The Good Sister: Part One by London Saint James Page A

news?”
    “Trinity, you sound different,” he commented.
    “Not the same baby bird you remember?”
    “No,” he admitted.
    “That may not be all that bad either,” I said.
    “There is nothing wrong with being my baby bird.”
    “But I was never yours.”
    Silence.
    I should say something.
    “Thank you for all the postcards, the pictures, and the wishing stone,” I interjected, breaking the sound of nothing.
    “You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked them.”
    I wanted to ask him about the chateau without being so obvious.
    “The house was pretty.”
    “Yes,” he agreed.
    “What did the words on the back mean?”
    “A dream,” he answered.
    “Oh. And how is your friend. Wasn’t his name John Paul?”
    “Yes, he is fine.”
    “Still painting?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you? Have you tried your hand at painting or just photography?”
    “Just photography,” Reid replied.
    “Your picture was great; you might have a hidden talent.”
    “Trinity?”
    “Yes?”
    “I really hate to cut this call short, but I need to get off the phone. I’m late for something. I wanted to tell you…” He hesitated.
    “What?”
    “It’s been good talking to you.”
    “Will I see you for Christmas?” I asked.
    “No. I won’t be home this year.”
    I felt my buoyancy deflate. I knew one of my greatest fears was happening. Reid wouldn’t be coming home. I may never see him again. Someday his life would take him away permanently. He would leave me behind.
    “Trinity, are you still there?”
    “Yes,” I said as I took a hold of the weakling lurking inside me, strangling it off. “It was good to talk to you too, Reid.”
    “Trinity, would it be okay if I called you sometime?”
    I blinked, unsure if I heard him right.
    “You want to call me?”
    “Yes. Would that be okay?”
    “If you would like,” I said. I was giving him the choice.
    “I would like.”
    “Then I guess I might speak with you again, but if not—”
    “Do you think I am lying to you? That I won’t call you?” His voice sounded miffed. I imagined that flicker of anger in his eyes.
    “No. I think you have intentions of calling, but sometimes our intentions and our actions are two different things. Sometimes life gets in the way, and I know you, unlike me, have a life.”
    “Well then, I guess you will be surprised the next time we talk. And I believe you will owe me an apology for doubting my word.”
    “Yes, I guess I will.”
    “It was really great talking to you. I do mean that, Trinity.”
    “You too, Reid. It was good to hear from you. Be well, and goodbye.”
    “It’s not goodbye, it’s I will speak with you soon.”
    “Soon,” I said, and then the line went dead.
    I sat bewildered, perhaps more than bemused, as I stared almost absent-mindedly out the window of the study. I wondered why I couldn’t be that woman all the time. Not just confident over the phone, but confident in person. Then I broke with the thought of not seeing Reid. It was only a matter of time. Soon, he would no longer think of me. I wanted to be real to him. I wanted him to take notice, to see me.
    I heard the ticking of the grandfather clock in the background. With each tick it pulled up a memory. I closed my eyes and remembered what Reid looked like the day I snuck into his room to find him in the shower. How Reid took care of me the day I fell and cut my ankle. I recalled the afternoon he sat and told me stories of his football days in high school. I smiled with the memory of Reid trying to explain surfing. Since I wouldn’t go with him to the beach, he used his surfboard on the grass beside the guesthouse. He went through all the motions, jumping up, placing his body in a surfing stance, and pretending there was a wave.
    I leaned back in the desk chair and recalled Reid’s story about a crazy party he attended his first year in college where everyone wore togas made out of bed sheets. I remembered his offer to take me for a ride when he got his new