Looking Glass Lies

by Varina Denman

  “Soon, I think. She was headed to Amarillo. Shopping or something.”

  Graham figured she’d be home by now. “How’re you doing, Dub?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Still meeting with the group?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said, “probably always will.”

  “I know you’re helping a lot of them.”

  “That’s what keeps me going. Gives me purpose.” He winked at Graham, then gestured toward the approaching gray SUV. “I best be going.”

  “Don’t rush off on account of me.”

  Dub smiled knowingly. “Glad you could stop by, Graham. Real glad.” He waved at Cecily as their vehicles passed.

  By the time Cecily and Graham had both pulled in front of the cabin, Graham was absurdly nervous. He was with Cecily every day at the office, but now he was on her home turf, uninvited.

  She eyed him skeptically. “Hey.”

  “Sorry to bother you at home,” he took a step toward her and said the first thing that came to his mind. “My bike.”

  “Your bike?”

  She frowned at the two-wheeler in the back of his truck, and Graham did the same, perplexed with himself. “Um . . . my handlebars are a little loose?” His handlebars were fine. “So I stopped. Thought I might borrow some tools from your dad.”

  She glanced down the road toward where her father’s truck had disappeared, and Graham scrambled to get back on track. “But since I’m here, there’s a few things I wanted to talk to you about.” That was too abrupt.

  Her expression cleared. “Like Mirinda?”

  “Mirinda?”

  “You’re probably worried that I’m going to gossip about her being Madam X, but honestly, I’m not that interested in whether or not she needs counseling. Seems to me she shouldn’t try to hide it.”

  “I wouldn’t say she’s trying to hide it, necessarily.”

  “Coming to the office under cover of darkness and requesting that your receptionist shut herself in the break room?” She gave him a pointed look. “That’s not hiding?”

  “I guess I just look at it from a different perspective.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “She knows her limits, that’s all. No need to push herself into a place that might hinder her progress.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Honestly, Mirinda and her problems don’t interest me.”

  Clearly Brett’s sister interested Cecily more than she let on.

  “Shanty Espinosa, on the other hand, is a mystery.” Cecily softened, then grinned. She was holding a spiral notebook, but she tossed it on the front deck before gesturing toward the shed at the side of the house. “Dad’s tools are out here.”

  Graham followed her. “Shanty’s demonstration seemed to go well.” Except the part where he made a fool of himself by staring at Cecily. What must she think?

  “It was phenomenal. You can watch the whole thing on YouTube later. Nina recorded it.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “Maybe?” They were at the door of the shed now, and Cecily turned to frown at him.

  He shrugged. “I don’t make a habit of watching videos of women in bikinis.”

  “It’s just Shanty.”

  “Why would that make a difference?”

  Cecily froze with her hand on the doorknob, seeming to analyze his question along with her previous statement. Then she turned away. “Do you always have so much trouble with your bike?”

  “Oh, you know . . .” He couldn’t think of what to say, and the truth was out of reach.

  When they entered the building, they were in a neat and tidy workshop. “What do you need?” she asked.

  “A wrench.”

  She pointed to a pegboard on the wall. “Help yourself.”

  Graham was distracted by the room. Not only was there an extensive set of tools, but there were also carpentry gadgets, power saws, and neatly labeled drawers. “This is one awesome workshop. Your dad must love it.”

  “Actually, he doesn’t spend much time out here anymore. Not since Mom passed. They used to do projects together—furniture and whatnot—but now, he doesn’t seem to have it in him.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, feeling incompetent.

  She shrugged, then glanced at the untouched tools. “Would you like to see some of their old stuff?”

  When he nodded, she opened a door that led into an adjacent garage. The bulk of the space was taken up by a car, covered in a canvas tarp, but around its edges were woodworking projects, some finished, some in-process. Cecily ran her hand along the top of a three-tiered shelf, leaving fingertip trails in the dust. “They always sanded everything until it was perfectly smooth. I used to love to feel the wood grain.”

  “I remember them selling these years ago.”

  “They would set up on the side of the highway.”

  Graham chuckled. “My mother bought a spice rack once.” His mind wandered back and forth through his memories. “These are great, Cecily. Do you think your dad will ever do carpentry work again?”

  “You’re the counselor.”

  “I’m not a fortune teller, though.”

  She leaned against the car and crossed her arms. “But Dad said he’s talked to you before.”

  Graham didn’t like the challenge in her eyes, but he couldn’t blame her for asking. “He may never want to work in his shop again because it reminds him of your mom, but he’ll probably find another interest eventually.”

  “A hobby.” She rolled her eyes. “Shanty told me to get a hobby.”

  “Not bad advice.”

  She scrutinized him. “That was your advice to her, wasn’t it?” she asked. “Oh, my goodness. Are you the reason she’s a blogger now?”

  His hand quivered where it rested on his thigh. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “As long as—”

  “It’s not about a client. Not directly, anyway.” She shifted her feet. “I was just wondering why you counsel Shanty and Nina, but you don’t want to help me. You said I didn’t need more counseling and that the support group would be enough, but if that’s true, then Shanty and Nina shouldn’t need more counseling either.” Her voice grew heated. “It doesn’t really matter. I just feel like maybe you aren’t interested in my problems.”

