“Soon,” Lauren said.
Tara hefted her tote and went upstairs. Within moments, there was the sound of water rushing through the pipes.
Lauren asked Drew where Kenzie was, and he muttered something rude that included the words tutu, fruitcake, and bedroom. She stowed the milk and cereal, ridiculously pleased by his surly attitude for how it reminded her of ordinary times.
It was the week between Christmas and New Year’s when the four of them held a family meeting, Tara included.
“We have to decide what to do about stuff,” Lauren said.
“What stuff?” Drew asked.
“School. You can’t keep doing the classwork at home forever. We have to decide if you want to start the next semester here. I know it hasn’t been easy, and with Dad’s trial coming up, there may be more publicity.”
Lauren had been twice to the county jail to see Jeff. The first time she’d taken Kenzie at her request. It was awful. Lauren had expected Jeff to be angry. Instead, he’d been apathetic, disheveled, unshaven. His hair was sleep-matted on one side. There were deep creases on his face. Kenzie kept giving Lauren worried looks. What is the matter with him? She had cried when they left, and Lauren had lain awake that night, wondering which one was the real Jeff. Was it the strong, vital, confident man she remembered marrying, or had the weak, broken, defeated man been lurking in his shadow all these years? The next visiting day, Lauren went alone and told Jeff she was filing for divorce.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “For any of it,” he added.
He had asked her not to come back again, not to let the children come. “It’s too hard, seeing you. I can’t take it.”
I . . . I . . . I . . . She had hardened her jaw to keep from saying it.
She’d been driving home when the quote from Thoreau that Bo had written in his notebook surfaced in her mind, the one that read: The path of least resistance leads to crooked rivers and crooked men. And crooked lies, she had thought. Thoreau might have added lies to the list. She had thought of all that Jeff’s deceit had taken from her and the children, but by far the worst of the consequences would be his to bear. He was so twisted up inside, who knew if he would ever find his way back, if he would ever have any decent sort of life again. But as her father used to say, you make your bed one decision at a time.
“So, what do you think?” Lauren divided her glance now between Kenzie and Drew.
“We could live at the farm,” Tara said. “People there might not know so much about what happened.”
“Or we can stay here,” Lauren said. She only thought that was possible because Suzanne and Pat had asked her to consider it.
They had come the day before Thanksgiving, loaded down with a boxed turkey dinner that included all the trimmings. Lauren had been touched to tears. She and Tara made coffee; the four of them sat down. At first, the conversation had been uncomfortable, and the worst moment came when Suzanne and Pat confessed that Jeff had approached them and their husbands about the bogus real estate investment, too. They had declined because they knew it was a scam. Lauren squirmed inside. It was everything she could do to remain seated. Finally, she apologized.
But neither of the women wanted her offering of remorse. She wasn’t responsible, they said.
And it was somehow in all of that awkwardness and humiliation that a connection, however tenuous, was reestablished, and they’d been building on it ever since. Suzanne, especially, kept in touch, calling and dropping by, so consistently that Lauren finally began to believe her when she said their friendship meant the world to her. One day she made Lauren come out and walk the jogging trail through the neighborhood, something they’d done regularly in Lauren’s previous life. She had reminded Lauren then of her divorce seven years ago, how horrible it was, how she had dragged around.
“For months,” she said. “Do you remember? You didn’t let me go. You stayed right in that cesspool with me, slogging through it. Now it’s my turn. Let me help you.” She took Lauren’s hand and squeezed it. Lauren squeezed back, and something warm and light rose inside her. It had been a long time since she’d felt it, but she thought it might be hope.
Now, addressing Kenzie and Drew, she said, “Aunt Tara and I have talked about opening an antiques shop.”
“I thought you had to sell everything,” Drew said.
“Maybe,” Lauren said. It depended on what her lawyer advised, whether filing bankruptcy was the logical thing to do. Regardless, she was taking every step she could to protect her assets. “But if we sell the farm instead of moving there, and if Aunt Tara sells her house, we think we’d have enough money to keep our house here and to buy inventory for the shop. It would be like your grandpa Freddie’s shop.”
