Love and a Little White Lie

by Tammy L. Gray

  He finishes the second verse, and just when I think he’s about to go into the third, he switches up the melody, sends his fingers across the piano faster, and belts out something about chains being gone and being ransomed and amazing love.

  It’s a version of the song I’ve never heard before, and it sparks something uncomfortable in my chest. There’s too much emotion when Cameron sings, as if he’s not just singing the music but living and breathing it in. They’re more than words to him. He’s pouring out his heart in such an authentic and beautiful way that I almost understand giving up a Sunday morning to come watch it.

  The piano slows again until the sound fades out in one long, elegant note. And when the stage around us goes quiet, I can’t move or speak. I feel as though I’ve been taken on a journey through a deeper part of his heart and maybe mine, as well.

  No wonder women worship rock stars. I think a part of me just fell in love with Cameron Lee.

  eight

  I’m still sporting a cheesy grin and humming the words to “Amazing Grace” when I park my car in front of my cabin. The cold front has held off, and for the first time in over a month, my upcoming walk feels more like a victory lap than a mourner’s march.

  In fact, I’m in such a good mood, I don’t even flinch when I notice the Kyles’ white truck parked two spots down from mine. Grabbing my purse and keys, I slide from my little Prius and slam the door.

  “It’s about time.”

  I wish I could say I didn’t know that voice, but I do. It’s the same deep, aggravating tone that got under my skin last night.

  Dillon emerges from around a pillar and takes two steps down. He’s in his typical jeans, work boots, and T-shirt ensemble. How he doesn’t freeze is beyond me, but then again, every inch of him is covered in lean muscle. “Doreen said you got off at four.”

  “I do, but I stayed late.”

  “Already? Not really a good precedent to set, especially at a place that works their staff so hard.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Who doesn’t know?”

  Whatever. I am not going to let Dillon get to me today. I think back to Cameron’s voice and the way his head tilted toward the ceiling in absolute surrender. A floaty smile emerges, and I know that Dillon notices because his eyebrow lifts. I choose to take the high road and ignore it. “What’s so urgent, anyway?”

  “Rain is coming, and while I’m pretty sure I fixed the roof leak over your bathroom, I want to draw a circle around the water stain so I can see if it grows any tonight.” He picks up his toolbox when I get to the top of the steps and stands there, waiting for me to open the door.

  “You could have just asked Doreen for an extra set of keys.”

  “And invade a woman’s bathroom without her knowledge or permission? No thanks. I like my head attached to my body.”

  A smile slips through, even though I had determined never to speak to the man again. “I take it you have sisters?”

  “Nope. Just a wife.” His curt tone is as jarring as his words.

  “You’re married?” I glance down at his left hand. It’s as bare as it was the other day. Not even a white line where a wedding band should be.

  “Divorced.” He impatiently sets down the toolbox, and I realize I haven’t moved since he said the word wife. “Do you need me to do that?”

  “No. Sorry.” I twist the key and push open the door. A burst of honeysuckle fills my nose, thanks to the candle warmer I have plugged in. The scent is my favorite because it reminds me of the plants that hang along Doreen’s wooden fence surrounding the pool. Mom always let Doreen have me one month out of the summer, and my cousins and I would splash and play until our fingers wrinkled. I quit going when I turned fourteen, too interested in boys and friends to be bothered with family.

  “It’s clean, so go ahead and do whatever you need to,” I mutter, wishing I could go back and knock some sense into my younger self. Apart from coming to my pawpaw’s funeral, for fifteen years I let my only contact with Doreen be quick phone calls and an occasional Christmas present. Yet, despite my neglect, she took me in and lifted me onto my feet without a second thought.

  I set my purse on the kitchen counter and watch as Dillon hauls in a six-foot ladder. He’s careful not to bump or scrape the floors or walls, which makes me understand a little why Doreen gives his family all her business. Well, that and his dad being Uncle Jim’s fishing buddy.

