Whispers and Lies

by Joy Fielding

  I said nothing, not sure how to respond.

  “I’ve been trying to talk Terry into buying that painting of the woman with the large sun hat on the beach,” Alison chipped in, as if aware of my discomfort.

  “You’re an only child?” Denise pressed, ignoring her.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “No, you’re lucky,” Denise protested. “I have two sisters. We hate each other’s guts. And Alison has a brother she never talks to. What about you, K.C.? You have any brothers or sisters you can’t stand?”

  “One of each,” he said.

  “And where are they tonight?” I asked.

  “Back in Houston, I guess.”

  “I didn’t know you were from Texas,” Denise said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Texas.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’ve known each other very long,” I remarked.

  “We met last night.” Denise giggled, the incongruously childish sound emerging from between deep-purple lips. “Actually, I’d seen him in the store a few times, but we didn’t talk until last night.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Alison suddenly exclaimed. “You were in on Monday. You asked about the frog sculpture.”

  K.C. looked vaguely embarrassed. “I was trying to pick you up,” he admitted with a laugh.

  “Oh, nice talk!” Denise said. “And what? It didn’t work, so you came back last night and hit on me?”

  “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” K.C. said with a sly grin.

  Denise laughed. “Isn’t he cute? I think he’s so cute.” She reached over, scraped clawlike fingers across his skinny thigh. “The thing about art,” she continued, as if this were the most logical of continua, her eyes back on the floral painting, “is that it’s such a lie. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” I answered.

  “Take these flowers,” Denise said. “Or the woman with the hat on the beach. I mean, when have you ever seen flowers this big and lush in real life, or sand that pink? It doesn’t exist.”

  “It exists in the artist’s imagination,” I argued.

  “My point exactly.”

  “Just because art is subjective doesn’t make it a lie. Sometimes an artist’s interpretation of something is ultimately more real than the thing itself. The artist is forcing you to view the subject in a new and different light, to arrive at a greater truth.”

  Denise waved my theories away with a careless hand. The wine sloshed around in her glass, veering dangerously toward the rim. “Artists distort, they enhance, they leave things out.” She shrugged. “That makes them liars in my book.”

  “You got something against liars?” K.C. asked.

  I heard a car pull into the driveway, listened to the sound of footsteps on the outside path, was already on my feet when the doorbell rang. I couldn’t help but notice the look of anticipation on Alison’s face as I walked to the door.

  “You look great,” she called after me, giving me two encouraging thumbs-up.

  I laughed and opened the door, then had to lean against it in case my legs gave out and I fell over the large leafy plant to my right. Josh Wylie was wearing a blue silk shirt and carrying a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He looked absolutely gorgeous, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself into his arms. Calm down, I told myself. You’re forty years old, not fourteen. Relax. Take deep breaths.

  “Am I late?” Josh asked as I closed the door after him, then stood rooted to the floor, as if I’d been planted.

  “No. You’re perfect. Perfectly on time,” I qualified quickly, letting go of the doorframe and accepting the bottle of Dom Pérignon. “You didn’t have to bring champagne. Your flowers were more than enough.”

  “Ooh, champagne.” Denise was suddenly at my side, lifting the bottle from my hands. “I’m Denise, and I love champagne.” She extended her free hand.

  “Denise Nickson, this is Josh Wylie,” I said. “Denise works in the gallery with Alison.”

  Alison waved hello from the sofa.

  “It’s my aunt’s gallery,” Denise explained. “So I’m kind of a part-owner, I guess. This is my friend K.C.”

  “Nice to meet you, Casey.”

  “K.C.,” we corrected in unison.

  “Stands for Kenneth Charles,” he said.

  “But nobody calls him that,” Alison said.

  “You must get awfully tired of having to explain that to everyone,” Josh said, and I smiled, hearing my own thoughts resonating through his words.

  What can I say about that night?

