Faking It

Chapter 14

TILDA WENT downstairs the next morning to find Davy standing across the street from the gallery. He looked wonderful in the sunlight, big and dependable and… leaving. Why should I care? Tilda thought, and cared.

“Now what?” she said when he motioned her across the street.

“Gwennie’s been a little frosty to me lately,” he said. “What’s up with that?”

“She doesn’t want to attach in case Ford kills you,” Tilda said. “What are you doing out here?”

“She doesn’t want this show, does she?” Davy said.

Tilda sighed. “Not particularly.”

“Why? She hates the place, you’d think she’d be happy about-”

“She doesn’t hate the place,” Tilda said, surprised.

“-anything that would get her closer to freedom.”

“Hey, this is her home,” Tilda said.

“I think she wants to leave the nest,” Davy said.

“Is this the boat thing?”

“Boat thing?”

“Never mind. Gwennie will get over it. What are you doing out here?”

Davy squinted at the storefront. “Do you remember what colors the gallery used to be? The kids did a good job of scraping, but they didn’t uncover much original paint.”

“Blue,” Tilda said, squinting at the gallery front, too. “Sort of a midnight-blue trimmed with a red oxide. And the letters were gold, I think they were actually fake gold leaf.”

“Sounds expensive,” Davy said.

“It is,” Tilda said. “Although not like real gold leaf. It’s hard to put on, too.”

“Too bad,” Davy said. “Because we’re going to have to do it.”

“Can’t we do something new?” Tilda said. “I thought maybe black and white-”

“No,” Davy said. “Your dad had a reputation in this town and we’re building on it. We’re restoring, babe. Not to mention there’s already enough white in your life.”

“Funny,” Tilda said. “Listen, I really-” but he’d already started across the street.

He dragged her to a paint store and they bought gallons, a soft white for the interior -“It’s a gallery, Davy, it’s supposed to be white”- and a light blue and green Tilda talked him into -“We’re not selling what Dad would have, so we should be us”- and gold leaf for the letters, along with brushes and scrapers and another ladder. “Who’s paying for this?” Tilda said, and Davy said, “Simon, on loan. You can pay him back out of the till on opening night. Or you could have Louise stop by. That would cheer him up enormously.” When they got back to the gallery, Nadine was inside with Gwen, Ethan, and a new boy, this one dressed in a button-down shirt and immaculate khakis.

“This is Kyle,” Nadine said. “We met him working at his father’s furniture store in Easton.”

“Nice to meet you, Kyle,” Tilda said, a little taken aback when he shook her hand. Behind him, Gwen rolled her eyes and went back to her Double-Crostic.

“My pleasure,” Kyle said, every inch the gentleman. He turned back to Nadine. “I have to go to work, but I’ll call you later.” He kissed her on the cheek and nodded politely to Tilda and Davy. Ethan, he ignored.

“That kid is up to no good,” Davy said when he was gone.

“Oh, please,” Nadine said. “He was a perfect gentleman.”

“What were you doing in a furniture store?” Tilda said.

“Davy sent us out to look at prices on handpainted stuff. And Kyle’s father’s store was the biggest.” Nadine smiled at the memory.

“He’s Eddie Haskell,” Davy said. “Carry Mace.”

Ethan nodded. “Don’t get me wrong when I tell you that Kyle, while being a very nice guy, is the devil.”

“What?” Tilda said.

“Broadcast News,” Davy said. “Try to keep up.”

“Cut me a break.” Nadine picked up a scraper. “You guys are worse than my dad.” She went out the door and sat down in front of the gallery to finish scraping the front, the top of her curly blonde head just visible through the gallery window.

“And yet, we’re right,” Ethan said, picking up a scraper, too.

“Do the two of you have any particular knowledge of this kid you want to share?” Tilda said, as exasperated as Nadine. “Because he looked pretty boring to me.”

“It’s a facade,” Davy said.

“He’s evil,” Ethan said.

“And the two of you are insane,” Tilda said and went out front to help Nadine.

“Do you believe them?” Nadine said when Tilda was scraping beside her.

“I know,” Tilda said. “The thing is, they’re usually right.”