“We thought of a name,” Tara said. “Freddie Tate’s, Too.”
Kenzie said she liked it, and after a beat, she added, “I don’t want to miss ballet,” and tears came into her eyes.
“I don’t want people thinking I’m a wuss like Jeff,” Drew said.
Jeff? Lauren exchanged a look with Tara, who shrugged.
“Are you saying you want to stay here?” Lauren asked him.
“Me, too,” Kenzie said. “Drew and I talked about it. If we move, everyone’ll think it’s because we’re scammers, too, and we’re not. We didn’t do anything, and we’re not responsible for what Jeff did.”
Lauren’s throat tightened. She felt Tara’s hand rest lightly on her knee, as if to reassure her, to say See, I told you they’d be all right. It was a start, Lauren thought, a beginning they could work with.
“You’re sure?” Lauren looked from Kenzie back to Drew, and when they nodded, she said, “Okay, then. Looks like we’re staying.”
“Aunt Tara, too?” Kenzie asked.
“If it’s okay with you guys,” Tara said.
“We’ll have two moms,” Kenzie said and grinned as if the notion made her happy.
“Some family,” Drew said.
“Girls rule,” Kenzie said.
“We’ll see about that, dork.” Drew grabbed Kenzie’s arm, and when she twisted away, he chased after her. The sound of their footsteps pounded up the stairs. Something fell, a door slammed. There were two shouts of laughter, precious, like heaven, Lauren thought.
“I should send them outside,” she said, but she didn’t move.
31
JT turned down a second cup of coffee when Annie offered it. Since he’d gone back to work, he came to the café every morning on his way into Houston to have breakfast. Annie knew he did it for her because she said it reassured her to see him, to see that he was all right, that he was safe.
His anger, the lust for revenge that had driven him had eased in the weeks that Greg Honey and Jeff Wilder had been in custody. The media had picked up the story again, and they were making a lot out of the way the two men had, with cold deliberation and considerable forethought and planning, attempted to hide the shooting, causing the county thousands of dollars and man-hours in what they had known was a fruitless search.
Of course, Jeff Wilder’s legal trouble went even deeper, but Annie hadn’t really paid much attention to the news stories about it. She had heard that Lauren had started divorce proceedings. Sometimes she thought of calling her, but she had no idea what she would say. Maybe they would talk one day. Their paths might cross. Who knew? If she’d learned anything from the nightmare, it was that you could never tell about life, what it would do, how it might unfold.
Madeleine came from the kitchen, drying her hands, and when JT saw her, he said, “You women are going to make me fat.”
“Hah,” Madeleine said. “I’d love to think I could put an ounce of weight on you or Miss Annie.”
“Did she tell you she’s off to culinary school in Houston next week?” JT asked, and Annie’s face warmed at the pride in his voice, in his eyes.
Madeleine was talki
ng about the recommendation she’d written on Annie’s behalf, and she was laughing, but looking over Annie’s shoulder toward the door, she sobered suddenly.
Annie looked, too, encountering Cooper’s gaze. Her heart bumped.
“Hey, Coop,” JT called. “It’s good to see you, man.” JT went to him; the men shook hands.
Annie was mystified. She hadn’t even realized they knew each other except on the most surface level. But they were chatting now like old friends. Watching them, she wondered why she’d ever been distressed about JT. Why had she felt as if they were such outsiders, so much so that she’d closed the door in Cooper’s face? He was laughing at something JT said, some joke they’d shared. Something eased in Annie’s heart.
JT turned, giving her a salute. “I’ll see you for dinner?”
She nodded and watched him go out the door.
Cooper took a seat in a booth near the kitchen and opened a newspaper.
“Could you take his order?” Annie asked Madeleine.
“Well, I would, but Carol’s in kind of a hurry, and I need to talk to her about the farm order before she goes.”
