“Gwennie’s,” she told him, keeping her eyes on the radio. “She interviewed for a job once.”
“Once?” Davy said.
“Not her thing,” Tilda said. “Any instructions?”
“Same as yesterday,” Davy said, trying not to stare at her eyes. Funny what a difference dark contacts could make. “I miss your eyes,” he said, and she looked over at him, startled, and then she smiled, that great crooked Kewpie-doll smile, and he thought, Good, I got her back.
“You can see them again when we get the mermaids,” she said, relaxing a little into the car seat.
“Mermaids,” Davy said and put the car in gear. “Can’t wait.”
The Olafsons lived in a neat little foursquare, surrounded by a neat patch of lawn that was rimmed with even neater strips of concrete. A single row of petunias edged the walk, each spaced precisely six inches apart. The only thing that jarred, aside from the whole anal-retentive landscape, was a tire leaning up against the trim white garage.
“Somebody who lives here likes order,” Davy said. “And somebody else does not.”
“Okay,” Tilda said.
“Pray I get the one who doesn’t,” Davy said, putting on his horn-rims, “and that the one who does is out.”
“Praying.” Tilda nodded. “I’m on it. I was wondering what happened to those glasses.”
“This time I’m Steve Olson,” Davy told her. “You’re definitely my wife. With any luck, I can do this without you, but if not.. .”
“I’ll come up and weed the petunias,” Tilda said.
“Do you remember—”
“Betty’s the ditz, Veronica’s the bitch, and Vilma’s the slut.”
“Actually, I’m quite fond of all of you,” Davy said, and patted her knee.
When Mrs. Olafson opened the door, she was five feet nine and heavy, frowning at him, and Davy thought, Too much to hope for that I wouldn’t get the bully, and smiled at her. “Hi,” he said. “I’m...”
“Are you here for the tire?” Mrs. Olafson said, her voice a little weak. “Because I really need to have that moved before my husband gets home.”
“Oh,” Davy said, kicking himself for jumping to a stupid conclusion. “No, I’m not, but if you’d like, I can take it away with me. I’ve got room in my trunk.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Mrs. Olafson said, her frown clearing. “He was upset about that. He likes things neat.”
“Oh,” Davy said. “I know how that is. My wife...” He shook his head. “Some days I want to track mud across the linoleum for the sheer heck of it.”
Mrs. Olafson drew in her breath and then smiled, and Davy thought, Bingo.
“I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “My wife’s aunt is coming into town for her sixtieth birthday, and my wife wants to buy her a painting that she saw here once.”
“Here?” Mrs. Olafson lost what little smile she had. “I don’t—”
“She came with a friend several years ago,” Davy said. “She saw a painting of mermaids—”
“Oh,” Mrs. Olafson said, and pressed her lips together. “That’s my husband’s painting.”
Fuck, Davy thought. “My wife really wants that painting, Mrs. Olafson. Do you think your husband would sell it for two hundred dollars?”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Olafson said, resentment clear in her voice. “He seems to like it.”
Davy put his hands behind his back. “Oh, boy. I’m going to catch heck for this one.”
Behind him, Tilda closed the car door and came up the steps, and Mrs. Olafson frowned again.
“Now, Veronica.” Davy turned to Tilda and watched her face contort with rage.
“What the hell is taking so long?” Tilda said, slapping her bag against his arm. “Aunt Gwen is going be at the airport waiting for us, and you know how I hate to be late.”
Davy rubbed his arm. “Yes, I know but—”
“I should have known better than to send you up here,” Tilda fumed. She turned to Mrs. Olafson. “Look, I’m sorry about this, my husband never does anything right. We’ll pay you a hundred dollars for the painting. Cash.” She smiled, looking very self-satisfied, and Mrs. Olafson shifted closer to Davy.
That’s my girl, Davy thought, but he said, “Well, actually, honey,” and moved closer to Mrs. Olafson as he ducked his head away from Tilda.
“You offered her more,” Tilda said, exasperation oozing from every pore. “Honestly, Steve—”
“I know, Veronica,” Davy said. “I know you’re upset, and rightly so ...” He held up his hands. “But Mrs. Olafson says her husband really likes that painting.”
