Looking Glass Lies

by Varina Denman

  He supposed he should hire Cecily. He actually needed a receptionist because Veda Lopez’s maternity leave had morphed into stay-at-home mom status. Besides, if Cecily ever found the nerve to get out of her car, the least he could do was be brave enough to give her the job. He sipped his coffee, enjoying the triple-digit temperature of the liquid as it slid across his tongue, but he almost spit it out when the bell above the front door jangled.

  Hurriedly, he set his cup on the counter, then strode down the narrow hallway. “Can I help you?”

  Cecily stood at the corner of the small receptionist’s desk, peering at the posters stapled to the wood-paneled wall, but Graham got the feeling she wasn’t reading them. When her eyes met his, he understood Dub’s concern. Where there once had been purpose and hope, there was now timidity and emptiness. Then she blinked and those things were tucked away.

  “Hello, Graham.” Her forearms rested against her abdomen, and she gripped one elbow, worrying the skin with her thumb. “I bet you never thought you’d see me in this office.” She smiled, but her gaze swept to the air vent on the ceiling, then the two vinyl chairs across from the desk, then the outdated magazines on the corner table.

  “You were fairly clear about that.” He pulled on his earlobe, trying not to stare at her but failing miserably.

  Two of her fingers jerked away from her elbow and toward the front window. “My dad told me about your ‘Help Wanted’ sign. If you’re still hiring, I’d like to fill out an application.”

  “No application necessary.” He nodded, then nodded again. “Let’s just take a seat in my office and talk.” He pivoted and started down the hallway, uncertain if she would follow.

  She didn’t.

  “I don’t actually want the job,” she called after him with a small laugh.

  Graham stopped, turned, shrugged. “Okay . . .”

  “I just need to apply.”

  “To get your dad off your back?”

  She visibly relaxed, and her smiling eyes seemed to plead with him. “Something like that.”

  He considered offering her a chair in the waiting room, but she probably wouldn’t want to get that comfortable. He moved to stand behind the receptionist’s desk.

  “Sorry about the other day,” she said. “I practically hung up on you.” She pushed one side of her hair behind her ear with a manicured fingertip. He had forgotten her willowy piano-player hands. So delicate.

  “No worries,” he said. “I shouldn’t have called you in the first place.”

  As she peered around the room, Graham took the opportunity to study her. She was neatly dressed, so apparently she was taking better care of herself than when Dub had first called him. She wore dark jeans and high-heeled sandals, with a long sleeved shirt. He took a few moments to peruse the open appointment book in front of him, giving Cecily the opportunity to study him too, if she needed to.

  “My dad is something else,” she said.

  “He’s just worried about you.” Graham rested his knee on the chair, itching to ask her a few leading questions but remembering her insistence that she didn’t need counseling. “So about the job,” he said. “It’s just a basic receptionist position, answering the phone, scheduling clients, brewing the occasional pot of coffee. A full forty hours, but the schedule varies. I work from eight to five three days a week, but on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I come in late so I can see clients into the evening.” He realized he had shoved his hand in his pocket and was fiddling with his keys and loose change, filling the office with a loud tinkling sound. He pulled his hand out and crossed his arms. “It pays ten an hour, but I’d do my best to give you an increase as soon as possible.”

  “You look different.” Her fingers interlocked loosely in front of her body. “I guess it’s the beard.”

  Did that mean the beard was good? Or bad? He smiled. “So you’re still not interested. In the job?”

  “Sorry. No.” Her thumbs traded places, then returned to their original position, dancing a stilted, round-and-round waltz. She had said she didn’t play the piano anymore, and he wondered why. Music had practically been her life before she left. It had been her oxygen.

  “But there are some pretty sweet job perks,” he said. “Every Wednesday, I take the staff to Soccer Mom’s for lunch.”

  “The staff?” She glanced toward the hallway.

  “That would be you. Assuming you decide to take the job.”

