Black Lies(8)

Chapter 5


I ran along the sand, my tennis shoes squeaking with salt water, the give of sand beneath my soles encouraging as I felt the muscles respond, my legs lifting and pulling, jumping to action as I pounded down the beach, increasing my speed as my house came into view, the finish line in sight. I was wheezing when I came to a stop, my hands wobbly on my thighs, the burn of my chest matching the scream of my muscles, the endorphin high making it all worthwhile. I forced myself to stand, to move forward, my muscles sighing in relief at the leisurely pace of my steps. My arms shaking out, the muscles loosened as I rolled my shoulders and my neck.

Two miles. Shorter than yesterday but faster. I glanced at my watch, at the frozen stopwatch there. 15:04. I cleared it, the time returning to the display, and started the uphill climb to my deck, where a bench and shower station waited. The woman standing at the gate stopped me short, her rigid posture bringing back the memory of every prep school headmistress I ever had. I paused, eyed her warily, and then continued my forward movement.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I opened the gate, entering the same space as her, wondering, as I glanced to the front of the lot, how she got back here. We were a lesson in contrast, my skin wet from ocean spray and sweat, a sports bra and spandex the only thing covering my frame. She wore at least two layers, nylons covered by a pants suit, a turtleneck peeking out from her jacket. My drops of sweat versus her pearl necklace. My wild brown ringlets barely contained by a headband and elastic, her coiffed updo barely shuddering in the strong wind. My chest still heaved while she stood, ramrod straight, with a look of cool disdain on her wrinkled features. I frowned at the expression. What the hell had I done to her?

“Jillian Sharp.” She started to hold out a hand, her lips pursed, eyes sweeping over me, but then thought better of it, choosing to nod instead, as if she was the Queen of England, and I should curtsy.

“Layana Fairmont. Is there something I can help you with?” My mind was working in overdrive as I repeated the unanswered question. Jillian Sharp. CFO of BSX, Brant’s digital conglomerate. She was the face before the face, the one conducting any news conferences, interviews, or board meetings. She was, best I was aware of, very intelligent, very business savvy, and very busy. Which begged the question of why she was standing on my deck at—I stole a look at my watch—1:12 PM on a Monday.

“I spoke to Brant this morning. He mentioned your little…” She sniffed in a way I took to be disapproving, her features pinching, an irritated look cast at a burst of wind, “meeting last night.” She probably wants to be invited inside. It would be the polite thing to do, given the sun beating down on her, the salty air, which was no doubt ruining her Chanel suit. I let her stand there, my mind working over her words.

“And?”

“May I come in?” She huffed, as if annoyed with asking the question, and I contained the smile that wanted to come out and play.

“By all means.” I smiled. “You’re already on my property, might as well come inside my home.” I sat on the bench by the back door. Worked the laces of my tennis shoes as slowly as I felt like, feeling her irritation build as I stripped my feet of shoes, then socks, then hosed down my bare feet and dried them. Had she not been here, I would have stripped. Stepped into the outside shower. Scrubbed the sweat off my body and enjoyed a half hour of hot water, pounding and massaging my tired muscles. Then would have wrapped myself in a towel and moved inside.

So there, the new Layana did retain some bit of manners. I toweled my feet completely dry and opened the door.

Two bottles of water, grabbed from the fridge, one slid over the island to Jillian, who inspected the bottle before setting it down. She said nothing as I stared at her, guzzled every drop from the bottle before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Silence. I was damn sure not going to say anything. She was the surprise guest of the hour. The very busy, had things to do, important woman. I could stand there all week without being affected in the slightest.

She cleared her throat, the sound one that reeked of tea and crumpets but I knew her background. Read a feature article in Glamour magazine that touted her as one of the most powerful women in Silicon Valley. She wasn’t a blue blood. Wasn’t even properly educated. Attended a community college. Worked as a fourth-grade teacher until 1997, when her nephew, one aforementioned Brant Sharp, built a computer in his basement. A computer that made IBM’s latest creation look like a bowl of Jell-O. A computer that made his parents drop every future plan and invest their savings in Team Brant. He was young. Eleven. Needed a chaperone. So Aunt Jillian quit her job and hitched her wagon to Brant. Lived off food stamps and her savings account in a spare bedroom at Brant’s house for two years. Then she brokered their first deal and all of the Sharps moved their bank account decimals seven places to the right.