  The reminder nips at my conscience as Doreen’s admonishment comes back to me: “I would think that you, after all the hurt you’ve experienced over the past few months, would offer a little grace back to someone who is hurting, too.”

  Yeah, yeah, okay. Dillon is divorced, and having watched my mom go through three nasty ones, I know it’s a vicious way to end a relationship.

  I grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge and go to offer him one when I hear a rattle and a curse coming from the bathroom. “Need some help?” I call, determined to be the bigger person.

  Another rattle and then a grumbly, “Yes. Can you hold this ladder still?”

  “Sure thing.” I make my way to the bathroom and have to hold in my amusement. Dillon is standing on the second-to-top rung, bracing himself against the wall while the ladder is teetering to the left. I quickly hold it secure. “You should really be more careful, you know.”

  He glances down at me. “And here I got the impression that you wouldn’t mind seeing me fall a few notches.”

  “Whyever would you think that?” I ask innocently even though the image is rather appealing.

  He stretches out and makes his first mark with a pencil. “Our last encounter didn’t exactly lend to your being the newest member of my fan club.”

  “True, but I’ve chosen not to hold your bad behavior against you.”

  “See, that’s where we differ.” He finishes half of the circle and has to readjust to get to the other side. “You think telling someone the truth is bad behavior, whereas I think skirting your real thoughts and feelings is the most hateful thing you can do to another person.”

  I shouldn’t take his words as a snub, but I do. “Sometimes the truth does more damage than a lie.” Or in my case, a small little white lie that isn’t hurting anyone. In fact, it’s helping a whole group of people.

  “So says every liar I know.”

  “Hey! Do you want me to hold this ladder or not?”

  He actually chuckles, and it surprises me with how nice the sound is. “Tell you what, you give me one example of how a lie made a situation better and I’ll stand corrected.” He finishes his pencil loop and straightens his body so that I can let go of the ladder without him falling.

  I’m still trying to come up with an answer that won’t incriminate me when his work boot hits the tile floor. Sandwiched in the tiny bathroom, he’s closer than I expect, our hips only a foot away. I try to back up, but my backside hits the sink.

  “Can’t think of anything, can you?” His voice is smug, as if he doesn’t notice our awkward proximity.

  Unfortunately, I do notice, a little too much. I slide to the left, eager to put even an inch more of distance between us, when a flash of color makes me freeze. “They’re brown,” I say with a catch to my voice.

  “What?”

  “Your eyes.” I study them, fascinated, and lean in close enough that I feel his breath come faster. “With gold flecks that look like little floating stars.”

  “Little floating stars?” His surprise is mixed with jest, and I’m immediately horrified.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Good, because it sounded like you were about to write a sonnet about my eye color.” He’s still grinning, which only causes my face to flush.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” It’s then that I realize our chests are practically touching and I stumble back. “My awe has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the weird way my mind works.”

  “Sure it does.” He draws out his words, and
even though I can tell by the glimmer of amusement in his gaze that he’s messing with me, I still succumb to his goading.

  “Seriously. I never notice eye color. Ever. I’ll notice a tiny scar someone got when they were three or a stray hair they missed when they shaved. But never the color of their eyes.”

  Dillon rests his elbow on the ladder rung, and I swear his eyes get warmer, like a thick cup of hot chocolate I want to swim in. “So you’re telling me that in twenty-nine years you’ve never once noticed the color of someone’s eyes?”

  “Not unless I make a mental note to do so, and even then, it’s a quick check mark. Blue, green, hazel. Usually a very dull detail.” I search my memory bank for Cameron’s and come up empty. It bothers me, almost as much as the fact that Dillon pegged my age to the year. Add in his wealth of knowledge regarding my new employment and suddenly his earlier comments about lying feel very personal. “How is it you know so much about me?”

  “I ask.”

