Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  “As long as it’s not my sidewalk,” I quip.

  Willa gasps, and her hand flies up to her mouth.

  Assuming that my unneighborly attitude is what’s elicited this scandalized response from her, I say, “What? That dog’s not my responsibility. Why should I care if she upchucked in front of someone else’s house? I’m sure that whoever it is has a hose, and they can just wash the barf away.”

  “No, no, no . . .” Willa’s shaking her head from side-to-side, her ponytail swinging like the pendulum in the old grandfather clock that resides in the living room. “This is not good. In fact, this is very, very bad. Are you sure, Roxie? Are you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent, no-doubt-about-it sure?” She leans into the dog so that their noses are touching and they’re staring deeply into each other’s eyes. It’s all very peculiar, but I’ve come to expect strange behavior like this from my sister.

  “Oh, my gosh, it’s true!” Willa sits back on her haunches, looking dismayed. “I knew something wasn’t right about this whole Justine situation, but I never imagined . . . I still can’t believe that she . . . but Roxie saw what she saw . . . it’s really not open for interpretation . . .”

  “You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. Sorry. Roxie just shared something very shocking with me, something I really have no business knowing, something that could change the lives of a lot of people for better, or worse, I’m really not sure . . .” She chews worriedly on her thumbnail.

  With a groan and a roll of my eyes, I say, “I really should start billing you for my time, then maybe you’d get to the point faster.”

  Willa stops mangling her manicure so that she can speak. “Brody’s wife had an affair,” she whispers the last word as if it’s too horrible to say at full volume.

  “When, and with whom?”

  “I guess it was in the months leading up to her separation from Brody. The other guy was over at their house a lot. That’s when Roxie saw them . . . together.” Willa blushes, indicating she got a psychic eyeful of the adulterous pair via the dog.

  “Bold move – banging the boyfriend right there in the house she shared with Brody. The risk factor probably made those hook-ups doubly exciting for her.” I purse my lips with disgust, personally offended by the other woman’s deceit.

  “Poor Brody! And she didn’t just sleep with the guy; she left town with him! I saw the two of them, carrying her boxes and suitcases out of the house, acting all lovey dovey because they were off to start a new life together. Brody blamed himself for her leaving, but he didn’t do anything wrong – it was her!”

  “And now he’ll know that, thanks to you and Roxie. So, call him and finish it. Break Justine’s hold on him once and for all.”

  Willa lifts her cell phone, but instead of punching in Brody’s number, she just stares at the touch screen, and stares, and stares some more.

  “Why the hesitation?” I wonder. If I were in Willa’s yellow ballet flats right now, I’d be speed-dialing Brody, eager to give him the 411 on his two-timing wife.

  “What if he doesn’t believe me?” she queries, in a tremulous voice. “He might think I’m making this up to win him back from Justine. It’s not like I have proof.”

  Great. She’s wussing out. I shouldn’t be surprised. Willa would do anything to avoid being the bearer of bad news, even sacrifice her own happiness. I’ll have to use the furball to motivate her. “You got the info straight from his dog! And she sought you out, probably because she’s trying to protect her master. That’s what dogs are supposed to do right? Unfortunately, Roxie can’t tell Brody what she knows, so she has to depend on you to convey the message. You’re not going to let her down, are you?”

  “No?” She still sounds uncertain.

  “Hell no!” is my rallying cry.

  “Heck no!” my sister returns a PG-rated version of the sentiment. She’s such a goober. At least my call to action worked, because Willa’s now phoning Brody. She’s also pacing the floor and twirling her ponytail around her finger. I don’t need twin telepathy to know that she’s anxious about talking to him.

  “Hi, it’s Willa! Hope you haven’t started putting out missing dog flyers yet. Yep, she’s here with me, at Sloane’s place. Oh, it’s no problem. I always enjoy spending time with Roxie. The two of us have been having a very, uh . . . interesting visit. Sure, yeah, come on over. We’ll see you then.” She turns off the phone and exhales loudly, then starts to shake her hands like they’re wet and she’s trying to flick water off them.

