A Field Guide to Deception (32 page)

“And the wine.”

“I'll make breakfast,” Bailey offered. Simon perked at this. “If Simon will help me.”

“I'll help,” Simon said, and stood beside his chair, keen to begin.

“Finish your cereal,” Bailey said. “I have to pee.”

She returned with sweatpants for herself and Drake—on Bailey they were nearly Capri's they were so short—and wool socks, and Henley shirts. Simon thought they could wear those outfits camping, or robbing banks. Drake went and stoked the fire. They commented several times that the kitchen needed a wood stove.

Soon the oven warmed the room. Bailey let Simon season the potatoes before she spread them onto the baking sheet. “We'll have waffles, I think. Sausage and bacon, and potatoes, and some kind of marmalade—tell me this house has a stockpile of marmalade. Where's the jelly, Simon?”

“Down here,” he said, and pointed to the basement door.

“Lovely,” Bailey purred, and sent Drake to reconnoiter.

Liv woke to Claire's brown eyes. After blinking a moment, Liv smiled, and curling her knees up, pressed them into Claire's belly.

“Why are you awake?” she asked, noticing again, Claire's remarkable warmth, like a furnace, the burn of it.

“I don't know,” Claire said, yawning.

“Is everyone up?”

“Probably. Bailey certainly is. I've heard her rummaging in the cupboards.”

“She's probably freezing. Girls wearing skirts in a snowstorm.”

Claire pressed two fingers against Liv's star scar, felt Liv stiffen. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It feels weird, is all, the skin tingles.”

“You did this with a knife?”

“Yes.”

“Over a girl?”

“Yes.”

“All at once?” Claire asked.

Liv hesitated, raised her head.

“Did you cut your arm all at once?”

“Yes.” Liv, fully awake, dropped her legs, their bodies entwined. The bedroom was cold, improbably tidy (in preparation for their dinner guests), and too light for sleeping.

“Are you ashamed of it—the scar—now?”

“Ashamed of people's reaction more than anything.”

“We do suck at this,” Claire laughed.

“Yes.”

“I thought you might sleep with Julia,” Claire said, her palm on Liv's jaw, each scrutinizing the other. Their faces shiny with sleep. “I worried about it.”

“Nothing there. I like her fine, except her arrogance—those little flickers she can't quite smother—burns me just here.” She pointed at her throat.

“Here?” Claire kissed her neck.

“No.”

“Here?”

“Lower,” Liv said.

The house smelled of sausage and bacon. Simon held the egg timer in his hands, and appeared to be vibrating in his chair. Drake toasted bread, beside the renewed pot of coffee. And Bailey turned from the stove with another plate of waffles, and had to clear space on the kitchen table. Liv and Claire came in together, like guests, neither wearing hats.

“All done,” Simon shouted, and ran to the stove.

Bailey opened the oven door, and forked a potato. “Tender,” she said, nodding. “Good call, Simon. Everyone to the table.”

Drake passed marmalade, eggs, the coffee pot. They ate as though for the last time, and to avoid speaking. Simon hummed and licked whipped cream from his waffle.

A snow day, Claire thought. Light blazed through the windows; from the table, they could hear the fire in the great room. Liv, distraught, with a knife, carving constellations; this body broken for you, take you all of it. They were poles, Claire and Liv. Claire more likely to puncture someone with scissors than take a knife to her own arm. Around the table the plates emptied, and they ate without looking at one another, except for Simon, who watched face by face, puzzling them like another set of tracks.

Thirty

On parents

Liv used birch for the cabinets in the apartment building. The harried landlord, Kyle, met her on the second floor to let her into the apartment. Since her last visit, he'd taken down the old cabinets, painted the entire apartment, and laid new carpet.

“I like birch,” he said, when she showed him the wood. “Thought I'd save you some time dismantling the old shit.”

“I appreciate that. This job should go quickly.”

“Just come across the hall if you need anything. I'm painting in 2F today.”

She'd precut and stained the wood in Claire's garage, having taken measurements when he'd walked her through the place, so today was just an assembly job. A tarp to protect the carpet, another for the counter, she had the job finished by two o'clock.

Kyle came across with her to inspect them. He opened the doors to each cabinet, moved them back and forth on their hinges, admiring them.

“A simple thing,” he said. “You know, good work is simple and functional. That's all people need. I like this. This is good work.”

“I'm ready for the next one,” Liv said.