  Not interested? If he was completely honest, he’d have to say he was obsessed, not merely with Cecily’s problems, but with every aspect of her life—past, present, and future—but he could hardly tell her that.

  He lifted his palms. “You never know about people, Cecily.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Shanty and Nina have things going on in their lives that you aren’t aware of. And they may need counseling for different reasons.” At least that was true.

  She hugged her elbows and looked away from him.

  “What kind of car is this?” he asked, his guilt driving him to shift the conversation away from his dishonesty.

  Her shoulders relaxed. “It’s my old Jeep. I don’t know why Dad keeps it.”

  “No way. Is it still lemon yellow?”

  “I suppose.” She pulled the canvas up to reveal the bright-colored hood.

  Graham whistled. “You could always see this car coming from a mile away.”

  “I don’t know what we were thinking.”

  “Aw, that was just you back then.” He hoped she took that the right way. “Does it still run?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  With one of them on each side of the Jeep, they peeled the canvas back until it landed in a pile on the concrete floor. They climbed in, Cecily in the driver’s seat and Graham next to her. She rummaged through the glove box for a key, and when she didn’t find it, she looked on the floorboard and on the dash, then she slumped back in her seat. “I guess we’ll never know. Daddy may have lost the keys years ago.”

  “I doubt it.” Graham imagined Dub was holding on to the br
ight-yellow Jeep because it reminded him of his happy daughter who disappeared.

  Cecily’s smile faded, and Graham wondered if she was thinking about memories of her younger self, driving around Canyon, laughing with her friends. Her forehead was furrowed, and Graham felt the urge to reach over and hug her like he had at the park.

  “My dad’s considering selling this place.”

  “Is he?” Graham already knew that, and he had probably known before Cecily did. Even though it was Dub’s business to share, Graham was beginning to feel like everything he said to her was a half-truth.

  “He may even sell it to Michael Divins.” She gritted her teeth. “Probably as a gift for Mirinda.”

  This was news to him, but it wasn’t surprising. Dub and Michael were good friends, and Michael had the money to pay cash for the place, but . . . oh, no . . . Michael buying the place for Mirinda was almost the same as Brett taking it away from her himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “That can’t be easy for you.”

  “All this time Mirinda’s known the deal was in the works. She’s probably been laughing at me every time I walk into that stupid coffee shop.”

  “Is it for sure?”

  “Not yet.” She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe the radio still works.” She turned the knob and was instantly rewarded with music. Her head bounced gently with the beat, and Graham knew she had talked about the real estate deal as long as she could stand.

  “I’m not big on rap,” he admitted.

  “Me neither.” She punched a button to change the station, but landed on a commercial for an accident-and-injury lawyer. She punched again, and the garage was filled with piano music Graham recognized from a movie. “That’s more like it,” she said.

  “What is that song?”

  “Debussy’s ‘Clair de lune.’”

  “Can you play it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  Graham knew better. He figured Cecily could play anything she set her mind on.

  They listened without speaking. Cecily leaned back and closed her eyes, and Graham leaned back and watched her. She was so beautiful. He shook his head, wondering how on earth she didn’t know it.

  “This part’s good.” She tapped her fingers on his knee as if she were playing the piano, her eyes still closed.

  This was the Cecily he remembered, driving a bright-yellow car with blaring piano music. This was the Cecily he had been infatuated with. This was the Cecily he missed. He never would have lied to her back then.

  Before the song came to a close, the battery on the old car reached the end of its life, and the music faded into nothing.

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” she said. “We didn’t get the final few chords.” She continued to tap his leg, finishing the piece in her mind.

  In the loud silence, Graham slowly touched her fingers, stilling her movements. With one finger, he traced a circle on the back of her hand, and she opened her eyes, calmly, as though she wasn’t surprised by his touch.

  She didn’t move, only watched their hands, but her eyes were soft, and he thought she might not mind what he was doing. “I’ve been lying to you,” he said. “About counseling.”

  “I don’t like lies.”

  “I don’t either, but I was afraid to tell you the truth.”

  “Are you still afraid?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He took her hand in his, lifted it to his mouth, and rubbed his lips against her fingertips. “I can’t bear to have you as a client, Cecily, restricted to weekly appointments and governed by rules and regulations. I want more than that. I want more of you.” He hesitantly looked at her for a reaction. “Is that okay?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were a mixture of surprise, acceptance, and something else.

  Fear.

  But the furrow on her forehead melted, and she leaned toward him in slow motion, stopping with her face inches from his. Her quizzical gaze slid from one of his eyes to the other, then to his hair, then to his chin as though she were looking for the answer to a question. When she shook her head, ever so slightly, Graham felt as though she were admitting to herself that the question was irrelevant. She closed her eyes.

  When their lips met, Graham’s insides exploded in a burst of emotions. Desire, compassion, longing, but with the good feelings came a heavy dose of guilt, and he pulled away.

  “I tried to wait until you’re more ready . . .”

