Love and a Little White Lie

by Tammy L. Gray

  The taller of the two holds an air of seniority. It shows in his easy stride and the way his gaze transfixes on mine, as if this place belongs to him and he’s fully aware of every stranger who walks through the door.

  “Hey?” He says it like a question. Probably because I’m psycho-staring.

  “Um . . . hi. Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I just started working here.” I clear my throat. “Are you Brent?”

  “Nope. Brent’s with the sound guy for probably another hour.” He grins, and a wide row of white teeth appear. He has a dimple on his left cheek, a small scar on his bottom lip that makes an indention in the tender skin, and a smattering of freckles on his nose that I count. There’s fourteen of them. “I’m Cameron.” He steps forward and offers me a hand just like Pastor Thomas had earlier. I wonder if that’s part of staff training, a firm handshake followed by a wink and a smile.

  Makes sense. Church is like any other good organization. You need a sales team.

  “Jan.” I don’t bother with giving him my real name; one explanation on that catastrophe is enough for today.

  The handshake is quick, yet I don’t miss the roughness of his skin. Different from Pastor Thomas’s, whose hand was hardened from lifting. This hand is a musician’s, the calluses deep and worn at the fingertips.

  “You play the guitar?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  The other guy unlocks their office door and turns to join the conversation. “And the violin and the cello, and pretty much any instrument he picks up. This guy’s a virtual Mozart.”

  Cameron actually looks a little embarrassed by the praise. It’s endearing and unexpected. My ex, whose name shall no longer pass through my brain, loved accolades. There wasn’t a compliment he didn’t enjoy.

  “I’m Nate.” He, too, shakes my hand. “I’m the one behind the glass wall banging on the drums.” Nate’s younger than I think Cameron is, not that I’m an expert at judging or anything. If I had to guess, I’d say Cameron’s in his twenties, and Nate maybe nineteen. He still has that skinny just-out-of-high-school look, complete with acne on his cheeks.

  “Jan,” I say again.

  “Where will you be working?” Cameron slides his hands in his front pockets and rocks back on his heels a little. He must do this often. The jean material is faded there, and the pocket seams are slightly frayed.

  “I think for Ralph? I don’t really have a whole lot of details yet. I just know I’m here to help support the staff.”

  “Ah, well, maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll send you our way.”

  “Not sure if that would make you lucky. Unless you count my third-grade recorder skills a worthy accompaniment to your famed brilliance.”

  He laughs again, and I find myself leaning closer as if his joyous demeanor might bounce from him to me and make all my troubles disappear.

  “I’m an excellent teacher . . . in case you ever want to expand your skills.” He reaches two long fingers into his chest pocket and pulls out a small navy guitar pick. “Consider this a coupon for three private lessons.”

  “Only three, huh?”

  “That’s usually all it takes for me to see if there’s potential.”

  I take the pick slowly, feeling pretty certain we are no longer talking about lessons. It’s then I realize that not only has Nate disappeared into the band room but also that Cameron and I are no longer on opposite sides of the hallway.

  Oh good grief! I’m flirting outside of a pastor’s office, and so blatantly that a teenage boy felt the need to excuse himself. This is a new measure of low, even for me.

  “Does Tuesday evening work for you?”

  I’m too horrified to follow Cameron’s train of thought. “What?”

  “Your first lesson. I’m free tomorrow night.”

  There’s a glimmer in his eyes that I don’t miss this time. Probably because I know it’s very likely plastered all over my face, too. The attraction is mutual but needs to stay stuffed down and buried under the huge oak tree in my aunt’s backyard.

  Getting involved with anyone while in my current state of vulnerability is a bad idea. Getting involved with a guy who spends his time singing about a God who I doubt exists, well, that’s just reckless. And my days of leaping into the unknown are over. At least until all the broken bones heal.

  “No. I’m sorry, Tuesday’s bad for me.” I take two deliberate steps back, and his smile fades ever so slightly.

  “Well, maybe another night?”