“I know,” Nadine said. “But his dad runs this huge furniture store, and Kyle really knows what he’s doing. He’s not fooling around.”

“You’re dating him for his furniture store?” Tilda said.

“He could teach me a lot,” Nadine said. “I’m thinking about retail as a career.”

“Nadine, it’s not a good idea to date as a career move.”

Nadine raised her eyebrows. “And you’re not dating Davy to get your paintings back?”

“I’m not dating Davy at all.”

“You’re just sleeping with him.”

“Only in the literal sense,” Tilda said. “We’re not lovers.”

Nadine looked through the window at Davy. “Why not?”

Tilda followed her eyes to where Davy was looking at something in a newspaper Ethan was showing him. He looked sure and strong and hot.

And very Federal.

“I have my reasons,” Tilda said.

Davy shook his head at Ethan, and they came out to the street to hand her a sheet of newspaper.

“I was spreading them out so we could paint inside,” Ethan said to Tilda. “And that name jumped out.”

He pointed to a want ad that said “Scarlet Hodge” in inch-high letters, and Tilda clutched it to look closer. “Wanted: any paintings by Scarlet Hodge,” the copy underneath read and gave a phone number. Tilda looked up at Davy. “Mason?” The word came out on a wheeze.

“Or Clea.” Davy pulled the top of the paper up so he could read the date. “It’s Wednesday’s paper. Thank God Colby doesn’t read the want ads.”

“I hope none of them do,” Tilda said. “Or they’re going to be really mad.” She tried to pull air into her lungs but they were too tight, and when she felt in her pocket for her inhaler, it wasn’t there. She drew in another shallow breath.

Davy took the paper from her, folded it up, and handed it back to Ethan. “That’s all right. Somebody’s always mad at me.” He hauled her to her feet and turned her toward the door. “Go get your inhaler before you pass out. We’re going to be fine.”

“But-” Tilda began and then stopped. He’d said “we’re.” We’re going to be fine.

“Miracle man,” Davy said, pointing to himself. “Go breathe. We have work to do.”

“Right,” Tilda said and went to get her inhaler, feeling comforted.

BY THE NEXT DAY, the outside of the gallery was scraped and ready to paint, the inside had a first coat on and no longer looked like a flophouse, and Davy was feeling not only a sense of accomplishment, but real anticipation. The place would be a gold mine for a gifted grifter; the possibilities were endless. And from what Gwen had told him about the art field, the possibilities weren’t even illegal. It wasn’t even a game of chance. It was like playing poker with the Goodnights.

“So there’s a poker game tonight,” Simon said, coming into the gallery and interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes,” Davy said. “Every Sunday. And except for Tilda, they’re all terrible players. Try not to take their money.”

“Why, so you can?” Simon said. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just in it for Louise.”

“It’s Sunday night,” Davy said. “Louise is gone on Sundays.”

“No, she’s staying over,” Simon said, smiling.

“She showed up last night, huh?” Davy said. “Congratulations. I’ve never seen you wait around for a woman before. This must be the one.”

“Not even close,” Simon said. “She’s skilled, but-”

“Not somebody you’d want to marry?” Davy said. “Imagine my surprise.”

“I’m never getting married,” Simon said. “I’m a cad, remember?”

“As are we all,” Davy said, watching the gallery door open.

It was Kyle, looking very natty in a shirt and jacket, come to pick up Nadine.

“Kyle,” Davy said genially, thinking, This kid is definitely up to no good. “Date tonight?”

Kyle nodded. “Nadine wants to see the store after business hours,” he said, smiling a little. “She wants to see everything.”

“She’s very career oriented,” Davy said, disliking Kyle even more. He’d seen that smile before. In his mirror.

A few moments later, Andrew and Jeff came in from the street, carrying grocery bags.

“Sunday-night-poker food,” Jeff said cheerfully. “It’s the only reason I play the game.”

Andrew slowed as he saw Kyle. “You’re here to pick up Nadine?”

“Yes, sir.” Kyle stuck out his hand like a gentleman. “I’m Kyle Winstock. Of Winstock Furniture.”

Andrew shook it, looking deeply suspicious. “I’ll tell Nadine you’re here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kyle said, his smile fading. He looked around at the four of them and added, “I’ll wait outside.”

