder. "Shh," Clara whispered, then slowly inserted one tight finger into Margaret's slick, tight, unused hole.

Margaret cried out. The sudden, strange fullness made her knees weaken, and her mouth fall open in shock. It was more intimate than anything she'd ever imagined--stretching, invading, feeling just right. The sound was wet and unmistakable, causing Margaret to hold her breath so she could hear more of it. "That's you enjoying it, Bunny," Clara whispered. "That's your body asking for more."

Margaret moaned louder now, her hips trembling as Clara pushed in deeper. The finger curled slightly, stroking inside her with a slow, rhythmic motion. The pressure was perfect, too much, and not enough at the same time. Margaret couldn't hold still. Her legs were shaking, and when she finally allowed herself to breathe again, it came out in gasps as Clara's thumb returned to her clit, stroking in tandem with each gentle thrust.

Margaret heard it again--the wet, obscene sound of her arousal--and it tipped her over the edge of shame and into something wild. "I--Clara--oh--"

Clara's voice was calm, low, and coaxing. "Let go, Margaret. Don't fight it." Her finger pressed just right, the rhythm a perfect, bewitching spell. The heat building in Margaret's belly surged higher, tighter. Margaret gripped her sister's arm roughly, a sob catching in her throat as the pleasure overtook her. She cried out as her orgasm hit--loud and raw and helpless. Her body pulsed around Clara's hand, hips jerking, thighs closing, trembling uncontrollably as waves of pleasure rolled through her. She couldn't stop moaning or hide the sounds that came from deep inside her chest.

Clara held her sister, her finger still buried inside, and her mouth pressed softly to her shoulder. She didn't rush or speak. She let Margaret fall apart in her arms, and held her as the storm passed. When the tremors slowed, Margaret slumped back against her, limp and panting, her eyes fluttering closed and tears flowing down her cheeks. Her whole body was glowing, slick with sweat, flushed and undone.

For a long time, neither of them said a word. Margaret was still shaking--just a little--when Clara's fingers slipped gently from between her legs. The robe hung loose around her, barely clinging to her flushed skin. Margaret raised her head and watched in the mirror, dazed, as Clara lifted her fingers to Margaret's mouth. "Taste," Clara whispered, voice low and coaxing. Margaret hesitated, then parted her lips. She could still feel the echo of pleasure trembling through her body. Slowly, she leaned forward, eyes locked with Clara's in the glass, and let her tongue touch Clara's fingers. They were warm and soft, with an unfamiliar taste that was a mix of salty and sweet. She closed her lips around them, surprised by the faint, musky flavor, not unpleasant, but intimate... hers.

Clara watched her with a soft, proud smile while brushing a loose strand of hair behind her sister's ear. Margaret shivered, the touch causing her pussy to clench. Then, with one slow movement, she slid the robe fully off Margaret's shoulders. It slipped down her arms and fell silently to the floor, leaving her bare and glowing in the dim lamplight. "Did you enjoy that?" Clara asked, her voice like silk.

Margaret's cheeks flamed from sudden embarrassment. But she nodded. "Yes," she said, the word so small, yet impossibly brave. Clara smiled, the kind of smile that Margaret missed deeply. The kind that made you feel completely seen. "You're so beautiful," Clara said simply. Then she reached for the bottom of her shirt and raised it over her head, dropping it to the floor, the sound of it low and intimate in the quiet room.

Margaret turned slowly. She watched as Clara unzipped her slacks and lowered them down her legs, graceful and unhurried, before stepping out of them. Next was the pale silk of her undergarments, each layer falling like water. Margaret's breath caught as Clara stood fully nude in front of her, unashamed. Her figure was soft in the right places, firm in others. She was beautiful in a way that Margaret hadn't known women could be beautiful--not just to be admired, but to be wanted. Her skin was warm-toned, kissed by the California sun, with a soft golden sheen that caught the light in places. She had gentle curves-- the swell of her hips, the subtle dip of her waist, the smooth, round shape of her breasts--fuller than Margaret's own, with dusky nipples that stood lightly peaked in the cool air.

