Lying With Strangers (14 page)

KEVIN WORKED THROUGH LUNCH, SEATED AT HIS COMPUTER, WRIT
ing. it wasn’t fiction this time. He had a brief due tomorrow. In twenty pages he had to convince the court that even though his client, a major car-rental company, had been hitting customers with phony gasoline charges for almost three years, management had been completely unaware of the scam. The goons pumping gas for minimum wage were the real masterminds.

In a way, this
was
a work of fiction.

This latest assignment was one of several he’d received in the last month from partners who had never before offered him work. Now that he’d sold his novel, he was becoming the go-to associate for quality briefs. Just this morning, a young partner who had never so much as said hello to Kevin had stopped by with a short motion he’d drafted, asking for Kevin’s thoughts. The director of recruiting wanted Kevin to conduct a writing workshop for the second-year law students who were spending their summer with the firm. He even had a new office—one with a view. He’d never thought the day would come, but he was actually starting to enjoy working at Marston & Wheeler.

A knock on his door broke his concentration, but only slightly. He was still staring at the computer screen when he said, “Come in.”

“I need a minute.” It was Ira Kaufman, his expression sullen.
He closed the door but didn’t sit. Kevin turned in his desk chair to face him.

“What’s up?”

He dropped a copy of Kevin’s manuscript on the desk. “This,” he said as it landed with a thud.

“My book. Don’t tell me you were actually one of the people who went down to Booklovers’ and grabbed an advance copy.”

“No. One of our secretaries did. She brought it to me last night. In fact, she felt compelled to bring it, having worked here for twenty-two years and maintaining a sense of loyalty to the firm that you obviously lack.”

Kevin shrank slightly in his chair. “Did you read it?”

“Yes. I was up all night, and not because it was thrilling. I find it disgusting.”

Kevin tried not to flinch. “These things are very subjective.”

“This isn’t a matter of taste. What you’ve written is downright dishonest.”

“I see it quite the opposite way.”

“You’ve used this book as a way to attack completely innocent people.”

“This is a work of fiction. There are no real people.”

“That’s a crock. You’ve just changed the names. I’m in there, and so are other lawyers from this firm. Every one of us is portrayed as an asshole.”

“I think you’re overreacting. The story is about a woman who happens to be a powerful attorney, but the stuff about her law firm is all just atmosphere.”

“Atmosphere my ass. You’ve written the
Primary Colors
of Marston and Wheeler.”

“Even if that were true, it says right in the front of the book that all characters are entirely imaginary and that any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.”

“Maybe that shit floats when you launch a veiled attack on public figures. But I’m not a public figure, and I’m not about to lie back and let anyone soil my good name and reputation in the
name of entertainment. I assure you, no one else in this firm is going to stand for it either.”

Ira’s eyes were actually bulging. Kevin had seem him angry before, but never like this. “What are you asking me to do?” said Kevin.

“I’m
telling
you that you have two options. Pull the book. Or clean out your desk—and prepare for war. I want a decision by next week.” He opened the door and slammed it on the way out.

Kevin turned his swivel chair to face the window. He wasn’t naive. He’d written the book knowing full well that a stuffy Boston law firm probably wouldn’t have a sense of humor about the parallels between fiction and reality, even if it was, as he’d told Ira, just “atmosphere.” The short-lived honeymoon between the budding young author and the high-powered law firm had been fun, but the answer to Ira’s ultimatum was obvious.

War it would be.

“Can I listen to your heart, darling?”

Peyton was trying her best at sweet talk. Her uncooperative three-year-old patient was seated on the examination table, arms crossed tightly, her lower lip protruding beyond her turned up little nose. Each time Peyton extended her stethoscope toward her skinny bare chest, the child brushed it aside angrily.

“You want me to pin her down?” the mother asked. “That’s the way I used to do it with my boys.”

Peyton shook her head, then placed the stethoscope on the girl’s knee. “Hmmm. I can’t hear a thing in there.”

The girl fought back a smile. “Dat’s not my heart.”

She placed it on top of her head. “Nothing there, either. You sure you have a ticker?”

“Yeah,” she said, giggling. “It’s right here!”

Peyton smiled. The job had many rewards, and there was
none bigger than connecting with one of the kids. That was especially true on a day like today, where it was a struggle just to stay focused.