He grinned at her. “How long'd it take for prep?”

“A good day.”

“Steve's never pointed me wrong,” he said. “Never once.”

She finished the second set before seven, and Kyle took her out for dinner. They ate pork soft tacos, and ordered a pitcher of Manny's Pale Ale at The Elk. Still in their gear, reeking of paint and stain, they
devoured their food, threw their voices above the din of the large, bustling room.

“Am I allowed to ask how you bought apartment buildings?” she asked.

“Settlement money. I used to work at Costco. One of the palettes fell on me. Thought I'd never walk again. Big, big fucking money.”

“You don't mind the hassle—maintenance, and tenants, and all those rentals?”

“Nah, it keeps me busy. What the fuck else would I do? I got a good plumber. I never touch plumbing. I just paint and do the grunt stuff. I like it; five years now.” He sipped at his beer. “What about you? You like independent?”

“I do. Good luck with clients so far. No shirkers or assholes.” Their table was below the portrait of the white hart that Simon called a reindeer. When their waiter—a serene guy in a baseball cap and leather cuffs—passed, they ordered another pitcher.

“And you like Spokane?” Kyle asked. “Not too provincial for you?”

“It's not so bad.”

“I used to hate this fucking place. Wanted to burn it down. Felt like a chump living in this no-place town. Then I had kids. You got kids?”

“A boy.”

“How old?” he asked. Kyle had paint in his radical hair, and on the backs of his arms.

“Three.”

“Shit, just a baby. Mine live on the mountains all winter—snowboarding—and the lake all summer waterskiing. It's a cush life for them. Made me appreciate this place, showing it to them. We camp and kayak all the time. It feels good, growing old here. I'm settled in. What about your boy? What does he like?”

“Trains.”

“He like dump trucks? I got a bunch of dump trucks from when mine were little. I'll dig them out for you. Mine spent hours trucking dirt from one hole to another. They wore capes when they were his age, with cowboy boots, talked about being super heroes. Love that
shit.” He grinned again, pulled at his hair, knocked his unlit cigarette against the tabletop.

Three staff up front, two in the kitchen, a dozen customers in line, and the tables full; Claire pulled the coffee while the girls took orders, plated pastries, and bused tables. Bailey expedited crepes to the tables. Claire had just called a triple macchiato when a berry scone smacked her in the shoulder. Bewildered, she looked at Sophia, who stood nearest her behind the counter, but Sophia's gaze was fixed across the counter at a girl.

“Fuck you!” the girl screamed. The café went still, and Claire took in the girl's blackened eyes, her pink-streaked blond hair, her fury. “Look at you in your fucking lip gloss, trying to be respectable.” She pitched half a lemon bar at Claire, but missed, hitting a carafe instead with a sickening splat. “My girlfriend got nine stitches, you fucking bitch!” Claire had not moved, had not processed even the berry scone, when Bailey and Drew came running from the kitchen. The girl pointed at Bailey, and flung the rest of the lemon bar. “That's right, Amazon. I've found you fuckers, and I'll make you pay. Smashing glasses into people's heads! You sick cunts! You twisted—” Then Bailey and Drew had her, and sailed through the door with her, leaving a strangled, defiant
bitches!
in their wake.

When Claire saw Simon in the kitchen doorway, she began to move. She approached the tables and murmured apologies, offered everyone a free coffee from the bar. Sophia came round to clean up the smear of lemon bar, and Miss Jenkins suggested, in her powerful stage whisper, that perhaps they should wear raincoats behind the counter because you never knew when deranged girls were going to be slinging lemon bars at you, and you never could be too careful, and almost at once, Claire felt the strained scene from minutes before morph into a kind of rowdy misadventure they'd all enjoyed. The most unexpected performance anyone had seen in ages. Claire brought their free coffee, and Drew and Bailey returned to much applause.

It almost felt like a promotional gimmick, as though they'd staged the entire thing. On her way to the kitchen, Bailey winked at a two-top of regulars, and told them it was now safe to eat their lunch. Claire slung more free coffee, refused to let herself consider the fact that the girl had recognized Bailey—had looked right at her, and called her an Amazon—had mentioned a glass smashed into a head, had commented on her lip gloss being a disguise.

After Sophia punched out, she asked Bailey and Claire if they were going out later, maybe to smash some glasses into some people's heads. She laughed and left before either of them could respond. Claire finished counting the till, and looked at Bailey.