“Okay.” Annie smoothed her hands over her apron. If she didn’t know better, she might think it was a conspiracy; she might think she was being set up. But she couldn’t believe Cooper was here on purpose to see her, and he gave no indication of it, either.
When she asked what he’d have, coffee was all he said, and he barely glanced at her. Mostly, he kept his nose buried in the paper, the sports section.
She brought him a mug. “Black, right?”
He nodded, giving her another cursory glance.
She was stung by his indifference and then surprised at herself. But now, the prick of her tears annoyed her. What did she expect, after the way she’d put him off? She had what she wanted, didn’t she? Her space, her privacy . . . her lonely isolated life?
She left him to his coffee and his newspaper, doing her job as if he were just another diner. She pocketed the tip the young family in the booth near the door left her after they paid for their meal. She asked the couple who were still seated at the counter’s end if they needed anything more, and then, when there was nothing else left to do, she brought Cooper his check . . . taking it from her apron pocket, sliding it across the table.
And when he circled her wrist with his fingers, brought his hand up her forearm to cup her elbow, she met his gaze.
His eyes were full of questions.
She touched his temple, the fullness of his lower lip, and she smiled.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the midst of working on this book, I moved, and almost everything in my life changed except one: my lovely and intrepid agent, Barbara Poelle, who is there at every hour, a constant guide and tireless cheerleader. B2, you are the best. Like me, Tara Parsons, my fantastic editor at Lake Union, moved, too, and she reached out to me in a way I will never forget. Her belief in this novel and in my work and her unflagging faith mean more to me than words can say. Thank you, too, as ever, to my critique partners, Colleen Thompson, TJ Bennett, Joni Rodgers, and Wanda Dionne. Even in absentia, I hear your voices. I wouldn’t be the writer I am without all our years together. Thank you to the early readers of this story, Colleen and my sister, Susan. And many thanks to Leslie McManus, who before I ever wrote down one word of this book, listened while I outlined the plot, contributing ideas of her own to consider, and all for the price of a cookie and a cup of tea. Huge thanks to my son David, who, once I did start writing, ever so patiently helped me work my way out of the many sticky fictionalized corners. And huge thanks to Jink Willis for her friendship, encouragement, incredible faith, spot-on advice, and tireless support, and to the members of both book clubs with whom I was able to connect through her. The evenings I spent with them will always mean more than they can know. Huge thanks to my copyeditors, Jerri Corgiat Gallagher and Carrie Wicks who, together, straightened out my words, sentences, and paragraphs with so much kindness and patience, page after page. Jerri and Carrie, this book is better for your expertise. And a beautiful bouquet of gratitude and appreciation to Gabe, Dennelle, and Tyler at Amazon, and to Robert, Sara, and Crystal at BookSparks—all of you have made me feel so welcome, so much a part of the team—the village, really—that it takes to bring a book to life. Thank you for taking this book into your hearts and for all your help launching it. And last but never least, a huge shout-out to readers everywhere, because without you, what would be the point? Sending my deepest thanks to you and enough joy to circle the world.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
After nearly hitting Bo with her car, Lauren stops to be sure he’s all right. Would you stop for a stranger in similar circumstances? Was Lauren foolish or compassionate?
Lauren called the sheriff’s office, asking for a welfare check on Bo. Was she interfering? Would you follow through, asking the police to check on someone you feel might be endangered?
Could you understand in the aftermath of Lauren’s accident, the long and painful road to recovery that she endured, how she could become addicted to OxyContin? Do you feel her husband and sister were right to have conducted the intervention? Were they right to threaten her with losing her children? How would you handle it if a relative were in similar circumstances?
Tara keeps secrets from Lauren. What do you think of her motive for doing so? Have you ever kept a crucial secret and felt torn about it? Have you ever regretted keeping a secret?
Issues of trust are a recurring theme of this novel. Lauren’s family has difficulty trusting her; she has difficulty believing in them and their support. Discuss the role of trust among family members. How important is it? Can a relationship survive without it? What happens if a family member is hurt in the way Lauren was? How would you handle it, if you couldn’t rely on your spouse because of such an event?