Confiding in Gary had been the initial mistake. Funny, but the entire time she’d worked at Children’s, she’d thought that the two of them had successfully made the leap from past romance to simple friendship. She’d enjoyed reconnecting on a new level, reuniting as friends ten years after they’d fumbled their way through losing their virginity together.

Gary’s unique place in her life had made a complicated situation even more complicated.

She procrastinated away most of the day, but finally she forced herself to track Gary down in the hospital cafeteria. He often ate dinner there while on the evening shift. It was a bustling and noisy place, the ideal setting to hold an awkward and obligatory conversation and still avoid a scene.

“You wanted to talk?” she asked, almost having snuck up on him.

“Whatever.” He folded up his newspaper to make room for her at the small table for two.

She took a seat and rested her typical dinner of raspberry yogurt and one fresh banana on the table. Staying hungry had a way of keeping her from falling asleep on longer shifts, though nodding off was the least of her concerns at the moment.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Okay. You?”

“About as you might expect.”

She avoided eye contact and started on her yogurt. “I got your message.”

“Message?”

“On my locker.”

“I haven’t gone near your locker.”

“Are you telling me that it wasn’t you who taped a rose to my locker with a little message that said ‘Let’s talk’?”

“Why would I send you a flower?”

She sensed he was being coy. She put her yogurt aside and said,
“Gary, let me just start by saying that I’m glad we’ve been able to become friends again.”

“I feel the same way.”

“I really respect you for that. I know it was probably harder for you than for me to put the past behind us.”

“Why? You think I was still carrying a torch for you since high school or something?”

“No, it’s just that I’m married now. Married to the guy I met when I went away to college and left you here in Boston.”

“Are you forgetting that I was the guy who talked you into giving him a second chance nine years ago, when you called me all broken up over your first fight down in Tallahassee? I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but rest assured: I got over you.”

“That’s good to hear. Because this past week I was starting to fear that maybe you were hoping for something that just isn’t going to happen. Which was my fault. I told you that Kevin had been unfaithful, which probably made you think I was soon to be available. But as it turns out, I was totally mistaken. Things are fine between me and Kevin, and I want it to stay that way.”

“I see.”

She thought she saw disappointment in his eyes. “So when you sent me the rose—”

“I told you I didn’t send you any stupid flower.”

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to antagonize.

“Okay, you didn’t send it. But just to finish my thought—”

“No, it’s my turn to talk,” he said, his tone suddenly harsh. “Do you have any idea how pissed off I am at you?”

“For what?”

“For what?” he said, incredulous. “Who do you think I am, some girlfriend you can seek out every time you have man troubles?”

“No. But I thought we were friends.”

“We are. Kind of.” He grimaced, as if sorting out his emotions.

“It’s complicated. I’ve tried to be your friend, but it’s really hard to do that when, frankly, you’re such a manipulative bitch.”

“Gary, please.”

“No, you need to hear this. You came to me all torn up inside because your husband had cheated on you. You wanted to go out and get drunk.”

“I merely suggested we get coffee.”

“Yeah, and we all know what that’s code for.”

“Coffee means coffee.”

“Whatever. All I did was suggest we extend the coffee buzz and meet some friends of mine, and the next thing I know you’re belting back tequila.”

“You ordered the tequila.”

“But you drank it. And after you did, it was your idea to go back to my place.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. You just don’t remember.”

“I admit, I don’t remember much at all about that night. But you said yourself that I got sick. You were too drunk to drive me home, so we walked the block and a half to your place.”

“And I was kind enough to clean the vomit off your clothes. And trust me, had it been up to you, you wouldn’t have woken up with your panties on.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You begged me to take you home with me. You ended up half-naked because you practically ripped off your own clothes. If you hadn’t passed out, those panties would have come off, and we definitely would have had sex.”

“Don’t make stuff up.”

“Why would I make it up?”

She paused, trying not to let things escalate into a full-blown argument right in the busy cafeteria. “Because you’re mad, and I suppose I can understand that. You thought Kevin and I were splitting up, you sent me a rose, and now I’ve just thrown a big bucket of cold water all over your intentions.”

“I told you I didn’t send any damn flower.”

“Fine. Forget about the flower. But we have to straighten this out.”

