Perfect Lies (8 page)

“Of course you do, sweetie,” Ethan said, his smile lingering on Meg.

“Who’s all coming?” Meg asked, not looking in Ethan’s direction.

“All my favorite people in the world,” Lark went on. “You guys, Abe, Francine, Matt, and Janine—”

“That fart-face,” Lucinda muttered just loud enough for the whole table to hear, causing Brook and Phoebe to snicker gleefully.

“Luce—” Ethan warned.

“Like you think she’s attractive?” Lucinda’s face darkened. “Of course, you—”

“That’s enough, “ Lark said. “Don’t be like that with Meg here.”

“So what’s on the menu?” Meg asked.

“Smoked oysters!” Phoebe sang out before collapsing into a fit of giggles. She was six, blond and blue-eyed like her mother, with a round, cherubic face and the temperament to match.

“Corn pudding, stuffed peppers, Brussels sprouts with chestnuts—” Lark was not one for half measures when it came to entertaining.

“I hate brussels sprouts,” Brook announced matter-of-factly. Tall for her nine years, slender as a reed, Brook had inherited her father’s hair—a wild mane of brilliant golds and reds. She was naturally quiet, thoroughly self-possessed. Lark had confided proudly to Meg that Brook was at the top of her class in every subject without seeming to put any effort into her studies. She had her aunt’s hazel eyes, and something about her strong, determined character reminded Meg of herself as a girl.

“Three big free-range chickens, stuffed with lemons and rosemary,” Lark went on as if uninterrupted. “Creamed onions, green beans with slivered almonds, and, what else?”

“Lord, I think that’s enough,” Meg said.

“Mashed potatoes!” Phoebe cried at the top of her little voice. “With gravy!”

“Phoebe,” Ethan said. That was all it took with the younger girls—that tone from Ethan, or a shake of the head from Lark. It always amazed Meg what good parents Ethan and Lark had somehow, naturally, become. The girls were raised with a firm, loving hand, the two parents rarely disagreeing on points of discipline. It helped, no doubt, to have Ethan working in the studio just a few hundred yards away. He was around the house—and in their lives—as much as Lark was. And, even now, despite Meg’s outrage at Ethan, she had to admit to herself that he was wonderful with his daughters—fun-loving and imaginative, thoughtful and patient.

After the dishes were cleared and done and Lucinda had sullenly gone out to “see some friends,” they all sat in the living room in front of the open fire, reading and talking. It was so warm and comfortable by the fireplace, the mantel decorated with dried gourds and Indian corn from the garden, Meg could almost believe that this circle of family—all aglow in the flickering light—was as it had always been. Innocent. Loving. Indivisible. But then she would feel Ethan’s eyes upon her, and she would flush with a terrible secret anger.

Around ten, and only after Meg had promised to read them yet another story if they agreed to go to bed, Brook and Phoebe finally trudged upstairs. Lark carried Fern up behind them and Meg could hear Lark humming a lullaby to the sleeping baby. Though they had separate beds, Brook and Phoebe curled up together for Meg’s reading of “Sleepy Hollow.” It was a long story, and Meg had forgotten just how frightening it was. Rather than ease them into sleep, the story jarred them into a nervous wakefulness. Afterward, Meg had to promise Phoebe several times that it was “all make-believe,” that the headless horseman was not going to come barreling up the driveway and grab her. Then, as an antidote to the first story, she read them their old favorite, “Goodnight Moon.” Twice.

“I had forgotten how scary some of those children’s stories are,” Meg said as she came back down into the living room. The fire had collapsed into a bed of glowing embers. Lark and Ethan were talking on the couch. There was something about the way they were sitting and the low, tense tone of their voices that made Meg feel she was intruding.

“Did they give you trouble?” Lark asked, looking over Ethan’s shoulder at Meg. Ethan didn’t turn; he seemed to be staring intently at the dying fire. “We were just getting ready to go up ourselves.”

“Me, too,” Meg said. Usually, after the girls were in bed, Meg would sit up with Lark and Ethan for another hour or so, catching up on their lives. The three of them had once been so casual, so easy in each other’s company. Ethan had ruined all that now. Though it felt odd and a little awkward to go to bed so early, Meg was relieved. Meg realized that they were waiting for her to leave before continuing their conversation. “I’m heading up then,” Meg said, turning to the stairs.

“See you in the morning, sweetie,” Lark called after her.

