Girl of Lies (29 page)

She swallowed. “Prince Roshan—Saudi Arabia?

Will there be any dietary restrictions?”

“That’s right. You’ve been paying attention, I see.”

Irritated, she said, “My father was a Marquis, Richard. I’ve dealt with dinner parties before.”

“
Was
. Your father was a near penniless shopkeeper who lost his title and position long before you were born.”

She felt her fists clenched involuntarily. She might be stuck with Richard Thompson, but she would
never
let him get under her skin. She
knew
better.

She spat out the words. “Your dinner party will be flawless.” Then she turned her back, stomping to the room she’d converted into her own study. It had nothing of Richard in it, and she intended to keep it that way.

T
he picture on the wall, an Ansel Adams print of a waterfall or a river or a cloud was almost a stereotype. But Jessica let her eyes bore into it, almost as if she would discover real answers buried somewhere in the image. At Sister Kiara’s suggestion, she’d tried to run through her catalogue of memories of her father.

They were few. He was always calm. Always collected. Always locked away in his office, or sternly presiding over dinners at which Jessica and Sarah were expected to stay silent. She remembered holidays, around the big dining table. She vaguely and distantly remembered trips to the zoo and Golden Gate Park. Was her father along for those? Her mother? All she could remember for sure was Carrie.

Sister Kiara leaned forward and said, “Do you need a break? I’m reluctant to quit now that you’re finally talking.” Her smile was easy as she said the words, but Jessica knew she had a point. In her ten days at the retreat center, Jessica had barely spoken a civil word to anyone.

“You’re afraid I’ll clam up again?”

Kiara raised her eyebrows. Then she nodded, slowly. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Um… would you mind if I walked down and got some coffee? And we can talk on the way?”

“Yeah,” Kiara said. As if reluctant to break the spell, she stood, and the two of them left the office.

Outside, in the cool mountain air, Jessica stopped and looked up at the sky. “Okay, so here’s what happened.”

With no further transition, she began to tell Sister Kiara her story.

In Jessica’s mind, it all went back to the first week of junior year. For ten years, she and her twin had shared everything. Birthdays. Bedrooms. Their crazy-ass mother still bought them matching clothing, and everyone expected them to like the same things.

But they didn’t. Sarah liked punk rock, leather and boys. Jessica liked pop, pink and girls.

She still remembered the first time she realized that she wasn’t like other girls. Alexandra, Sarah and Jessica were at the beach, five, maybe six years before. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, the sun shining down on them. They were still close then.

At one point, a crowd of high school boys marched along the beach in front of them. Sarah had leaned close and whispered something, blushing.

Jessica didn’t feel whatever it was Sarah did. But two months later, she was invited to a party at Liese Hamilton’s house. Six girls attended the party, and Jessica stayed over. They sat up talking half the night, and at one point she found herself focusing on Liese’s eyes. Pretty eyes. They were sitting close to each other, really close, and Jessica wanted to kiss her very badly.

Jessica didn’t think about it again for a long time.

It was funny, really. It’s not like being a lesbian was anything that horrible. She lived in
San Francisco
, after all. This was the twenty-first century.

At the same time, in recent years, she’d spent more and more time in church with her mother. She’d hear the words spoken at school, at church, in her life. It wasn’t the big things.
Everybody
knew the Catholic church didn’t approve of homosexuality.
Everybody
knew that only certain states allowed gay marriage. Those things mattered, but only in an abstract way.

What mattered to Jessica were the small things. Her mother would give friendly advice.
When you find the man you love, don’t let anything get in the way, Jessica.
Because, to her mother, it could be nothing but a man. After all, Adelina Thompson’s life had revolved around her husband’s for more than thirty years. Jessica’s friends would say
Oh, that was gay.
In a thousand small and large ways, they’d express their disdain of all things gay and lesbian.

Freshman and sophomore year in high school, she began to feel more and more isolated. More and more unsure of herself. More and more afraid to tell anyone who she was.

And then it happened. One evening during the summer before junior year of high school, Jessica was standing in line for tea at the Purple Kow when she saw a willowy, blonde girl in a blue dress that matched hers. Her hair was flowing, shoulder length and a deep shade of indigo. And her intense blue eyes tracked Jessica as she got in line.

“I’m Jessica Thompson.”

“Chrysanthemum Allen.”

Seriously?
Jessica thought.

They both ordered German Lite Cheese Cake and iced milk tea, and Jessica laughed at the coincidence. They sat down at the bus stop and began to talk as the cars drove by.

Chrys was seventeen and was starting her senior year. She wore contrast as armor. Indigo hair and conservative dresses. Beautiful lace ruffled tops with pajama bottoms. When she talked about music and math her eyes glowed. Spoken word poetry excited her. The written word not so much—she’d barely passed English her junior year.

A week later, they climbed out Jessica’s window and lay on the roof of the back porch, looking up at the stars.

“Sometimes when I look at the stars,” Chrys said, “I think everything’s actually going to be okay.”

“What do you mean?” Jessica had asked.

Chrys clammed up. She always did. She was sexy and alluring. She was maddening. She rarely revealed weakness or concern, and then when she did, it was indirect.

“I know I’m not good at talking about myself,” she said, more than once. “But I love you.”

And she did. Jessica loved Chrys, Chrys loved Jessica, and that was okay. But sometimes it was so frustrating. Chrys was so
needy
sometimes.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Chrys showed up at her door. Tears were running down her face, and she said, “I was going to text you, but I couldn’t do it.”

“What?”

Chrys looked pale and sad as she said, “Break up with you.”

Jessica backed into the front door of her house, stunned. “What? Why?”

“I love you, Jessica. But I can’t.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You don’t have to.” Chrys leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, then ran.