When he was gone, the four men looked at each other.

“Doughnut,” Davy said.

“Absolute doughnut,” Jeff said.

“My daughter has an affinity for doughnuts,” Andrew said.

“What?” Simon said.

“Two kinds of men in the world,” Davy told him. “Good guys and the guys who are only after one thing. Good guys are muffins and-”

“He’s a doughnut,” Simon said.

“Is Mace illegal?” Andrew said. “I know Gwennie keeps some behind the counter.”

“Why don’t we just talk to Nadine?” Jeff said, once again the voice of reason.

“You go,” Davy said. “We’ll wait here.”

When they were gone, Simon said, “Nadine is not the person I’d converse with on this.”

“Shall we?” Davy gestured to the street where Kyle waited.

“After you,” Simon said and followed him out.

“Kyle, old boy,” Simon said when they were outside, and Kyle turned around, his face a polite mask. “A word with you.”

“Yes, sir?” Kyle smiled at them, citizen of the year.

“About Nadine,” Davy said. “Make a move and we’ll break all your fingers.”

Kyle’s smile froze in place.

“You see, Kyle,” Simon said, still affable, “we know you.”

“Hell, Kyle,” Davy said, “we are you.”

“And we care deeply for Nadine’s health and happiness,” Simon went on. “We are, if you will, honorary uncles.”

“With police records,” Davy added helpfully.

“Uh,” Kyle said.

“So we wanted your assurances,” Simon said, “that Nadine will have a pleasant evening.”

“That won’t involve her Macing you,” Davy said.

“Because we would take it amiss.” Simon smiled at him.

“Which is where the broken lingers would come in.” Davy smiled, too.

“Uh,” Kyle said again, and Nadine came out of the gallery.

“I’m ready,” she said brightly, looking like a present waiting to be unwrapped.

“Touch her and die,” Davy said to Kyle softly.

“Great,” Kyle said, looking from Davy to Simon and back.

Nadine looked at them, too, suspicion dawning in her eyes. She took Kyle’s arm and said, “I forgot to tell you, do not talk to these guys.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyle said and let her steer him toward his car, casting one wary look back over his shoulder as they went.

“I feel fairly good about that,” Simon said.

“Me, too,” Davy said. “We’ve got an hour before poker. How about a drink?”

“After you, old boy,” Simon said, opening the door. “Are you really going to break his fingers?”

“Nah, I’ll let Nadine do it,” Davy said, seeing Tilda through the office door. “These Goodnight women are nobody to mess with.”

THAT NIGHT the poker game got two new players: Louise and Ford. Ford was exactly the poker player that Davy had figured him for -alert, smart, and ruthless- but he sat down at the table with a handicap: Gwennie. His concentration was fine until she’d move or speak and then, for a moment, he’d be gone. Davy was torn between interest in the situation in general and concern for Gwen in particular. He didn’t know who Ford was, but he was certain he wasn’t a fuzzy bunny.

Of course, neither was Gwennie, all appearances to the contrary. There were those teeth, for example.

Louise provided the other wrinkle. She distracted Simon so Davy had no competition there -Simon would have gratefully turned over his entire wallet if he could have gotten her upstairs immediately- but something about her was bothering everybody else, too, except for Jeff. Davy was developing a fine appreciation for Jeff; he was like the control in an experimental group of reality-challenged divas. Louise was also distracted, much more interested in Simon than she was in her cards, and the result was that after four hands, Davy was annoyed. He didn’t mind winning if there was some skill involved, but with all the tension at the table, he could have just reached over and taken their money and they wouldn’t have noticed. Even Tilda, he noted with disgust. They were starting their fifth hand, and he was about ready to quit and go play pool when Nadine came in, her face stormy. Davy tried to look innocent, but Nadine honed in on him with eyes like blue-white lasers. It was like having Tilda mad at him. He felt right at home.

“You’re back early,” Andrew said as he dealt the cards.

Gwennie reached up and patted Nadine as she came to stand beside her. “Didn’t it go well, honey?”

“It would have gone better,” Nadine said, staring at Davy, “if somebody hadn’t threatened my date.”