  “You’re not going to get rid of your nerves that way,” I tell her.

  “I have to do something.” She keeps jiggling her hands. “Brody will be here in half an hour, and I’m freaking out! I don’t know what I’m going to say. I hate confrontation. Okay, maybe I don’t hate it, because hate’s a strong word, but I’m really bad at confronting people.”

  I grab her hands, forcing her to be still and focus on me. “It’s not a confrontation; it’s a meeting where one party will be passing on vital information to another. I go to meetings all day long, and you know why I’m never nervous about them?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m not nervous, because I’m always prepared. And that’s what you need to do right now. Take Roxie some place quiet, where you can search through every nook and cranny of her little doggy brain, and collect all the details you can about Justine and her illicit activities. Details will give your story credibility.”

  “Yes! That’s exactly what I need – more details so that I can answer any questions Brody might have. Oh, thank you, Sloane. You always give such good advice.” She hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe.

  “And sometimes you even take it.” I mumble into her shoulder.

  “Ha ha.” She releases me. “Come on, Roxie, let’s go upstairs. You too, Cicero.” Falling in step behind her, the dogs obediently trail Willa out of the room like she’s the Pied Piper of Pine Street.

  Excellent! Now I have thirty minutes to myself, so I can dig into those financials. Grabbing my laptop, a legal pad, and a pen, I set up camp on the kitchen bar. I open the document I need and start skimming through it, looking for any new or pertinent info. When I reach a section of the Bainbridges’ assets entitled “Artwork,” I find my mind wandering from paintings, sculptures, and ceramics to the artist who lives next door . . .

  I expected there to be some awkwardness between Gav and me post-shag-a-thon, which is why I snuck out of bed this morning and went to work without saying anything to him. I was trying to spare us both that embarrassing morning-after conversation, where excuses are made and relationship statuses have to be examined and redefined. Yuck, no. I don’t want what happened last night to change things for us. It was just sex – really amazing, passionate, makes me break out into a sweat every time I think about it sex, but just sex nonetheless. Not a big deal. And certainly not a new experience for Gav. He’s slept with plenty of women over the years and he’s never assigned any great importance to the act before, which means we should be of like mind about this. So, why was he acting so oddly when he was here earlier?

  Yes, I did notice his unGav-like behavior – the intense look in his eyes, which never seemed to leave my face, the clenched jaw, how brusque and unsociable he was. He seemed to be mad, but that doesn’t make any sense. If ever there was a man who had reason to be walking around with a big, shit-eating grin on his face, it would be Gavin Shaw. I rocked his world last night . . . four times! I even woke him up out of a dead sleep at three o’clock in a very unique and pleasurable way, which he thanked me for repeatedly. It should be noted that he later returned the favor, and I was quite impressed by his skills in that area. All in all, I’d say there’s no room for complaint on either side unless Gav is pissed off because I didn’t kiss him goodbye this morning, or leave some sappy note on his pillow, or call, or text him all day. But why would I do any of that? That’s not me. I’m busy; I don’t have time to stroke a
man’s ego. Besides, Gav already knows he’s a stud; he doesn’t need me to confirm it.

  UGH Men! They’re completely unfathomable. Why am I even worrying about this? Whatever Gav’s problem is regarding last night, he can work it out on his own. I’m sure if I just give him some time and space, everything will be fine. I hear a knock on the front door and glance down at the clock on my computer. Crap, my half-hour is up, and I’ve managed to accomplish absolutely nothing because I let myself get sidetracked thinking about Gav. See, this is why I avoid entanglements of a serious nature with the opposite sex. They interfere with productivity.

