Don't Trust Her

by Elizabeth Boles

  Blanche owns an upscale clothing store in town. Every Christmas our gift from her is an outfit. I’m not complaining. I like free garments the same as anyone.

  But like I said before, Faith has money issues, and probably winds up selling what Blanche gives her. I suspect as much. Because, to offset Scott’s income, she resells thrift store finds on eBay—and apparently is great at it.

  Faith massages her fingers into the headrest of Blanche’s seat. “But let’s get back to why you’re smoking.”

  “Let’s not and say we did,” Blanche says sharply. Then she softens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She twists around and gives Faith a forced grin. “I’m just taking it up for fun.”

  Right.

  Faith’s voice is honeyed with concern. “I am not the enemy here, Blanche. You can tell me why you’re doing it.”

  All this while, I’m happily sinking into the background. Discussing bland topics like cigarettes and shopping makes it easy to forget the letter, the money, and what happens when Tal finds out about the ten grand.

  I’ve decided if he asks, we’re going to Disney World, that I want to treat the kids. I have no idea how to pay for that, but it buys me time.

  No, I am not perfect.

  “I just…don’t want to talk about cigarettes,” Blanche says, her tone back to slicing and dicing.

  Blanche is playing her usual position—defense. Whereas most Southern housewives are all about monograms, pool parties, and recipe swapping, Blanche is the opposite.

  She doesn’t give a damn.

  Tell her that she made great turkey and dressing at Thanksgiving and she’ll say, “Thank you,” but really mean, “Of course it was.”

  She would never tuck her head, dry her fingers on a gingham apron, and bashfully reply, “Oh, that old recipe? It was my grandmother’s and I work my best to do it justice, but I just can’t get it right.”

  There is none of that with Blanche—never has been, never will be.

  We met on the fourth-grade playground. I sat on the swing set, my feet dragging over a bowl of soil. That was when a boy pushed me in the back, shoving me off.

  I hit dirt. Even now I remember how my palms stung. Earth caked my face and clothes. A stone lacerated my jeans, and blood oozed from the cut.

  The boy’s flabby belly wobbled when he walked. In hindsight, this may have been one of the reasons why he was a bully (because of being teased about his weight). Anyway, he kicked me and said to get out of the way. That was when Blanche strolled up.

  She punched him in the nuts. “You touch her again and I’ll break your nose.”

  The kid (whose name I later learned was Brady) ran off, crying. Blanche helped me up, and I remember thinking she was an angel.

  Well, my angel got sent to the principal’s office. But she didn’t care, and we became thick friends after. All four of us did—my sister, Blanche, Faith, and me.

  “Does this have to do with Zach?” Faith asks, referring to Blanche’s smoking habit.

  Blanche pulls out her compact and swipes makeup over her nose and cheeks. “No, it has nothing to do with him.”

  “What’s that about Zach?” I ask.

  Blanche turns toward Faith and shoots her a dark look. Blanche’s secrets are being spilled on this trip.

  Secret, secret. I’ve got a secret.

  “I caught that little asshole smoking in the house.”

  “He’s only ten,” I say, as if no ten-year-old has ever been caught doing something bad.

  “I know how old he is. That’s why it pisses me off.” Blanche, having given up on finding her cigarettes, tosses her purse to the floor. “He wasn’t even vaping, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Vaping kills,” Faith murmurs.

  Blanche points to the next exit sign. “Can we pull off so that I can buy more cigarettes? I’ll never make it through this weekend without them.”

  “How much stress do you have?” Faith says quietly.

  Blanche crosses her arms. “Enough.”

  “We’re getting massages,” Faith chirps.

  I glance at the dash, wiped clean from my fidgeting. “You can’t smoke in the car.”

  Blanche flashes me a wide smile, her dark eyes twinkling. It’s the sort of smile that would make a man do anything for her. It’s powerful, that smile, and Blanche knows it.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t smoke in here.”

  I pull off. Faith and I wait in the car while Blanche saunters into Exxon, men’s heads turning in her direction. She ignores most of them but scowls at one who dares give her a hello.

