Two Truths and a Lie

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  She turned off the locator app on her iPhone. Her mother didn’t know how often Alexa did this; she just thought the app was given to “malfunctioning” and wondered when “they” were going to come up with a tracking app that actually tracked reliably.

  A quick Google search led her to Cam’s Winnipesaukee address, which she plugged straight into Waze.

  The drive to Wolfeboro took her to Alton and then northeast along Winnipesaukee, but she wasn’t paying attention when it was time to make the turn from Route 11 to Route 28, and before she knew it she was heading the wrong way around the lake, adding at least thirty miles (maybe more) to her drive. But that was okay. It was a kick-ass summer day, sunny and cloudless. Along the arm of Alton Bay, the pontoons and the other pleasure craft were out in full force. The lines for ice cream at the myriad outdoor stands were long, and traffic was slow. She didn’t mind. She was enjoying being somewhere different, away from the fishbowl of Newburyport.

  She passed the parking for the Sandy Point Beach Resort, which looked like something out of a 1950s movie, and the parking area for Mount Major. She wound through Meredith and Center Harbor and Moultonborough. Finally, just as she was approaching Wolfeboro, she followed her GPS across a skinny, skinny road with water on both sides, made two turns, and arrived at Cam’s house. In case Alexa had any lingering doubts about the address being correct, they were immediately assuaged by the sight of not one, not two, but three vehicles in the driveway (one being the minivan) bearing St. Michael’s College stickers.

  She sat for a moment in the Jeep, wondering if she should just turn around and go back home. What, exactly, was she doing here?

  There was a movement behind one of the windows. She’d been spotted. Nothing to do now but get out of the car and knock on the door.

  “Alexa!” Cam said. He didn’t say, How’d you know where I live, you psycho stalker? He didn’t say, Don’t you remember that I don’t like you very much? He simply smiled and nodded—that broad, welcoming smile—as though he’d been expecting her all along, and he said, “I’m really happy to see you.”

  “You are?” Tears sprang inconveniently to Alexa’s eyes. She blinked them back and didn’t let her hand reach up to wipe them away.

  “Yeah. I’ve been feeling bad about the fight. Really bad.”

  “Me too,” she whispered.

  “I think I was agitated, that’s what it was. About—the thing you told me, at Canobie Lake. And I let my agitation get the better of me. I’m really sorry, Alexa. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “But it’s my fault,” she said. “That’s why I drove up here, because I did a really bad job talking about it the other day—and I got, I don’t know, I just got upset over nothing, and it all spun out of control. I came here to apologize. I’m really, really sorry.”

  Wow. Apologizing felt really good. Unexpectedly good. How come nobody had ever told Alexa that it would feel so good?

  “Alexa Thornhill, I accept your apology.” Cam spoke ceremoniously. He stood up straight, the way she imagined he might if he were about to accept a golf trophy. “And I’d like to offer you one of my own. I’m truly, honestly sorry for what I said.” There was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip, and then flop, and then flip again. “Will you do me the honor of accepting my apology?”

  Alexa rolled her eyes at the formal language and smiled at the same time she was rolling her eyes; she couldn’t help it. “I will,” she said. “I definitely will.”

  “Shake?” He offered his hand and she took it. The skin on Cam’s hand was soft, with a slight bump in the palm that might have been a callus from a golf club. He held on to her hand longer than a typical handshake would require and her stomach went through another round of gymnastics. Then Cam said, “Well, what are we waiting for? Welcome to my humble abode.” He swung the door wide, and in she went.

  In the kitchen stood a woman with short, stylish hair, white shorts, and a peach-colored tank top; she was slicing lemons. She was barefoot and suntanned—older than Alexa’s mom, but not so much older.

  “Mom, this is Alexa. The one I told you about. Alexa, my mom, Linda. Beware of her, please, she’s on vacation from the law firm for two weeks so she’s dangerously relaxed.”

  Linda looked up and smiled, and Alexa said, “Hi, nice to meet you.” She tried to study Linda without being obvious about it. She could see where Cam got his dimples.

