What's Not True

by Valerie Taylor

  “You do take good care of me.”

  “What are bodyguards for?”

  “Protecting me from your past with Kassie, perhaps?”

  “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? You were the other woman, not her.”

  “Except that she fucked our son.”

  “Not after she found out who he was.”

  Unwilling to relive the year before, but curious about the Kassie-Guy connection, Karen recalibrated.

  “So, how long did Guy work for you?”

  “About six years. He lived with his family mostly, saving most of his paycheck. The rest is history.”

  Karen turned both hands toward the ceiling and shook her head.

  “Where does Kassie come into this story?”

  “She was my wife. She knew the staff well. And she’s a successful marketer in her own right.”

  “Yeah, so.”

  “Guy took his savings and investments—apparently he had a knack for stocks and bonds—and moved here to Provincetown. He fell in love with Donald, who also had a sizable nest egg, and they opened the jewelry store.”

  “Donald? Who the hell is Donald?”

  “Dolly. Donald is Dolly. That’s where Kassie comes in.”

  Mike stared, glassy-eyed, past Karen’s shoulder as he told her the rest of the story. Seems Guy asked Kassie to help name and brand the new business. She toyed with the name Guys and Dolls, as Guy sketched potential logos. One night at dinner at Guy and Donald’s apartment over several bottles of wine, Kassie played with making the name possessive. It wasn’t a far stretch for them to move from Guys and Dolls to Guy’s and Dolly’s.

  “That still doesn’t explain—”

  “Sure it does. Simple. That night, Donald decided to officially change his name, and the rest, as I said, is history. They’ve made a name, or names, for themselves here. So to them, Kassie is a god-dess.”

  To you too, it seems. The long, narrow, sharp stainless-steel lobster fork Karen used to etch deep Ks on the placemat slipped out of her hand and became airborne, whirling tine over handle and landing on a table behind her in a bowl of New England clam chowder.

  “You okay?” Mike asked the fellow seated behind Karen.

  Ignoring Mike, she reached in her pocket and handed the guy with milk and potatoes in his lap the twenty she’d thought would be hers to spend. The waiter brought her another lobster fork, and they enjoyed their meal without any further drama.

  There was still a line outside Larry’s when they walked out, though not as long. Up-tempo music, live and recorded, competed with the laughter of boys and girls sitting on the sidewalk with chocolate ice cream dripping down their faces.

  “What’s next on the agenda?” Karen asked only to be polite. She was ready to bail and head home and thrilled Mike had the same idea.

  As they neared the car, Mike handed her the keys. “Mind driving? I’m bushed.”

  “I’m not sure I can find the way back. I slept—”

  Not taking no for an answer, Mike set up the GPS on the dashboard. “Just follow the yellow brick road.”

  “Before you nod off, answer me one thing, Mike. You’re the least liberal person I know. How is it you enjoyed yourself so much today?”

  “Easy. First, I’m more liberal than you think. And Provincetown is Happy-town. What’s not to enjoy?”

  They’d barely passed pale lilac, mustard-yellow, and pilgrim-blue cape and colonial homes and entered the town of Truro before Mike had reclined his seat, drifting off to oblivion. His jaw dropped an inch, and he sucked air through his mouth, snorting it out his nose. Small price to pay for peace without quiet.

  Confident Mike would sleep until she pulled into his driveway, she scanned the radio, bypassing news stations and talk radio. Mike had filled her brain with enough reality for one day. She was in the mood to have oldies keep her company. Stumbling upon a voice announcing, “an hour of eighties love songs,” Karen’s shoulders softened, allowing her to relive what she’d achieved over the last twelve or so hours.

  For one, Mike had formally asked her to marry him. About time. And she discovered a way to keep chipping away at Kassie’s fan club. Without a doubt, she’d return to Provincetown to pick out a ring that would make Guy and Dolly crown her the true god-dess.

  Despite sitting in traffic getting off the Cape, Sunday had been a good day. Monday was only hours away and Charlie only miles.