  That simply is not me. I look like a house mom no matter what I wear, but especially in a baseball cap and T-shirt. I’m also pretty sure the pheromones seeping from my pores smell of Fruit Loops and coffee. Though I’m not leading a gaggle of kids, there is something about me that screams, Mom alert!

  But not with Blanche. She is a siren at any age. She’ll probably be sixty years old, look like she’s forty, and have twenty-year-old college boys telling her she’s the MILF they’ve always dreamed of.

  A few minutes later, when she returns to the car, the fog of her ill mood dissipates. She gives Faith a packet of Corn Nuts (which Faith asked for). Blanche says nothing, but I know she’s thinking that Faith will never lose the weight if she keeps eating like that.

  Faith opens the silvery bag and says in a squeaky, apologetic voice, “I know I shouldn’t have them, but I just can’t help myself.”

  Blanche curls up in the seat beside me and opens the pack. I hike a brow, but she pats my shoulder in a motherly, almost condescending manner.

  “I’m only going to sniff them,” she explains as if that is a normal thing for people to do.

  But that is what Blanche does. She buries her nose in the pack and inhales.

  “That is weird.”

  “I know. I can live with it.” She flashes another smile. “Like I said, I need them for this weekend.”

  “You must have a mountain of stress.”

  Blanche stares out the window, her face tipped away from mine. “You know, life stuff.”

  She’s lying.

  Blanche always looks away when she lies. There’s something burrowing around in her head, but she doesn’t tell me what.

  Why?

  Is it the same reason that I don’t tell her about the letter? Some secrets aren’t for others to know about? Or is it something else, something simpler?

  There’s no getting it out of her here, now, with Faith in the back seat. If Blanche didn’t want Faith to know about the cigarettes, there is no way she would reveal what made her take up smoking again.

  “It’s supposed to snow tonight,” Faith says abruptly, interrupting my Ancient Aliens–style theory about my friend.

  Blanche draws a slim cigarette from the pack and lightly taps it on her thigh. “Snow never sticks here. I don’t even know why they bother mentioning it at all.” She raises her hands dramatically. “Let’s give everyone a reason to freak out and hit the grocery stores! Let’s all get into panic mode!”

  “There hasn’t been a real snowstorm here since the nineties.” My GPS dings, telling me we’re ten miles from our exit. “It’s not gonna happen.”

  “You don’t know that,” Faith mutters from the back seat. Suddenly she is between us again, the scent of her perfume, vanilla and lemon, swirling about my head. “What if we get snowed in at the cabin?”

  “Then we build a fire, play card games, and drink wine,” Blanche says.

  “I’m being serious.” Faith tugs on Blanche’s headrest. “There’s no cell reception up there. What if we can’t tell anyone what’s happened to us?”

  “Let’s take it down a notch, shall we? Paige has a landline and Internet.” Knowing that will not satisfy our neurotic friend, I add, “That’s probably why she went up a day early without us, to make sure that everything is all set.”

  Faith drums her fingers against the seat, worrying at the material.

  “It�
�ll be fine,” I coo. “Like Blanche says, the snow never sticks—at least it doesn’t for long.”

  Faith slips onto the back seat, and Blanche shoots me a look, silently asking if we’ll be putting up with a worried Faith all weekend. I do a slight shoulder hitch.

  I met Faith in kindergarten. It was the first day of school, and my sister and I had been placed in different classrooms. It was also the first time we’d ever been apart. I didn’t know anyone in my class, probably like most of the kids, and remember not looking around because I was scared.

  Faith sat at my table. She took my hand and said that she was scared, too, but that we could be friends and it would help make the fear go away.

  It did. Now it’s thirty years later and we’re still in each other’s lives—worries and all.

  The ten miles to the exit come and go. Before I know it, we’re on a four-lane highway. An hour after that, we’re down to two lanes, winding into mountains. We pass a small tourist town, but not many folks are out. The sky is gray, and the people I see wear padded coats, their noses tucked into homemade scarves.