  “Willa!” I shout my sister’s name to let her know her guest has arrived. She can answer the door; I’m going to grab myself another energy drink, because my body has just realized it only got three hours of sleep last night. They weren’t uninterrupted hours either. I involuntarily shiver as I flash back to Gav’s mouth and hands being on my bare skin, kissing, nibbling, licking, caressing . . . Okay, enough, subconscious! I don’t need any reminders from you. This house is already littered with them: the couch, the dining room table, the stairs – all places Gav and I had sex – and my bed. I know when I crawl beneath the sheets tonight, his scent is going to be all over them, which isn’t a bad thing since Gav smells incredible, like the beach and oranges, because he’s always slathering on sunscreen for his runs, and he uses a body wash that has citrus in it – such a yummy combination! Oh, geez, did I just use the word “yummy” in relation to a man? That sounds like something my sister would say! I’m tempted to slap myself, and I probably would if Willa and Brody weren’t walking into the room.

  “I’m so relieved she’s all right. I think she scared a few years off my life running away like that. Hey, Sloane.” Brody gives me a wave when he sees me standing in the kitchen.

  I raise my hand in acknowledgement, then pop the top of my Go-Go Guava drink.

  “Roxie did have a gastrointestinal disturbance earlier,” Willa relays, “because she got into some garbage food on her travels, so I’d suggest a bland diet for the next twenty-four hours. Maybe some rice and a little bit of skinless chicken. White meat, of course. And make sure to keep her hydrated.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks. I’m so grateful to you for coming to Roxie’s rescue.” Brody reaches down to scratch the top of his dog’s head, but his eyes stay glued to Willa’s.

  She smiles shyly. “It’s my pleasure. You know how much I love . . . Roxie.” Willa’s cheeks turn pink, and she dips her head down.

  “She’s crazy about you, too, which is understandable. You’re so sweet . . . with her . . .,” Brody trails off, gazing adoringly at Willa. If he were a cartoon character, I’m pretty sure he’d have big, pulsating hearts in place of his eyes right now.

  She stares back at him, with a dreamy expression on her face.

  I scream, “Just make out already!” in my head.

  “We should go,” Brody says suddenly, breaking the love-induced trance he and Willa seemed to be in. “Roxie’s probably exhausted.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure she is, and you’ve got that long drive.” She gazes down at her hands, and I notice that she’s wringing them fretfully.

  Speak now or forever hold your peace! I silently compel her.

  “Okay, then, we’ll just see ourselves out. Thanks again for everything, both of you.” Giving Willa one last, wistful look, Brody turns toward the front door, gently tugging on Roxie’s leash so that she’ll follow him.

  “Hold on!” I slam my energy drink down and step out from behind the kitchen counter.

  Brody stops in his tracks and glances back at me questioningly.

  “I think Willa forgot to tell you something . . .,” I direct a pointed look at her, “. . . like the reason why Roxie was so desperate to find her.” That’s as good a lead-in to the subject as any, and I’m hoping it will also serve as a verbal kick in the pants to my sister. I can’t believe she was just going to let Brody walk out the door, and her life, without revealing the truth about Justine. Where’s her gumption?

  “Um, well . . .” Willa starts playing with her hair again. “Roxie came here, to speak with me, because . . . she’s very concerned about you.”

  Brody frowns. “Why?”

  “Uh . . . it’s difficult to say. I mean, I know why, but it’s difficult to impart information of this kind when there’s a strong possibility you’ll be hurting the person you’re telling, and that’s the last thing you’d ever want to do, because this person means the world to you and it makes you sick to think–”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I interrupt her rambling monologue, because it’s going nowhere and we’ll all be here ‘til next Christmas if someone doesn’t rip off the Band-Aid and just say what needs to be said. “Brody, your wife’s a lying cheat, which means that the baby she’s carrying probably isn’t even yours.”

  All the color drains from his tanned face and for a minute I think he might keel over from the shock. “Willa?” he asks, looking for her to corroborate my claim.

  “I’m so sorry.” She places her hand over her heart to show empathy. “But that’s what I saw through Roxie. Justine, with another man, in your house, on several different occasions.”

  “But– but– he could have been a friend, or . . . or a colleague. Most of the professors in the department at Berkeley where Justine worked are men.”