  “Hmm. Who’s Soccer Mom?”

  “Oh.” He’d forgotten how long she’d been gone. “Sayakomarn’s. It’s a Thai restaurant down on the square. Everybody calls it Soccer Mom’s.”

  Her eyebrows rose, and she chuckled. “That’s Canyon for you.” Her laughter bounced around the room like a balloon she had swatted with the palm of her hand.

  When the sound floated to the floor in the corner, Graham shook his head. “Any chance you might want a temporary position for a few hours a week? Until I find a permanent receptionist?”

  She squinted. “Probably not.” When she ducked her head, her gaze fell on the appointment book.

  “What’s this X?”

  She was asking a lot of questions for someone who didn’t want the job. Maybe she didn’t know what she wanted.

  “That’s a regular client who comes in every Thursday evening. She’s a little . . . shy.”

  “Her name is X?”

  “No . . . She just doesn’t want other clients to see her name and discover she comes in.”

  “Why couldn’t you simply keep the book closed?” Her sassiness made Graham smile.

  “This client doesn’t want any person, including my not-yet-hired, temporary, part-time receptionist, to know she comes here. But once she heals a little, I think she’ll be more confident and less sensitive.”

  “If she doesn’t want anyone to see her, then clearly I shouldn’t take the job and be sitting here when she walks in.”

  He smiled. “I appreciate your compassion, but I need you here.” That sounded too pushy. He didn’t need her; he needed someone. “If you were to take the job, you’d have to wait in the break room on Thursday nights while she was here. But you’d still be in the office, and that’s what counts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t like to counsel women when I’m here alone. That’s the reason I have a receptionist in the first place, but since I’m in a bind, I’ve relaxed my policy so that I’m not counseling women alone after dark. Which is just Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

  She stared at him, clearly trying to work it out in her head, then she chuckled. “You’re worried there might be gossip.”

  She hadn’t asked for more information, but he couldn’t seem to hush himself. “Yes, but believe me, most of my clients aren’t my type.” His hand went back into his pocket. Clink clink. “But even if they were, it’s against the code of ethics for me to date clients because it infringes on their vulnerabilities.” He cleared his throat.

  “Code of ethics?”

  “In other words, it’s against the law.”

  “So . . . you’ve never dated a client?”

  “Definitely not. My lawyer would go crazy.”

  “You have a lawyer?”

  “Everyone has a lawyer.”

  She eyed him skeptically, and Graham’s knee pushed against the swiveling office chair in front of him. A little to the left, a little to the right. Cecily had somehow managed to swing the conversation away from herself, and now Graham felt as though a bright spotlight was focused on him. She didn’t seem to have done it on purpose, or even to know she had done it. Most likely it was a defense mechanism to protect herself, but on the other hand, she was still standing there, chitchatting, no longer in a hurry to leave. Graham made an educated assessment.

  Cecily needed someone to talk to.

  “No wonder you’re not married,” she said. “You’ve probably counseled every woman in Canyon at one time or another.”

  “That may be more true than you know.”

/>   “Are you interested in Madam X?” Her eyebrows inched upward accusingly.

  “No, no, no. Like I said, she’s not my type.” Good grief, why did he keep saying that? Graham prayed she wouldn’t ask what his type was.

  “Why does type matter anyway?” She took a step away from the desk to investigate the magazine rack. “I’m going out on a date, and I’m pretty sure he’s not my type.”

  “You’re dating?”

  “I’m not dating,” she insisted. “I have a date. There’s a big difference. I barely even know the man.” Her head jerked as though she realized, a little too late, how that sounded.

  Graham paused before asking his next question. “Are you positive you’re ready to date?”

  “Oh . . . sure.” Her expression clouded. “All the books say wait a year, and it’s been a year. Since my divorce.”

  “The books also say to wait until you’re emotionally ready.”

  She lowered her chin, leveling her gaze at him, but she didn’t reply.