‘"Night,” Ethan added. He still hadn’t turned around.

Usually Meg slept better at Lark and Ethan’s house than anywhere else in the world, including her own apartment. She was always given the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs that faced out on the side yard and downhill to the river. With one of the three large-paned windows open a crack, the soft white curtain stirring in the breeze, Meg could lie in bed and hear the sound of the rushing water below. It would carry her gently into sleep and she would remember nothing more until morning.

Tonight, though, was different. The temperature had dropped precipitously after nightfall and the bedroom was freezing. Meg closed all the windows and pulled a spare army blanket out of the closet. But once under the covers, Meg felt too hot, and the full moon flooded the room with a weird white presence. Meg’s elbow began to ache again, and she had a hard time finding a sleeping position that didn’t hurt it. The old house creaked and moaned and made other odd noises. Just as Meg drifted off at last into a troubled sleep, a distant bang—a shutter in the wind? the sound of gunfire?—would jar her awake. Sometime in the middle of the night, Meg woke to hear someone knocking softly on her door. She lay in bed, every muscle tensed, staring at the door through the drifting darkness. But it did not open. Finally the sound stopped, and Meg heard footsteps creaking on the floorboards. Or was it just the house shifting on its beams? At some point, she finally fell asleep. But her dreams were fragmented and nerve-racking. In one, a headless horseman galloped through a moonlit night.

“… for Her mercy is forever, Amen,” Francine Werling’s deep voice was calming and self-assured. Though Meg found some of Francine’s ultrafeminist mannerisms clichéd, she grudgingly respected the minister of Red River’s Congregationalist Church. Francine, who had led the town’s congregation of two hundred souls for the past fifteen years, seemed to Meg to be a tireless champion of all that was liberal-minded, environmentally correct, and socially responsible. She’d arrived in Red River from an assistant minister posting in upstate Vermont with a two-year-old son, no husband, and no questions answered—either then or as the years went by—about her son’s father.

Matt looked nothing like his mother. He was tall and lanky, with a splotched complexion and dark, somewhat greasy hair that he wore in a ponytail.Though tall herself, the prematurely gray-haired Francine was solid, almost matronly, whereas Matt was whippet thin. Francine’s usual—and, Meg thought, somewhat studied—expression was open and beaming. Matt wore a perpetual scowl behind his light-sensitive rimless glasses. He had the appearance of someone who spent all his time indoors, which, in fact, he did, glued to a computer screen and wired into an Internet world that seemed far more vital to him than his own. Matt rarely went anywhere without his laptop. He’d arrived behind his mother for Lark’s dinner with the computer case slung over his shoulder and had spent the hour or so before the meal curled up on a window seat as far away from everyone as possible, absorbed in his computer games.

As in all small towns, Red River’s most thriving industry was gossip. For years, the rumor mill had been busily speculating about Francine and Matt. Was he illegitimate? Was she a lesbian and he one of those test-tube babies? Just who was the father and why was she so closemouthed about it? Someone had even contacted the Vermont congregation where she had last been posted, but Francine had arrived there with a six-month-old Matt from somewhere in New Hampshire, and the Vermont congregation had as many unanswered questions as the Red River community did. There were no questions, however, about Francine’s abilities as a community leader and spiritual counselor. And so, because they admired and needed her, Red River let Francine publicly keep her secrets. Privately, the unfinished triangle of Francine, Matt, and unknown father sparked enough curiosity and interest to keep it one of the top five or six topics in town, right behind Lucinda McGowan’s most recent outrage.

“Thank you, Francine,” Ethan said somewhat formally. He was at the head of the table, the enormous, perfectly roasted chickens waiting to be carved in front of him. Francine, two seats down from him on the left, gave Ethan a curt nod. Though there no overt animosity passed between them, Meg had noticed over the years that Ethan and Francine were hardly friends. Meg thought she understood why. She could see how Ethan might object to the unusual closeness Francine and Lark shared. The two women had so many interests in common and were both so dedicated to their pet causes that, together, they headed up every important committee in town: the Red River Environmental Awareness Group, the Youth Fund, Red River’s Women’s Caucus, and the local New York Democratic Club. Between meetings, fund-raisers, and just attending to the details of getting things done, Lark probably saw more of Francine Werling than she did of anyone else in Red River, including Ethan.