Jessica texted her, over and over again. Finally, Sarah shouted, “What is
wrong
with you?” and Jessica screamed, “Leave me alone!”

The next two days were excruciating. Alexandra and Carrie came home for Thanksgiving, then Crank and Julia, and on Thanksgiving night Dylan Paris showed up by surprise and proposed to Alexandra.

It was a giant, chaotic mess. The whole family hugging each other, Alexandra bursting into tears, her mother crying and her father acting as if he cared. The dinner, after the chaos was over, had a slightly frantic air; as if the gossamer threads of joy and love were so fleeting that it would take nothing but a slight wind to blow them away.

After everyone settled down again, Jessica’s mom, the insensitive witch, said to her, “You know, one day you’ll meet a man who loves you like Dylan loves Alexandra.”

For the first time in her life, Jessica cursed at her mother. “Go to hell,” she said, bursting into tears, then she ran upstairs and locked her room. She sent the first of what would be dozens of text messages to Chrys then, asking her how she could be so heartless.

A week later, Chrys had shown back up on her doorstep, begging forgiveness.

Telling Sister Kiara about it now was like the wind coming in off the bay blowing the fog away. “The thing is, I really loved her,” Jessica said. “I really loved her.”

Sister Kiara leaned back in her chair. They were sitting in the small common dining area of the retreat, and Kiara had a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. “Loved? Past tense?”

Jessica’s face twisted in pain. Then she whispered, “I’ll always love her. But she’s dead.”

The dining room was set with eight places. Fine china, set off with crystal wine glasses and candlesticks. A sumptuous white tablecloth, and a four course meal centered on roast duck in plum sauce. Adelina Thompson hated her husband. But she would play his game. She had children to protect. She had a little brother to protect.

Julia was down for the night, in the room furthest from the dining room and accompanied by her nanny. Two hired cooks assisted in the kitchen, and two servers helped in the dining room. But this was Adelina’s production.

At five minutes before seven, Richard walked into the dining room. His eyes scanned the perfectly set table.

“Where is the wine?”

The server brought him the bottle, a 1976 Cos Pithos Cerasuolo di Vittoria. A very dry wine, detailed, with a brace of acidity, it was perfect for roast duck.

His eyes darted to hers, eyebrows raised. “You chose this?”

Adelina nodded, giving nothing in her expression.

“I approve.” No smile accompanied the bare accolade.

She didn’t allow herself to feel any pleasure or pride from his approval. She despised him.

A knock on the door. “That will be our first guests,” he said.

She felt a brush of contempt for him. Why he felt the need to state the obvious she didn’t understand. But something was different about him. In the three weeks since he’d returned from Pakistan, it was clear that he was different. Just an edge of worry. Something had happened there, something that frightened him, and shook his confidence. He’d spent long nights in his study, virtually ignoring her—a relief from his constant physical demands the first months of their
marriage.

She turned and walked out of the dining room. She had no desire to speak with him. He followed her all the same, and when she opened the door, he put a hand at the small of her back, making her skin crawl. She smiled at him. After all, they were a happy couple.

At the door stood a remarkably tall man with pale blue eyes in the dress blue uniform of the Marine Corps. At his side, a woman perhaps ten years his junior.

“Come in, come in,” Richard said, a patently false smile on his face. “Colonel Rainsley, this is my wife, Adelina.”

Rainsley took her hand in his. Warm, but not sweaty. No brute force. His eyes met hers directly and she felt a shiver. “Adelina. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Chuck Rainsley, and this is my wife Brianna.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, sir,” Adelina said. Her English had improved dramatically, thanks to a year of lessons in San Francisco. “Can I get you a drink?”

Brianna preferred white wine, and Colonel Rainsley asked for a bourbon and Coke. Adelina walked to the kitchen and issued the instructions, then returned to the living room. Colonel Rainsley and his wife were seated already. Adelina said, “Your drinks will be up in just a moment.”

Rainsley said, “Adelina, Richard tells me you met when he was posted in Madrid?”

Adelina plastered a smile on her face, hiding the thumping she felt in her chest. “That’s right. He stopped in one day at my father’s shop—Papa was a florist—and one thing led to another.”

“You’re quite the catch,” Rainsley said.

Adelina felt her face heat up.

“The moment I saw Adelina the first time, I knew I wanted to marry her.”

She wanted to scream when she heard Richard’s words. Misery competed with rage as she kept a smile clamped on her face. Her chest hurt and she wanted to turn her eyes to the Marine Colonel and say,
rescue me.

But there would be no rescue. How could there be? Instead, she turned her attention to the Colonel and his wife.

“And where did you two meet?”

Rainsley looked at his wife, adoration clearly on his features. “Ahh, well, the Marine Corps sent me to graduate school at Fletcher in ‘75.”

Adelina raised an eyebrow. Richard had gone to the Fletcher School, though a different year.

“Anyway, we met there. Brianna was majoring in music at Tufts.”

Adelina flushed with pleasure. “Music major? What was your focus?”

“Viola,” Brianna said. “I’ve taught elementary school music.”

“I played with the National Youth Orchestra in Madrid,” Adelina said.

Brianna’s eyes widened. “Oh, that must have been amazing.”

The two women began to chat about music. For the first time in nearly three years, Adelina found herself discussing something with animation and excitement.

“Tell me more about the Youth Orchestra?”

With pleasure, Adelina began to describe the nearly daily rehearsals in Madrid. The performances at the Auditorio Nacional de Música, and her preparations to audition for the National Orchestra.

Wistfully, she said, “If I’d made it to the audition, I’d have been the youngest violinist in Spanish history to make it into the National Orchestra.