  “If you’re waiting until I’m emotionally healthy enough for a relationship, you might have a really long wait.” When she looked into his eyes and smiled, Graham couldn’t help himself.

  He pulled her close and kissed her again. Harder.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Group text from Shanty: No one can MAKE you feel unattractive.

  Nina: shurrrrr they can

  Cecily: No they can’t, but sometimes it feels like it.

  Not only did I agree to go out with Graham Harper, but I also agreed to go to the carnival, of all places. In twenty-four hours, the parking lot of the Westgate Mall had been transformed into an amusement park, filled with gangly teenagers, rough-looking carnies, and flustered parents searching for one more quarter to give their children.

  And then there was Graham and me.

  I walked beside him, careful not to bump his elbow with mine, but when we wedged ourselves into the cocoon-like pod of the Tilt-A-Whirl, our bodies touched all the way from shoulders to knees, and for once, he wasn’t fidgeting.

  Our seats jerked to the left, then the pod began rotating smoothly, and I involuntarily leaned closer to him. “Sorry,” I said. “Centrifugal force.”

  “No worries.” He yelled to be heard over the organ music that grew louder every time we whirled close to a speaker. “I haven’t done this in years!”

  Our cocoon swung upward, and my stomach responded as though a harp had been strummed deep inside me, creating vibrations of gradually increasing pitch. I gasped in surprise, and then, feeling silly but not really caring, I laughed out loud. When our pod swung from side to side, Graham slid his arm around my shoulders and held me tight.

  It happened so quickly. I didn’t have time to decide if I minded, and all I could think was how the ride was better because he was there. He hooted like a cowboy riding a bronco, and then the machine began to calm, spiraling back to earth, its movements slowing until it came to a jarring halt.

  A worker trudged past our car, loudly clanking the locking mechanism and hoisting the door upward, and as I clambered to the ground, I felt Graham’s hand on my waist.

  “Want to try the bumper cars?” he asked.

  “Eww, I hate bumper cars.”

  His eyes widened. “So do I. The cars never do what you tell them to do.”

  “And all that banging gives me a headache.”

  “How about the Ferris wheel?”

  I looked at the top of the ride, high above the parking lot. “I guess.”

  Five minutes later, we were stuck in a slow-moving line, and I crossed my arms, not knowing what to do with myself. Graham had both hands shoved in his back pockets.

  “This is awkward, isn’t it?” he said, and my tension eased.

  “I never pictured myself going out with you,” I said. When his smiled faded, I quickly added, “When we were young, I mean. Now I picture it. Obviously.” I was babbling.

  He gave me an I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-tell-you-this smile. “Back in school? I thought about going out with you every single day.” His smile didn’t change, but his gaze bounced away, as though he were afraid of my reaction.

  “Why didn’t you ask me out?”

  Instead of answering, he looked me right in the eye and raised his eyebrows.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You just said you never pictured yourself going out with me. Why would I risk it?”

  “Oh, I see. You haven’t always been the confident therapist.”

  “Confident?�
�

  “That’s you. Confident nature boy.”

  He snorted. “Nature boy?”

  “You bike in the canyon. You wear plaid shirts, untucked. You have a beard.” I leaned toward him. “You think happy thoughts.”

  “But I eat processed food, I love me some air conditioning, and I couldn’t live without the Internet. Clearly I’m not a nature boy.”

  The line stopped inching forward and music began playing. One by one, the lighted cars lifted into the air, then swung around and came back down. People were laughing and calling out to each other, pointing at things in the distance when their cars were high in the air. A couple of grade school boys rocked their car forward and backward while their parents threatened them from the car behind. A teenage boy tried to kiss the girl next to him, but she appeared to be feeling seasick and didn’t pay much attention. Another couple was leaned back, the woman nestled against the man, his arm around her.

  They were all just people. Normal people. And I was normal too. So often I felt just slightly insane, as though my marriage and divorce had left me in a state of mental disrepair. And maybe it had. Even now I felt crazy for going out with Graham.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “What makes you think I’m thinking?”

  “You can tell me, you know.”

  I stared at the rotating cars, and after a few minutes, the ride stopped. Two little girls climbed off, then waited at the side fence until the wheel rotated further, and their parents got off. I looked at Graham. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

  He nodded solemnly. “You’re not sure you want to be.”

  “No, that’s not it.” A smile forced its way to my lips. “I want to be here. With you.”

  His eyes melted in relief. “But?”

  “I have this problem with trust.”

  “As you should.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Your trust has been breached, and it will take a while to be able to trust again.”

  “I’m still so angry. Brett stole seven years of my life—more than that really—and he stole my happiness. Even my sanity.”

  “You’re not insane.”

  “It feels like it.”

  He hesitated. “What did Brett do . . . exactly?”

  Seriously? He was asking me right now? In the middle of a parking lot carnival? But then I realized that was just as good a place as any. Maybe better. I took a deep breath and nodded. “It started when he was just a boy, looking at naughty pictures, but over the years, it grew worse.” I swallowed. “In the end, he was doing and saying things that—” I turned my face away.