The Liar

by Nora Roberts

  She liked the construction talk, and the extra half hour she took to sit with her brother.

  “This was nice, but I’ve got to get on.”

  “I’ll walk you out to your car,” Griff began as he slid over to let her out.

  “Don’t be silly. I think my brother keeps the streets of the Ridge safe enough. You can take my seat,” she told Forrest, “spread out a little.”

  “I’ll do just that. Why don’t you text me when you get home?”

  She started to laugh, saw he was serious. “How about I text you if I have any trouble getting home, all one and a half miles of it? ’Night, everybody. Thanks for the drink, Griff.”

  “It was water.”

  “I’ll see if I can do more damage next time.”

  She walked out happy. Happy enough to roll the windows down despite the chill, turn the radio up and sing along. She didn’t notice the car pulling out after her and following her that mile and a half.

  Inside the bar, Forrest switched seats. “Walk her to her car?”

  Griff studied his beer. “Your sister’s hot.”

  “Don’t make me punch you.”

  “You can punch me, but she’ll still be hot.”

  Forrest decided to ignore him, shifted his focus to Emma Kate. “It looks like you two made things up.”

  “We got a start on it.”

  “How much did you get out of her?”

  “Enough to be damn sure that dead husband of hers was a son of a bitch. You figured he was, Forrest.”

  “Yeah, I figured he was.” Forrest’s eyes chilled; his mouth thinned. “Couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.”

  “What kind of a son of a bitch?” Griff demanded.

  “The kind that made her feel stupid and small and kept his money in a tight fist.” The angry heat she’d banked down flashed out now. “The kind who likely had affairs while she was home taking care of the baby—the baby I got the clear impression he didn’t pay much mind to. And there’s more to it, I know there’s more. She didn’t let it all out tonight.”

  Emma Kate took a long breath. “I swear, if he hadn’t gotten himself killed, I’d be holding your coat while you kicked his ass, Forrest, or you’d be holding mine.”

  “She should’ve done some ass-kicking herself.”

  “I bet nobody’s ever made you feel stupid or small.” Griff shook his head. He thought of those sad eyes, and the bright, flirtatious little girl.

  His anger went on simmer. It could boil up—long, slow and rolling. If and when it boiled over, it scalded to the bone.

  “My sister was hooked up with a guy for a while. Passive-aggressive, manipulative fucker. He twisted her up pretty good, and he only had a few months to do it. No kid involved. People like that, they start off making you feel like you’re the most amazing thing on the planet, you’re perfect, they’re lucky to have you in their life. Then they start chipping away, a little at a time. Got on her to lose weight, and my sis is no pudge.”

  “She’s not,” Forrest agreed. “I’ve met her. Your sister’s hot.”

  “Well played. This jerk was all over Jolie. Why didn’t she do something with her hair? If she couldn’t afford a better salon since she’s stuck working in some dead-end job, he’d pay for it. His treat.”

  “Kick and kiss,” Matt said. “I remember that guy. When Jolie finally broke it off, Griff baited him into taking a swing.”

  “I needed to get a punch in, and that way I could say he threw the first.”

  “It’s still assault.”

  “Shut up, Deputy, it was worth it.”

  “Shelby was always so . . . what’s the word?” Forrest muttered.

  “Vibrant,” Emma Kate supplied. “She went after things. She wouldn’t walk over somebody to get it, but she’d go head-to-head with you. And if you tried walking over her or somebody else, especially somebody else?” She paused to glance at Griff. “You got your ass handed to you.”

  “She’s still vibrant. You two don’t see it maybe because you’ve known her all your lives. But I see it.”

  Emma Kate cocked her head at Griff. “Why, Griffin Lott. Shelby said her little girl was smitten with you. Are you smitten with the mama?”

  “Her brother’s sitting right here, and he’s already threatened to punch me.”

  “She’d be your type,” Matt put in.

  “My type?”

  “Because you don’t have a type, as long as she’s female.”

  “Her brother’s sitting right here,” Griff repeated, and applied himself to his beer.

  • • •

  SHELBY KEPT THE PLAYDATE in the park and enjoyed it nearly as much as Callie. Best of all, she and Chelsea’s mother made an arrangement. Tracey would watch the girls for a few hours while Shelby ran some errands the next day, and two days later, Shelby would do the same for her.

  Everybody won a little something.

  And maybe, she thought as she once again examined her wardrobe, she’d net herself at least a part-time job.