  Karen and Charlie’s relationship spanned four decades. A spotty, inconsistent four decades to be sure, but four decades nonetheless.

  Consider the beginning—now fondly referred to as the Key Hookup. Then the barren middle—where the adoption agreement forced them to keep their mouths shut about who had adopted Karen and Mike’s baby. And then the here and now.

  They’d arrived at the here and now just over a year ago, when Karen invited Sarah and Charlie to her hotel room in Chicago to meet Kassie O’Callaghan, a.k.a. Kassandra Ricci, who was searching for Mike’s son in hopes his DNA would match Mike’s, and he’d be willing to give him one of his kidneys.

  In an unlikely scenario, Karen became the conduit to the father-son reunion, which in turn revealed—and promptly destroyed, much to Karen’s delight—a tawdry cougar-type affair between Mike’s long-lost son, a.k.a. Christopher Gaines, and Kassie. When tests determined Chris was an unsuitable kidney donor match, Karen saw an opportunity to play the hero. Gain some atta-girls, some notoriety. Could she be a match? The selfless offer alone would curry favor with Mike for a lifetime. She’d owe him nothing further in return for his kindness and generosity after Barry had died. Her debts would be paid once and for all.

  Anyway, what were the chances she’d be a match? Fifty-fifty? Either she was or she wasn’t. She liked the odds until they were no longer in her favor.

  But once the news was out, and family and friends were thrilled and relieved Mike would be saved, there was no way she could renege on her offer. And she relished the love and attention she was getting and the prospect of a new life away from Elephant Butte.

  So she rented a small apartment in the same building as her newfound son and became quickly consumed in all things Michael Ricci—saving his life, living his lifestyle, and hanging around the office. He promised her if she chose to stay in Boston, he’d give her a job at Ricci and Son. Cool. A family business. Just what I always wanted.

  Not.

  Security for a lifetime. That’s what she wanted. To Karen, security was spelled Michael Ricci. Her parents had stolen him from her when they forced the adoption after she got pregnant. Now the only thing standing in her way was Kassie.

  And that’s where Charlie, the near family lawyer, came in. As luck would have it, before Karen signed her kidney away, Charlie called offering his legal services pro bono. He’d review any paperwork the medical authorities put in front of her just to be sure her interests, not just Mike’s, were served.

  Wonderful idea. Karen had no professional connections in the Boston area, so she accepted Charlie’s offer. Then she bounced a burning question off him. If Mike died during the transplant, who would get his assets? She feared a scenario where she’d be kidney-less and penniless all in one day. Shivers ran down her shoulders, through the backs of her legs, and to her toes just thinking about that horror.

  That was a chance she’d have to take, Charlie advised, but he assured her that was highly unlikely. And he was right. They both survived the transplant, and life went on.

  A week after the surgery, Charlie called Karen while she was at her apartment recovering.

  “See, I told you,” he’d said.

  “Okay, okay. But what happens now? To his assets if something happens to Mike . . . God forbid.”

  “You’re getting married, right? After the divorce—”

  “He hasn’t formally committed, but he will.”

  Charlie explained that Mike held all the cards—in his will, in his estate, in the business succession plan. More than likely, Kassie would get a chunk, Chris a
slice. After all, Mike had made Chris a junior partner, and as his wife, Kassie would get the lion’s share of his retirement assets. It was the law.

  “If I were you, if you love him, I’d marry the guy soon,” Charlie advised.

  “What happens then?”

  “Some assets would shift easily to you as his wife, while others, like the business and the house, he’d have to purposefully change. Which I’d imagine he would. When the time comes, I’ll guide you through all the legal mumbo jumbo.”

  “Free of charge?”

  “No charge.”

  “What’s in it for you, Charlie?”

  “Christopher. I’ll want to make sure he’s taken care of. And you, of course.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “There’s a lot I’d like to do for you, and to you. . . .”

  And so, Karen took Charlie up on that offer too, admitting to herself she cared about Mike but wasn’t in love with him. Before that weekend, she and Charlie hooked up the only way they knew how, by phone. Tomorrow would be another day. Where had she heard that before?

