Lies She Told(19)

“We can share a taxi to the hotel. You’re booked in the block at the Sheraton, right?”

“That’d be great.” My high pitch rings false. There was a time when I’d take Trevor’s offer as nothing more than a favor for a friend and colleague. But since my so-so streak of novels post–Drowned Secrets and my downright disappointing last book, I wonder whether he wants to break some bad news in person. I grip the bed’s worn coverlet and muster the courage to ask a direct question. “Trev, if there is something you want to tell me, I’d rather know beforehand—”

“No. Nothing. Liza, you really worry too much.”

“Expect the worst and you won’t be surprised.”

Trevor chuckles. “Suspense writers.” I can picture him shaking his head. “Speaking of suspense, how is the work coming?”

My hold loosens on the bedspread. “Okay, I think.”

“Did you give any more thought to what I’d said about the—”

“Shrink?”

“Well, at least adding some psychological tension to the romantic scenes.”

I mimic his accent. “You worry too much, love. I promise to have some proper naughty bits in the shagging scenes. Everything will be tickety-boo.” As soon as the words escape, I realize that my mockery could be considered rude rather than “cheeky.” The wine is blurring the difference.

Trevor laughs. “I don’t say ‘tickety-boo.’ Otherwise, not bad.”

I exhale in relief. Pissing off your editor is never a good idea. “But not great?”

“You require practice. It’s good that we have this conference ahead of us. A few drinks in . . .” He makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “I might break out the cockney.”

“Oh. I’d love that.”

“I bet.”

Are we flirting, or is the wine making me imagine things?

“All right,” Trevor says. “I’ll let you get back to it. Looking forward to the conference.”

Suddenly, so am I.

*

The house has nothing to eat. After writing for an hour, my stomach announces this fact with all the subtlety of a whoopee cushion. I head out to the car at twilight, intent on hitting up the market down the main road before it gets too dark to drive without my distance glasses. While stopped at a red light, I shoot Christine a text that I’m headed to Blue Horse Grocery. As the store only exists in Montauk, the short message serves as an announcement that I’m in town and an invitation. Chris doesn’t need me to ask her to dinner.

She hasn’t returned my text by the time I turn into the store parking lot. I assume she has plans and consider purchasing a prepared dinner salad. It’d be great to drop a couple pounds before my dog-and-pony show. As I exit my car, my phone beeps. Four words sit on my screen: “Great minds think alike.”

She’s standing with her back to me as I enter, perusing the wine selection. I’d recognize my best friend’s red hair and finely freckled arms anywhere. The girl doesn’t tan as much as she becomes pop art. A happiness that I didn’t realize I was missing swells inside me. Same ol’ Chris. To me, she’ll always be the sixth-grade ginger I befriended twenty-four years ago, albeit with some cross-hatching around the eyes and new elevens between her brows. The former she earned from a sunglasses-less childhood. The latter was inflicted by a recent divorce.

She turns to me as the door jangles shut. My name rings out like an accusation. “Liza Cole! What’s on the menu?”

I grab a wire basket from a stack against the door and slip into the first aisle. A slab of weathered wood is bolted to the wall, punched full of holes like an old-time switchboard. Wine bottles protrude from each space. “What would you like? David’s not with me. Work has ruined another romantic weekend.”

Chris examines a label and then, murmuring approval, withdraws the bottle with a flourish. “Who needs those?” She smirks, betraying her sarcasm.

I hug her, peering into the basket dangling from her forearm as we embrace. A bottle of Pinot Noir, a bottle of sparkling white wine, and a Riesling already sit in her cart. She drinks more now that George is gone.

“I’m alone as well.” She wrinkles her nose. “The bastard gets Emma for nearly the whole summer. They’re taking her camping this week.”

The trip sounds like a fun father-daughter bonding excursion. A good dad thing to do. But Chris doesn’t want to hear me praise the man who ran off with her twenty-six-year-old au pair. “Camping? Doesn’t he know preteen girls need cell service?”

Chris fails to turn her smile into a believable grimace. “She’s going to hate it, right?”

“Well, the campfire stories will be scary.” I imitate a strong German accent. “Vonce upon a time, dere was a succubus—”

“And she’s telling this story! Ahhh.” Chris laughs. Laughter is the only vaccine for crying. You shed a few tears instead of a thousand.

As Chris has the wine covered, I move on to the fresh produce aisle. The crudité components are bestsellers and thus in a metal shelf at the front. Baby carrots, heads of broccoli, bell peppers, grape tomatoes. I grab all these along with some vegetable dip.

Chris pouts. “We’re not rabbits.”

“I need to lose five pounds.”