  “I don’t know, but thank you for the offer.” I grip the guitar pick in my fist, irritated by how it already feels like a treasure. “Nice to meet you.” My goodbye is more curt than I intend, but I don’t want there to be any confusion—for either of us.

  Margie and Eric are still engaged in deep conversation when I finally enter his office, but they both stop talking as soon as they see me. I’ve obviously interrupted something important. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe you’d forgotten me. I can go back out into the hallway until you’re ready.”

  “No need. Margie and I are finished.” Eric again shatters any cliché I had about church staff. No suit and tie, no wire-rimmed glasses or Bible in hand. Instead, he has a full gray beard that comes to a point, a plaid shirt that could be a twin to the one Nate is wearing, and black skinny jeans. Since when did senior adults get so trendy?

  “You must be January. I can’t tell you how thrilled we are that you’re here,” he continues with yet another Grace Community Church handshake. “Have a seat.”

  Margie excuses herself with a tap on my shoulder. “Come see me before you leave, okay?”

  “Sure.” I take the cushioned chair across from Eric’s desk, hoping the sting in my cheeks is from the blistering wind and not from how his enthusiasm makes me feel like a fraud.

  Eric moves fifteen of the papers spread out over his desk into a nice neat pile; he clasps his fingers together and gives me his wholly undivided attention. The intensity makes me feel like I’m about to be inducted into a very private club. “So, here’s the deal. We are majorly understaffed, and until we find the right permanent hire, we desperately need your help to get us through this transition. Ralph especially has taken the brunt of our busyness. And now on top of his daily tasks, we just started a new prayer initiative that he’s spearheading.”

  “Okay.” A framed picture of a lion sits on his desk. No kid in it, just a lion’s head staring at me as if I’m some kind of threat to this place. I quickly redirect my focus to my new boss and push the unease aside. So what if I’m missing a fundamental part of working here? I can still help. Can still give whatever task they assign one-hundred-percent effort. “I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”

  “If you’re anything like Doreen, I have no doubt you will.” His cell phone rings, and he presses a button before looking up. “So, when are you starting?”

  No one has said. “I guess tomorrow?”

  “Good. Good. I’ll talk to Ralph this afternoon.”

  I stand because Eric’s phone rings a second time. “You can get that. I’ll go check in with Margie before I leave and see you in the morning at . . .”

  “Eight-thirty is good. That’s when everyone gets going.” He answers his phone but tells them to hold a second. Setting the device back on his cluttered desk, he once again zeroes in on me. There’s a tiny mole just a centimeter below his lash that he should probably get looked at. It’s angular and dark.

  “January,” he says, and I quickly stop obsessing over his skin. “I really do appreciate your being here. You have no idea what an answer to prayer you are.”

  That itchy feeling returns, and I blame Doreen for buying me generic fabric softener. “Thank you. I’ll do the best I can.”

  And really, what else can I offer?

  I’m not who they think I am, nor whom they need, but in this case I intend to pull a page from Doreen’s handbook. If this is their God’s plan, then I’m going to ride it as long as I can.

  three


  Because this season of my life seems to be steeped in irony, it should come as no surprise that I’m currently living in a bridal cabin on thirty acres of land that’s filled with romantic walkways and structures.

  Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not. This land has been in our family for four generations, and the beauty, along with the serenity, is probably the only reason I’m not still curled beneath my covers refusing to get out of bed. My daily walks have kept me sane, and today’s walk is no exception. I only wish it wouldn’t remind me of how estranged my family has been for years.

  I blow on my frozen fingers when I reach the top of the hill and sit on a bench that overlooks the entire property.

  When my pawpaw died a decade ago, he willed his sixty acres to both my mom and aunt to be divided up evenly. Doreen turned her portion into an amazing wedding venue—the Boots and Lace Ranch. A name that so perfectly describes my aunt and uncle that it makes me smile every time I say it out loud.

