A Field Guide to Deception

by Jill Malone

  “Maybe we should get someone else for the front,” Bailey said.

  Claire had been advocating this for weeks. “That girl Sophia recommended would be perfect.”

  “The little one with the eyebrow ring? Yeah, I like her.”

  “Great, I’ll give her a call.”

  Simon had fallen asleep on the loveseat in the office, wound in the fleece blanket Bailey had bought him. Bailey plated four orders, expedited to the tables, and returned to clean her station. Afterward, with no new tickets, she sat on a wooden stool and swigged from her water bottle.

  “How’s Julia these days?” Claire asked, banding, by date, a pile of receipts.

  Bailey blushed.

  “That good?” Claire said.

  “It was so bad the first few times, really, really bad. I almost gave up.”

  “What?” Claire came round the metal table to Bailey’s station. “It was bad?”

  “I know, that was my reaction, too. She’s intelligent, sexy, rich, funny, interested, I mean, how was this not working. But it so wasn’t working. It was like being with a virgin. I wanted to stop her, and say, ‘Here, let me talk you through this.’”

  Claire laughed. “What did you do?”

  “I decided to dump her. We had plans to go out; she picked me up in her Saab, and I couldn’t even look at her. I kept applying makeup, and noticing things outside the window, and talking into my purse. It was awkward. And then she stopped the car, and turned to me, and told me to lift my skirt. I looked up at her, startled, like she was on meth or something, and then I looked outside, and she’d parked at that cul de sac down by Polly Judd Park.”

  Since Bailey had lowered her voice, they huddled together like schoolgirls on a playground. “So I lifted my skirt, and she reached over me and dropped my seat back. It all felt illicit and dirty and really fucking hot. Whatever hadn’t been working suddenly did.”

  Claire straightened up. “You’re telling me she fucked you in a car like a sixteen-year-old boy, and that did it for you?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Well, that’s hard to reconcile, but this is your dirty fantasy.”

  Bailey capped her water bottle, and asked, “How’s your dirty fantasy?”

  “That’s private.” They both laughed. Claire returned to her receipts. Bailey stretched her back.

  “Is she mad at me?” she asked.

  “Ask her and see,” said Claire. “Do you want to come over Saturday evening for dinner at the house? With Julia, of course. We’ll have crab.”

  “Dinner sounds good. I’ll text Julia.” Moments later, her phone chimed. “We’ll bring wine.”

  “Perfect.”

  After borrowing Liv’s truck—she wouldn’t need it, she’d said; only finish work left—Claire spent the day running errands for the café, returns mostly, goods for credit, and a trip to the Valley for a filing cabinet offered online as free to anyone who’d haul it away. That evening, she and Simon swung by Drake’s to pick up Liv. Simon galloped up the stairs, ahead of Claire, and rang the bell.

  “Hello, Julie-ah,” he yelled when she opened the door.

  “Hello, Simon.” She made way so that he could run up to the attic to see Liv. “Hello, Claire. You’ll want to see the attic as well.”

  Claire followed behind them through the kitchen and hallway. Already she could hear Simon greet Liv. The stairs were carpeted—sand-colored with reddish flecks—and they’d thrown plastic runners down to protect the carpet. Liv stood in the center of the attic, holding Simon, beaming. Overhead the fan oscillated, the walls were painted a pumpkin orange, the accents were sand, and red.

  “Oh, Julia,” Claire said, struck by the vibrant tone, the colors like an oriental carpet. “You must be so pleased.”

  “Come and see the bath.”

  Drake opened the door to terracotta tile in large squares on the floor, and smaller squares on the sink counter, and the shower stall. The ceiling was pumpkin orange in here as well. The fixtures gleamed. Despite the absence of furniture and the expansive space, the attic didn’t feel cold, but radiant.

  “It’s lovely,” Claire said. “Liv, your work is beautiful.”

  “That’s just the tile talking.”

  “The tile’s beautiful as well. Julia, what do you think?”