  “Nice to meet you, Alexa!” Linda said. “I’d shake your hand, but, well—” She gestured to the lemons.

  “I get it,” said Alexa. “We’ll just wave.” She waved.

  The counters sparkled. The refrigerator was industrial-size, with one half devoted to a glassed-in beverage fridge. An upside-down canoe attached to the kitchen ceiling held rows of wineglasses and cocktail glasses. It was all so sunny and good, Alexa felt like there must be a catch. Was a murderer about to jump out of the butler’s pantry? A rabid dog loose somewhere on the grounds? A girlfriend hiding upstairs, in the guest quarters? (Surely there were guest quarters.)

  “Want to see the house?” said Cam. He was as eager as a little boy. “Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

  “No,” she said, and he looked crestfallen. “I mean, no, I’m not hungry, yes, I want to see the house.” Cam smiled, and she followed him out of the kitchen.

  The upstairs hallway formed a loft that overlooked the massively cozy living room. In the living room, there were deer heads mounted on the wall (real?) and a friendly pot-bellied bear made of some sort of metal or stone (definitely not real) standing proudly on one side of the fireplace, one paw extended, like he was giving a tour. A pair of old-fashioned skis was crisscrossed above the stone fireplace, and just below it hung a single snowshoe that was woven like a basket.

  There was a bunk room where the bunks were made out of roughly hewn logs and covered with quilts that looked like they were sewn by a thousand perfect grandmothers. In the corner of another bedroom sat a tiny, inoffensive pile of clothing. (“Mine,” said Cam. “I’m the only slob in the family.”) She should have known: some of the clothing was purple. The only other sign of inhabitance was a book opened facedown on the bed. Dreams from My Father. (“Early Obama,” said Cam.) She rolled her eyes and tried to hide her smile. This guy was too much.

  “I saved the best for last,” said Cam. “We’re going outside,” he called to his mom, who was still in the kitchen, and she called back, “Okay, honey!”

  What could be better than everything they’d already seen? Well, the lake, of course. Alexa followed Cam out the back door and down a flagstone path to a semicircular rock wall enclosing the world’s most adorable private beach. There were four lounge chairs and a boat garage that was a miniature version of the house, also made of wood and also with a green roof. To the right of the semicircle beach was yet another deck, or really more like a little dock, with two Adirondack chairs and a small table. It was here that Cam led Alexa.

  Alexa settled into the chair he indicated. “Cam! This is insane. You know this is insane, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sort of.” He ducked his head modestly. “This was Mom’s present to us when she made partner. I mean, to herself too, sure, but she was trying to make it up to us for being gone so much, working when we were growing up. She worked really hard to get where she is.” He began to look wistful—maybe even a little sad, and Alexa found herself putting her hand over his.

  “Winnipesaukee,” she said. The word came out of her involuntarily, like a hiccup or a spasm.

  “This is technically Winter Harbor,” Cam said, recovering from his memories of his less-than-perfect childhood, which actually seemed about as close to perfect as a childhood could get. “It feeds into Winnipesaukee just down there.” He pointed. “Dad’s out on the boat right now, or else I’d take you around. When I do, I can point out Mitt Romney’s house, which makes this place look like a two-star-on-Trip-Advisor shack. Hey, want to go grab something to eat in town? Or do you have to get back?�
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  Alexa thought about Hannah, scooping ice cream for the customers who should be Alexa’s. “Nope, there’s nothing I need to get back for,” she said. When she thought about the rooms full of cozy beds she wanted nothing more than to lay her head down on one of the pillows and curl up under one of the grandmother quilts.

  “In that case,” said Cam, “I’m going to take you to Wolfe’s Tavern, at the inn. It’s a famous landmark around here. You’ll love it, I promise.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Alexa. “Some of my favorite places are landmark taverns.”

  He laughed, and his laugh was a genuine sound, no malice in it, no ill-will or awkwardness. People didn’t often laugh at things Alexa said that way, and her face and heart both warmed.

  Alexa offered to drive the Jeep but Cam demurred and said they’d take the minivan. “I’m more used to driving in the crush of people and cars that is the heart of Wolfeboro in the summer,” he said. “Pedestrians leap out into the roads without warning or provocation.”

