The Liar Next Door: An absolutely unputdownable domestic thriller

by Nicola Marsh

  After that I’d been more circumspect in the forbidden stuff I got up to—sex, drugs, drinking, the usual—until I finished school and left Syracuse as fast as humanly possible. Though even at college I’d been more careful than most, determined to do my folks proud. I saw how hard they worked, how much they supported the community and those less fortunate, how utterly selfless they were and no way in hell did I want to be responsible for ruining all that.

  Since then my father’s popularity as a pastor has only grown. I never imagined his weekly services would be broadcast let alone watched by so many. Not that I’m terribly religious now but I do occasionally tune in because he’s a good dad and I love him for not forcing his beliefs down my throat. He’s a dynamic speaker and can hold a congregation spellbound, and together with my mom they do a lot of good for many people.

  If my secret ever gets out, it will destroy them. I can’t be responsible for that. I won’t.

  “You look amazing.” Lloyd plants a soft kiss on my neck. “Tell me again why we have to entertain these virtual strangers?”

  “They’re not strangers, they’re our neighbors and we may need their help when this baby comes, that’s why I’m doing this.”

  “You think that pretty boy from across the park is going to help us with our son?” He studies my face and I manage a smile, wondering if Lloyd has a sixth sense. He never teases me about other men but there’s something about Ruston that’s making him edgy. It convinces me I’ve done the right thing in not telling him about my past. My husband’s a calm man but I have a feeling he’ll be shattered by my deception if he discovers how big a role Ruston had in my life.

  “He might.” I playfully slap his chest, desperately trying to blot out the appealing image of Ruston bouncing my baby on his knee. “Already told you, those pregnancy books terrify me so I’ll need all the help I can get when this one puts in an appearance. I want to make friends with the women at least.”

  I take his hand and press it low against my belly, knowing he melts every time I do this. His goofy grin has me biting back a relieved sigh. He’s been suitably distracted.

  “Just don’t sit him next to me, okay? I don’t need you making comparisons between the two of us.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I force a light laugh and place my hand over his, and as his moves in a slow caress I really hope I’m doing the right thing.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I’m not so sure.

  The steaks have been grilled and consumed, the salads demolished and I’m slicing the cheesecake to serve as dessert when Lloyd comes into the kitchen.

  “Need a hand?” My husband’s handsome in a navy polo and jeans, his hair uncombed, appealing in a rumpled kind of way, but nothing on the perfection of Ruston, who’s incredibly sexy in black slacks and silk shirt, and I hate myself for making the comparison.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered.” I slide the server under a slice and place it carefully on a plate before adding a swirl of whipped cream on the side. “Though you can help me take these plates in once I’m done.”

  “Anything for you, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to my lips. “And before you say ‘I told you so’ later, I take back what I said about Ruston making a play for you.” He points to the dining room. “He seems very enamored with Frankie.”

  I’m relieved my acting skills are better than I thought, and Lloyd has dropped the idea I have some kind of connection with Ruston. It will make things easier when the truth comes out.

  “They’re sitting next to each other at a dinner party making small talk, big deal. Stop being such a gossip.”

  Lloyd shrugs, his grin bashful. “Maybe moving into a close-knit community is making me a gossip, but I don’t think Andre likes Ruston chatting up his wife.”

  I brandish the server toward the dining room, waving away his concern. “Frankie’s being polite. What do you expect her to do, ignore him?”

  “No, but she’s hanging on his every word and I can sense the tension.” He grimaces and swipes a hand over his face. “I’ve actually been enjoying myself but now, I think we should wind it up.”

  “Good idea,” I say, sliding the last piece of cheesecake onto a plate. I agree with my husband. Nothing has gone to plan this evening and rather than put more pressure on the person I’m blackmailing, I’ve ended up feeling on edge. “Let’s have dessert, then gently nudge them out the door.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says, and chuckles as I hand him a few dessert plates. “I’m just glad the lovely Frankie is melting in a puddle when Ruston talks to her and not you.”

  “The lovely Frankie?” I pretend to pout. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  He grins. “Is it working?”

  “You’re a one woman man and don’t you forget it.” I waggle my finger at him before picking up the remaining plates, balancing two on my opposite forearm and holding one in my hand, mimicking his expertise.

  “Duly noted,” he says, amusement glinting in his eyes at the thought of making me jealous. “For what it’s worth, I think you did a good thing here tonight, inviting the neighbors over.”

  “Thanks.” I melt under his admiration. “Your support means the world to me. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He squares his shoulders, striking a pose. “I also know you find me irresistible.”

  I smile, wishing our relationship could always be this good. But I know it’s futile, because when I tell him the truth, it will change everything.

  Thirty-Six

  Frankie

  THEN

  When I let myself into the beach cottage using the spare key hidden in a conch shell tucked under the back step, I’m surprised to find the living room blinds up and a tempting aroma of garlic bread and simmering tomatoes wafting from the kitchen.

  I’d called Walter to ask him if it was okay if I spent a few days here and he’d agreed, saying the cottage had been vacant for months since the last tenants left and he hadn’t been near the place. Either he has squatters who cook divine Italian food or he’s forgotten he’s rented the place out to someone else.