  14

  Ticketless in Boston

  The bump woke him. The inch difference between the street and his driveway was ingrained in Mike’s psyche. He’d driven over it a million times. Though he didn’t have to look, his sleepy eyes confirmed he was right. They were home. Not their home, his home. At long last. He felt beaten to a pulp—his legs ached, his arms tingled hot. Clearly, his nap back from the Cape failed to conquer the punishment the dunes and the sun imposed.

  “Honey, wake up.” With one hand, Karen nudged a particularly angry spot on his left arm as she pressed the garage door opener with the other.

  “I’m awake.” The palm of his right hand touched the spot. He hoped Kassie had left behind a tube of aloe vera.

  “See, Ka . . . Karen, you made it.” He stopped short of calling her Kassie. He’d done that more than once before, always thankful she hadn’t noticed. “Don’t know what you were worried about, babe. And in record time too.” By the digital clock on the dash, he figured she’d shaved fifteen minutes off the trip. “You in some kind of rush?”

  Mike wasn’t. He sat for a few moments, wiggling his toes, rolling his shoulders, needing to loosen the cobwebs before stepping out of the car. Karen was more than a step ahead of him, already lifting the rear door of the SUV.

  “Can’t believe we brought so much shit for a day trip.”

  “Leave it. We’ll unpack in the morning.”

  Sitting sideways in the passenger seat and gazing down at his dangling feet, Mike heard the thump thump of Karen’s roller bag before he felt her hand on his knee.

  “Didn’t you hear me? We’ll do it in the morning.”

  “I think I’ll go to the apartment.”

  “What? Now? What about tomorrow? I’m off. We’re off. Thought we’d do something. Together.”

  “Haven’t been there in a while. I should check on things.”

  “Can’t you do it Tuesday?”

  “I could. But I need clean clothes.”

  “Last time I checked, I have a washer and a dryer. Imagine that.”

  “My mail. Need to pick up my mail. Pay bills. I’ll be back tomorrow night. We could go out for dinner.”

  “I give up. Go if you want. Where’s my phone?”

  And just like that, Karen handed him his phone, loaded her suitcase in her trunk, and kissed his cheek. He heard a metal-on-asphalt screech and a clunk as her muffler bumped the street pavement pulling out of the driveway.

  Now nearly awake, Mike headed toward the house and turned on his phone as he lowered the garage door.

  In the months since his transplant, there were few days he’d entered the house alone to utter silence. Often Karen was either with him or waiting for him, and then of course, there was Amelia last Friday. Before all that, even if Kassie was traveling, Topher would be there to greet him. Now that he was gone too, living with Kassie at Annie’s, Mike had to admit he missed the orange-and-white ball of meowing fur. At least he was company.

  Mike grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat at the kitchen table. Maybe we should get a cat. Nah. Karen would never go for that. She’d say one pussy in this house was enough. Probably right.

  Karen had become more of a handful in her later years than he’d remembered. She’d developed a mind of her own. Not the malleable coed he charmed during their college years together. She let him into her pants on their first date in the back of his roommate’s Chevy. If recollection served him right, their first time was fast and furious. Just like today. He chuckled, noticing two messages waiting on his phone.

  First message. “Hey, Mike. Bill here. Where did you say you left the tickets?”

  Second message. “It’s me again. We looked under the mat in the back too. Nothing. No problem. We’re gonna head over to Fenway anyway. Hit up a scalper. Catch you later.”

  “What the hell? Must be a mistake.” Mike shuffled to the front door as he decided to see for himself. As the bells hanging from the front door handle jingled, he recalled hearing them as he drifted off to sleep the night before. The tickets had to be there. I heard Karen put them there. She even said she had, hadn’t she? Maybe the envelope had stuck to the underside of the mat.

  Bending over to lift the mat, he felt pressure in his chest. He lifted the left corner of the mat and peeled it off the concrete slab. Nothing but a dark moist impression. What the hell? He turned the mat over on its underside. Nothing there either. He left the mat to the side to dry.