  “I think it’s gorgeous, and tragic. I don’t know how I’ll function, entire days without Liv’s company.”

  “I know,” Claire said, “exactly what you mean.”

  “Well, at least we’ll have dinner on Saturday,” Drake said. “And in the spring, you’ll build the garage I dream about every lousy day I scrape ice off the car.”

  Simon helped Liv carry the last of her gear downstairs. At the kitchen door, Drake shook her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed every minute. The attic is even better than I imagined.”

  “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  Drake waved to them from the porch, her arms wrapped about her, her feet in green felted clogs.

  “Well,” Claire said, squeezed between them on the bench seat. “That’s exciting.”

  “It is,” Liv agreed. They pulled onto Maple, and coasted down the hill.

  “What will you do next, that kitchen remodel?”

  “I have a couple of quick jobs to do before Christmas; I’ve promised Hoffman I’ll handle his kitchen remodel in January.”

  “You’ll go see your folks for Christmas?”

  “I will,” Liv said. “And I’d like you and Simon to come too, if you’re willing.”

  Startled, Claire almost knocked the truck out of gear. “Do you mean it? All of us at your parents’ for Christmas?”

  “I do.”

  “And they won’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. They’ll adore Simon.”

  “Who’s worried?”

  “And you,” Liv said. “They’ll adore you as well.”

  Claire grinned. “What do you think, Simon? Shall we go home with Liv for Christmas?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Presents!”

  Claire had a little belly. Nothing grotesque, but one that made her neglect cropped shirts. At another time, she might have worried, forced herself to take a long morning run in the frigid dark; these days, she found a belly comforting, a milestone for her middle thirties, for the development of her character. And Liv slept with her palm just there.

  Naked, before the full-length mirror, she admired this new body—less firm, less tense—marked as it was by Simon, and now, by Liv. Rings on a tree, she thought, the scars on her shin, and knee, and hand; the rounding of her shoulders; the ache in her wrist. Stories her body kept. Privately, she’d become sentimental enough to rub her belly, like a Buddha, and dream of another child.

  Liv followed the thin, harried man up two flights of stairs and into the first apartment. He’d raked his hand through his hair so many times that she’d begun to worry for his roots.

  “I came in here to paint and lay new carpet, and look at this shit.” He grabbed one of the cupboard doors and the door came off in his hand. “They’re all like this: shoddy shit. The guy I bought this place from was a fucking cockroach. But I’m not a cockroach. People deserve better than this dysfunctional crap.” He raked his hair again. Turned to glare at Liv. “Tell me, you can put some good cabinets in this apartment, and the two others on this floor. Good but affordable. You with me?”

  “I’m with you,” Liv said.

  “You want this job? I got twelve apartment buildings now. I feel like you’re doing right by me, I’ll do right by you with more work. Steve told me you’re skilled.”

  Steve the tile guy, that accounted for this guy having her cell number. Liv eased right away. Referrals were exactly what she’d hoped to cultivate.

  “I’ll take care of this for you,” she said.

  He unwound, for a moment, and shook her hand.

  In the kitchen at Fresh Baked, Liv flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and nothing
happened. Nothing had been happening all morning. She swore, and pulled out her phone.

  “Steve, yeah, it’s Liv. Hey man, do you know a good plumber? Yeah, you got a number?” She walked to Claire’s desk and wrote it down. “No, that’s perfect, and thanks for the apartment job. That’s good of you, man. Yeah, so long.”

  She hung up and looked at Bailey. “You’re getting a new disposal. This thing’s a piece.”

  “Thank you, god,” Bailey said.

  Liv called the plumber, mentioned Steve, and had the promise of a lunch install. This town, sometimes she loved it.

  “You want me to hang out and handle this?” she asked Bailey.

  “Yes, please. I’ll make you lunch.”

  “Fair enough.”

  In the office, Liv ate at the desk, feet up, watching the front staff glide in and out of the kitchen. She’d had a couple of lattes, and an apple fritter, and now a sausage crepe. Hives were like this, frenetic and productive. She enjoyed being on the cusp of it, an observer essentially, another drone.