If their relationship had ended with friendship, Meg suspected that Ethan might have tolerated, even encouraged, the bond. But Francine had become something of a spiritual mentor to Lark as well. They spent hours together in deep conversation. They’d organized a women’s reading group that studied and discussed books on inner light and universal oneness. They rarely let a day pass without taking a moment to “share” with each other on the phone. Ethan had always kidded Lark about her tireless campaign for self-awareness and enlightenment. Over the years, she had embraced every philosophy that had come down the pike—EST, Sufism, the New Age flavor of the year. With Francine, Lark had finally found a soul mate and fellow seeker—a situation that was bound to irritate the confirmed agnostic in Ethan.

Francine no doubt sensed Ethan’s reservations and harbored some of her own. Ethan didn’t come to church with Lark and the girls and rarely participated in the church functions—the chicken frys, bake sales, and contra dances—that were at the heart of Red River’s social life. Once, at Lark’s and Francine’s urging, Ethan had given a lecture in the church basement about the art of glassblowing, but he had talked in such abstractions and at such length that the twenty or so people who attended the evening left far more baffled than when they arrived. Meg learned from Lark that Francine believed Ethan had been obtuse and difficult on purpose. In any case, he had never been asked to talk about his work again.

Besides Francine and Matt, the other invited guests were Abe—who had called earlier to say he was running late and to start without him—and Janine and Clint Lindbergh. Janine, seated between Francine and Ethan, was blond and large and capable-looking. She could have been an early pioneer woman, driving a Conestoga wagon across the sweltering plains. In her mid-forties and too heavy to be considered beautiful, her skin was nevertheless soft and translucent, her eyes the palest of blues, her teeth very tiny and white. Her dimpled smile was simply part of her natural expression. She favored dresses that were far too young for her—floral prints with lace edging and puffy sleeves. For all Janine’s sweetness—or perhaps because of it—Meg had always found her a bit grating. Janine didn’t seem to notice how often she was stepped on by Ethan or Lark—left to clear the dishes, wait by the phone, or baby-sit Fern, while everyone else did as they pleased. Of course, Meg would have to remind herself, Janine and Clint were in the awkward position of being both employees and friends.

Clint, however, seemed to handle it better. A big, bearlike man, with a full red beard now dusted with gray, Clint was slow-moving and relaxed. He had a great belly laugh and, when pushed, a wonderful way with a story. When not working for Ethan, he helped Francine out doing janitorial work and playing—very badly—the church’s old pipe organ. Kind and always game, he was a favorite of the girls, who called him “Uncle Clintbones” and climbed on him, swinging from his broad shoulders as if he were some kind of jungle gym.

With Janine, who did housecleaning and baby-sitting for Lark in the afternoons, the girls were less responsive. Brook, especially, seemed to take against her. “She’s like a big dumb cow,” Brook confided to Meg. “I’ve been able to beat her in Scrabble for the last three years.”

Lucinda, for her part, kept up a nonstop, one-woman smear campaign against Janine. She made constant fun of her and called her nasty names behind her back—"Gigantic Janine,” “Little Dough-girl,” “Earth Pig"—often loud enough for Janine to hear. When Janine had finally complained to Lark about Lucinda’s behavior and Lark had done what she could to keep the difficult teenager in line, Lucinda had simply continued her name-calling on a more clandestine but no less consistent basis. Perhaps that explained Janine’s puffy eyes today, Meg thought, and her new nervous habit of biting her lower lip. For the first time since Meg had known her, Janine was beginning to look her age.

“Well, I’d like to make a toast,” Clint announced after everyone had been served. Seated at the foot of the table beside Lark, he pushed back his chair and lumbered to his feet, his wineglass raised in his right hand. “To our beautiful hostess—much success with her new book. And,” he turned to Ethan, “our generous host. Congratulations on your show. We’re—Janine and I—very proud.”

“Thanks, Clint,” Ethan called down the table. He raised his glass. “To the Lindberghs. Who keep the joint running.” Flushing with what seemed to be sudden embarrassment, Clint sat down abruptly, and tucked into the full plate in front of him.

“I have a toast as well,” Lark said, though she didn’t rise. Dressed in a red corduroy jumper, black wool turtleneck, and black leggings, she could almost pass for the college girl Ethan had fallen in love with. Her blue eyes glistening, she raised her glass to Ethan. “To family and friends. Hearth and home. Here and now.”