There were faint freckles across her chest, scattered like constellations, and a faint scar beneath her left rib--small and pale, nearly invisible unless one looked closely. Her stomach was flat and firm, with the gentle suggestion of muscle beneath softness. Her thighs were toned and elegant, tapering into long, shapely legs. Between her thighs, there was no hair, just smooth skin that slightly glistened from her apparent arousal. The sight made Margaret's lips part in awe.

Clara's beauty wasn't just in how she looked, but in how she stood, without apology or hesitation. She owned her body with quiet pride, and Margaret couldn't help but stare at her sister's naked, feminine beauty. "You're stunning," Margaret said, her voice a whisper of breath and wonder.

Clara's smile was soft, genuine. She stepped closer and reached for Margaret's hand, her fingers warm and sure. "Come to bed."

Margaret followed, shy and silent, her heart still racing. The sheets were cool beneath her bare skin as they sat side by side on the mattress. Clara turned to face her and gently took Margaret's hands in her own, guiding them upward until they cupped the soft weight of her breasts. Margaret froze, and Clara only smiled. "It's all right, Bunny," she whispered. Margaret gulped, then brushed her over her nipples, causing Clara to exhale, the sound soft and real. Encouraged, Margaret did it again, slowly, with curious strokes. She marveled at how soft the skin was and how her sister was so responsive to her touch. Clara's soft sighs sent something fluttering deep inside her. "That feels nice," Clara breathed.

Margaret smiled, a little proud. "Really?"

"Mm. Really," Clara responded as she leaned in, brushing her lips briefly over Margaret's cheek. "You know Bunny... I've thought about this for a long time." Margaret paused her touch and looked at Clara with disbelief. Clara gave a reassuring nod and cupped Margaret's cheek. "I've always found you so beautiful."

Margaret's heart leapt, too full to speak. Then Clara took one of Margaret's hands and gently slid it down her body, guiding it between her legs. Margaret followed, nervous but obedient. She felt warmth and a slick wetness under her fingers, and she gasped at how strangely nice it felt. Clara moved her sister's hand, showing her how to touch and please her. Margaret marveled at the feeling of her clit, her soaked folds, and the way Clara moaned softly into her neck. "You feel... amazing," Margaret whispered, her voice full of wonder.

"So do you," Clara said as she lowered one hand to touch her again. Margaret gasped and her thighs parted instinctively as Clara's fingers began their slow, steady rhythm once more. They moved together, mouths brushing, hands exploring--nervous at first, then bolder. Clar kissed Margaret's mouth, and Margaret returned the act, shyly at first, then again, her lips trembling and eager. Clara moaned softly into Margaret's mouth, as her other hand cupped one of Margaret's breasts again.

Their movements slowed and deepened, then, almost in unison, the tension began to build. Soft moans and whispered names filled the space between them. They clutched each other through it, lips pressed together, breaths mingling, bodies cresting. Margaret came first, with Clara following close behind, the sisters moaning into each other's mouths. It wasn't rushed or forced. It was purely real.

Margaret fell back on the bed, her body trembling as her hand slipped from her sister's sex. Clara moved over to Margaret and placed a final, soft kiss on her lips before pulling on the covers. Margaret stared at her sister as she lifted her hips and followed her under the sheets. "I think it's time for bed," Clara whispered as she pulled the covers over them. Margaret only nodded, nestling close. Her mind was still humming, tipsy from the wine, dizzy from pleasure, but also from the way Clara looked at her, kissed her, and told her she was beautiful in a way that she actually believed. Clara gave her one last kiss before she nestled her head onto her silk-covered pillow, Margaret following suit. They lay there, just looking at each other, smiles spreading across their lips as they basked in a blissful afterglow.