Annie blames herself when Bo goes missing, but given that he is a diagnosed schizophrenic, do you agree that she should have been paying closer attention? How much independence should those with mental conditions be given? What do you feel Annie’s responsibility to Bo was?
When Annie meets Lauren, she feels an instant bond because Lauren reminds her so much of her mother. Have you ever lost someone you loved only to see them again in the face of a stranger?
As a child, when Annie’s mother remarries and Bo becomes part of their blended family, she is resentful as many children can be. Discuss blended families and how you might ease the transition if you were called on to help children deal with what they might view as an imposition.
Annie clearly loved and admired her mother very much, and finding out that her mother kept secrets from her was hard. Have you or would you ever keep a secret from someone you loved in order to protect them? Or is keeping everything in the open, no matter how painful, the best option? Discuss how you and your family members have handled issues of this nature.
Cooper’s attempts to comfort Annie are rebuffed by her time and again, yet he doesn’t give up. Why is that? What does he recognize in Annie that she very possibly doesn’t see in herself?
A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR
At the beginning of Crooked Little Lies, Lauren Wilder is struggling to recover from both mental and physical damage she suffered in a terrible accident. She stops alongside the road to render aid to someone who is equally challenged. What was your inspiration for this story? How do you relate to Lauren?
Once when I was driving in a neighborhood where I used to live, I saw a young man walking alongside the road, just like Bo. I didn’t almost hit him, but I could see how it might happen. I dismissed the thought from my mind, but several days later when I saw him again, and then seemed to see him walking roadside, even on the freeway shoulder, nearly every time I went out, I started to worry that there was something wrong. I kept feeling as if I should pull over and check and felt terrible for it every time I passed him wit
hout doing anything. It was like a war in my head: Do I stop and risk my safety if he’s actually dangerous in some way, or keep going, hoping someone else will deal with the issue? Or suppose there is no issue? Finally, I called our local police department, and it turned out they were well aware of this young man. My head kept going, though, and soon there was an idea for a story.
Was the farm and what happened there part of the story from the beginning?
The two ideas were of a parallel track. The idea of what occurs at the farm in Crooked Little Lies was one I’d thought about off and on. How often can we be out doing something really innocent, having fun, not a care and then, boom, some horrendous event occurs, some calamity falls down on our heads, and not only that, but some action of our own brought it down on us. Now what? What are you going to do about it? And we aren’t talking about a scraped knee or spilled milk here.
Were Lauren’s and Annie’s characters mapped out from the start? Did you have the ideas for their families in place or did they come to life as you wrote? Were there any interesting surprises?
I have to admit, Annie and her family were an author’s dream, coming the way they did, almost of a piece, from the beginning. Lauren was more difficult. Maybe because she was so hurt, so fragile in the beginning. The surprise was huge. I had planned right down to the folks who would be in attendance what would happen at the farm, but when I wrote the scene, my muse took over. It didn’t go down on the page the way I thought it would. But I love that, being surprised in that way.
What is your writing process? What is the part of it that is most difficult and what is the greatest joy?
I write every day. Mornings are best for me. Usually I go over the previous day’s work and pick up from there. There is something about quickly skimming from the first page to the place where I’ve stopped that keeps the work coherent for me. But then, once I get too far in, more than fifty or seventy-five pages, say, it takes longer to read from page one. I don’t do it as often. I’ll try to stop myself at certain points, and then do an overall reading, but even with that, my threads are often knotted. I’ll drop one and pick up another. It can make for a pretty big tangle at the end. And that’s the most difficult thing, one of them. The joy is when the writing just falls out on the page, easy and fluid. Some passages will come and scarcely need a second glance. The other joy is sorting out those knotted places. One thing I find is almost nothing is wasted. Even when I toss in some detail or even a character that seems out of place, I’ll find out why by the end. I’ll see it and think to myself: Oh, now I know why I wrote that. To me, that’s a joy.
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