by Joy Fielding
“Well, I don’t,” Jeff said with a laugh. “With me, what you see is definitely what you get.”
I like what I see, Lily thought, taking another bite of her salmon to keep from saying it out loud. “And personally?” she asked instead.
“Personally?”
“What do you lie about?”
“What do I lie about?” he repeated. “Little things, mostly.”
“Such as?”
“Such as my mother knit me this sweater last Christmas, and it’s this wild, pink-and-burgundy-striped thing—God only knows what she was thinking—and, of course, she’s proud as punch, and she keeps asking me if I like it. What am I going to say? ‘It’s the ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it?’ No, of course not. I tell her it’s beautiful, that I love it.”
“So you lie to protect someone’s feelings?”
“And I guess sometimes I might exaggerate a little,” he admitted after a pause. “You know, to make a story sound better.”
“You mean like the fish that got away?”
“Or, in my case, the perp.”
“The perp?”
Jeff laughed. “Perpetrator, felon, crook. The guy I’m chasing—‘He must have been an Olympic champion. Superman couldn’t catch this guy.’ That kind of thing.”
Lily’s turn to laugh. “So you like being a policeman?”
“I do. Yes, very much.”
“What is it you like?”
“Truthfully?”
“Unless you’re worried about protecting my feelings.”
He smiled. “Honestly, I like everything about it. I like solving mysteries, saving somebody’s dog, finding somebody’s kid. I like arresting bad guys and putting them away. I like going to court. Hell, I even like lawyers, which is not information I share with a lot of people.”
“I’ll be sure to keep it quiet.”
“And you?” Jeff asked. “What do you like?”
“Well, I certainly like this salmon.” Lily finished what was left on her plate, knowing she was evading his question. She knew he was watching her, waiting for her to continue. “And I like this restaurant.” She paused, lowered her fork, raised her eyes to his. “And I like that I changed my mind about going out with you tonight.”
“Why did you?”
“Truthfully?”
“Unless you’re worried about protecting my feelings,” he said, and they both smiled.
“Well, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. I always wanted to go.”
“Which, of course, is why you said no.”
“It’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve been out on an actual date with anyone, and I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea.”
“Why?”
“Why wasn’t I sure it was a good idea?”
“Why haven’t you been dating?”
Lily arranged her knife and fork across her plate, then massaged the back of her neck with the fingers of her right hand. “Long story.”
“You told me your husband was killed in a motorcycle accident last year.”
Lily nodded.
“How long were you married?”
Lily hesitated. She didn’t really want to talk about her marriage. Still, not talking about it might make it seem more mysterious than it needed to be. And hadn’t Jeff already said he liked solving mysteries? “Four years. I was pregnant when we got married,” she added, although he hadn’t asked.
“Was it a good marriage?”
Lily shrugged. “Let’s just say it had its ups and downs.”
He nodded his understanding. “Still, the accident must have been a horrible shock.”
“Yes. It was,” Lily heard herself say, her voice distant and lacking substance, like an echo on its third repetition. “I remember the policeman coming to the house. I remember the look on my mother’s face as we were leaving for the hospital. I remember the policeman saying we should prepare ourselves, that Kenny hadn’t been wearing his helmet, so his face was all torn up, and there was lots of blood. They said nearly every bone in his body was broken, but that miraculously, he was still alive. We got to the hospital a few minutes before he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was my fault,” Lily said flatly.
“Your fault? How could an accident like that possibly have been your fault?”
“Because we’d been fighting. We’d been fighting all afternoon.”
Jeff reached across the table, covered her hand with his own. “People fight, Lily. That doesn’t make what happened to Kenny your fault.”
“You don’t understand. He was so upset. I should never have let him get on that motorcycle.”
“Could you have stopped him?”
“No,” Lily admitted, sliding her hand away from his to wipe several stray tears from her cheek. “I’m sorry. Can we talk about something else?”
“Absolutely. And I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”
“For what?”
“For not minding my own business.”
“You’re a cop,” she reminded him. “I would think not minding your own business is part of the job description.”
“That’s very generous,” he said. “Now, what would you like to talk about?”
Lily checked her watch. “Actually, it’s getting kind of late. I probably should be heading home.”
“Jan told me Michael was at a sleepover.”
“Good old Jan,” Lily remarked, deciding to speak to her in the morning. “What else did she tell you?”
“That you’re the best employee she’s ever had, but that what you really want is to be a writer.”
Lily nodded, wondering, How often do we get what we really want? “Do you think we could save that discussion for another time? I told Emma that I’d try to stop by her house, see how the boys were making out.”
“Emma’s the one I met yesterday? The one with the Maybelline eyes?”
Was she wrong, or had she detected a note of cynicism in Jeff’s voice? “You sound like you don’t believe her.”
Jeff shrugged. “I’m a cop, remember? It’s part of the job description to be suspicious.”
“You think she’s lying?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would she lie?” Lily persisted.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “Maybe she isn’t.”