Gwen looked at Ford, who looked back at her, calm as ever, while Davy ignored Nadine to pick up his cards. A queen, a nine, a six with a four and a deuce showing. Garbage.

“Davy?” Tilda said from beside him.

“Not my bet,” Davy said. “Gwennie’s up.”

“About the date,” Louise said, turning to look at Simon. “Which one of you-”

“They both did,” Nadine said, transferring her scowl from Davy to Simon and back to Davy. “They said they’d beat him up.”

“Davy,” Tilda said.

Davy put his cards down. “We did not say we’d beat him up. Exactly. And it was necessary. That kid was up to no good.”

“No doubt about it,” Simon said.

“Bring home a good one,” Davy said to Nadine, “and we won’t interfere.”

“I get to decide who the good ones are,” Nadine said.

“I don’t think so,” Davy said. “You picked out Burton and Kyle.”

“Daddy,” Nadine said. “Talk to them.”

Andrew lifted his chin. “Nadine is allowed to date whomever she wants as long as he’s not over eighteen and doesn’t have a police record.”

Ouch, Davy thought, watching Simon try not to flinch. Ford remained impassive.

“And we never interfere in her life because we trust her and admire her,” Andrew said.

Nadine nodded.

“Except for this time because that kid really was up to no good.” Andrew stuck his thumb up. “Way to go, guys.”

“Thank you,” Davy said. “We’re playing poker, Nadine. It’s a game of chance, much like the way you date. Go get your piggy bank.”

“Wait a minute,” Louise said, sounding fiercely maternal, “is this a Poor Baby?” and Nadine shook her head.

“They’re right,” she said, pulling over a chair. “He was awful about music. He’d never heard of Dusty Springfield, if you can believe it.”

“Told you,” Davy said to Tilda.

“Could we play poker?” Simon said, and the rest of the table turned to look at him.

“In a hurry, old boy?” Davy said. “Just shove your money across the table to me. That’s where it’s going anyway.”

“First, you promise never to do that again,” Nadine said to him. “To my dates, I mean.”

“What good would promising do?” Davy said. “I lie. You in this game or not?”

“I’m in,” Nadine said.

Davy threw his cards in the middle. “Redeal, Andrew. Your daughter wants in so she can give me her allowance.”

Andrew gathered up the cards again. “And you had a lousy hand.”

“That, too,” Davy said.

“So did I,” Andrew said. “Toss your cards in, ladies and gentlemen. It’s a new deal.”

“That also is not fair,” Tilda said, but she gave Andrew her cards.

“Of course not, honey,” Davy said, rubbing her shoulder. “You’re playing with me.”

Andrew dealt again and Davy watched them all pick up their cards, more from force of habit than from any real interest. He was going to win anyway unless Nadine decided to take her vengeance with cards, and even then-

Across from him, Louise tapped her finger on one of her cards three times and sighed.

Davy put his cards down and stared.

“What?” Eve said to him from behind Louise’s contacts.

“I’m out,” Davy said, standing up. “And so is Tilda.”

“What?” Tilda said. “Hey, I-”

“Now, Betty,” Davy said. “Say good night to the family.”

Tilda looked up at him. “Good night,” she said to her staring family, and he led her through the door and up the three flights of stairs to her room.

“About Louise,” he said when the door was closed behind them.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tilda said. “That’s what this is about? Look, I know she’s practically devouring Simon at the table, but she’s perfectly sane, she won’t jump him. There’s no reason-”

“Louise is perfectly Eve,” Davy said. “ ‘It’s the same dame.’”

Tilda went still.

“That’s a movie quote,” Davy said.

“I know it’s a-”

“From The Lady Eve,” Davy said. “Louise’s favorite movie. How dumb am I?”

Tilda’s crazy blue eyes widened as she looked up at him, and he thought, Here comes a lie.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Eve’s at a class. Meeting. Thing.”

“When will you learn?” Davy said. “You do many things well, Matilda, but you cannot lie to me. Give it up.”

“No, really,” Tilda said.

“No, really,” Davy said. “Face it, once somebody’s on to it, she can’t pull it off anymore. It’s a miracle she’s managed it this long.”