  My initial reservations were quickly dispelled in a wave of champagne and friendly banter. Despite the disparity in our ages and interests, the five of us made for a lively and interesting group. The food was delicious, the conversation effortless, the mood relaxed and happy.

  “So what exactly does an investment counselor do?” Denise asked Josh at one point, the cranberry sauce on her fork competing with the stubborn purple of her lips. “And don’t say he counsels people on their investments.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much else I can say,” Josh demurred.

  “Are you counseling Terry on her investments?” K.C. asked.

  I laughed. “First I’d have to have some money to invest.”

  “Oh, come on. You must have lots of money kicking around,” Denise protested. “I mean, you work, you own your own house, you have a tenant. Plus I’m sure you have a nice pension.”

  “Which I don’t collect till I retire,” I told her, a slight twinge of discomfort worming its way into my gut. How had we come to be discussing my finances?

  “What about you, K.C.?” Josh asked. “What is it you do?”

  “Computer programmer.” K.C. helped himself to another slice of turkey, another heaping spoonful of yams.

  “Another job I’ll never understand,” Denise said. “Do you have a computer, Terry?”

  “No,” I answered. “I’ve never really needed one.”

  “How can you survive without E-mail?”

  “You’d be surprised what you can survive without.” I stared into my lap, trying not to picture Josh slamming me against the wall of my bedroom, eager fingers unbuttoning my blouse.

  “You have no relatives across the country you need to keep in touch with?” Denise asked.

  I shook my head, caught sight of K.C. as he leaned forward, cold eyes focused on me intently. Snake eyes, I thought with a shudder.

  “Okay, so what are we all thankful for?” Alison suddenly asked. “Three things. Everybody.”

  “Oh, God,” Denise groaned. “This is so Oprah.”

  “You first, K.C.,” Alison instructed. “Three things you’re thankful for.”

  K.C. lifted his glass into the air. “Good food. Good champagne.” He smiled, snake eyes slithering between Alison and Denise. “Bad women.”

  They laughed.

  “Denise?”

  Denise made a face that said this sort of game was beneath her, but that she’d indulge us anyway because she was such a good sport. “Let’s see. I’m thankful the gallery was closed today and I didn’t have to work. I’m thankful my aunt is visiting her daughter in New York and I didn’t have to spend Thanksgiving with her. And”—she looked directly at me—“I’m thankful you’re as good a cook as Alison said you were.”

  “Amen to that,” Josh said, raising his glass in a toast.

  “Okay, Josh,” Alison directed, “your turn.”

  Josh paused, as if giving the matter careful thought. “I’m thankful for my children. I’m thankful for the wonderful care my mother gets each day. And for that, and for tonight, I’m especially thankful to—and for—our lovely hostess. Thank you, Terry Painter. You’re a godsend.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, dangerously close to tears.

  “I’m thankful for Terry too,” Alison said as I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Thankful that’s she’s given me a place to stay and welcomed me so warmly into her life. Secondly, I’m thankful for
my instincts that told me to come here in the first place. And thirdly, I’m thankful for the chance I’ve been given to start over again.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be starting over?” Josh asked.

  “Your turn.” Alison blushed, swiveled toward me.

  “I’m thankful for my health,” I began.

  Denise groaned. “That’s like wishing for world peace.”

  “And I’m thankful for all your kind words,” I continued, ignoring her. I looked from Alison to Josh, then back to Alison. “And I’m thankful for new friends and new opportunities. I consider myself very lucky.”

  “We’re the lucky ones,” Alison said.

  “Does anyone here believe in God?” Denise asked suddenly.

  And then everybody was speaking at once, as the conversation veered from philosophic to sophomoric to downright moronic and then back again. Not surprisingly, Alison was among the believers. Surprisingly, so was Denise. K.C. was an atheist, Josh an agnostic. As for me, I’d always wanted to believe, and on a good day, I did.

  Today, I decided, perhaps prematurely, had been a good day.

  TEN

  At ten o’clock, Josh announced it was time for him to be heading back to Miami.