  “Well, stop.” Stupid Uncle Jim. He raised two boys and obviously requires a lesson in a woman’s need for a little anonymity. “Unless you want me poking into your personal life, too.”

  “Go ahead. I have no secrets.” He says it as if he wants me to ask, and it bothers me that I want to know.

  Bothers me so much that I slide to the corner, as far as I can away from him, and say, “Well, some of us like our privacy. Please try and respect that.”

  “Whatever you want.” His face morphs back into the same irritation he’s worn since I moved out here. He lifts the ladder, turns it sideways, and hauls it through the bathroom door. “Watch the stain tonight and let me know if it grows any.”

  I follow him into the living room and out the front door, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill I suddenly feel. “Okay.” I can’t quite place the sick feeling in my stomach. Guilt? Shame? A little of both? Is it really so heartless to ask the guy not to pry into my life? We are strangers after all.

  Dillon tosses the ladder into the back of his truck without another word and gives a two-finger salute before he disappears behind the driver’s door.

  The first drops of rain come shortly after.

  Figures.

  That man is a walking storm cloud, and once again he’s rained all over my happy mood.

  I shut the door harder than necessary and plop down on the small leather sofa. His comment about the cruelty of withholding truths is still a bur under my skin. My huff echoes through the empty cabin. Working at Grace Community isn’t hurting anyone.

  In fact, tomorrow during lunch I will prove exactly how wrong Dillon Kyle’s theory is.

  Sandra’s daughter asked for someone to stand in the gap for her, and she will get just that. I may not pray to some imaginary being, but I can certainly read to a blind old woman.

  nine

  I’m ashamed to say I fell into the worst kind of female stereotype. Not only did I get up an hour earlier than necessary to carefully blow-dry and curl my hair, but I also wore completely impractical shoes and a silky jumpsuit that is far too dressy for the casual atmosphere at Grace Community.

  So you can imagine how silly I felt when I found out that Cameron doesn’t come into the office on Wednesdays. At least not until six, when they have praise team practice.

  Now my feet and my pride hurt. Worse, I can’t get it out of my head that I don’t know Cameron’s eye color and yet practically melted into Dillon’s. I examine every picture on the wall in the band room, but none of them gives me any clue. They’re either in black-and-white or Cameron has his eyes closed, lost in whatever private place he goes to when singing.

  I run my finger along the glass, tracing the line of his cheek, until I realize that someone could easily walk in and catch me obsessing. I’ve done it once again—leapt from one crush right into another one. And worse, this one is wrong on so many levels that I can’t even list them all.

  Frustrated, I grab my keys and lock the office door behind me. It’s close enough to lunch that I can leave without apology and hobble to my car, because two blisters have already formed on my big toes.

  I looked up Serenity Hills Nursing Facility last night and discovered it’s only ten minutes from the church. Kicking off my shoes, I start the car, determined to do something positive with my day.

  The words from the prayer request cascade through my mind as I drive, the details flashing as if on a TV screen. Sandra Cox, pulled from her home of fifty-five years, loves to read, thinks her daughter is a traitor.

  At least I can relate to that last one. My own mother hasn’t spoken to me since I told her I was staying in Midlothian with Doreen. She thinks I’m picking sides when really I’m just trying to survive. And since neither of them will tell me exactly what the fight is about, it’s a little unfair to expect me to shut out the only stable person in my life right now. But Mom doesn’t listen and she doesn’t forgive . . . not even her only daughter.

  I take my final turn into the parking lot and find an open space. The Serenity Hills Nursing Facility is actually pretty lovely, though smaller than I expected. The building is red brick trimmed with white wood, and despite it being the middle of winter, fresh mulch and bright green shrubbery line the entry. This place obviously keeps a paid landscaper.

  The thought immediately jolts me, and I lean closer to the windshield, checking each side of the parking lot for the distinctive white Kyle truck and logo. My relief is almost enough to make me not cringe when I put my shoes back on. Almost.