  B&L has four cabins that collectively sleep thirty people, two reception barns, and three different ceremony locations, though the third is currently under construction. My cabin is off from the others with a single bedroom, full kitchen, and a quaint but elegant bathroom. Doreen had it built for the bride and groom in case they wanted to stay on-site, but more often than not the parents of the bride rent it out, since the newlyweds are often eager to go and begin their honeymoon.

  I offered to vacate the cabin when the venue was in use, but I believe my aunt’s exact words were, “Pishposh. The day the mighty dollar takes precedence over my niece is the day the good Lord needs to take me up to heaven.”

  A smile forms and then immediately fades when my gaze drifts to my mother’s side of the property line.

  Unlike my aunt, who has carefully cultivated every blade of grass, Mom returned to Georgia the minute the ink dried on the title and left her inheritance to rot. Not that any of us were surprised. Mom fled to Georgia at seventeen with fifty bucks in her pocket and only returned for short visits after I was born. I once asked her why she hated Texas so much. Her face paled and she said that some stories were meant to stay in the past.

  I didn’t understand that theory until recently, but now I get it. Pain is easier to deal with when it’s left untouched. The land has been no exception.

  Doreen offered to buy her out, but she refused, sparking another fight that has yet to be resolved. For ten years now, Mom’s thirty acres have sat neglected, becoming more and more overgrown with brush and wildlife.

  It’s odd. Every time I look past the small fence that distinguishes one sister’s inheritance from the other, I think of how the contrast is a direct reflection of their personalities and lifestyles. Even more disturbing is that I feel like the fence in the middle, my life a mix of neglected chaos and carefully tilled love.

  Sighing, I stand, even though I just got here. It’s out of the ordinary for me. On the bad days, I’ve been known to park myself here for hours. This bench is my favorite spot on Doreen’s land because it’s located right next to a hundred-year-old live oak whose branches make an eighty-foot diameter canopy. The trunk is close to six feet wide and sturdy. It’s the most popular of the ceremony locations, and it’s easy to see the appeal. There’s something safe about a piece of earth that’s withstood Mother Nature’s wrath for so many years. Even alone, I feel empowered. I can’t imagine what it would feel like as a couple, promising to love each other for a lifetime. At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably never know.

  The trek back to my cabin is the same one I’ve taken every day since moving in. It’s been showered by a monsoon of tears, though each day seems to bring less of an ache with it, as if every step is a stitch in my heart. I hope so, at least.

  There’s two hundred feet of flagstone between the oak tree and Doreen’s new gazebo area. I step on each stone, avoiding the cracks and the grass poking from beneath them. As soon as I clear the hill, I see the same two commercial trucks that have been there nearly every day since I moved in: Kyle’s Construction and Landscaping.

  At least now the heavy equipment is gone. It’s been nonstop noise since the New Year. They poured concrete last week. Had about twenty guys out here scraping, coloring, and stamping. The effect is beautiful. Three circular slabs, stacked to create rounded steps that lead to the crowning feature . . . a gazebo that hasn’t been built yet. I’ve seen the drawings, though, and it’s a masterpiece.

  I wave at the father-son duo, who are currently walking the area, inspecting each section. As is our routine now, Mr. Kyle Senior waves back, while the younger, broodier Kyle ignores me completely. It’s harder for him to do so today since he’s just walking the site, and I think I get a barely perceivable nod, though I can’t be sure. All the same, I take it as an invitation and do something I’ve never done before—I walk in their direction.

  Maybe it’s from the high of my interview this morning or just the small measure of friendliness I received, but I’m fueled in a way I haven’t been since the breakup.

  “Hey, guys,” I say when I get close enough for them to hear me. “This looks fantastic.” They colored the three slabs differing shades of barn door red, each getting lighter as they approach the center, then stamped the surface so it looks like stones pressed together. “It’s artwork on the ground.”

  Mr. Kyle grins at his son. “Yeah, Dillon certainly has an eye for design. I take back all the arguments I made about staining the concrete.” He pushes his son’s shoulder affectionately as pride fills his weathered face. It’s a good face, too—solid bone structure, a thick, wide jaw, and distinctive cheekbones that are rarely seen on a guy. And he smiles a lot. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not smiling in some capacity.