  I’m wrapped up in my Patagonia puffy jacket. It will keep me warm down to nearly zero degrees, so it should be fine if a cold front moves in. It won’t snow, obviously, but if the temperature drops farther, I’ll be prepared for it.

  I like to be prepared.

  We pass the time discussing what we each bought Paige for her birthday. There is nothing outlandish in our gifts—a pair of earrings, a gift card, a pound of the dark roast coffee she likes that I think tastes like dirt, and have said so, teasingly. Paige always offers it to me when I visit, knowing how much I can’t stand it.

  It’s our inside joke.

  Twenty miles outside of town, we turn onto Varnell Road—penned after Paige and Derek. They had to build the road when they erected the house, so they had it named for themselves.

  Paige told me about it in that way of hers where spectacular things are no big deal. “Oh, we’re going to Paris for Christmas, but only for a few days,” or, “We spent our honeymoon in Fiji. You would love it.”

  As if I have the money to vacation in Fiji.

  There is something quite unassuming about her. That’s her charm. But you’ll see that. People cannot help but to gravitate toward her. She is brittle and delicate—not just her beauty, but in the words she chooses and her mannerisms. She is lithe and womanly in a Grace Kelly sort of way.

  They don’t make them like Paige anymore.

  “Are you sure this is the right road?” Faith asks. “It’s awfully long.”

  It is long, narrow, and rutted. A canopy of pines and poplars closes in on us, threatening to strangle the path. But the trees remain just outside of the car’s reach, their boughs extended as if they either want to brush against us or block us from entering.

  I don’t know which is the case.

  At the very apex of a hill that my city tires scrabble over, I get the first view of Paige’s mountain cabin.

  It is a monstrous beast made of glass and stacked stone, towering logs, and iron railings.

  “Did that thing eat Paige’s cabin?” Blanche jokes.

  A laugh bursts from me. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Wow,” Faith exclaims. “That is some cabin.”

  This is a not a cabin. This is a lodge. It could easily house forty people, and there are only four of us.

  “Is it new?” I ask. “Why have we never been here before?”

  Faith answers. “I think Derek uses it mostly. He hunts out here.”

  “Then is there a gun somewhere inside?” I ask.

  Living in the South, I have never heard of a hunter being without his rifle.

  “I don’t know,” Faith replies. “I’ve never asked.”

  I swing the 4Runner onto the circular drive and peer deeply into the tall glass windows.

  Though dark shadows slice across the inside, a fire roasts in the very center of the living room. A chandelier built from crisscrossed antlers hangs from the ceiling. Mounted deer and elk heads paint the walls, and I see a stuffed bobcat in one corner of the room.

  A chill sweeps down my spine. I know that cabins often have deer heads for decorations, but this looks like Derek’s personal trophy house. Paige doesn’t post pictures of the cabin on social media. All those heads erupting from the walls might be why.

  The double front doors swing wide, and there stands Paige.

  Her wheat-colored hair is swept into a perfect ponytail. She beams at us and floats down the steps, her lululemon sweater and leggings molding perfectly to her size 4 frame.

  We’re outside now, gathering our luggage and joining her. She opens her arms wide and hugs Faith.

  “Thank y’all for coming,” she murmurs. “Turning thirty-five without you here…well, it just wouldn’t be the same.”

  She reaches for me, and I let her wrap me into a hug, though my spine is stiff. She cuddles me close, curling me into her. The scent of roses blooms on her skin.

  She releases me and smiles, teeth sparkling, her skin glowing. She turns to Blanche to offer a hug, but Blanche is suddenly very busy with her suitcase and does not acknowledge Paige’s gesture.

  Paige rubs her arms as if a chill has just swept down them, and eyes Blanche. “Y’all,” she says in that feathery voice of hers, “I’m so glad you could make it. Now, let’s get ready. The masseuse will be here in an hour.”

  “So excited,” Faith gushes.