  I manage to make it down the sidewalk and into the building without painful tears but have every intention of begging for a couple of bandages. It is a medical facility, after all.

  Or at least that’s what it looks like. A large nurses’ station is the first thing I see, beside two office doors marked Admissions. I force my feet to move until I can lean on the counter. A nurse looks up and smiles. Her canine teeth are crooked while all the others are straight and white. And while the wide smile might seem warm, the lack of makeup and glimmer of moisture in her eyes makes me wonder if she’s having the same kind of month I am.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Sandra Cox. But first, would you happen to have some Band-Aids?”

  Her brows move, and I can tell I’ve surprised her with the question.

  “New shoes,” I say, and since she’s a woman, it’s all I need to say.

  She stands and pulls a first-aid kit from the cabinet behind her. “Is there a special occasion?”

  “Nope. Just trying to impress a guy.” I have no idea why I’m being so open and honest, but something about this woman reminds me of Doreen, though she’s probably only in her fifties.

  “Were you successful?” She hands me three bandages, and I immediately go to work on my feet.

  “Not at all,” I sigh. Destiny has given me a cold slap in the face. Whatever stupid romantic notions I dreamed up yesterday need to be crushed.

  The nurse is back in her seat when I straighten, the pain substantially lessened now. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Sandra’s in room 205. It’s down the green hallway.”

  “Green hallway?”

  She points to her right, and I realize that once again I failed to notice the most obvious thing about the interior. The nurses’ station is a hexagon with four hallways, the entrance, and a large dining room feeding into it. Each hall is a different color: blue, green, yellow, and an orangey-red. It’s on the walls, the carpet, and even the room signs that jut out from the doorways.

  “It helps the residents find their rooms easier,” she explains.

  “Makes sense.” I point to Sandra’s hall and wish I could just once be a little normal. “Green, got it.”

  I follow the carpet until Sandra’s room number appears and carefully knock on the door.

  “Come in.” The voice is shaky and deep, but definitely feminine.

  I step inside, only now considering that this woman doesn’t know me and I don’t know her, and explaining myself is going to be
very interesting.

  The room is single occupancy, with a small hospital bed on one side and a sitting room on the other. Sandra’s in a pink recliner with a blanket draped over her legs and a Velcro strap around her waist that appears to be hooked to some kind of machine. An alarm, I decide.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cox, my name is Jan.” I consider mentioning the church, then decide not to. There’s probably some kind of protocol when visiting, and knowing my luck, I’m doing it all wrong. “I’m here to read to you for a little while.”

  Sandra turns my direction, and while I can tell she has some vision, there’s a vacancy in her eyes that highlights her blindness. “Oh, how sweet. Please . . . please . . .” She reaches out her hand, wrinkled and trembling.

  I see she wants me to take it, so I do. The skin is remarkably thin and soft, yet her grip is firm. She pulls me to the chair next to her.

  “I’ve been ever so lonely,” she says, her hand still a vise on mine. “But I won’t be here too much longer. My daughter is coming to take me home any day now.”

  I feel the same pressure in my chest that I did when I first read the prayer. I know Sandra isn’t going home but have no intention of saying so. “Do you have a favorite book?” I ask instead.

  “Yes. My Bible. It’s in the nightstand by my bed.” Her voice turns more eager while dread layers mine.

  “Your Bible? Isn’t there something else you’d rather read?”

  “Oh no, dear. My Bible is first, then the other stuff.”

  I stand and walk across the room, completely flabbergasted as to why this lady would continue to read her Bible when the God she prays to has allowed this to happen to her.

  Still, I cater to her wishes and head for the large-print, leather-bound Bible she requested. It’s massive, a good four inches thick, the binding frayed from overuse. A few stray pages slip out as I carefully pick up the fragile copy. Returning to my seat, I cradle the book. I may be agnostic, but even I have some reverence for the Bible. Any book that can withstand so much scrutiny over thousands of years deserves a little respect.