“Well, so does my aunt,” Tilda snarled.
Davy exchanged a helpless look with Mrs. Olafson. “Honey, if you’ll give me a chance.”
“I’ll give you five minutes,” Tilda snapped. “Then I’m leaving for the airport without you.” She stomped down the steps like a woman possessed, and Davy watched her go, thinking, There’s a woman who’s worth her weight in rubies. Real ones.
He turned back to Mrs. Olafson. “She’s really very nice, she’s just upset. About the painting.”
Mrs. Olafson shook her head in sympathy. “She shouldn’t treat you like that.”
Davy shrugged. “Well, what are you going to do?”
Mrs. Olafson nodded.
“Listen,” Davy said, letting a little desperation creep into his voice. “You think your husband might sell the painting for two fifty? I can tell Veronica I got it for a hundred after all. She wouldn’t need to know.”
Mrs. Olafson looked torn. “He really likes it.” Her face changed. “And it’s disgusting. Naked mermaids.”
“Oh,” Davy said, feeling a little more sympathetic toward Mr. Olafson. “That must be awful for you. To have to look at that every day.”
“It is.” Mrs. Olafson shook her head. “It’s vile.”
“Boy, if you could sell it to me, you’d never have to look at it again, and I wouldn’t have to ...” Davy looked back at the car, and Tilda reached over and hit the horn. I love you, Veronica, Davy thought. “And he’d have the money, too. That’d be good, right?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Olafson said thoughtfully. “He’s been wanting to get the driveway cleaned.”
Davy looked over at the spotless cement. Mr. Olafson’s obsession with cleanliness, control, and disgusting mermaids was not making him someone Davy wanted to meet. “You wouldn’t get in trouble, would you?” he said, suddenly feeling guilty about Mrs. Olafson.
“Certainly not,” Mrs. Olafson said.
Davy got out his wallet and began to count through the bills. “I have an extra ten here and a five and two ones. That would make it two sixty-seven. Do you think—”
Down in the street, Tilda slammed the car door as she got out and walked around to the driver’s side.
“Just a minute, honey,” Davy called, panic in his voice.
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Olafson said and went inside.
“Really, just another minute,” Davy said, going to the edge of the porch to look beseechingly at Tilda.
Tilda started the car and gunned the motor, and Davy began to picture her in leather again.
Mrs. Olafson came back to the door and handed Davy the painting, and he handed over the bills.
“You can count it,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at Tilda.
“I trust you,” Mrs. Olafson said. “Go.”
“Thank you,” Davy said and ran down the steps to give Tilda the painting. “Here you go, honey,” he said, loud enough to carry back to Mrs. Olafson. “Just one more thing.”
Tilda opened the door and took the painting, and Davy started back up the drive. “Where the hell are you going?” she said, her voice like a knife.
“Just a minute, sweetie.” Davy picked up the tire and waved to Mrs. Olafson who beamed at him in return. Then he headed back to his shrew of a wife, who popped the trunk open for the tire.
Damn, I married well, he thought and
got in the car.
WHEN THEY WERE almost to the highway, Davy said, “Pull over up here,” and Tilda obliged. An obedient woman, he thought. God, she’s hot.
“Okay, what—” she said, and he leaned over and kissed her hard, and she clutched at him and kissed him back, and for a minute, Davy forgot his own name. “Oh,” she said, coming up for air. “You’re really good at that. What was it for?”
“You are magnificent,” he said, trying to get his breath back.
“I am?” She hit him with that crooked grin again.
“You do a beautiful bitch,” Davy said. “You got any chains in the attic?”
“You’re disgusting,” Tilda said cheerfully.
“That reminds me.” Davy dragged the painting out of the back seat. It was full of round-bodied, sloe-eyed, rosy-breasted mermaids who swam in a checkered sea, looking inviting and edgy but not unwholesome.
“What?” Tilda said, looking at the painting.
“Mrs. Olafson thought this painting was disgusting,” Davy said, imagining the mermaids bobbing in the sea. “I’m not seeing it.”
“Bare breasts. And they’re not ashamed.”
“My kind of women. They do look a little ...” Davy searched for the word. “Aggressive. But in a good way.”