  “Just wait—I have surprises planned, too.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Faith chirps. “It should be us surprising you.”

  Paige squeezes Faith’s arm. “It’s my birthday, and so we’ll do as I please. I have so many surprises laid out that I’m sure you’re going to love them.”

  Faith takes Paige, and they walk, arms linked, up the stairs.

  Blanche hikes a brow. “This should be interesting,” she says before stalking off behind them.

  My gut clenches from Blanche’s reaction. I have the feeling that Blanche isn’t going to like Paige’s surprises. Which makes me think that I won’t, either.

  I’m not going to like them at all.

  Chapter 6

  When we were young, my sister and I spent many afternoons at our parents’ pharmacy. Because we weren’t old enough to have technician licenses, which would grant us the liberty of filling prescriptions, we were stuck running the cash register and stocking products on the front end.

  My sister was never one for the drudgery of work. I remember one particular day when she spent more time frowning than she did smiling. While we slid gummy orange slices onto their silver poles, she sighed and said that when she got older, she’d live in a mansion and have servants do everything for her.

  I told her that was silly, no one was that rich, unless you were a queen or a princess. And besides, what would she do all day while her servants picked up her mess?

  She smiled, her cheek dimpling. Sunlight reflected off her teeth when she teased, “Well, when you become one of those servants, you’ll find out.”

  Then she laughed, and I tossed a bag of something at her—probably rubbery Circus Peanuts.

  I haven’t recalled that moment in a long time, but I think of it now as I stand inside Paige’s mountain lodge.

  The inside is a mixture of dark corners and bright, cheery firelight. On a sunny day I imagine that sunlight streams through the windows and dust motes dance as they wind their way atop the stuffed deer heads.

  But today it is the firelight that makes the cabin welcoming, the woodsmoke scent cozy.

  I stand dazed, trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is Paige’s second house and wondering just how much it must’ve cost, because it’s clearly more than I can afford.

  Beside me, Blanche’s gaze darts around with distrust, as if she’s waiting for the furniture to attack her.

  Then there’s Faith. She rushes right over to one of the couches and plops down, running her fingers atop the leather.
r />   “Ooh, Paige, this is so buttery,” she coos.

  Paige gestures behind her like a grand lady welcoming us to her estate. “Allow me to give you the tour.”

  We follow dutifully, remaining silent as our guide points and explains. “As y’all can see, this is the great room with all of Derek’s trophies.”

  “It’s his own personal man cave?” Faith asks, eyeing the taxidermy specimens with awe.

  Blanche replies tersely. “It’s not a man cave without a pool table.”

  Faith giggles nervously. “Oh, right. I guess not.”

  Paige glides to the other side of the room. “We went for open concept. There is the dining room, and y’all can see the kitchen.”

  I peer around Blanche to get a better look. Four chairs, their backs lined with animal skins (cowhide, maybe?), sit around a large thick, pub-style table. Beyond it, a black marble–topped island separates the kitchen. The cabinets are a dark oak and almost melt into the thick cross beams overhead.

  “Those are such huge logs,” Faith says.

  Paige takes a cardigan strewn atop the couch, slips into it, and belts it shut. “Derek had the contractor use wood from the site. The trees around here were old and big.”

  “Way to recycle,” Blanche says. I think it’s supposed to be a compliment, but it comes out clipped.

  A petite laugh rumbles from the back of Paige’s throat. “It was. I agree.” She fingers her bangs before pointing to the fireplace. “You see that it’s two-sided. One side warms the dining room, and the other warms the living area.”

  Three couches are laid in a U shape facing the fireplace. The large, flat-screen television is attached to the mantle, making the central focus the hearth.

  She points toward the hall. “That way is a bathroom and some guest rooms as well as a study.”

  Fancy—study, not an office.

  I eye the decor and notice that even though Derek might hunt out here, there is not one shotgun or rifle on display. He must not store any here.

  Smart. He’s probably worried about theft and doesn’t want an intruder to wind up with an expensive weapon. Can’t say I blame him.