Well, well, you must have made a bundle from that, she heard Jan say. What are you doing on Mad River Road?
“The modeling business isn’t the most secure profession in the world,” Lily said in an effort to silence them both. “You can be hot one minute, ice-cold the next.”
“No doubt about it.”
“She even wrote a story about it for Cosmo magazine.”
“Really? Did you read it?”
“No. Why? You think she’s lying about that too?”
“I just asked if you’d read her story.”
“No, I haven’t. But why would she make that up?”
“To impress you?” Jeff offered.
“Impress me?”
“Kind of like the fish that got away.”
Lily shrugged, uncomfortable with the idea that her new friend might be lying to her.
“I tell you what,” Jeff said as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Why don’t you call your friend and make sure the boys are okay. If there’s a problem, I’ll take you home immediately. If not, we’ll stay for dessert. I hear the chocolate cake is out of this world.”
Lily took the phone from his hand and quickly pressed in Emma’s number. It rang once, twice, three times before being picked up in the middle of the fourth ring.
“Hello?” Emma’s voice was groggy and coated with sleep.
Lily checked her watch. It was only a few minutes after nine o’clock. “Emma, it’s Lily. Did I wake you up?” She pictured Emma at her front door, a glass of wine in her hand.
“No, of course not,” Emma said, cl
earing her throat. “Sorry. Frog in my throat.”
“I was just calling to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Everything’s great. The boys are sound asleep. How’s your date going?”
“Fine. I just thought I’d check in.”
“Okay, consider me checked. Now stop worrying and start having a good time. The boys are fine.”
Lily returned the phone to Jeff’s outstretched palm, glancing toward the table where the man with the beard and his companion in the polka-dot dress had been sitting, only to discover they were no longer there.
“Well?” Jeff asked. “Is everything okay?”
Lily smiled, pushing any unpleasant thoughts to the back of her mind. “Everything’s just fine,” she said.
FOURTEEN
“I gotta tell you, this is the best chocolate cake I have ever tasted.” Jamie forked another piece of the three-layer cake with the caramel icing into her mouth, her taste buds luxuriating in the rich, moist goodness of the chocolate, even as her eyes tried not to notice the scowl that had ambushed her companion’s normally playful features. The scowl had also infected his posture, lending an almost menacing cast to the slant of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Cool blue eyes verged on ice-cold, refusing to make contact with her own. Soft, full lips had disappeared into a hard, thin line, obliterating even the hint of his glorious smile. Clearly something was bothering him. “You sure you don’t want any?”
Brad turned away, took a disinterested sip of his coffee, and played with the Hi-Q game the restaurant had thoughtfully provided for each table.
In case conversation starts to wear thin, Jamie thought, watching him move the brightly colored plastic pegs around the small, triangular board. The object of the game was to leave only one peg standing. “I think it’s true what they say about chocolate releasing all these endorphins to the brain that make you feel good,” she persisted. “Like when you exercise. Apparently endorphins give you a natural high. Endorphins is kind of a funny word, don’t you think?” Jamie continued when Brad failed to respond. “I always wonder where they get words like that.”
Brad continued playing with the game, jumping one tiny blue peg over a tiny yellow one, then tossing the yellow peg onto the shiny wood table beside two previously discarded white ones.
“Brad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, although, obviously, something was.
Jamie swallowed another bite of cake as she looked around the crowded restaurant. “Why do you think they call it Cracker Barrel?” she wondered out loud.
Brad shrugged, his eyes following after an attractive waitress whose jet-black hair was a nice complement to her bright orange uniform, as she wiggled her way through the tables toward the kitchen. “It’s a restaurant chain, Jamie,” he said. “Who cares why they call it anything?”
Jamie studied the large, well-lit room with its lacquered wood floors, varnished wood furniture, and assorted wood trimmings. “Maybe because the wood is the same kind of wood they make barrels from,” Jamie postulated, although this sounded lame, even to her own ears. Besides, that didn’t explain the Cracker. “Is Cracker a kind of barrel?”
Brad blinked several times in her direction. “What are you talking about, Jamie?”
“I was just wondering.… Never mind.”
Brad finished his latest attempt at Hi-Q, leaving one peg on each corner of the triangular board.
“Three pegs—that’s not bad.”
“It’s lame,” he said, setting up the game again.
“I think you’re supposed to be some sort of genius if you manage to leave only one peg.”
“Guess I’m no genius.”
Jamie popped the last piece of cake into her mouth, then gathered up the remaining crumbs of chocolate on the ends of her fork, thinking, No amount of endorphins is going to be enough to lighten this mood. “Are you mad at me about something?” she broached, when she could no longer stand the tension.
Brad lifted his eyes from the table for the first time since they’d sat down. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“I don’t know, but you seem kind of distant.”
“Distant?”
“You’ve been pouting for the past hour,” she said, deciding to take the bull by the horns.
“I don’t pout.” He quickly discarded several blue pegs on the tabletop.