  He was right. It was time to call it a night. We’d polished off the homemade pumpkin pie, drunk all the champagne, finished the last of the Baileys. Alison had cleared the table, hand-washed the dishes, and led us in an impromptu game of charades, which she’d handily won. “I’m very good at games,” she’d said proudly.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I told Josh, feeling a slight twinge in my stomach, like a poke in the ribs, as I rose from the living room sofa and followed him to the door.

  “Nice meeting you, Josh,” Denise called after him.

  “See you again soon, I hope,” Alison said.

  K.C. said nothing, although I detected a slight nod of his head that meant either good-bye or that he was too drunk to do more.

  No one else made a move to leave. Clearly, Josh and I were the only two people in the room who understood the value of timing.

  The warm air embraced us, like a lazy lover, as we stepped outside and gazed up at a sky heavy with stars. The smell of the ocean filtered through the night air like silver threads through a dark tapestry, lingering like an expensive perfume. “Beautiful night,” I remarked, walking beside Josh to his car.

  “Lovely evening all around.”

  “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “So am I.” He looked down the empty street. “Feel like taking a little walk? Just to the corner,” he added when I hesitated.

  I’m not sure why I hesitated. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to prolong my time with Josh for as long as humanly possible. Probably I was leery of leaving my other guests alone in the house for too long. “Sure,” I heard myself say, ignoring my concerns, falling into step beside him. My arm brushed against his. I felt a jolt, like a small but potent electrical charge, shoot through my body.

  “I was hoping for a few minutes alone with you,” Josh said.

  “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

  He laughed, stopped walking. “You think I want to get you alone so I can talk about my mother?”

  I looked toward the sidewalk, afraid I was so transparent my thoughts were visible on my forehead. I felt his hand at my chin, a succession of increasingly powerful shocks raising my eyes back to his, as I watched his face tilt toward mine. If he gets any closer, I thought, he’s liable to be electrocuted.

  “I’d really like to kiss you right now,” he said.

  A loud sigh escaped my lips as he moved closer. My heart was pounding right through my clothes, like a baby kicking in its mother’s womb. Except it wasn’t my heart, I realized with a sudden gasp. It was my stomach. And it wasn’t passion. It was pain. My God, was I going to be sick? Was he going to kiss me and then shrink back in horror while I threw up all over him? Certainly that was one way of ensuring tonight would be a night to remember, I decided, as his lips settled gently on mine.

  “Very nice,” he whispered, kissing away my fears, his arms wrapping around me like a cloak.

  Instantly I relaxed. Come back into the house, I wanted to say. Come back and tell the others they have to leave. Stay and make love to me all night. You can drive back to Miami in the morning.

  Except, of course, I said no such thing. Instead I kissed him again and again, then stood there grinning like an idiot until it became obvious he wasn’t going to kiss me anymore, and we turned back, walking hand in hand toward his car, my mind racing with my heart, my intestines doing a slow rope burn against the inside of my stomach. I was thinking that it doesn’t matter how old we are, fourteen or forty, we’re ageless when it comes to love.

  “Thanks again for a wonderful evening,” Josh said when we reached his car.

  “Thank you for the champagne and the roses.”

  “I’m glad you liked them.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  He kissed me again, this time on the cheek, his eyelashes fluttering against my skin, like butterfly wings. “I’ll see you next week,” he said, climbing into his car.

  I watched in silence as he backed his car onto the street, heading toward Atlantic Avenue. When he reached the stop sign at the corner, he waved without looking back, as if he knew I was still watching him. I waved back, but by then he was already halfway down the next block.

  It took several minutes before I was able to move. Truthfully, it was as much the tingling on my lips and cheek as the renewed cramping in my gut that rendered me immobile. Too much rich food and excitement for an old lady, I decided when I was finally able to put one foot in front of the other. I returned to the house, prepared to tell the others that the party was officially over, but my living room was empty. Had everyone cleared out while I was gone?