  “Hello?” I call out, placing my suitcase near the door before making my way to the kitchen.

  “In here.”

  I’m surprised to hear Walter’s deep voice. The last thing I want is my ex-husband hanging around while I contemplate strangling my current one.

  I enter the kitchen to find the small dining table set for two, with the mismatched crockery we’d once joked about, a bottle of uncorked Merlot next to a bowl of salad in the middle. “What are you doing here?”

  “You sounded pretty bad on the phone so I thought you could do with a meal.” He lifts the lid on a pot and my memory receptors leap for joy. About the only good meal he cooked while we were married was spaghetti bolognaise and I realize I haven’t eaten since last night. When Andre had arrived home this morning I’d had an orange juice, foolishly thinking we could grab brunch at our favorite deli.

  “You didn’t have to do all this.” I point at the table. “But I’m glad you did.”

  He dishes the spaghetti onto two plates and covers the pasta with bolognaise sauce. It gives me a chance to look at him. He hasn’t changed at all since I last saw him two and half years ago, in this very house when we parted and he wished me well. He didn’t come near me during our year-long separation and when I informed him why I’d be leaving the cottage, to move to Manhattan with Andre, he’d been upset yet stoic.

  There’s comfort in familiarity and when he turns and catches me watching him, the corners of his mouth kick into a smile of understanding. “Long time no see, huh?”

  I nod. “I was just thinking that.”

  Rather than badger me for information, he places the plates on the table and gestures at the seat opposite. “Let’s eat.”

  After not being able to swallow a sip of water past the lump in my throat since Andre delivered his bombshell this morning, I find myself ravenous and I eat two helpings of pas
ta, salad and garlic bread before I speak a word.

  True to form, Walter leaves me to eat, his gaze watchful but content, like he’s pleased with me for eating. When I drain my second glass of Merlot and he lays down his cutlery in the middle of his empty plate, I’m ready to talk.

  I could hedge around why I’m here, even lie about it and make up a story, but in the end I blurt, “Andre cheated on me.”

  He recoils, his mouth twisted in distaste. “Stupid bastard.”

  Walter isn’t one for swearing and my eyebrows rise in surprise. “Cursing? I see you’ve picked up some bad habits since I’ve been gone?”

  “Fuck, yeah.”

  We laugh and I marvel at how easily we’ve slipped into our old camaraderie. Being with Walter has always been comfortable and while I may have resented his presence initially I’m glad he’s here. Admitting out loud what Andre did has dissipated its hold on me, like maybe I have a chance of eventually moving past it. Or maybe that’s Walt’s calming effect on me, the way he truly listens to anything I have to say.

  “You said on the phone you needed a few days out here to think?”

  “Something like that.” I shrug. “We’ve been happy, so when he confessed this morning it threw me. He had a drunken one-night stand with a woman in Hartford while on a work trip.”

  “The man’s an idiot to cheat on you.”

  He sounds so outraged on my behalf I want to hug him. He’s always supported me and despite our divorce he’s still on my side. It means a lot, especially when I’m still reeling.

  “Honestly? I don’t want to be twenty-five and have two divorces under my belt so I’ll probably go back and make a go of it once I calm down.” Sadness wells in my chest. “Though I’m still so damn mad at him I could hit something.”

  He pretends to duck. “Do you want me to go mess him up?”

  The thought of sedate Walt getting physical with anyone makes me smile. “You’d do that for me?”

  “You know I’d do anything for you.”

  I know he’s joking but his serious expression makes me realize how much I used to depend on this man, how I knew without a shadow of a doubt he was always in my corner. I miss that reliability, especially now Andre has shattered my trust in him.

  “You’re a good guy, Walt, but I need to deal with this on my own. Besides, I love him and I’m not willing to throw that away.”

  He flinches and I’m stricken as I realize what I’ve implied. That I didn’t love him so I willingly threw him away.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “It’s okay.”

  But it isn’t. I see pain lingering in his gaze before it dips to his plate and I’m gutted that I’ve caused him heartache again.

  So I do what I’ve always done when uncomfortable. I deflect. “How’s Julia?”

  “Away at a conference.”

  Which explains his presence here.

  “You two are solid?”

  He takes an eternity to answer and when he finally raises his gaze to meet mine, he’s resigned.

  “She’s not you.”

  His declaration makes my breath hitch and then I’m crying, the tears I’ve been suppressing all day spurting out of my eyes in a torrent.

  “Hell, Francesca, I’m sorry.”

  His use of my full name makes me cry harder and he pushes back his chair and comes around the table to drag me into his arms. I bury my head into his chest, the fragrance of his laundry detergent and citrus soap mingling in a familiarity that makes me want to cling to him forever.

  He strokes my back as I cry, his head nestled next to mine, his soothing words like “It’s okay” not helping as much as the familiar lulling cadence of his voice.

  When my tears finally stop, I’m still clutching at his shirt and it reminds me of the last time he comforted me on the beach when I told him we were over.

  I can’t believe this man is as dependable now as when I first met him, how he’s still willing to be here for me despite the way I treated him.