  She opted for a dress—simple lines in pale yellow for spring—and a good pair of nude pumps, with a short white jacket to set it off.

  She pulled her hair back into a tail, fastened on earrings with little pearl drops. Costume, as she’d had them since college, but pretty and right for the outfit.

  With her mother back at work, she and Callie had the house to themselves, and she didn’t have to explain she was gearing up for a job hunt. If she got lucky and landed one, she’d present it all as a fait accompli.

  If she got a job and sold the house? She’d do handsprings up and down High Street in front of God and everybody.

  “Mama’s pretty.”

  “Callie’s prettier.” Shelby glanced over where Callie sat on the bed, methodically stripping the clothes off two Barbie dolls.

  “Baby, why are your Barbie dolls naked?”

  “They need to change clothes for Chelsea’s house. Chelsea has a kitty named Snow White. Can I have a kitty?”

  Now Shelby looked down at the old dog who snored at the foot of the bed. “And how do you think Clancy would feel about that?”

  “He could play with the kitty. My kitty’s name’s Fiona, like Shrek. Can I have a kitty, please, Mama? And a puppy. I want a puppy most.”

  “I tell you what, when we get a house of our own, we’ll see about getting a kitty.”

  “And a puppy, too! The puppy’s name is Donkey, like Shrek.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Richard had had a no-pet policy. Well, when she had a house for Callie, they’d have a dog and a cat.

  “And a pony!”

  “Now you’re pushing it, Callie Rose.” But she scooped her up, spun her around. “Is Mama really pretty today? I want to look my best today.”

  “Mama’s beautiful.”

  She pressed her cheek to her daughter’s. “Callie, you’re my best thing in the world.”

  “Is it time to go to Chelsea’s house?”

  “Just about. You dress those dolls, then we can put them in the Callie bag and take them to Chelsea’s house.”

  Once she’d dropped Callie off, chatted with Tracey, she headed straight into town.

  She was capable, she told herself. She was smart enough to learn. She even knew a little about art, and she knew—or had known—some of the local artists and craftspeople. It made perfect sense to try to wrangle a part-time job at The Artful Ridge.

  After she parked, she sat for a moment, gathering herself.

  Don’t act desperate. If worse comes to worst, buy something. She could do this.

  Fixing a smile on her face, ignoring the churning in her belly, she got out of the car, strolled down the sidewalk, and into The Artful Ridge.

  Oh, it was pretty—she’d love to spend time here. It smelled of scented candles and glowed with natural light. She saw half a dozen things at a glance she’d be happy to have in her own home, once she got one.

  Wrought-iron candlesticks, pale blue blown-g
lass wineglasses, a painting of a mountain stream on a misty morning, a long, sinuous jar the color of top cream polished like glass.

  Tracey’s pottery, too—and she loved the tulip-shaped stacking bowls.

  Glass shelves sparkled, and while the old wood floor creaked a little, it held a subtle gleam.

  The girl who came around the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty and wore a half dozen colorful studs around the curve of her ear.

  Not in charge, Shelby thought, but maybe a gateway.

  “Good morning. Anything I can help you with today?”

  “It’s just beautiful in here.”

  “Thank you! We carry local artists and artisans. There are so many talented people in the area.”

  “I know it. Oh, that’s one of my cousin’s paintings. A set of them.” She stepped over to a grouping of four small watercolors.

  “You’re a cousin to Jesslyn Pomeroy?”

  “I am, on my daddy’s side. I’m Shelby Pomeroy. Foxworth now.”

  Who your people were mattered, Shelby knew, and could be another gateway. “She’s my uncle Bartlet’s middle daughter. We’re all so proud of her.”

  “We sold one of her paintings just last Saturday to a man from Washington, D.C.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful? Cousin Jessie’s art on somebody’s wall in Washington, D.C.”

  “Are you visiting the Ridge?”

  “I was born and raised here, and while I’ve been away a few years, I’ve moved back home. Just a few days ago, actually. I’ve been settling in. The fact is, I’d like to find some part-time work. It would be just lovely to work in a shop like this, with my cousin’s art right there.

  “And Tracey Lee’s,” she added, as it never hurt to know people. “Her little girl and mine have become best friends already.”

  “We can’t keep Tracey’s coffee mugs on the shelf. They just fly out of here. My sister Tate’s married to Robbie’s—that’s Tracey’s husband—to Robbie’s cousin Woody. They’re living up in Knoxville.”

  “Would that be Tate Brown?”