“Yes, you do. You get this major upper-lip thing going.” She hoped he’d smile.
He didn’t. “You’re imagining things, Jamie.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve hardly said two words to me since I said I didn’t want to stop in Atlanta overnight. Are you mad because I don’t want to stop in Atlanta?”
Brad shrugged, his eyes returning to the table. “It’s no big deal. I just thought it would be a nice place to stop, that’s all. You said yourself, we’re in no rush.”
“I really don’t like Atlanta,” Jamie demurred.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Well, no, I guess I don’t,” he admitted, waving his hands in obvious frustration, the back of one hand sending the multicolored pegs scattering across the table to the floor. “I mean, what’s the problem here? Are you afraid of running into your ex-husband?”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it?”
Jamie watched one of the yellow pegs roll across the floor, coming to a stop under the heavy, black shoe of a nearby diner. “I don’t know.”
“What is it, Jamie? Aren’t you over this guy?”
“What? Are you kidding me? Of course I’m over him.”
“Then I don’t get it.”
“It’s just that I don’t have very pleasant memories of Atlanta.”
“So, we’ll make new memories.”
“Look, if we just drive another forty minutes, we’ll get to Adairsville. There’s this fabulous place outside Adairsville called Barnsley Gardens that’s supposed to be the most romantic place in Georgia. You know, very Gone With the Wind-ish. It’s got all these ruins that are supposed to be haunted, and water gardens, and acres and acres of flowers. And it has this five-star resort with, like, all these nineteenth-century cottages. We could stay there. Unless, of course, you think it would be too expensive, then we could stay somewhere else—”
“Jamie,” Brad interrupted. “I’m tired. I don’t think I can drive for another forty minutes.”
“I’ll drive,” she offered happily.
He shook his head. “I just want to relax. It’s been an exhausting day.”
It has? Jamie quickly replayed the day’s events in her mind. They’d spent a lovely morning in Tifton, visiting all the churches and shops in the downtown core, then enjoyed a nice, leisurely lunch in a local café before picking up the car at around three o’clock, its leaky tire replaced by a brand-spanking-new one, the cost of which Brad had insisted on putting on his credit card. Then they’d resumed their journey north on I-75, stopping for an hour in Macon after a sign advertising the Georgia Music Hall of Fame caught her eye, and where Brad had bought them matching blue T-shirts, before continuing on their way. Everything had been perfect until he mentioned spending the night in Atlanta.
“I guess last night finally caught up with me,” Brad said now. “But, hey, I guess I can tough it out for another half hour or so, if that’s what you want.”
“You don’t feel well?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you should eat something.”
“I just need to lie down for a little while.”
“Well, I’ll drive, and you can have a snooze,” Jamie suggested.
“I’ll drive,” Brad insisted, signaling to the waitress. “It’s getting dark, and the traffic around Atlanta can get pretty hairy. It’s too risky. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
Jamie reached across the table, covered his hand with her own. What was the matter with her? Couldn’t she
see that the man was bone weary? Why was she behaving so selfishly? Was he right? Was she afraid of running into her ex-husband, or worse, his mother? And what if they did run into them? So what? She had a sexy new man on her arm to show off. A man who was everything her ex-husband was not. One glance would tell Laura Dennison that. Hell, it might be fun to run into them after all.
This is gonna be fun, ain’t it, guys? she remembered Brad saying.
“Okay, we’ll stay overnight in Atlanta.”
“What? No,” Brad countered. “You hate Atlanta. You won’t be comfortable.”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.
“We’ll go to this Beardsley Gardens—”
“Barnsley,” she corrected with a laugh. “And we can go another time. Maybe tomorrow night. Or on the way back. You probably need reservations anyway. Place like that is probably booked months in advance.”
He nodded, as if agreeing with her only reluctantly. “You’re probably right. I’ll call first thing in the morning, see what I can do.”
“That’d be great.”
The waitress approached with the bill.
“I’m suddenly really hungry,” Brad exclaimed. “I think you might be right about my needing something to eat. Would you mind? I’ll have the all-day breakfast, with extra-crispy bacon and two sunny-side-up eggs,” he told the waitress before Jamie had a chance to respond. “Oh, and some of your delicious biscuits, and another cup of coffee. What about you, Jamie? Another piece of endorphin-filled chocolate cake?”
“No, thanks.” Jamie couldn’t help but marvel at Brad’s abrupt change in moods.
“So, where’s a good place to stay in Atlanta?” Brad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and taking her hands inside his own.
“There’s a ton of motels.”
“Nah. Forget motels. Let’s stay somewhere special.”
“There’s a Best Western—”
“Better than Best.”
“Well, there’s the Ritz Carlton over on Peachtree Drive, but—”
“But?”
“It’s in Buckhead.”
“Butthead?”
Jamie laughed. “I should tell my former mother-in-law you said that. She was always going on about how Buckhead was the only area in Atlanta to live. I’m not sure she’d feel the same way if it were called Butthead.”