“You’re just a user, you know that?”

“Nobody used anybody.”

“But you tried. I was being a friend to you because you told me your husband was a creep. You turned around and tried to use me to validate your own self-worth or make your cheating husband jealous.”

“That is so outrageous. The only accurate statement you’ve made in the last five minutes is that I told you I thought Kevin had cheated.”

“And the reason you thought that is because you
wanted
it to be true. You wanted your husband to be unfaithful so that you could feel free to cut loose and be with whoever you wanted to be with.”

“For your information, Kevin is the third man I’ve been with in my life. And so long as he wants me, there won’t be another. I don’t go around looking for it.”

“Then why did you fly from New York and come straight to the hospital searching me out.”

“I was coming back to work.”

“Right,” he said snidely.

“Gary, I was trying to be nice about this. But you’re making it really difficult.”

“Then let me make it simple. I am not your girlfriend, your boyfriend, or any other type of friend. I had no intention of fucking you that night or any other night. So go fuck yourself.”

Their eyes locked in an icy stare. She wanted to defend herself, but a spat in the middle of the hospital cafeteria seemed pointless. “If you have any lingering hopes of us ever speaking to one another again, you had better say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry?” he said, scoffing. “You think
I
should be sorry?” He leaned closer and spoke barely above a whisper in a voice so deep it didn’t even sound like him. “Maybe someday you’ll know what sorry is.”

She watched in silence as he gathered his tray, rose from the table, and walked away.

THE HEADBOARD SLAMMED HARD AGAINST THE WALL. IT WAS JUST
after midnight when the antique bed finally stopped rocking and Kevin collapsed between her thighs. His arms shook as he propped himself up on his elbows. Peyton lay naked beneath him, her cheeks flushed red in the dim glow of a scented candle on the nightstand. An errant wisp of hair was pasted to her chin, as her face, neck, and breasts glistened with a thin layer of his sweat and hers. His body shivered as he pulled away. She kissed him lightly, then slid out of bed and walked quietly to the bathroom.

This one had been a marathon. Not that he was in an especially studlike mood. He’d simply had too much weighing on his mind to reach orgasm any sooner.

He still hadn’t told Peyton about that heckler at Booklovers’. He didn’t want to scare her, especially after what she’d gone through last winter with Andy Johnson. What if the book was a smash and he really became famous? Crazies galore.

Ira Kaufman was another matter. He felt like he did have to tell her that his day job was in jeopardy sooner than expected. He kept the candle burning as she crawled back into bed beside him.

“That was great, honey,” she said softly.

“I aim to please.”

“Bull’s-eye,” she said as she snuggled at his side.

He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Her arm felt heavy on his chest. She’d be sound asleep soon.

“Peyton?” he said.

“Hmmm.”

“I think I may have gone too far with the book.”

She raised her head from the pillow. “What do you mean?”

“Ira Kaufman read it. He thinks some of the characters are too much like real lawyers in the firm.”

“Who cares what he thinks?”

“He wants me to pull the book from the publisher. Or he says he’ll fire me.”

“You can’t pull the book.”

“I can’t afford to lose my job, either.”

“Honey, let’s be real. You knew that if you set your story in a law firm people would think you were drawing parallels to Marston and Wheeler. You had to realize that there was at least some risk of losing your job.”

“I know. But I was hoping to hang around long enough to see if the book did well enough to let me quit the practice.”

“You’ll find another job.”

“What firm will hire me after Marston and Wheeler fires me for supposedly making them look like idiots in my novel?”

She rested her chin on his chest, thinking. “Start your own firm.”

“There aren’t enough hours in the day to start up a law firm while trying to launch my writing career.”

“Try telling that to the director of my residency program.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“I know. You’re right.”

“It’s funny,” he said. “The worst part about this is that it has me thinking that maybe I’m not as good a writer as I thought I was.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. When I was writing the book, I guess I deluded myself into thinking that the real-life inspiration for some of
the characters wasn’t quite so transparent. But obviously I was wrong.”

“Don’t let Ira make you second-guess your writing.”

“It’s not just him. It really started with something that happened at Booklovers’ the other night.”

“What?”

He paused, still not ready to tell her how scary the heckler had been. “One of the people in the audience suggested that I had revealed myself through my writing.”

