A Field Guide to Deception

by Jill Malone

  Liv had been recruited to help Bailey shift her entire kitchen to Drake’s. An hour’s work had turned into three, and somehow Liv had forgotten that she still needed to pick up her pants—they’d been held for alteration—she’d arrived just before the store closed. She held her breath now, hurrying down the sidewalk, and exhaled slowly, a tension headache on the perimeter, threatening. They should have had the party at Bailey’s: all that shifting, only to be shifted again tomorrow.

  She checked her watch again, began to jog.

  Claire envied smokers. Their unapologetic stall tactic, standing on the cusp, poised, observant, not quite ready to enter with the rest. She hadn’t spotted Liv’s truck, but couldn’t wait out here for long. Bitter, insidious, the wind snarled at her.

  Despite herself, she compared this party to the dinner party Bailey had thrown in her honor. Decades ago now, when she hadn’t particularly cared for Bailey, and was terrified to find the life she had known crumbling beneath her. Another ten days, and her aunt would be dead a year. Time compressed and expanded around her like a brilliant accordion. Soon enough, Simon would be in school. There, on the sidewalk before Drake’s house, she could see it, her future. Simon in a school play at ten, a soccer tournament at fourteen, theater his junior year. A Fresh Baked Café franchise would open downtown, another out north, and one in the Valley. Bailey would recruit bakers from all over, her own reputation highly lauded. Liv would incorporate, hire employees, and take on design jobs as well as building ones. Eventually they’d let Bailey buy the business, and they’d move to Portland, dabble in real estate, retire.

  “Hey, beautiful. Aren’t you freezing?” Her face flushed from cold and haste, Liv stood before Claire, bouncing in her dress shoes, and rubbing her hands together.

  “Yes,” Claire said. Only just remembering they were going to a party, that the event had yet to transpire.

  Liv kissed her, quickly, unexpectedly, and reached an arm around Claire as they dashed up the steps, urgent to get indoors, to join the revelry.

  Liv took their coats, and disappeared, leaving Claire to navigate the crowds. She hadn’t expected this many college students. Couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such a horde. They were everywhere, in suit jackets, or button-down shirts with ties, the boys holding wine glasses solemnly, the girls in short dresses that glittered, their laughs like hatchets.

  From the doorway, Claire could see a hierarchy to the arrangement, the students placed against the walls, standing, those perched on the furniture, those sitting on the floor looking up at Drake and two paunched men in sweaters. Drake saw her, called out, and waved. The students turned, applied their critical thinking skills, and began to write a character for the person they observed.

  Claire waved back, edged through the fringes of the group, and into the dining room. Laid out on the dining table, delicacies on platters, several varieties of wine; on the floor in buckets of ice, beer; and a ruddy, soccer player fellow in the corner aspiring to bartend. He winked at Claire. Said, “Gin and tonic?”

  “Is that your specialty?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Eventually Simon would be one of these. “Okay,” she said, walking over to him.

  He poured an improbable amount of gin. Winked again when he handed it over. She took her drink into the kitchen.

  “You’re here,” Bailey said. From the stove, she pulled two baking sheets loaded with brown-crusted croissants. “I’m experimenting with marmalade.”

  “I’ll guinea pig.”

  “Let it settle,” Bailey said, the pitch of her voice dropped to indicate seriousness. Claire had to be bullied into letting food cool properly.

  “Have you left the kitchen?”

  “This is my last batch.”

  “How many people are here?”

  “Julia says seventy.”

  “Jesus.” She’d taken a sip of her drink, and asked Bailey now for a larger glass. In the fridge, she found several tonic waters, opened one to mix the drink properly, sipped again.

  “OK,” Bailey said. “Try this.”

  Claire bit into the croissant. Walked into her aunt’s bedroom: English muffins on a morning tray, Simon with his trains in Dee’s bed, giggling over some picture book she read to him. They both looked up when she helped herself to a bit of Dee’s muffin, sat on the edge of the bed, insinuated herself.

  “No?” Bailey asked, her voice anxious.