“Poor Mr. Olafson,” Tilda said. “He lost his mermaids for a lousy two-fifty.”
“I went to two sixty-seven,” Davy said, now imagining Tilda bouncing in the sea. “You know, these mermaids kind of look like you.”
Tilda took the painting from him. “You’re projecting, Dempsey. Keep your mind on the job.” She traced one of the foamy waves with her fingertip, looking a little sad.
“You okay?” he said.
“I am magnificent,” she said and put the painting in the back seat again.
When they got back to the gallery, they heard voices in the office. Davy followed Tilda in and saw Eve and Gwen and a rotund younger guy he’d never seen before gathered around a tearful Nadine.
“Oh, no,” Tilda said, and went straight to her niece.
“What happened?” Davy said, looking for blood or broken bones.
“It’s a Poor Baby,” Tilda said, not turning around.
“That miserable little tick Burton dumped her,” Eve said, standing militant in front of her daughter. “I think he should be castrated.”
“Later for that,” the new guy said, his arm around Nadine. “Poor Baby first, revenge later.”
That’s got to be Jeff, Davy thought.
“He was just wrong for you, Poor Baby,” Gwen said from Nadine’s other side. “He had no soul.”
“He was a vampire. Pasty little bastard,” Jeff said. “Poor Baby.”
“But he was so cute,” Nadine wailed.
“This is true,” Tilda said.
Gwen glared at Tilda. “You’re not helping.”
“Poor Baby,” Tilda said obediently. “The thing is, Dine, the good-looking ones are always doughnuts. They’re so pretty they don’t have to develop fiber. Look at Davy. Perfect example.”
“Hey,” Davy said, faking outrage. “I’m full of fiber.”
Nadine sniffed but she stopped dripping tears to look at him.
“I,” he went on, “am clearly a muffin.”
“As in ‘stud’?” Tilda said. “No.”
“Hopeless doughnut,” Gwen said, and Nadine gave Davy a watery smile.
“Muffin,” Davy said, “and to prove it, I’m willing to go find Burton and beat the crap out of him.”
“Absolute doughnut,” Tilda said, turning her back on him. “So what did this Davy-in-training give as his miserable excuse? Poor Baby.”
“Who cares?” Jeff said. “He’s scum. You deserve better. Poor Baby.”
“He said I was too weird,” Nadine said, wincing, and Davy felt like beating up the kid for real.
“Okay,” Tilda said to Davy. “Go get him.”
“No,” Nadine said, sniffing, “I mean, really, that was it for me. I wore the Lucy dress to his gig, and he told me today that I had to stop wearing such weird stuff or it was all over.”
“And you said it was all over?” Tilda said.
Nadine nodded, and Eve said, “Oh, that’s my girl,” while Jeff pounded her on the back and said, “Way to go, kid.”
“Clearly not the kind of guy who deserves a Goodnight,” Davy said.
“He was only a speed bump,” Tilda agreed, “on the great highway of love.”
“I know,” Nadine said, sniffing again. “I’m not really crying for him. I just needed to get it out, you know?”
“Of course,” Gwen said, “you should always get it out,” and Davy wondered if there had ever been any emotion that any Goodnight had ever left unexpressed.
Except for Tilda. He watched her comfort Nadine and wondered what she’d been like when she’d been part of the Rayons, when she’d been singing and laughing with Eve and Andrew. If she’d ever smiled all the time like she’d smiled at him today.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Gwen was saying to Nadine. “I can stay.”
“Where are you going?” Tilda said.
“She’s having a late lunch with Mason Phipps,” Eve said, raising her eyebrows to her hairline. “It’s a day-yate.”
Uh-oh, Davy thought. Clea was not going to be happy about that.
“No it is not,” Gwen said. “He wants to talk about the gallery. And I get free food.” She turned back to Nadine. “Unless you want me to stay.”
Nadine sniffed. “Bring me your dessert if you don’t eat all of it.”
“Good enough,” Gwen said and went out into the gallery.
“Ice cream,” Eve said to Nadine. “I’m thinking Jeff drives and we all go to Grater’s.”
