Between Sisters by Kristin Hannah Page B

blank-eyed bodyguards in ill-fitting black suits. They
talked
about meeting “real people,” but they never actually did it. She knew this because they'd once filmed an action movie in Snohomish. Claire had begged her father to take her down to watch the filming. Not one of the stars had spoken to the locals.
    The man leaned toward the microphone. “I'm gonna fill in while the band takes a short break. I hope y'all don't mind.”
    A round of lackluster applause followed his words.
    Claire pushed through the crowd, elbowing past a young man in skintight Wrangler jeans and a Stetson as big as a bathtub.
    She halted at the edge of the dance floor.
    He strummed a few notes on the guitar and started to sing. At first, his voice was uncertain, almost too soft to be heard above the raucous, booze-soaked din.
    “Be quiet,” Claire was surprised to hear the words spoken out loud; she'd meant only to
think
them.
    She felt ridiculously conspicuous, standing there in front of the crowd, only a few feet away from him, but she couldn't move, couldn't look away.
    He looked up.
    In the smoky darkness, with a dozen people crammed in beside her, Claire thought he was looking at her.
    Slowly, he smiled.
    Once, years ago, Claire had been running along the dock at Lake Crescent behind her sister. One minute, she'd been laughing and upright; the next second, she was in the freezing cold water, gasping for breath and clawing her way to the surface.
    That was how she felt right now.
    “I'm Bobby Austin,” he said softly, still looking at her. “This song is for The One. Y'all know what I mean. The one I've been lookin' for all my life.”
    His long, tanned fingers strummed the guitar strings. Then he started to sing. His voice was low and smoky, seductive as hell, and the song had a sad and haunting quality that made Claire think of all the roads she hadn't taken in her life. She found herself swaying in time to the music, dancing all by herself.
    When the song ended, he set down the guitar and stood up. The crowd clapped politely, then turned away, heading back to their pitchers of beer and buffalo wings.
    He walked toward Claire. She couldn't seem to move.
    Directly in front of her he stopped. She fought the urge to look behind her, to see if he was actually looking at someone else.
    When he didn't say anything, she said, “I'm Claire Cavenaugh.”
    A smile hitched one side of his mouth, but it was strangely sad. “I don't know how to say what I'm thinking without sounding like an idiot.”
    Claire's heart was beating so fast she felt dizzy. “What do you mean?”
    He closed the distance between them, small as it had been. Now he was so near she could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, and the tiny half-moon-shaped scar at the edge of his upper lip. She could see, too, that he trimmed his hair himself; the ends were uneven and sloppy.
    “I'm The One,” he said softly.
    “The one what?” She tried to smile. “The way? The light? There is no way to Heaven but through you?”
    “No joking. I'm the one you've been looking for.”
    She ought to have laughed at him, told him she hadn't heard that corny a pick-up line since the year she tried shaping her eyebrows with a Lady Bic.
    She was thirty-five years old. Long past her believing-in-love-at-first-sight years. All of that was what she meant to say, the response she framed in her head. But when she opened her mouth, she heard her heart speak. “How do you know that?”
    “Because, I've been lookin' for you, too.”
    Claire took a tiny step backward; just far enough so that she could breathe her own air.
    She wanted to laugh at him. She really did.
    “Come on, Claire Cavenaugh,” he said softly. “Dance with me.”

C
HAPTER
EIGHT
    S
OME MARRIAGES ENDED WITH BITTER WORDS AND UGLY epithets, others with copious tears and whispered apologies; each proceeding was different. The one constant was sadness. Win, lose, or draw, when the judge's gavel rang out on the wooden bench,