  Alexa figured she must be imagining it when she looked in the minivan’s rearview mirror and saw a black SUV. Well, she wasn’t imagining the SUV: it was really there, and really black. But she must be imagining that it had come for her: she wasn’t even in her own car. Still, the chorus started again in her head, like the far-off beating of a drum. The bad men, the bad men, the bad men. She shivered so visibly that Cam reached for the AC button on the console and raised the temperature.

  Discuss the concept of fear in your trip to Winnipesaukee, Alexa.

  At the tavern, Cam showed Alexa where his father’s silver mug was hanging from the ceiling, along with the mugs of all the other people who had completed the one hundred beer challenge; he showed her the moose that people kissed after completing the fifty martini challenge. They shared an order of asparagus fries, the Nashville hot wings, and pork pot stickers.

  By the time they returned to the house, someone had put lights on in a few of the rooms; the house looked so welcoming and unblemished that Alexa’s throat caught. The house was beautiful, yes, but more than its beauty was the fact that its coziness, its familial feeling stood in contrast to Alexa’s own lonelier home, bowing still to grief. As if specifically placed to complete the tableau, from somewhere out on the water came the soulful, haunting cry of a loon.

  “That’s a yodel,” said Cam knowledgeably. “Which is different from a wail. Only the males yodel. Listen—”

  Cam stepped closer to her and they leaned together against the minivan, listening. Cam intertwined his fingers with Alexa’s and, despite her worry that some of the Nashville hot sauce lingered on them, she was scared to move, almost scared to breathe, lest she destroy the moment. A loon called again.

  “That was a wail,” he said. “Did you hear the difference? They’re talking to each other with the wail, regaining contact. It’s pretty amazing how they do that, make sure that they’re never lost from each other.”

  “I love that,” said Alexa softly. “I really, really love that.”

  She didn’t want to let go of Cam’s hand, but she said she should think about getting home. It was a long drive, and her mother would start to worry. She moved toward her Jeep, still holding on to Cam’s hand. Kiss me, she was thinking. Please, Cameron Hartwell, please kiss me before I leave.

  And then he did kiss her; he was kissing her. It wasn’t like the time she kissed him in his driveway at home, when she took him by surprise, and it was a one-sided thing, a show of power or chutzpah. This kissing was mutual, reciprocated and reciprocal, urgent.

  “You should go,” Cam whispered, when they came up for air, and his voice was gruff and sexy. With his thumb he traced her cheekbone. “Before I do something I might regret.”

  “Go ahead and do it,” she said. “I dare you.” She pressed against him—she couldn’t help it; her body led her mind. Cam rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms, gently but firmly, like he was warming her after some chill, although even without the glow of the sun the air was perfectly temperate.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “We have the rest of the summer.” He opened her driver’s-side door and said, “I’ll see you soon.” He kissed her twice more, once on the forehead and once on the nose, and those types of kisses could have seemed avuncular but actually they were sexy too. She climbed behind the wheel, and he stood in the driveway as she executed a three-point turn and departed, leaving behind something as glimmering and hopeful as a promise.

  47.

  Sherri

  On this particular day Sherri was not on the schedule at Derma-You so she was able to drop Katie at theater camp herself. After Katie hopped out of the car without so much as a by-your-leave, Sherri saw Rebecca’s white Acura—a mirror of her own—three cars behind her in line. As she was pulling out of the turnaround, a text came into her phone. Pull over when you leave. Sherri did as she was told, and Rebecca drove up alongside her and lowered her window. Sherri pressed the button to lower the window on the passenger side, and Rebecca said, “Let’s have lunch later.”

  Sherri hesitated. She’d been spending so much money lately. Katie’s summer camps, rent, groceries. Gobs and gobs of ice cream. She hadn’t sat down and made herself a real budget. She still had to find a pediatrician for Katie, and a dentist. Possibly dance classes, if she could afford them.

  “My treat,” said Rebecca.

  “Oh no,” said Sherri, embarrassed that her thoughts might be transparent. “That’s really not necessary. I was just trying to figure out if I had time.”