“That would be good,” Nadine said, and sniffed again, but Davy got the distinct impression that she was now enjoying herself. Well, good for her.
Jeff stopped by Davy on his way out the door. “Welcome to the family,” he said, offering Davy his hand. “Andrew says you’re helping Tilda with a problem.”
“Family?” Davy said as he shook Jeff’s hand.
“Anybody the Goodnights rope into problem-solving is family,” Jeff said. “Not that I want to know what the problem is until you need bail.”
“Jeff’s a lawyer,” Tilda said.
“Handy guy to have around,” Davy said.
“Hey,” Jeff said. “Tonight we play poker. It’s our standard Sunday-night family bonding. Do you gamble?”
“Why am I sure he gambles?” Tilda said to the ceiling.
Davy looked down into her weird light eyes, and said, “Yes.”
“I play rough,” she warned. “Don’t bet anything you’re not ready to lose.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “I don’t have anything to lose.”
She grinned that crooked grin at him again, her eyes connecting with his, and he felt dizzy for a moment. There was a possibility that he could lose his shirt to this woman. With a great deal of enthusiasm.
But later that night, sitting around a poker table with Tilda, Eve, Gwen, Jeff, Andrew, and Mason, who had somehow escaped from Clea for an hour, Davy felt back in control. Poker was second only to pool in Michael Dempsey’s list of skills his children should have. It clearly hadn’t been on Tony Goodnight’s or Father Phipps’s list at all. The first deal said it all. They picked up cards and sorted them, and every one of them had faces like billboards: Gwen’s face fell when she looked at her hand, Eve smiled and then frowned to hide it, Jeff sighed and shook his head and pulled his money in a little, Andrew tried to keep a stone face but was clearly delighted, Mason leaned back and folded his arms because he thought he had something, and Tilda—
Tilda was looking right at him.
She shook her head and picked up her cards, the only other person at the table smart enough to know that poker was about the people you were playing with, not about the cards you were dealt. That’s my girl, he thought, and watched her play, bluffing nervelessly, l
osing and winning without batting an eye, and always, always watching the others.
Nadine joined them later and played almost as well as Tilda, but she also had an unfortunate tendency to buy into bluffs. After Davy had taken her for the third time, he said, “Dine, if it seems too good to be true, get out.”
“I’m optimistic,” she said, her chin in the air.
“Smart is better,” Davy said.
The last hand ended when everyone but Eve and Davy were out, even Mason, whose ironclad optimism had been nothing short of astonishing as he lost hand after hand, making a nice match for Gwen, who didn’t even try to hide her reactions to her cards. Eve tried to bluff Davy out of a pot with nothing, which he knew because when Eve had nothing, she tapped her worst card three times and sighed. It was one of the most blatant tells he’d ever seen, and when she did it this time, he saw Tilda close her eyes in sympathy, and he wondered what it must have been like being the sharp one in the family, the one who watched everybody else and played the smart game while the rest went on their feckless way, having fun.
Maybe it was time she had fun, he thought as he raked in the last pot. In fact, maybe it was his duty as a guest to make sure she had fun.
It was only the polite thing to do.
“SO YOU’RE a cardsharp,” Tilda said to Davy after he’d turned all his winnings over to Gwen “for the muffins and orange juice I’ve been bumming off you.” Mason had gone home to Clea, and the rest of the family had drifted off to bed. “A real Cool Hand Luke.”
“Cool Hand Luke was a convict,” Davy said, opening the refrigerator. “Get your allusions right.”
“Okay, you’re whoever was a really sharp poker player.” Tilda tried to think of one. “Maverick.”
“Very good,” Davy said. “When Gwennie was teaching you to stay in character in kindergarten, my daddy, like Maverick’s, was teaching me not to draw to an inside straight.” He held out the orange juice carton. “Drink?”
“Yes,” Tilda said. “Your daddy sounds like an interesting person.”
“With vodka or without?”
“With, please.” She went over to the couch and stretched her legs out in front of her. She had four of her paintings back, thanks to Davy. It was almost a miracle, and when she had all six, she’d build a bonfire and wipe out her past entirely. Onward into the future. No more mistakes.
Faking It Page 17