  It was then I heard the sound of careless laughter bouncing above my head like a rubber ball. What were they doing upstairs? I wondered, temporarily forgetting about the pains in my stomach. “Alison,” I called from the foot of the stairs.

  Immediately Alison’s head popped into view at the top of the landing. “Josh leave?”

  “What are you doing up there?” I asked, ignoring her question.

  Denise suddenly appeared beside Alison. “My fault. I asked for a tour of the house.”

  “There’s not much to see.” I watched the two young women make their way down the stairs, K.C. nipping at their heels like a large, uncoordinated golden retriever.

  “It’s like a little dollhouse,” Denise pronounced.

  “I’m sorry,” Alison whispered in my ear. “She was up the stairs before I could stop her.”

  Whatever annoyance I was feeling was replaced by a sharp jab to my solar plexus. I grimaced, grabbed my side.

  “Something wrong?” Alison asked.

  I shook my head. “I think I should have skipped that second helping of pie,” I muttered, hoping I wouldn’t have to say more.

  “Okay, guys,” Alison announced immediately. “Party’s over. Time to pack it in.”

  We said our good-byes at the front door. Alison kissed me on the cheek. I think Denise hugged me. K.C. mumbled something about being slightly inebriated, then almost fell into the leafy branches of the large, white oleander that sat to the right of the front door. Then they were gone, and the house was quiet, save for the whispering of the leaves.

  SURPRISINGLY, I had no trouble falling asleep.

  My stomach seemed to settle down the minute everyone left, so I attributed the discomfort to all the excitement: the elaborate dinner; a house full of new people; my first kiss in forever; Josh; Josh; Josh. “Yes!” I said in Alison’s voice. Then again, watching her clap her hands together and jump up and down with glee. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  And then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew I was dreaming. Wild dreams. Crazy dreams. Dreams where I was running around the house in he
lpless circles, trying to find Alison, to warn her of danger, although the danger was nonspecific, undefined. At one point, I was climbing up the stairs when K.C. jumped out at me from the shadows, long legs flying, karate-style, through the air toward my stomach.

  I gasped, doubled forward in my bed, barely made it to the bathroom, where I threw up, copiously and repeatedly. But even a thorough purging of the night’s dinner provided little relief. I sat on the tile floor, my head spinning, painful spasms shooting through my body like pinballs, wondering whether it was possible I was having an attack of appendicitis. Unlikely, I knew. It was much more likely to be a simple case of overindulgence, or perhaps even food poisoning. I wondered if any of my guests had gotten sick.

  Oh, God, poor Josh, I thought, pushing myself to my feet and creeping slowly, my back hunched, like a doddering old woman, toward my bedroom window. I pulled back the lace curtains, stared at the cottage behind my house, surprised to see the lights still on. I glanced at the clock beside my bed. It was almost three in the morning, awfully late for Alison to be up. Was she sick as well? I pulled on my housecoat and gingerly made my way down the stairs.

  I unlocked the kitchen door and tiptoed outside, the grass cool on my bare feet. A sudden rush of nausea almost overwhelmed me, and I gulped frantically at the fresh air until the feeling subsided. I took several long, deep breaths before continuing toward the cottage door. It was then I heard the sound of laughter from inside the cottage. Clearly, Alison wasn’t sick. Nor was she alone.

  I returned to the house, relieved that Alison was okay, that it appeared no one else had gotten sick. My reputation as a cook was safe, I thought, and might have laughed had it not been for the renewed spasms that catapulted me toward the kitchen sink. Dozens of ceramic eyes looked down disapprovingly from the shelves above my head, the pitiless, blank stares of the china ladies passing silent judgment on my condition. Serves you right, the women shouted through pouting, painted lips. That’ll teach you to have too good a time.

  I was halfway up the stairs when the phone rang.

  Who would be calling me at this hour? I wondered, moving as quickly as my stomach would permit. Alison? Had she seen me outside the cottage door? I pushed my bent frame toward the phone beside my bed, answered it at the start of its fifth ring. “Hello?”