“Meaning what?”

“To be specific, he said my wife was all over the book.”

Peyton made a face. “Me?”

“I had the same reaction. But after Ira accused me of defaming him, I started to think. Maybe on a subconscious level I did draw too much from the people around me.”

Peyton suddenly felt stiff in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“It’s my lead character, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” she said quietly. “You wrote a story about a beautiful, intelligent, successful woman who happens to cheat on her husband.”

“And it’s just a story.”

“Right,” she said. “Just a story.”

“Except for the beautiful, intelligent, and successful part. That’s clearly my wife.”

“There you go. Three out of four. I guess technically I am all over your book. And I have no plans to sue or fire you. So just tell Ira Kaufman to go to hell.”

He smiled and held her close. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He held her for another moment, still feeling guilty for not having told her how crazy that guy at Booklovers’ had really been. It was for her own good, he told himself, though he knew that rationalizing was a handy way to justify concealment of just about anything.

Even Sandra Blair.

“Good night, love,” he said as he leaned across her body and blew out the scented candle.

Three in the morning, and Peyton lay wide awake. She was thinking about Kevin’s book and Gary’s accusations. It seemed strange. Two men, one her husband, the other her first love. Both had made up stories about her. Both had cast her as an adulteress.

She checked the clock once more. Time was moving slowly in the dark bedroom.

If confiding in Gary about Kevin had been her first mistake, her second had been not telling Kevin that she’d gotten drunk, become sick, and ended up recuperating at Gary’s apartment. Now Gary was twisting the truth, making it impossible for her to come clean. She’d always considered herself honest, which only compounded her problem. She wasn’t sure what troubled her more, the fact that she’d concealed the truth from her husband or that she’d been able to rationalize it. Of course, those forced justifications were as old as lying itself.
It was harmless. It would look worse than it really was. He was better off just not knowing.
Those were just excuses, and they rang hollow.

Not even the miscarriage had left her feeling this empty. She knew how lies between loved ones could change things forever. She’d learned that from her own family.

It had been years ago. Peyton had been a teenager at the time. Her family was still living in Florida, just a few weeks away from their move back to Boston. Almost three months had passed since her mother had phoned her from the hospital to tell her that the baby hadn’t survived. Virtually not a word had been spoken about it since, at least not in Peyton’s presence. For Peyton, the conspiracy of silence had only made it harder to accept the death of a sibling she had never known. She’d needed some closure for herself. Before moving out of the house and returning to Boston,
she wanted to visit her sister’s grave. On moving day, she’d caught up with her mother in the empty dining room as she was packing the family china into a cardboard box.

“You can’t visit,” her mother had told her.

“I just want to stop by the grave and say a little prayer.”

“There is no grave.”

“What?”

“We decided on cremation.”

“Isn’t there some kind of marker or memorial?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we didn’t buy one.” Her mother was almost robotic in her responses, never breaking the rhythm of her packing to look Peyton in the eye.

“Aren’t you going to buy one?”

“No. The ashes were scattered.”

“Where?”

She stopped and glared. “What does it matter?”

“She was my sister. It matters.”

“Fine. The ocean.”

Peyton watched carefully. Her mother seemed flustered, almost angry as she wrapped the sugar bowl in newsprint and stuffed it into the box. Peyton moved closer and stepped on the stack of papers on the floor, preventing her mother from pulling out another sheet. Her mother looked up, and finally their eyes met.

“I think you’re lying about something,” said Peyton.

That was well over a decade ago, but the memory was very much alive for Peyton. The same feeling was twisting her into knots now. Granted, the situation then had been reversed. She had felt deceived rather than deceptive. But there was a strange commonality between lying and being lied to: they both seemed to drain the soul.

Still wide awake, Peyton stared at the ceiling, wondering what had made her think of that ugly confrontation with her mother. She covered her eyes with the pillow, remembering what her
father used to say to her when she was a girl—how things were always worse at night, that it wouldn’t be so bad in the morning.

This time, she wasn’t so optimistic. Maybe that was the reason she resolved right then and there to call her father for lunch. He could make her feel better, even if she was too embarrassed to tell him exactly what was wrong.

Or maybe she finally wanted to make sense of an old family lie that she’d never fully sorted out.