  “That’s right. It’s Bradshaw now, but that’s my sister. You know Tate?”

  “I do. She dated my brother Clay for a time when they were in high school. So she’s married and living in Knoxville?”

  Gateways, Shelby thought, as they chatted about family connections.

  “We’re just starting to look for some extra help, for the season. Would you like to talk to the manager about it?”

  “I would, thank you.”

  “Just give me a minute. Browse around if you like.”

  “I will.” In fact, as soon as the girl was out of sight, Shelby checked the price on the tall jar. Winced a little. A fair price, she imagined, but a little out of her reach right now.

  She’d make it a goal.

  When the girl came back moments later, the friendly had drained out of her eyes, and her tone was cool.

  “You can go on up to the office. I’ll show you.”

  “Thank you. It must be nice,” Shelby continued as they walked to the back of the shop. Here rustic wooden cases and shelves held pottery and textiles. “Working around all these pretty things.”

  “You go right up the stairs here, it’s the first door you come to. It’s open.”

  “Thanks again.”

  She went up the sturdy stairs, turned into a room backed with three narrow windows that opened up to a view of the Ridge and the rise of the hills.

  Here was art and pretty things as well, a sweet chair with curvy legs done in deep blue, and a wonderful old desk refinished so the oak shone gold. A vase of red roses and baby’s breath stood on it, along with a computer and a phone.

  It took her only a moment to focus in on the woman behind the desk—and understand the abrupt change in the clerk’s demeanor.

  “Why, hello, Melody. I had no idea you worked here.”

  “I manage the gallery. My grandmama bought it just about a year ago and asked me to get it in shape for her.”

  “Well, from what I see, you’ve done a wonderful job of it.”

  “Thank you. You have to do what you can for family, don’t you? And look at you.” She rose then, a curvy woman in a fitted dress of rosy pink. Her blond hair fell in a long, soft wave to her shoulders, sweeping around a heart-shaped face with poreless skin glowing from an expert hand with bronzer or a good self-tanner.

  Shelby knew Melody would never expose her face to the sun and risk lines and spots.

  Her eyes, a chilly blue, flicked over Shelby as she walked over, moved in for a cheek bump.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you! My goodness, this humidity that’s moving in must play havoc with your hair.”

  “It helps to have easy access to good salon products.” Yours could use a root touch-up, she thought, as no one made her hackles prickle faster than Melody Bunker.

  “I’m sure it does. I heard you were back. It’s just tragic about your husband, Shelby. Just tragic. You have all my sympathy.”

  “Thank you, Melody.”

  “And back where you started now, aren’t you? Living back with your mama, aren’t you? Oh, please, have a seat.” Melody leaned a hip back on the desk, holding the higher ground, the position of power. “And how are you, Shelby?”

  “I’m fine. I’m happy to be home again. How’s your mama, Melody?”

  “Oh, she’s doing fine. We’re going to Memphis in a couple weeks, having a few days, doing some shopping, staying at the Peabody, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “You know how hard it is to find decent clothes around here, so we try to get into Memphis every season. I have to admit, I never thought to see you back in the Ridge, but being a widow, you must need the comfort of family.”

  “They are a comfort.”

  “But I sure was surprised when Kelly came up and said you were downstairs and asking about work, what with all the talk about how well off you were, landing yourself a rich husband. And you have a daughter, don’t you?”

  Those blue eyes sparkled now, but it wasn’t with friendship or camaraderie. “Some say that helped with the landing.”

  “I’m sure they do, as some will say all manner of unattractive things just to hear their own voice. I’d like to work,” Shelby said simply.

  “I’d sure like to help you out, Shelby, but working here at The Artful Ridge takes certain requirements. I don’t suppose you’ve ever worked a cash register in your life.”

  Melody knew very well she had, at the salon.

  “I ran one since I was fourteen, weekends and summers at my grandmother’s salon. I was assistant manager of the bookstore in college—University of Memphis, if you can’t recall. That was a few years ago, but I’m sure I could get references if you need them. I know how to work a register, a computer, I know most of the basic softwares.”

  “A family beauty parlor and a college bookstore don’t give you much of a foundation for an upscale showplace of arts and crafts. And do you know how to sell? Working a bookstore in college? Why, that sort of thing sells itself, doesn’t it? We carry a superior range of art, a lot of it exclusive to us. We’re a landmark in this town now. In the county, come to that. And we’ve got a reputation.”

  “I’m sure the reputation’s earned, considering what you