Tilda sighed. “Well, she only had to fool you and Simon,” she said, letting her eyes go back to normal. “She kept Louise away from you and Eve away from Simon and neither one of you was paying much attention.”

“Simon is not going to be happy about this.”

“You can’t tell him,” Tilda said, sounding shocked. “It’s none of your business.”

“Well, somebody’s got to tell him,” Davy said.

“Why?” Tilda said, and Davy didn’t have an answer. “Look, once Simon finds out she’s Eve, it’s over for them. Eve is real, not Louise. They can’t exist in the same world. Plus Simon has that stupid mother rule. How does he think women become mothers?”

Davy sat down on the bed. “Okay, I’m not used to being the voice of sanity in the room, so bear with me here, but has it occurred to you that Eve might need some therapy?”

“No,” Tilda said. “Eve knows perfectly well who she is. She’s a single mother who’s helping to keep a roof over her family’s head while dealing with the fact that the great love of her life is living with another guy. Eve can’t do the things that Louise does because Eve has to be practical. But four nights a week, Louise does the Double Take and for those nights, Eve is free.” She frowned. “Which means she should be gone because it’s Sunday. It’s driving us all crazy. She’s breaking her own rules.”

“It’s not healthy,” Davy said. “Maybe this should be group therapy. Family rates.”

“You’re overreacting.” Tilda sat down beside him. “Look, did you ever go to Mardi Gras?”

“Yeah,” Davy said cautiously.

“Well, Eve has her own Mardi Gras Thursday through Sunday. She just does a better mask than most.”

“Doesn’t she ever get confused?”

“No. People think that wearing masks makes them different, but what happens is they become the people they were meant to be. Without the mask, they’re Eves, doing the right thing, sacrificing for others. With the masks they’re Louises, completely themselves, without guilt. They can do anything. It’s that transformation thing.” She smiled slightly, her lips curving like a wistful secret, and Davy sucked in his breath and wanted her more than he thought possible.

“Tell me you have a Louise,” he said, “because I would really like to buy her a drink.”

“Very funny,” Tilda said, looking away. “I don’t do that.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Davy said. “Does Nadine know?”

“Of course Nadine knows,” Tilda said. “Everybody knows. Except you and Simon.”

“And Nadine is all right with it?”

“Why not?” Tilda said. “Louise isn’t a drug addict or a drunk or a child abuser. She’s just another set of clothes.”

“That sleeps with Simon.”

Tilda shrugged. “Well, as Gwennie always says, if you can’t be a good example, you’ll just have to be a horrible warning.”

“Ah,” Davy said. “The Michael Dempsey School of Parenting. I’m going to tell Simon.”

“You think he’s going to thank you?” Tilda said, sounding exasperated.

“I don’t-”

“You think he’s going to say, ‘Thanks, buddy, for screwing me out of the best sex of my life’?”

“That’s not-”

“Face it,” Tilda said. “You want to tell him because it’s the right thing for you to do, not the right thing for him to hear.”

Davy frowned at her. “So I’m a selfish bastard for wanting to do the right thing?”

“Yes,” Tilda said.

“I know that’s wrong.” Davy stood up. “Let me get back to you on why.”

“Well, until then, keep your mouth shut,” Tilda said. “You honest people can make life hell for everybody else.”

ON MONDAY morning, having finally accepted that the gallery was going to be restored whether she helped or not, Gwen moved the stepladder to the side wall and climbed up, determined to hammer that damn piece of ceiling tin back into place once and for all. Of course the ceilings had to be a mile high. Tony had explained to her that it was because the artwork had to breathe. Well, the damn artwork should have put the ceiling back then. She climbed up as high as she could go, held the hammer by the very end, and took a whack at it, but she overbalanced and dropped the hammer, grabbing the ladder at the last minute and swinging her weight to the left to stop it from toppling. When she had her breath back, she realized she hadn’t heard the hammer hit the floor and looked down.

Ford was standing there, holding it with one of those this-woman-is-a-moron looks on his face.

“I wanted to do it myself, okay?” Gwen said, not in the mood to be condescended to.

“Why?” Ford said.

“Because I’ve been staring at it for years, and it’s been sneering back at me, and I wanted to put it in its place.”