  I ease back but he doesn’t let me go, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and when I look into his eyes I know he’s offering me more than a hug.

  “You’re not a cheater and neither am I,” I murmur, hating how tempted I am to prove the opposite.

  “It’s up to you,” he says, rubbing the small of my back in slow, concentric circles. “You’ll always be the one I love, Francesca, and I hate to see you hurting. If all I can do is offer you comfort for a night, I’m okay with that.”

  “You’d let me use you?” I leave off “again?”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  He releases me, giving me a chance to decide.

  This is wrong on so many levels.

  But as I look into Walter’s eyes and the peace I’m seeking washes over me, I know what I want.

  Thirty-Seven

  Frankie

  NOW

  For someone who acts like the hostess with the mostess online I’m not good in social situations and I don’t hold dinner parties. I’ve never had to. With Walter, he was more of a homebody than me and only socialized with bank colleagues occasionally, usually at a bar for farewell drinks or to welcome a new worker. Living with Andre in Manhattan, his graphic design crowd wasn’t the type to host dinner parties. They preferred lurking in dingy underground jazz bars or attending gallery openings. After tagging along to the first few I deferred and he never minded.

  So I have no idea what the seating etiquette is and am surprised to find my name tag at the end of the table next to Ruston, with Saylor on his other side, which places Andre opposite me, Celeste to his right and Lloyd at the end. I’m relieved to see Celeste at ease with Andre and my husband showing no hint of his once-wariness toward our new neighbor.

  But I’m also awkward sitting next to a good-looking guy like Ruston and because I’m hopeless at small talk our limited interaction is clumsy. To make matters worse, he seems to be as reserved as me so our conversation, what little there is of it, is stilted at best. Saylor tries to engage him several times but he almost turns his back on her and angles toward me.

  Increasingly gauche, I start drinking, consuming three glasses of Chardonnay in quick succession, and my reservations loosen.

  “What do you do, Ruston?” I ask, trying to make more of an effort.

  “I’m a photographer, but I do a lot of modeling too.”

  As he looks at me, I notice his incredible eyes, a unique pale green, like jade mixed with aquamarine, a color I’ve never seen before. They’re fringed with long dark lashes the same color as his dark brown hair, an attractive contrast. I’m oddly flustered and it doesn’t help when I note his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw remind me of the gorgeous heroes in the romance novels I devoured by the truckload when married to Walter.

  “You definitely should be in front of the camera, not behind it.”

  The corners of his mouth quirk in amusement and I realize I’ve spoken aloud, articulating my thoughts. Heat flushes my cheeks and I’m beyond embarrassed.

  “Thanks for the compliment.” He smiles, looking more relaxed.

  “It’s the wine,” I say, picking up my glass and bringing it to my lips. “I rarely drink.”

  “You should, if it makes you that honest.” He leans closer, like he’s about to impart some great secret. “I like it.”

  I have no idea how to respond. I didn’t date in high school and Walter was my first boyfriend. Before bumping into Andre at the beach house I hadn’t entertained the idea of being with another man so soon. Only having two relationships with men means I have no idea if Ruston is flirting with me. By Andre’s glare when I glance up after Lloyd places a dessert plate in front of me, he is and my husband doesn’t like it.

  I flash Andre a “you’re my one and only” smile but it must get lost in translation because he ignores me and resumes his conversation with Celeste. She’s not flirting with him. There’s no coyness or giggling, just a genuine interest in w
hat he’s saying. It makes me like her more. I can’t stand women who deliberately flirt with every man in the room.

  Is that what Ruston thinks I’m doing, flirting with him? I’m mortified at the thought.

  “You’ve gone quiet again, Frankie. Maybe you should have some more wine?” He’s teasing me, being friendly, so I nod and hold out my glass to Ruston for him to top up.

  I’m not sure if the three wines I’ve already consumed make my hand shake but before I know it he’s steadying the glass by wrapping his fingers around mine while pouring with the other.

  I know that infuriating blush is back. My cheeks are burning, a beacon to my inexperience with an attractive man. With any kind of man, come to think of it.

  Once the glass is half full he releases my hand and I hope my flustered reaction has gone unnoticed.

  I look up, half expecting to find Andre glowering at me from across the table.

  Instead, I see Celeste watching me.

  Thirty-Eight

  Celeste

  I’m on the way back from the bathroom when I see Frankie and Andre almost toe to toe on the small patch of grass in what passes for a backyard with these brownstones. It’s obvious they’re arguing, and I wonder what it’s about. It hadn’t been the flirtation between Ruston and Frankie at the dinner table earlier, because Andre had been amused rather than annoyed and had made a comment to me about how Frankie rarely drinks and when she does he finds it cute.

  Personally, I found her flirting uncomfortable, especially with her husband sitting across from her. Andre’s a nice guy and doesn’t deserve to be treated that way. I enjoyed chatting with him. It makes me wonder if their argument is about Andre and me. Knowing Frankie’s paranoia, she probably thinks I was flirting with him and maybe that’s why she behaved the way she did? Some kind of silly payback?