  Dillon has the same handsome face, but somehow it’s more striking on him. Maybe because Dillon does not smile. Ever. Or at least not in my vicinity.

  “How long till you start building the gazebo?” I ask, mostly because Dillon’s continued silence is making this chitchat uncomfortable.

  “A lot sooner if Doreen would quit tweaking the drawings.” Mr. Kyle winks at me, his affection for my aunt seeping through his teasing. “In the meantime, we have an endless list of smaller projects we can knock out instead.”

  Dillon pitches his eyebrow at his father, and the old man retreats. “Sorry . . . Dillon has a list of projects to knock out. One of the perks of being the owner and the boss.” He laughs at his comment as if it were a punch line, and maybe it is, but I don’t get the joke. Apparently neither does Dillon, because the only movement he’s made is to go from looking at his dad to looking directly at me. And not in a casual way. No, his perusal is intense and invasive, like he can see right into my empty chest and peg me for the lovestruck fool I was.

  I tug my jacket tighter until I feel less exposed. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. Just thought I’d come take a look.”

  “Glad you did. You’re welcome anytime.”

  “Thanks.” I back up and focus on Mr. Kyle’s worn boots. They’re crusty brown and ugly, but it’s better than acknowledging Dillon’s laser gaze, which hasn’t found a new target.

  I spin around and step quickly onto the path, chastising myself for taking the detour in the first place. I’m almost through my second internal tongue-lashing when the pounding of footsteps halts me mid-step.

  “Hey . . . January.” The voice is not Mr. Kyle’s. It’s smooth and deep with a slight rasp. Life is so unfair. A man that moody should not be so darn attractive.

  I turn and swallow, irritated that Dillon’s voice could have such a profound effect on my whirling stomach.

  “You dropped this.” He stops a foot away, his hand outstretched with one of the three business cards I picked up from the church. It must have fallen out of my coat pocket.

  “Thank you.” I take the card, careful not to touch any portion of his skin, and tuck it back in my pocket.

  “You look . . . better today,” he says and then immediately focuses on his bo
ots, which are systematically scraping a smear of mud from the stone. “Less . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  My cheeks blaze because I know exactly what he’s witnessed. That I’ve been a walking zombie for weeks. That the stains on my cheeks haven’t been from the wind but from my stupid broken heart. But I also know you don’t say that to someone, especially when it’s the first ten words you’ve ever bothered to utter.

  He turns to leave, and though I know I’ll regret it, I can’t seem to stop the words that go flying toward his back: “It’s nice to meet you. This weather sucks, doesn’t it? What’s the business card for? Are you settling in okay?” I’m breathing so hard, my chest literally hurts when he turns back around and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “What?”

  I cross my arms as if trying to ward off the cold, even though I feel nothing but furious heat. “Those are all phrases that would have been appropriate to say to me for our first conversation. Not point out how pathetic I am.” I know I’m overreacting, but I can’t seem to stop the flow of anger that’s had no landing point until now.

  His surprise turns to indignation. “I never said you were pathetic. Just that you look better. And you do. Your hair looks shiny and clean, and your makeup isn’t streaked down to your chin.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “No. It’s a statement of fact.”

  “Well, next time keep your facts to yourself. Or here’s a thought—say something nice instead.”

  “Aren’t pretty words exactly what got you in this mess?” He steps closer, and it’s incredibly difficult not to punch him in the face. “I don’t do flowery nonsense. I say what I mean, and from what I’ve heard about your supposed Prince Charming, you could use a little honesty in your life.”

  My mouth drops open, and I’m not sure if I’m more shocked from his statement or from the fact that my aunt Doreen apparently can’t keep a secret. Treacherous tears fill my eyes, and I hate Dillon Kyle right now more than any other person on earth. “You don’t know anything about me.”