  Claire couldn’t speak, and put her hand, instead, on Bailey’s arm, for support as much as reassurance. She wanted to take another bite, but feared the moment she interrupted them, knew herself to be an outsider.

  “Is she alright?” Sophia’s voice brought Claire back to Drake’s kitchen. Claire let go of Bailey, watched the exponentially pregnant girl cross to the sink and fill a glass with water.

  Another bite, then, as she tried to place that morning. Not the last, surely. But late, Simon in the red-footed pajamas he’d got for Christmas the previous year.

  “Drink this,” Sophia said, handing her the water. “It’ll help. Bailey, are these magic croissants? If you’re lacing the food, that’d certainly explain what I just witnessed in the solarium.”

  Claire swallowed the water. “No, Bailey, they’re glorious. Really exceptional.”

  Bailey shook her head. “Says the woman who blanched after a single bite.”

  Liv added their coats to the pile on the bed in one of the guest rooms. Back in the hallway, she wound through a group of girls blocking the staircase as they waited to use the restroom. On the top step, one of the girls flashed—that was how it seemed to Liv, that the girl flashed like light on a lake—and whispered, “Hey you.”

  “Happy New Year,” Liv said, as she pressed past.

  Downstairs, in the front rooms, Liv wandered through the professors and students—uniformed in spite of their efforts—keen for her tribe. Hailed then, a hand on her arm, she tensed instinctively, found herself in Drake’s enthused embrace, which included back-thumping as though they were politicians.

  “I haven’t had a chance yet,” Liv said, “to hear about Italy.”

  “My god, the best trip yet.”

  “I want a full report.”

  “Coffee this week?” Drake asked, “Or drinks?”

  “Either, or both.” Liv threw an arm over Drake’s shoulders. “Where’s the liquor?”

  Drake led her to an earnest kid at the bar in the dining room.

  “My friend, here,” Drake said, “would like a mojito.”

  He juggled the limes, bantered. Liv examined the spread, plated herself spinach quiche, and a butterscotch scone. She’d finished these, and scooped herself some ice cream—strawberry with balsamic vinegar—when Drake brought her drink over.

  She took a sip, struggled to get it down. “Subtle.”

  “He’s got a mean pour that kid.”

  “Yeah, here’s to lost fortunes.”

  “Cheers,” Drake said, holding forth her own mojito. “How’s your mother?”

  “Remarkably well. It was a good visit. Have you tasted this?”

  Drake served herself some ice cream, ate it with one of the fingerlike cookies. She murmured and swooned.

  “Oh, we’re taking a trip to Napa in three weeks—Bailey and I. I have to remember to thank Claire.”

  “For?”

  “Making the trip possible.”

  Liv nodded, knowing nothing of the money, she assumed Claire had simply approved Bailey’s time away. She scooped more ice cream; ate a croissant that tasted of orange peel. Three young men dragged Drake away to tell a story of a decrepit church in Italy. Abandoning her mojito for a beer, Liv made her way through the crowd to the kitchen.

  On the threshold, she noted, for the first time all evening, Claire. Her dress a deep purple that slid across her breasts and hips, and drew a line to her legs; her dark hair swept from her face strategically, her eyes lit, her lips stung and glossy. Liv had crossed to her without considering, kissed her as though the
y were alone in the room.

  “Hey,” Bailey reprimanded. “There’s a fetus present.”

  Liv felt Claire kiss her neck, and looked over at Bailey. “That strawberry ice cream is ode-worthy.”

  “Ode-worthy.” Bailey laughed, folded her apron, and stowed it in one of the many boxes Liv had hauled in that afternoon. “Charm, girl, charm.”

  Bailey’s dress was green, sleeveless, fell at the top of her thigh, and set off her eyes and hair. She’d pulled the blond into a bun, and looked like a French assassin.

  “Hi, Sophia,” Liv said. The girl leaned on the counter, rubbing at her back.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Is he boxing?” Claire asked.

  “Kick boxing.”

  Claire led Sophia to a chair. “Here,” she said, and massaged the girl’s shoulders, down to her lower back, making circles with her palms. Liv thought Sophia might cry.

  “What are you naming this kid?” Liv asked her.

