Genuine Fraud(46)

“Come on, you’ve come over to my house every day, some weeks.”

“I never knew you liked to watch dogs tear each other to shreds until they die. I never knew you were a gambler. I never knew you were anything like so stupid and cruel as you are, because you are nothing more to me than the guy who cleans my house. I think you should go now,” Imogen told Scott. “I can find someone else to scrub the floors.”





Immie had been lying to Forrest. And to Jule. Immie had purposefully made up stories about where she went in the afternoons. She’d lied about why she’d come home with wet hair, about why she was tired, about where she’d bought her groceries. She’d lied about playing tennis with Brooke.

Brooke. Brooke must have known about Scott. She and Imogen had often come home together with rackets and water bottles, talking about their tennis games, when they had probably never played tennis at all.

Scott left without another word. A minute later, Immie banged on the shower door. “I can see your feet, Jule.”

Jule gasped.

“Why do you listen to other people’s conversations like that?” Immie barked.

Jule pulled the towel tighter around herself and opened the shower door. “I was drying off. You came outside. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You’re always lurking around. Spying. No one likes it.”

“I got it. Now can I please put my clothes on?”

Imogen walked away.

Jule wanted to follow and slap Immie’s false, beautiful face.

She wanted to feel righteous and strong instead of embarrassed and betrayed.

But she’d have to burn off that anger another way.

She grabbed her swimsuit and goggles from a hook in the shower. In the pool, she swam a mile, freestyle.

A second mile. She swam until her arms were shaking.

Finally, she threw herself onto a towel on the wooden deck. She turned her face to the sun and felt nothing besides tired.





Imogen came out a little while later. She was carrying a bowl of warm chocolate chip muffins. “I baked these,” she said. “To say sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” said Jule, not moving.

“Everything I said was mean. And I’ve been lying to you.”

“Like I care.”

“You do care.”

Jule didn’t answer.

“I know you care, bun. We shouldn’t have lies between us. You understand me so much better than Forrest does. Or Brooke.”

“Possibly true.” Jule couldn’t help herself. She smiled.

“You have a right to be mad. I was wrong. I know it.”

“Possibly true as well.”

“I think the whole thing was a means for me to push Forrest away. I do that when I get tired of guys. Cheat on them. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m really not proud of myself.”

Imogen set the muffins down by Jule’s shoulder. She lay on the deck. Their bodies were parallel.

“I want to be at home somewhere, and I want to run away,” Immie went on. “I want to be connected to people, and I want to push them away. I want to be in love, and I pick guys I’m not sure I even like all the way. Or I love them and I ruin it and maybe I ruin it on purpose. I don’t even know which it is, and how messed up is that?”

“It’s medium messed-up,” said Jule, chuckling. “But not drastic. On a scale of one to ten, it’s like a seven, I think.”

They lay there in silence for another minute.

“But level seven messed-up is probably normal,” Jule added.

“Can I pretty please bribe you with muffins to forgive me?” Immie asked.

Jule took a muffin and bit into it. “Scott is gorgeous,” she said, swallowing. “Guy like that, what are you going to do: leave him alone and watch him clean the pool? I think you might have been legally obligated to jump him.”

Imogen moaned. “Why did he have to be so sexy?” She grabbed Jule’s hand. “I was such a witch. Forgive me?”

“Always.”

“You are made of sugar, my bun. Come to the store with me now!” She said it like the store was going to be wonderfully fun.

“I’m tired. Make Brooke go with you.”

“I don’t want Brooke.”

Jule stood up.

“Don’t tell Forrest we’re leaving,” Immie said.

“I won’t.”

“Of course you won’t.” Imogen smiled up at Jule. “I know I can count on you. You won’t tell him anything at all, will you.”





END OF JUNE, 2016

MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS

Ten weeks before Immie made the muffins, Jule found herself on Moshup Beach without a towel or a swimsuit. The sun was bright and the day hot. After the long trek down from the parking lot, she walked along the edge of the water. Huge clay cliffs loomed over her in colors of chocolate, pearl, and rust. The clay was cracked and slightly soft to the touch.

Jule took her shoes off and stood still with her toes in the sea. Some fifty yards away, Imogen and her friend set up for the afternoon. They had no beach chairs, but the guy unpacked a bag that held a cotton beach blanket, towels, magazines, and a small cooler.