  “I insist. You’re new to town and you haven’t seen all the good places yet. Consider me an ambassador of Newburyport. And anyway, it would be a favor to me. I could use someone to talk to. We’ll go to Michael’s Harborside. Have you been to Michael’s yet?” No, Sherri had not been to Michael’s. “I’ll pick you up at noon. No, eleven-thirty. We’ll have a better chance of snagging a table on the deck that way.”

  They got the last open seat on the deck, which overlooked the Merrimack River; across the river, they could see the town of Salisbury, and the deck of another restaurant (which was actually called the Deck). There were boats everywhere: boats docked just below them, boats docked across the river, boats docked to the left and to the right, boats moving and boats tied up. Sherri had never seen so many boats in her life. She thought of the pontoon ride and cringed.

  When the waitress—an adorable college-aged girl with a messy bun and a really good tan—came to take their drinks order, Sherri asked for an iced tea.

  “Two,” said Rebecca. Then: “Actually. You know what? Plot twist. I’ll have a sangrita.” Sherri looked at the menu; the sangrita was sangria mixed with tequila. “She’ll have one too,” added Rebecca, pointing at Sherri. “Forget the iced teas.”

  By the time their food arrived—a lobster roll for Sherri, fish and chips for Rebecca—their drinks were half gone. Sherri’s lobster roll was delectable; it was served on a grilled hot dog bun, in what Sherri understood was the New England way, without too much mayo. Rebecca popped a fry into her mouth and when she was done chewing she said, “So here’s the thing. I’ve been seeing someone.”

  “You have?” said Sherri. “That’s—exciting?”

  “Confusing,” said Rebecca. “But also exciting.” She took another slug of her sangrita. Already she was faintly flushed. “I’m telling you because—well, because I want to tell someone. And so far I haven’t told anyone, not a single soul. I’ve had to keep it very much under wraps. Very much.”

  “None of your friends?” said Sherri, feeling flattered. “Not Melanie or Brooke or Gina or anyone?”

  “No. Especially not Gina.” Rebecca leaned over her fish and chips platter. She looked furtively around her. “Daniel and I just had a fight about this. Our first real fight! He’s tired of sneaking around, acting like we’re doing something wrong. But obviously, I can’t tell Gina.”

  This wasn’t obvious to Sherri. “Why not?”

  “B
ecause,” said Rebecca. “Because it turns out that Gina’s husband Steve’s sister, Veronica, used to be married to Daniel! A long time ago. She cheated on him, and then she left him. She was not good to him. Veronica the Cheater.” She sat back, took a bite of her fish and looked at Sherri expectantly.

  “It seems convoluted,” said Sherri. The sangrita had diluted some of her politeness. “Why does that mean you can’t tell anyone?”

  “It’s not that convoluted. Gina is still close to Veronica the Cheater. I used to be really close with Gina. Then came the sleeping bag incident that I told you about at the beach.”

  “Oh, right. I remember.”

  “I’m still mad about it!”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Morgan is still figuring things out, you know, and I don’t want to pull the Mom Squad into everything.” Rebecca leaned forward again, her voice settling into something approaching a stage whisper. “And now I’m sleeping with basically a Mom Squad relative! Daniel could easily say something to Steve. He’s still close to Steve, even though Gina took Veronica the Cheater’s side.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And,” said Rebecca. “And, Gina has the biggest mouth north of Boston. She would immediately tell, oh I don’t know, probably Georgia, who’d tell Esther, and then all of Plum Island would know, and then it would take about forty-five seconds before one of the kids overheard and it got back to Morgan!”

  “And?”

  “Well, and! And, then Morgan would know. That I’m seeing someone. And. It would crush her, after losing Peter. She’s not ready for that. Alexa, maybe, almost. But not Morgan! I mean, I know our situations are different, but you must see what I mean? Wouldn’t Katie have a hard time if you started dating right away?”

  Sherri thought about that. There were so many times when she wasn’t sure what was going on behind Katie’s whitewashed, cheery exterior. She knew she’d been upset about the Boda Borg party. What if she was upset about other things?