  “I can’t decide. His dad thinks he should be called Chase. That’s a game, not a kid.”

  “What do you like?”

  “I like Riley.”

  “Riley,” Liv said. The girl was ringed like Saturn. “Yeah, I like that.”

  “Thank you,” Sophia said. This time, her eyes did tear. “You guys are so sweet. I wish I felt more like a party. Right now, all I want is a sedative, and a Caesarian.”

  Bailey returned to the kitchen after a brief exploration. “That kid at the bar is murdering the cocktails.”

  “Yes,” they agreed.

  Sophia brightened, reminded them she’d bartended her way through school.

  Bailey stood at the head of the table, and took the praise like a champ. Smiled at their compliments, dipped her head graciously, and encouraged them to try a quince scone, or a slice of the chiffon cake, another scoop office cream. Claire felt that it really should be midnight, and checked Liv’s watch just in case her own had lost track. Refused to believe it wasn’t even eleven.

  Sophia made a wicked cocktail. Claire had another gin and tonic with extra lime. She had a terrible impulse to wander among the revelers as though they were safari animals. Play-doh student creatures transitioning toward their grownup shapes, lubricated enough at this point in the party, that they’d shed their coyness, and seized instead their vigor. The professors were drunk, seated in chairs in the living room, their knees apart, their faces flushed, their diction imprecise.

  “Oh, Claire,” Drake said, and kissed her on the mouth. “We’re going to Napa. It’s all because of you. It’s just so exciting. And thanks.” Drake kissed her again, and then said, “I think we might need to make some coffee.”

  “Would you like me to handle that?” Claire asked.

  “That’s true,” Drake said, regarding her. “You know how to pull coffee.”

  Claire’s espressos re-introduced to the party the jittery atmosphere that had gone after the first bout of nerves. The line of students trailed back into the dining room, and Liv and Bailey had to squeeze past them, trundling empty platters, half-filled glasses, and bottles to be recycled. They re-stocked the bar for Sophia, and brought news to Claire of the mayhem beyond the kitchen, as though the kids in line weren’t proof enough. Most of them were painfully young, much too young to be drinking, or in college, or up this late.

  “A capo. A capo chino,” a boy said, his head drooping between phrases as though it were heavy. “A cappuccino with extra foam. The foam is key. An important key.”

  The girl behind him giggled whenever she hiccupped, and then rushed, suddenly, from the line with a grunt. Field guide to partying: volunteer to work in the kitchen.

  A horn—possibly a trumpet—sounded from deep in the house, and the line finally broke as the kids ran to discover the purpose of the summons. A professor meandered away with his latte, and Claire felt Liv’s arm around her waist. “Do you ever think,” Liv murmured, “about having another kid?”

  “Mostly I’ve been thinking that I’ve never seen so many kids in sweater vests.”

  “I’m serious,” Liv said. “I look at Sophia and I’m—I don’t know—envious. You don’t think about it? You don’t wonder?”

  Claire had imagined this discussion in a different setting, but she had imagined this discussion. Had craved it. She turned to scrutinize Liv, to evaluate how serious these questions were, how sober.

  “Drunk,” Drake said sorrowfully at the door.

  “Sorry?” Claire murmured, rattled by the interruption, her mind alight with calculations: the arithmetic of probability.

  Drake straightened, and stepped forward, and then paused to collect herself. “I’m drunk.”

  “Well,” Liv said, “you’re in good company.”

  “Yes, indeed.” She slid off the counter on her first attempt to sit, but made it with a second, more concerted effort. “I didn’t expect we’d all be quite so debauched.”

  Claire handed Drake a coffee, and said, “Just so no one’s hit in the head with a beer glass.” Beside her, Liv stiffened.

  “We’re using plastic cups,” Drake said, reasonably.

  Bailey ushered in a platoon of kids demanding champagne.

  “Champagne!” Drake said, and clapped, hopping off the counter. “That’s why I came in here. Let’s pour champagne.” She handed round plastic flutes, while Bailey fired off the first bottle.

  As though there were no disruption, no one else in the room, Claire turned in Liv’s arms, and said, “I do. I wonder.” She kissed Liv lightly on the lips, neither closing her eyes.