  “Try this,” Bailey said, holding a cookie to her.

  Liv bit into ginger and cream cheese and a hint of lemon. Followed a path through a field, to a dugout, a girl on a bench, waiting. Grasshoppers launched in the outfield. Liv started down the steps, the girl sat up as though to meet her. And Liv knew she tasted of ginger candy. Knew before she kissed her, that it would be searing.

  “What do you think?” Bailey asked.

  Liv came back to the humming kitchen, Bailey’s voice. She reached out, asked, “Can I have another?”

  Bailey handed her the plate of cookies, and returned to her station.

  Simon used both hands and the heaviest wooden spoon to stir the chocolate and butterscotch chips with the coconut and pecans in the bowl. His mother stood beside him, her hand on his back, and encouraged him. He had been the only one to touch the ingredients for seven-layer bars; he would make dessert by himself.

  “OK, now we’re going to layer everything from the bowl onto the baking pan, just like we did with the graham crackers and butter and sweetened condensed milk. Let me hold the bowl, and you can scoop everything out.”

  He let her take the bowl, his arms stretched beside hers, as though he might be forced to snatch it back if she tried, instead, to pour the contents from the bowl.

  “It smells yummy,” he said.

  “Oh, it does. You’ve done a beautiful job.”

  He rested his hand on her forearm, and then dug the mixture out, spreading it, as she advised, as evenly as possible over the previous layers. His first dessert, and he had made it for his mother and Liv, and Bailey and Drake, for their dinner party. A baker, officially, like Bailey. He’d have a chef’s coat with his name in swirls above the pocket too.

  “The oven’s hot, honey, so I’ll put the pan in.”

  He stood back, sighed deeply, watched his dessert slide into the oven.

  “The light on, please,” he said, pointing to the stove.

  Claire turned the oven light on, and they peered in, warmed by the stove, by this accomplishment.

  Liv made a shredded potato casserole, and a sweet potato soup to have with the crab. Claire was responsible for the crab, the seasonings for the table, and glazing the carrots.

  It had snowed all day, thick and admirably suited to packing snowballs. Simon and Liv and Claire had had a war in the side yard to celebrate the snowman they’d spent an hour rolling, stacking, and dressing. Simon, adept at feigning injury to draw his victim close, and then whitewashing snow down the back of her shirt, had them all soggy, and hysterical.

  In his hurry to let them in, when he heard Bailey and Drake stomping their boots on the deck, Simon slammed headlong into the door. Claire picked up the crying child, and ushered them in.

  “Oh, Simon,” Bailey said, taking the boy from his mother, after she’d handed her coat, hat and gloves to Liv. “We’ve brought you something to cheer you right up. You’ll love it. Do you want your present?”

  “Yes,” he sobbed.

  Drake set a handled Sesame Street bag that might well have been heavier than Simon on the kitchen table. His crying forgotten, he dropped from Bailey’s arms, and stood before the bag, admiring it far too long for Bailey’s taste.

  “Chop-chop, open the present.”

  “Chop-chop-chop,” he laughed. There were three boxes in the bag: the Collapsing Sodor Suspension Bridge; the docks set, complete with Cranky the Crane; and the Load and Sort Recycling Center. They’d spent something like $400.

  “What have you done?” Claire said, looking over his shoulder. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m leaving soon,” Drake said. “So I had to give my present before Christmas.”

  “And the rest of it?” Claire asked.

  “I refuse to make excuses,” Bailey said. “I meant to spoil him. Do you want to set them up, Simon? Preferably in the great room by the fire, my toes are numb.”

  “Yes,” he said, hefting the bag, “it’s winter. It’s cold.”

  She smirked at Claire. “The great room OK, matron?”

  “I’m going to buy your first child a drum kit—cymbals and everything.”

  Drake handed Claire two bottles of wine. “Presents for the rest of us.”

  “Drake,” Liv said, “those boots are mythic.”