“So order me to do it,” Ford said.

“Not the same thing,” Gwen said.

“It’s all you’ve got,” Ford said. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’m leaving it,” Gwen said. “Give me that damn hammer.”

“No.”

“It’s my hammer.”

“Not anymore,” Ford said.

“It’s so unlike you to be playful,” Gwen snarled. “Give me that hammer.”

“I’m not playful,” Ford said. “I’m preventing injury and possible death. You almost killed me with this thing. Get your ass off the ladder.”

“You weren’t supposed to be standing there,” Gwen said, and then she frowned at him. “Why were you standing there?”

“You’re making a lot of noise,” Ford said. “I thought you might need help.”

“I need no help.”

He sighed. “Get off the ladder, Gwen. Let me look at the ceiling and see what it needs.”

“It needs to get whacked,” Gwen said viciously, and then remembered what he did for a living.

“Get down,” Ford said, and unable to think of any way to take back the “whacked,” Gwen climbed down.

He climbed back up, tall enough that he could touch the ceiling. “It needs a nail,” he said as he climbed back down. “The old one fell out. Whacking it will not help.”

“Good to know,” Gwen said brightly.

“Where are your nails?”

“Nails?” Gwen said.

“Where’s Davy?”

“Out front.”

“Good,” he said. “Go do something that does not require tools.”

“Hey,” she said, but he was already heading out the door to Davy. “And what makes you think that Davy has nails?” she said to him through the plate glass, only to see Davy reach in his shirt pocket and hand over something that looked like nails.

Sometimes, she purely hated men.

Ford came back in, climbed the ladder, tacked the ceiling back up with two precision taps, climbed back down, folded the ladder, and carried it to the back.

“For all you know, I still need that ladder,” Gwen called after him.

“Not after your last performance,” Ford said, coming back out of the office. “What else has to be done?”

“Nothing,” Gwen said, moving in front of the cracked side window.

“Got a tape measure?” Ford said.

“Why?”

“So I can measure that window.”

“We have somebody coming in to do that,” Gwen lied.

“Give me the damn tape measure, Gwen,” Ford said, and Gwen gave up and went in the office for the measure.

“I don’t see why you’re doing this,” she said when she’d handed it to him.

“It’s a nice building,” Ford said, stringing out the measure. “I like seeing things put right.”

“You do?” Gwen said, trying to square that with the hit man thing.

“That’s my game. Write down twenty-seven and a half inches.”

Gwen went for paper and wrote it down. When she went back to him she said, “Your game is remodeling old buildings?”

“By thirty-two and a quarter,” Ford said, retracting the tape. “No, my game is restoring justice to the world.” He handed her the tape.

“Oh,” Gwen said. “Justice.”

“And order,” Ford said. “Where’s the nearest glass place?”

“Glass place?” Gwen said.

“Where’s your telephone book?” Ford said, with infinite patience.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Gwen said.

“I know.”

“This isn’t my idea, all of this.”

“I know.”

“I’m not even sure I want this,” Gwen said.

Ford sat down on the edge of the table. “So why are you letting them do it?”

“We need the money,” Gwen said, looking around. “And the place really is shabby. And Tilda wants it. Tilda’s the one who gets things done around here.”

“Why don’t you leave?” Ford said, and Gwen jerked her head back to look at him.

“Leave?”

“Take a vacation,” Ford said.

“A vacation.” Gwen looked at him, stumped. “Where would I go?”

“The Caribbean,” Ford said. “ Aruba. Scuba diving.”

“I don’t know how to scuba dive.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said, and Gwen lost her breath. “This is my last job,” he went on. “I’m retiring and heading south for good. Taking the boat to Aruba. You could come along.”

“Scuba diving,” Gwen said, grabbing onto something concrete. “Isn’t that dangerous? Don’t people die?”

“People die in their beds, Gwen,” Ford said. “Doesn’t mean they don’t hit the sheets.” He stood up. “It’s a big boat. Plenty of room. I’ll get your window glass.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said, still a little breathless, and when he was out the door, she sat down at the counter, looked at the nine brightly colored umbrellas in her pencil cup, and thought, I want to go.