  “Mmmmmm . . . he didn’t look professorial; he was young, like mid-twenties. And he and Justine weren’t working at your house. They were kissing and . . .,” Willa cringes, “. . . doing other things that could definitely have resulted in a baby.”

  “Jesus.” Brody rubs his forehead, probably because his brain’s on overload and feels like it’s about to explode. “Can you tell me anything more about this guy?”

  “He has thick reddish hair sticking up all over his head, kind of like Prince Harry, although personally I think Harry’s a lot cuter. He’s taller anyway and he has prettier eyes. Justine’s guy has dark eyes, very close together, one might even call them ‘beady.’ I wouldn’t, of course, because that wouldn’t be nice. It’s not his fault if his parents gave him tiny, close-set eyes. Oh, and he must be cold-natured, because he was wearing a gray-and-blue striped scarf every time Roxie saw him. That’s when he had his clothes on. When he didn’t, there was an unusual birthmark on his–”

  “I’ve got the picture,” Brody cuts off Willa just when she was getting to the good stuff. “The man you described is Damon Kinney, Justine’s former teaching assistant. I always thought he was an unctuous, little prick, but Justine was constantly singing his praises. Now I know why.” He scowls. “She left me for him, didn’t she?”

  “I think so. He helped her move out of your place, and they were very much together at the time. Sorry.” She winces.

  “Stop apologizing!” Brody and I exclaim simultaneously, then exchange a look of surprise followed by a nod of understanding.

  “Tell her,” I urge him, with a gesture toward Willa.

  “You don’t have to apologize for what Justine did. That’s on her.”

  “I just feel terrible about all of it. After everything you’ve been through, I didn’t want to cause you any more pain.”

  “It’s okay.” He puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’d rather know the truth, and you’ve set me on the road to finding it. You and Roxie, that is.” Pulling the dog to his side, he gives her an affectionate pat. “The two of you make quite a team. Maybe you should open a detective agency,” he suggests, with a smirk.

  “Please, don’t give her any ideas!” That’s all I need; my sister pretending to be Ace Ventura. Although now that I think about it, there’d probably be more money in the detective trade than the psychic one. Maybe I should draw up a business plan for her.

  Brody and Willa share a tender smile. They’re kind of adorable, standing there, looking at each other all googly-eyed, with their dogs dancing around their feet. I hope the two of them can work things out. Speaking of out, tha
t’s where they both need to go, like now. I’m never going to get my work done if I don’t get rid of all this two and four-legged company.

  “I’m glad we got this straightened out. Good luck talking to your wife.” I clap Brody on the back. “If you need someone to conduct a forensic audit on your marital assets for the divorce, you know who to call.”

  “Sloane!” Willa’s tone is chastising.

  “What? If Justine committed fraud by lying about the paternity of her child, it stands to reason she’d have no compunction about pulling a fast one with their finances, too. Who knows how much of your money she and the cougar-loving TA left town with? Have you checked your savings accounts and retirement fund lately?”

  “Uh . . .” Brody gulps. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oooo, that’s not good. You should race right home and get on that.” I turn him around so that he’s facing the front hallway. “Would you mind dropping off Willa and Cicero on your way? I hate for her to take the bus at night.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want her to do that either. It wouldn’t be safe. I’ll be happy to take her home.”

  “Such a gentleman! Here ya go.” I shove Willa’s purse and Cicero’s leash into her hands. “You didn’t want the rest of that lasagna, did you? I thought I’d take it to work for lunch tomorrow,” I say conversationally, giving the two of them a gentle push toward the door.

  “That’s fine,” she tosses over her shoulder as I continue to propel them forward. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and clean up the mud?”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. The maid needs something to do when she comes on Friday, doesn’t she?” Flinging open the front door, I usher them out on to the stoop. “Good seeing you both. Have a great night! Drive safely,” I bid them several farewells, then quickly close and lock the door, ecstatic to have my house back to myself. My ecstasy is short-lived when I get back to the kitchen and see that Cicero left a present for me, a pile of poop that looks like it weighs more than he does. UGH Why does my sister like dogs again?