  The boots were black leather and reached to the hem of her fitted black skirt. She wore an emerald green sweater, and a silver choker. Arms crossed, she leaned against the kitchen counter, and winked at Liv. “This is a fabulous kitchen. Put me to work.”

  “Simon and Bailey need engineering assistance,” Liv said.

  “Then I’d better take your place at the stove.”

  “Go play,” Liv instructed.

  After Drake followed Bailey and Simon, Claire rounded on Liv. “You don’t have anything to say about the gifts of the Magi? You approve, I suppose. What’s next, a car and driver?”

  “He’s already got a couple of those,” Liv said. “Now a motorized scooter, that’d be a novelty.” She’d opened the wine bottles to facilitate breathing, and took a minute now to rub Claire’s shoulders, before returning to the stove.

  “I like your last argument, with the massaging,” Claire said. “You should develop it a little.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  Bailey and Drake studied the back of the box, to figure out exactly how the pieces fitted together. On the floor, skirts hiked up, they poured over the diagrams. Simon had memorized these sets from the catalogs months ago. While they conferred, he built the dock set, incorporating the suspension bridge and the recycling center into the track. Singing to himself, as he puzzled these bright, new pieces.

  He’d run to his room and brought back Edward, Toby, and several freight cars before they’d quite finished their debate.

  “Look at you, Simon,” Liv said from the threshold. “All set for a tragedy on that collapsing bridge.”

  He kept his head down, scooted around the track, narrating for the engines.

  “I told you the bridge would fit,” Drake said, sliding her glasses back on and kneeling for a closer inspection.

  “Show off,” Bailey said to Simon.

  Claire called them all to dinner, and though Simon protested, declaring that he wasn’t hungry, he was brought summarily to the table with tears on his cheeks, S.C.Ruffey stowed in one pocket, and the recycling truck in another.

  “To opportunity,” Drake said, raising her glass.

  “Cheers!” Simon hollered, startling her with his vigor, and his raised glass of milk. Drake toasted him, and the others followed.

  “I love presents,” he told them. “I don’t want to eat. I want to play.”

  Bailey glanced at Claire. “Simon, do you want butter for your crab?”

  “Yes,” he exclaimed.

  “When do you leave for Rome?” Liv asked Drake, spooning soup from the tureen into each of their bowls.

  “The redeye in ten days.”

 
“Are you excited?”

  “Absolutely. Do you have requests?”

  “Yes,” Bailey said. “I want to come too.”

  “Could the café spare you?” Drake asked, looking pointedly at Claire.

  “No,” Claire said.

  “Then I want a photo of that lion’s mouth that Gregory Peck stuck his hand into.”

  “I loved Roman Holiday,” Claire said. “We should all go to Rome.”

  “Next year,” Liv said.

  “Next year,” Drake said, “I’m going to Vienna and Prague on summer tours.”

  “My god,” Bailey said, wiping Simon’s hands with her napkin, “the way you live.”

  “I want to play trains,” Simon told them. “I don’t want to eat.”

  “Simon,” Claire said.

  He pushed his plate away, and scowled at her.

  “Simon made the dessert,” Liv said.

  “What are we having, Simon?” Drake asked.

  He growled to the tablecloth, “Seven-layer bars.”

  “I know they’ll be delicious,” Drake said, “since you’re Bailey’s apprentice.”

  He looked interested.

  “Do you know what an apprentice is?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “You’re my assistant,” Bailey said. “You’re my go-to guy.”

  “Go-to guy,” he whispered.

  “I’m going to eat every bite of my dinner,” she said, “so that I can enjoy your dessert.”

  He watched them for a while, and then, tentatively, soaked some of the crabmeat his mother had given him in butter, and devoured it. Before long, he was asking for more, and they helped him dig meat from the body, and pinched him with the warlike claws.

  “This soup,” Claire said to Liv, “is delicious. Clearly, you should be cooking more.”

  “It’s all really tasty,” Drake said. “I’ve missed you, Liv, at the house. It’s more house than it ever was, and that much emptier.”