Whispers and Lies

PRAISE FOR THE POWERFUL NOVELS OF
NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING AUTHOR
JOY FIELDING

WHISPERS AND LIES

GRAND AVENUE

THE FIRST TIME

NATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR JOY FIELDING’S
PREVIOUS FICTION

A
LSO BY
J
OY
F
IELDING

Grand Avenue
The First Time
Missing Pieces
Don’t Cry Now
Tell Me No Secrets
See Jane Run
Good Intentions
The Deep End
Life Penalty
The Other Woman
Kiss Mommy Goodbye

As always, a special thank you to Owen Laster, Beverley Slopen, and Larry Mirkin, good friends as well as trusted advisors. Thank you also to Emily Bestler, the editor of my dreams, and her assistant Sarah Branham, for their assistance and good humor in the creation of this novel. I also count myself very lucky to have the support of Judith Curr, Louise Burke, Cathy Gruhn, Stephen Boldt, and all the other terrific people at Atria and Pocket who work so hard to make my books a success.

Writing this novel would have been very difficult without the help of Donna and Jack Frysinger, who gave generously of their time and energy to provide me with all the information I needed to bring the charming, ocean-side city of Delray to life. I look forward to seeing you there soon.

My love to Warren, Shannon, Annie, Renee, Aurora and Rosie, and all my friends in Toronto and Palm Beach. Thank you for being patient, loyal, and always interesting (especially important for a writer). Note to Annie: You could be a little less interesting for a while.

And lastly, a special thank you to those readers who have sent such wonderful messages to me via my Web site. While there’s not enough time to thank you each in person, please know that your letters have meant more to me than I can ever adequately express. Your kind thoughts and good wishes buoy my spirits and make my day. Thank you.

S
he said her name was Alison Simms.

The name tumbled slowly, almost languorously, from her lips, the way honey slides from the blade of a knife. Her voice was soft, tentative, slightly girlish, although her handshake was firm and she looked me straight in the eye. I liked that. I liked
her
, I decided, almost on the spot, although I’m the first to admit that I’m not always the best judge of character. Still, my first impression of the amazingly tall young woman with the shoulder-length, strawberry-blond curls who stood tightly clasping my hand in the living room of my small two-bedroom home was positive. And first impressions are lasting impressions, as my mother used to say.

“This is a real pretty house,” Alison said, her head nodding up and down, as if agreeing with her own assessment, her eyes darting appreciatively between the overstuffed sofa and the two delicate Queen Anne chairs,
the cushioned valances framing the windows and the sculpted area rug lying across the light hardwood floor. “I love pink and mauve together. It’s my favorite color combination.” Then she smiled, this enormous, wide, slightly goofy smile that made me want to smile right back. “I always wanted a pink and mauve wedding.”

I had to laugh. It seemed such a wonderfully strange thing to say to someone you’d just met. She laughed with me, and I motioned toward the sofa for her to sit down. She immediately sank into the deep, down-filled cushions, her blue sundress all but disappearing inside the swirl of pink and mauve fabric flowers, and crossed one long, skinny leg over the other, the rest of her body folding itself artfully around her knees as she leaned toward me. I perched on the edge of the striped Queen Anne chair directly across from her, thinking that she reminded me of a pretty pink flamingo, a real one, not one of those awful plastic things you see stabbed into people’s front lawns. “You’re very tall,” I commented lamely, thinking she’d probably heard that remark all her life.

“Five feet ten inches,” she acknowledged graciously. “I look taller.”

“Yes, you do,” I agreed, although at barely five feet four inches, everyone looks tall to me. “Do you mind my asking how old you are?”

“Twenty-eight.” A slight blush suddenly scraped her cheeks. “I look younger.”

“Yes, you do,” I said again. “You’re lucky. I’ve always looked my age.”

“How old are you? That is, if you don’t mind …”

“Take a guess.”

The sudden intensity of her gaze caught me off-guard. She scrutinized me as if I were an exotic specimen in a lab, trapped between two tiny pieces of glass, under an invisible microscope. Her clear green eyes burrowed into my tired brown ones, then moved across my face, examining each telltale line, weighing the evidence of my years. I have few illusions. I saw myself exactly the way I knew she must: a reasonably attractive woman with good cheekbones, large breasts, and a bad haircut.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Forty?”

“Exactly.” I laughed. “Told you.”

We fell silent, frozen in the warmth of the afternoon sun that surrounded us like a spotlight, highlighting small flecks of dust that danced in the air between us, like hundreds of tiny insects. She smiled, folded her hands together in her lap, the fingers of one hand playing carelessly with the fingers of the other. She wore no rings of any kind, and no polish, although her nails were long and cared-for. I could tell she was nervous. She wanted me to like her.

“Did you have any trouble finding the house?” I asked.

“No. Your directions were great: east on Atlantic, south on Seventh Avenue, past the white church, between Second and Third Street. No problem at all. Except for the traffic. I didn’t realize that Delray was such a busy place.”

“Well, it’s November,” I reminded her. “The snowbirds are starting to arrive.”

“Snowbirds?”

“Tourists,” I explained. “You’re obviously new to Florida.”

She looked toward her sandaled feet. “I like this rug.
You’re very brave to have a white carpet in the living room.”

“Not really. I don’t do much entertaining.”