  He raised his hands as if she had pulled a gun. “Line crossed. My bad.”

  Her shoulders rose and fell dismissively. “I’ll consider the temporary position and let you know in a few days.” She walked to the door, then turned and smiled. “But don’t hold your breath.”

  “Couldn’t ask for more. I’m just glad you’ll think about it.”

  She lifted one eyebrow as she pushed through the door, and Graham knew one thing hadn’t changed about Cecily Witherspoon Ross. She was still sharp as a whip. If he wanted to insert bits of therapy whenever he bumped into her, he would have to be subtle. And sneaky.

  But he could certainly do that.

  Chapter Eight

  Text from Graham to Cecily: Thanks for almost applying for the receptionist position. The rest of the staff is looking forward to your decision.

  Cecily: So is my dad.

  Cecily (three hours and four minutes later): If I take it at all it will only be temporarily.

  Cecily: In the evenings.

  I considered breaking my date with Michael Divins, but in the end I kept it, mostly because Graham had told me not to, but also out of curiosity—Why had Michael asked me out?—and because I knew it would rankle Mirinda.

  Now Michael’s elbow rested next to mine on the arm of the theater seat, and I was questioning all three motives.

  “Why’d you cover up your tattoo?” He asked.

  “I don’t exactly love it.” I tugged my sleeve over my wrist. “I never thought I’d have a tattoo, much less one that covers my entire arm.”

  “That must’ve been one heck of a party.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  He nodded. “I’d love to have a good look at it.”

  He wanted to see my tattoo. Most people glanced at my arm, then looked away. Some would peek at it again, trying to see the design in the ink, but few people ever really inspected it. What could it hurt? I pulled my sleeve up to my elbow.

  Michael’s touch trailed across my forearm. “It’s sort of sexy.” He laughed nervously. “Though I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

  I tried not to make eye contact. Not because he had mentioned the sexiness of my tattoo, but because I had heard those words before. From Brett.

  Three teenage girls giggled from down the aisle, drawing Michael’s attention. They wore short skirts and tank tops, clearly having dressed to match each other. Since there was security in numbers, I didn’t blame them, but I envied their confidence. Following behind them, fully clothed, were three lanky boys. They seemed to be a few years younger, though I doubted that was the case.

  I studied Michael discreetly, wondering if I hadn’t seen him on a Gatorade commercial. He could just as easily have been in an ad for designer jeans. Or expensive red wine. Or shampoo.

  “So, how do you know Mirinda?” he asked.

  Irritation pricked at me. He had mentioned Mirinda while we were eating dinner at Soccer Mom’s. Apparently he had gotten a text from her, and I figured she had planned the timing. “Actually, she’s my sister-in-law.” When his eyes widened, I clarified, in a softer tone. “Ex-sister-in-law.”

  He seemed to hold his breath in a mild, what-have-I-gotten-myself-into panic. “You were married to her brother . . . Brett?” His eyes squinted. “I’ve never met him.”

  Had he met the rest of her family? “In a town as small as Canyon, everyone has a connection somehow.” I tried to make light of the situation, relieved that the movie previews were starting. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Amarillo.” He settled back into his seat. “Not much bigger, but decidedly different,” he whispered.

  Decidedly different. Like this date.

  The movie opened with an action scene, but ten minutes in, the male characters predictably followed the bad guys into a night club where a beautiful girl danced provocatively on stage. I sighed. My first counselor, years before the divorce, had warned me not to watch movies. Hollywood is not a healthy standard of measurement, Ms. Ross. You’ll always find yourself lacking if you hold yourself to standards set by models and actresses.

  But that had been a long time ago.

  Two hours later, the heroes were in one helicopter fighting the bad guys who were in another. All of them had powerful guns and bulging muscles, and each of them wanted more money and the beautiful girl.

