The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

and black slacks. Her short cap of hair was slicked back to reveal a tight, flawlessly made-up face that barely moved when she hugged Guy and kissed him on the cheek. I recognized the perfect mask of the botox addict whose wrinkled throat betrayed the truth.

She turned those warm brown eyes onto me. They were Guy’s eyes.

“Mom this is Anna,” he said proudly.

“How exquisite,” she said, taking my hands in hers. “Gray eyes and black hair. I’m envious.” She leaned forward and pecked my cheek. I felt awkward. Unsure if I should present the other cheek, but the moment passed and she slipped her arm into Guy’s and bustled us into an enormous room. A cavernous space, painted clinical white except for a broad gray stripe that ran from the floor, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall. She noticed the drift of my eyes and smiled.

“Gord’s idea of drama. I know it’s a lot to take in. We don’t like clutter, you see.”

As far as I could see there wasn’t a single surplus item in the entire place. A large white leather sectional, a chrome and glass coffee table with one square red plate on it, large-screen TV on the wall, below that, a curved white entertainment unit bearing wafer-thin speakers. On top, three wicker balls. What was it with this guy and his balls?

“Are you guys talking about me again?” boomed a carefully modulated radio voice.

I turned round to see a tall, broad-shouldered man enter the room. This was him. This was Gord. Father of Guy. Face to face with me for the first time. For a moment I thought the floor shifted beneath my feet, but I painted on a smile and breathed deeply.

He was slim except for a slight paunch that strained the waist of his tailored charcoal silk shirt. He strode towards me, his hand extended. Polished. Practiced. Professional. But though he tried to fix his pale blue eyes on mine, I couldn’t stop staring at his hair. It had a rusty, dyed hue from those cover the gray products, and was combed back from the high dome of his forehead so perfectly it appeared to be sprayed into place. With his manicured sideburns, salon-tanned skin and shaped eyebrows, he was a walking TV evangelist. Just as Sabrina had described him.

I snapped my eyes away from his hair and moved in for a handshake, only to be completely surprised when he hugged me around the waist, dug his fingertips into my flesh and planted a damp kiss on my cheek. I tried not to recoil, but my body stiffened.

“We’re an affectionate lot,” he said, stepping back to check me out so boldly my insides withered. “At least my side of the family is. You’ll get used to me. Nancy’s lot tend to be a bit standoffish. I hope Guy’s not holding back. Takes after his mother.”

He clapped Guy on the shoulder and I had the urge to blurt out something like no, you ball-obsessed jerk, your son is gentle and tender and loving, and maybe you don’t know him as well as you think. Instead, I pasted on a smile – the type I used for ingratiating myself at parent-teacher meetings – and slotted my hand into the crook of Guy’s arm.

“He’s been wonderful,” I said, smiling up at Guy whose face relaxed into an expression of relief. As did Nancy’s.

“Come on, you two lovebirds,” he said, directing us towards the pristine leather sofa. “I’m sure Nancy’s fixed some cocktails for us.”

Nancy had been silently hovering in the background. Now she snapped to attention and bustled into the kitchen.

“Can I help?” I said, moving to stand. Gord motioned me to stay put.

“She doesn’t like anyone else in there. It’s her exclusive domain shall we say.” He winked at Guy. “Eh, son?”

Guy jolted into action. “What – oh yeah. You’ll probably get a tour later. Then you’ll understand. Mom’s a perfectionist when it comes to cooking.”

“Damn obsessed, I’d call it,” said Gord, rolling his eyes upwards and twirling a finger by his temple.

Nancy appeared carrying a tray of tumblers filled with colorless, sparkling drinks stuffed with limes and greenery. “I hope you like vodka,” she said, placing the tray on the table.

“All young people like it,” Gord snapped. “Guy’s bar is stacked with Grey Goose.”

Guy took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “Actually, I just bought a bottle of Alize Limited Edition. Way smoother taste.”

Gord held his glass mid-air, his upper lip curled in disdain. “Well, sorry if our discount brand doesn’t stack up to your champagne tastes.”

“Try it next time you’re over,” said Guy, picking up his glass.

Gord winced. “I’ll hold you to that, kid,” he said, downing his drink in two gulps.

Nancy and I were virtually silent for the entire pre-dinner exchange. She kept flitting in and out fetching perfect little nibbles on stark white plates. Wafers of prosciutto coiled around tiny cubes of melon, shrimp curled in miniature white cups with their own white dipping sauce, and little squares of melba toast spread with cream cheese and a dollop of pale caviar. I sat listening to the back and forth between Guy and Gord, relieved on the one hand that Gord wasn’t probing into my murky past, but puzzled that he’d barely addressed me since our initial, awkward greeting.

When Nancy finally announced dinner was ready, we all filed towards the dining table, an enormous slab of black granite flecked with beige. The edges were rough and unfinished.

“Custom order,” said Gord, pulling out his chair at the head of the table. “Quarried in Italy according to my exact specifications. Incredible what you can get nowadays.”

“They say quartz is the new thing now,” said Guy, settling himself at the other end of the table. “I’m thinking of refinishing my kitchen with it, then working in some metal or natural wood.”

He’d never mentioned the idea to me. His kitchen was already high-end as far as I was concerned.

“Well, good luck trying to get it custom