  Stolen? Had somebody, maybe neighborhood teens, seen Karen put the tickets there and swiped them after they’d left that morning? Inconceivable. To believe that would require too many assumptions, including that his neighbors of more than twenty years were thieves. There must be some other explanation.

  She probably forgot to do what he’d asked. Maybe he was already asleep and dreamed the front bells banging against the door because he was expecting to hear them. The brain often plays mind games. If that’s the case, the envelope with the tickets would still be somewhere in the house in plain view.

  He shuffled through the first floor, his eyes scanning every tabletop, every desktop, the two toilet tank tops. You never know. She could’ve placed them there if she’d stopped to pee.

  No luck. Intent on checking out the entire house before calling Bill, Mike reached the last step of the staircase leading to the second-floor landing, gripped the railing, and stopped to catch his breath. He walked through his bedroom, the two bathrooms, and then wandered through the two spare bedrooms.

  He needed a rest. He sat on the chaise lounge in the larger of the two spare rooms. This room. That bed. The last time he’d made love to his wife was right there under those covers. He remembered, he’d always remember, even if Kassie chose not to. After that night, he was hopeful they could work something out, not move forward with the divorce. But oh no, his hope faded fast. Patricia O’Callaghan screwed up everything with her letter. Damn her mother for outing him, haunting him as much in her death as she did when alive.

  Mike rubbed his hands back and forth along the arms of the chair, as if it were a bottle with a genie inside that would instantly make the tickets materialize. Or was it Kassie he wished would magically appear? If she were there, she’d make things all better. If she were there, they would’ve gone to the ballgame, and none of this would’ve happened.

  He closed his eyes, reflecting some more. Truth was, he was the one responsible for the demise of his marriage. For the secrets, the lies, the vasectomy. The straw, or cut as it were, that broke Kassie’s back. She had every right to leave him. He’d made his bed; now he’d have to sleep in it. Alone . . . for that night anyway.

  Ticketless, Mike made his way back down to the kitchen, to his bottle of water and phone. He scrolled through his contacts, pressing Bill’s number.

  “Hey, man, wassup?” Bill answered after two rings.

  “Not sure. We just got back
and heard your message. My phone was off all day.”

  “Oh. That explains why—”

  “Yes. Sorry about that. Wished I’d gotten your message earlier when I was with Kassie.”

  “You mean Karen.”

  “Right. Did I say Kassie? Shit, second time I’ve done that tonight.”

  “Maybe it’s a sign.”

  Mike chose to ignore Bill’s remark, but not the missing tickets. “Hey, bro, I’ve no clue what happened to the tickets. Karen—right? Karen—got me an envelope. I put the tickets in it with a note. Handed the envelope back to her and went to bed. She said she’d put them under the mat. Like I asked.”

  “Sounds like you’ll need to ask Karen. She’s not there?”

  “No. She’s sleeping in Charlestown tonight.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure this out the next time you talk to her. We’re all good here. Don’t lose any sleep.”

  “Not to worry, I’ve got miles to go before that happens.”

  15

  Queen for a Day

  “It’s open today from nine to six.”

  “What is?” Kassie asked as she rummaged through what clothing lingered in her suitcase and hadn’t found its way to the tiny, hardly functional closet.

  “The Louvre, of course.” Chris stroked his chin.

  “Impossible.”

  “No. It says it right here on their website. Monday nine to six. Closed Tuesday. That’s an odd day to be closed, don’t you think? But today is Monday, so . . .” Chris pushed his iPad between Kassie and the clothes she’d scattered on the bed.

  “I see that.” She pushed his arm away. “Impossible. Impossible. I have to meet with Mimi tomorrow. I have absolutely nothing to wear. This could be my big chance to show Tom I can haul in a really, really big deal.”

  “Is that what you think this is all about? A big deal? An international client? Maybe you’re just a courier, a messenger. Or a spy? A ruse. Tom sets you up under a pretext, and then you’re compelled to report back to the mother ship what Paris is really up to.”