  “Want to get an ice cream when this is over?” Michael leaned toward me, and I wondered if he was less than impressed with the movie too. “There’s a new place. You’ll love it.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  His shoulders bounced, one after the other with a split second between, like a bowl of Jell-O. “Because I said so?” he teased.

  His innocent words triggered an emotional reaction, reminding me of Brett and transporting me back in time. Because I said so had been Brett’s answer to so many questions.

  Why should we paint the kitchen gray?

  Why should I drop out of school?

  Why should we stop trying for another baby?

  “Actually, I need to get home,” I said.

  In the light of the screen, I could see a hint of relief in his eyes, and I knew he had come to a decision. He had worked through his what-have-I-gotten-myself-into panic and determined that dating me was too great a risk. Mirinda—his on-again, off-again girl—was worth more.

  On the screen, the hero reveled in the glory of his accomplishments with a long-legged beauty standing next to him, and I thought, How appropriate.

  Mirinda couldn’t have planned it better herself.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time Michael dropped me off at the cabin, we had toiled through a stilted conversation about my history with Mirinda, which led to an even worse discussion about Michael’s relationship with her. Apparently he worried that she was only interested in him for his status and for the money that was still rolling in from his guaranteed contract.

  His lengthy explanation came across as an apology for asking me out in the first place.

  “I couldn’t believe you didn’t know who I was,” he said. “You seemed like a breath of fresh air.” He couldn’t seem to look me in the eye. “I didn’t realize you were related to her, but regardless, I was a louse for asking you out right in front of her. I apologize for that.”

  He should apologize to her, not me, I thought. But I didn’t say so.

  Just as I got out of his fancy car—he had informed me it was a 1979 Corvette—he offered me a part-time position playing piano in his coffee shop.

  “You’re looking for work, right? Mirinda says you play, and I’ve always thought it would be cool to have live piano for the evening crowd. Mood music, you know?”

  Music had always calmed my spirit, but I wasn’t convinced it would compel customers to buy more caffeinated drinks or sugary pastries. I gripped the edge of the car door and bent down to peer in at him. “I already have a job. Thanks, though.” And, instantly, working a temp position for Graham Cracker seemed
so much better than it had earlier in the day.

  “You sure? It would be the perfect job for a girl like you.”

  A girl like me. Yet another of Brett’s phrases.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Okay, then. See you around. And, Cecily? I’m sorry again.”

  I didn’t watch him drive away.

  The glass storm door bumped my backside as I let myself in. Dad always left the cabin unlocked, and why not? There was no one around for over a mile. Unless you counted the Smithsons’ hunting lodge, but the canyon jutted between us and them, and the only way to get there was the long way.

  A note from Dad lay on the kitchen counter next to a box of Cheerios. Have a meeting tonight. Be home late.

  I tossed the note in the trash, tucked the box of cereal under my arm, and trudged to my room. Ten minutes later I had changed into my nightshirt and was leaning against my pillows, eating Cheerios by the handful. I figured it didn’t count as gorging because they were made from oat bran—and it was heart healthy and all that. I frowned. What had Dad called it? Wallowing? I still didn’t think my behavior fell under that definition because . . . surely wallowing involved chocolate. Or at least Cheetos.

  Sometimes Brett used to bring me chocolate, and I always felt it was his way of trying to get me to stop whining. I didn’t want to be that way, but once our problems had started, I so desperately needed reassurance from him—in the form of compliments, hugs, even eye contact—that I hung on every word he uttered, every facial expression he cast my way, every sigh of frustration. But it didn’t matter. Even if he had done all those things perfectly, he never could have convinced me that I was what he wanted.

  Because I wasn’t. And we both knew it.

  I reached for my phone, tapped my way to the saved messages, and listened to his voice again. Then I tossed the phone on the bed. A moment later, I found myself standing in front of the narrow closet door, scrunching my nose at my reflection. I missed the big walk-in closet I’d had in California—a safe cocoon where I had spent many sleepless nights curled on the floor and sheltered from the world, from my problems, from my husband.