Well, that was ridiculous. She couldn’t leave the family, and she’d never had the slightest desire to scuba dive, and the only thing she knew about Ford was that he was a hired killer who brought her piña coladas and fixed her ceiling. Of course, he was retiring, and she was all for forgiveness and forgetting the past, especially if it was her past, but if his last job was going to be killing Davy, that would pretty much be her sticking point.

Tilda came in carrying a can of blue paint, her hair standing up all over her head in little curls. “Are you okay?” she said. “You look sort of poleaxed.”

“I’m fine,” Gwen said. “Stop running your fingers through your hair. You look wild.” Tilda patted her hair, which did nothing, and Gwen said, “Do you ever think about staying home and taking over the gallery?”

“No.” Tilda squinted at her reflection in the office window and patted her hair again.

“Okay,” Gwen said, feeling hugely disappointed even though she’d known that was what was coming.

“Because I’ve got at least another decade of murals to finish first. Do you want me to?”

“No,” Gwen said. “But I didn’t want to stand in your way.”

“Nobody stands in my way,” Tilda said and carried the paint can out through the office.

I should be like that, Gwen thought, and imagined announcing to Ford, “Nobody stands in my way.” Although why it had to be Ford was a mystery. She should say it to Mason. “Mason, you’re a nice person, but I don’t want you to run the gallery.” Although if he’d get them out of debt, the whole family would be free. He could have the gallery if he’d get them out of debt. At this point, he could have her if he’d get them out of debt.

Davy came in from the street, whistling, and went into the office.

Of course, that would mean she’d never scuba dive. But the family would be safe.

That was the problem. Once you’d given birth, you never really thought “I” or “me” again. It was always “we.” What’s best for “us.” Even though what’s best for “us” was often lousy for “me.” She had two beautiful children and an equally beautiful grandchild, all of whom were fairly happy and healthy and who loved and supported each other. She didn’t have to go to a horrible job every day, she could work Double-Crostics whenever she wanted, and nobody ever said, “Gwennie, don’t do that.” At least not for the past five years anyway. It was all good.

Well, mostly good. While it was true that Tony had been domineering, there’d also been some very nice things about him. Like sex, for example. That was a loss. She’d been okay with celibacy, but then it had started raining men at the Goodnights’ and suddenly she was getting a lot of lunches. And piña coladas. Maybe she should think about it, make a plan. She was only fifty-four. Mason was clearly interested, a good steady man who understood finance and loved the gallery. Really, it was a no-brainer. She closed her eyes and tried to seriously imagine a life with Mason.

Scuba diving, she thought, and her mind washed through with blue-green water and bright-colored fish, like one of Homer’s paintings, only real, with sun on her face, and the water flowing over her body, and Ford-

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought and got up to move the chairs into the office. She could sweep the floor. That didn’t involve tools. Or a great deal of thought.

Tilda came out of the office with a paintbrush. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Gwen said. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Davy wants to paint the front today.” Tilda nodded her head back at the office where Davy was now looking doubtfully into an open paint can, Nadine frowning over his shoulder. “We might have to block off the entrance.”

“And that would be a problem because so many people come in?” Gwen said. “I don’t-”

The street door to the gallery opened, and an older man with dark red hair and darker eyes came in, something about him very familiar. “Hello?” Gwen said, trying to place him.

“Hello, darling,” the man said, and Gwen had one horrible moment when she thought he might have been somebody she’d slept with before Tony and had now completely forgotten. He was somewhere between fifty and eighty, so the age range was right.

“Do I know you?” Gwen said, fingers crossed that she didn’t.

“Call me Michael, love,” he said, so innocently her eyes narrowed. “I’m looking for Davy Dempsey. Tall boy, dark hair. Is he here?”

“Davy?” Tilda said, surprised. “He’s back-” She stopped because the man smiled at her warmly and detoured around her to open the office door. “Uh, wait-”

Inside the office, Davy looked up and froze, and Gwen thought, It can’t be another hit man. How many people hate this guy?

“I should have known,” the man said to Davy, his voice light. “Me on the road, running for my life, and you here with a daisy hand.”

“Daisy hand?” Gwen said.

“Three queens,” Davy said grimly. “Hello, Dad.”