Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood Read Free

working together in the theater, before she would admit she had loved him from the first day they met. She’d been directing a production at the Goodman Theater in Chicago, and Connor had been the scenic designer. She’d wanted to kiss him the first time she saw him. Something about his slow smile,the shape of his jaw, that long, lean body, that imagination. Something athletic and relaxed about the way he moved, something unhurried about his whole attitude.
    Now, cuddled against each other, Hueylene’s adoring face propped on the edge of the bed staring up at them, Sidda sighed.
    “I thought I might go away for a little while. When we arrived in Seattle, May offered me her family’s cabin at Lake Quinault, on the Olympic Peninsula.”
    “How far is that from Seattle?”
    “About three hours, I think.”
    Connor studied her face.
    “Okay,” he said. Reaching over to rub Hueylene’s ears, he said, “Are you taking the governor with you or can she stay with me?”
    “I’d like to take her along,” Sidda said.
    Connor brought his lips to Sidda’s, and kissed her long and slow. She felt herself being pulled into a warm, fluid place. Sex heals, she told herself, anxiety kills. It was a struggle for her to surrender to such pleasure, such comfort.
    Four months before she was to have married Connor, Sidda felt a heavy black stone inside her chest blocking the radiance. Her limbs felt tense, as though she were keeping vigil. As though she were locked in an endless Lenten season, waiting for the boulder to be rolled back from the opening of the cave.

2
    V ivi Walker walked down the tree-lined drive at Pecan Grove to get the mail. She had been lying on the window seat in the den, reading a novel and listening to Barbra Streisand when she heard the mail truck turn around. At sixty-seven, she was still fit from playing tennis twice a week. She’d put on five pounds since she’d tried to quit smoking, but she still could have passed for a much younger woman. Her legs, though not tan, were muscular and strong. Her subtly colored ash-blonde hair was cut in a French bob, and over it she wore an expensive black straw hat of the best weave, which she had bought thirty-five years ago. She wore linen shorts, a crisp white blouse, and tennis shoes. Her jewelry consisted of a single twenty-four-karat-gold bracelet, her wedding ring, and a pair of tiny diamond earrings. This was her summer uniform, and had been since anybody in Cenla could remember.
    Catalogs from every outdoor outfitter in the country filled the mailbox. Shep Walker, her husband, would never get over the country-boy thrill of mail order. There was a bill from Whalen’s of Thornton, where Vivi had just charged a gorgeous new white silk pantsuit.
    And there was a gray envelope, nice paper, postmarked Seattle. When she saw her oldest daughter’s handwriting, her stomach tightened. If Sidda was asking for Ya-Ya-rabiliaagain, the answer was no. She wasn’t giving that child anything, not after the way she’d been hurt. Standing in the driveway, Vivi slit open the envelope with her thumbnail, took a deep breath, and began to read.
    The letter read:
    August 10, 1993
    Dear Mama and Daddy,
    I have decided to postpone my wedding to Connor. I wanted to tell you before you hear it from someone else. I know how word spreads in Thornton.
    My problem is, I just don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to love.
    Anyway, that’s the news.
    Love,
Sidda
    Shit, Vivi thought. Shit, shit, shit.
    Back inside her kitchen, Vivi pulled a stool and climbed up to reach the out-of-the-way cabinet where she’d hidden a pack of cigarettes. Stopping herself, she carefully climbed down. Reaching up to her cookbook shelf, she pulled out her roux-splattered copy of River Roads Recipes and opened it to page 103. There, next to Mrs. Hansen Scobee’s recipe for crawfish étouffée , was the photograph of Sidda and Connor that Sidda had sent when she announced her engagement. It was the