  The students had smuggled silly string into the party, and attacked their professors with it at midnight. A nerds’ equivalent to dumping Gatorade on the football coach after winning league playoffs. Bailey stood by the bar with Sophia, Liv, and Claire, admiring the chaos.

  Sophia took a sip of champagne, and then set the glass down. “No one at this party should be driving. I’m the designated driver for the three of you.”

  “You hate driving in the snow,” Bailey said. “Besides, I’ve only had sips.”

  “You aren’t staying?” Claire asked Bailey.

  Bailey moved back into the kitchen. “I’m dead on my feet, and still have all this to transport home.”

  “Leave it, Bailey,” Liv said. “I’ll help you pack it home tomorrow.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank god. Let’s go home. I’m as old as I’ve ever been.”

  Liv fetched their coats, and she and Claire braced Sophia down the steps and across the street to her Volkswagen. Yes, Claire thought, helping Sophia into the car. Yes, I envy her. Bailey followed a few minutes later. Despite the raging heater, the windshield was still foggy, the car’s interior achingly cold.

  “Hooray,” Claire said, in the front seat. “These seats are heated.”

  “Then what am I doing back here?” Bailey said. “Soph, you sure you want to drive?”

  Sophia had already edged into the street, her window cracked to release the vapor, her neck and face pushed forward to allow her to peer through the windshield.

  “Shh, I’m concentrating,” she muttered. Beside her, Claire smiled. Her back muscles relaxed as the seat warmed, and her eyes closed, pictured Simon, asleep in a bunk bed, on his side with his fists clenched, his little jaw grinding. Envied him as well.

  Thirty-seven

  Ever think about the big stuff?

  Hoffman wanted to be called The Colonel. Even his wife called him The Colonel. He wouldn’t know who she was talking to, if she called him anything else. Liv nodded. He’d led her through his latest projects: a bathroom remodel in the basement, an armoire he’d built for his new grandson, an Irish shed he’d raised in the backyard as a workshop.

  His work was good, inelegant, but clean and functional. He hoped to be able to assist her with the kitchen remodel. Guaranteed not to hinder her in any way. Liv had expected this, and ordinarily, would have declined, but he’d proposed his plan while
she examined the armoire. Again, as she walked through the shed, and so she found that she could not refuse him.

  A new year, a new girl. Now she took on assistants, old retired guys with vainglorious nicknames. She wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of her mother’s illness, or Claire’s orbit, or her own boredom. Not even a pink-haired girl with a mouth like a bullhorn could intimidate Liv. Not anymore. Not when Claire knew and had forgiven everything.

  She had Hoffman help her haul the beams into the kitchen. They’d brace the ceiling before they demolished the wall into the dining room.

  That evening, her shoulders already sore from wielding the sledgehammer, Liv swung by Kyle’s apartment building. Phoned him as she used her key on the exterior door, and started up the stairs.

  “Second floor, back apartment,” he said, and then hung up.

  She could see the watermark in the hallway. The pipes had burst in the bathroom, and ruined the woodwork, flooded the subfloor. Kyle had pulled up the carpet, and toweled the floors.

  “Tell me you can finish the fucking bathroom,” he said. “I know you’ll get this shit handled quicker than me, and I’m the guy laying new carpet in here, maybe the hallway too. My tenant’s on vacation, the apartment downstairs had water pouring through the ceiling this morning. Fucking plumbing kills me. My guy got this bitch under control. Good news, except I can’t do the fine work like you. Tell me it’s handled.”

  Liv took out her phone, speed-dialed Claire. “It’s handled.”

  He grinned at her. “You’re giving me thrills, kid. Thrills.”

  Two days later, Kyle’s number panned across her phone, and she considered letting it go to voicemail, but answered instead. Knew she could use lunch as an excuse; Hoffman’s wife had made lasagna, a green salad, and poured water into the glasses as Liv opened her phone. The stove and refrigerator like displaced refugees in one half of the dining room, a table set for three in the other.

  “I want to take you out for drinks. You’ve done me some favors, and I want to talk to you about a few things. You up for some drinks this week?”