Sweet Liar

by Jude Deveraux

  When she reached Madison, she took a right and headed north, walking three full blocks looking straight ahead, wondering how far she had to go before she had proved herself, proved that she could go out into this city without fear overcoming her. Her thoughts were occupied with imagining telling Mike defiantly that she had spent the whole afternoon alone on the streets of New York—and she had survived!

  By the fourth block, she began to look at her surroundings, and since midtown Madison Avenue was all shops, this meant looking in the display windows at the merchandise. In Santa Fe most of the shops were full of goods for the tourists to take home: T-shirts with idiot sayings on them, mugs and badly made Indian dolls, coyotes on every conceivable surface. Everything was labeled handmade, as though people in other parts of the world had found robots to make cheap tourist goods. Besides the junk goods, there were also hundreds of galleries full of overpriced Indian art. The few “normal” stores geared toward the residents were filled with low-end merchandise: cheap rayon skirts, plastic picture frames, earrings that made your ears turn green.

  What Samantha saw on Madison Avenue were shops full of beautiful goods: the best products the world had to offer. She saw stores that contained clothes so expensive that guards stood at the door, selectively admitting customers who passed their scrutiny. When a handsome young man in a beautiful suit smiled and held a shop door open for Samantha, she felt as though she’d passed membership into a world of the rich and powerful. Entering the store, she saw lush gray carpet, mirrored walls, and merchandise that cost the yearly income of some people—mostly women who were overworked and underpaid, she thought with a grimace.

  She went into a shop full of exquisite sleepwear, Montenapoleone, and, on impulse, spent much too much on a white nightgown made of cotton so fine that it was transparent. Little pink threads were tied into bows about the neckline.

  She passed Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace, Yves Saint Laurent. It was in Valentino’s that she realized how much money Mike had spent on the clothes she had bought at Saks, for she saw a suit just like one she had and the price was thirty-four hundred dollars.

  “Are you all right?” the pretty young clerk asked in concern.

  “Yes,” Sam managed to say as she sat down and took the cup of cool, bottled water that was offered to her. There was part of her that felt she should be angry at Mike for deceiving her and part of her that glowed with pleasure, for what woman didn’t like to receive presents? She couldn’t help wondering when he’d worked out the details with his cousin Vicky to dupe Samantha into thinking that the clothes were something she could afford and that she was going to be able to pay for them herself.

  Leaving the store, she wasn’t sure what she should do. Go to Michael and confront him with her knowledge of what she’d found out? Then again, it didn’t seem very nice to yell at him for doing something so sweet as buying her thousands of dollars worth of lovely clothes. So maybe later she’d figure out a way to say thank you.

  With her head up (it didn’t hurt her pride or self-esteem to now be aware of the fact that she was wearing about five grand in clothes), she continued on her excursion into the wild, untamed streets of New York. As she looked in a shop window of antique jewelry, she thought, The real danger in this city is the merchandise.

  At Seventy-second Street, Sam went into the wonder of a store that Ralph Lauren had created and wandered all the floors looking at the furnishings as much as at the goods. She used the very pretty lavatory in the basement, then went back upstairs and bought a marcasite pin that looked Edwardian.

  After leaving his store, she looked west toward Fifth Avenue where she saw the green of Central Park. Turning toward the park, she thought she might wander through it, but if New York beat Santa Fe in merchandise, nowhere on earth could beat Santa Fe for scenery.

  Instead of going into the park, she took a left and went down Fifth Avenue, looking up at the windows of the buildings facing the park and wondering what famous people lived in the buildings. Just at the end of the park, she stopped into F.A.O. Schwarz and bought a stuffed monkey, thinking the funny little creature might relieve the seriousness of her apartment.

  Across the street from the toy store she saw the Plaza Hotel and there she encountered Bergdorf Goodman’s—lovely, beautiful Bergdorf’s, which she instinctively knew deserved a day all its own, so she limited herself to the first floor, where she thought she couldn’t get into too much trouble. She underestimated Bergdorf’s, for she left the store with a shopping bag full of socks and hose and a leather belt with a silver buckle. Past Bergdorf’s she saw Fendi’s and the barred, fortress-looking jewelry store of Harry Winston, which made her think of the Duchess of Windsor. Moving south, she saw Charles Jourdan, Bendel’s, and Elizabeth Arden’s red door.

  Smiling in fond memory as she looked across the street at Saks, thinking of the lovely day she’d spent there with Mike and what he had done for her that day, she turned into Rockefeller Center and saw the gold statue of the flying man that she’d seen a thousand times on TV. Leaning back against the rail that overlooked the area that in the winter was the skating rink, she set down her heavy shopping bags by her feet and rubbed her hands. She had been walking for hours and she should have been tired, but instead, she felt wonderful: She had faced the enemy and found the enemy to be a delightful, entertaining new friend. As she looked at the people around her, at the windows of the Metropolitan Gift Shop, she couldn’t help but smile. What a lovely place, she thought.

  After buying a hot dog from a street vendor, she left Rockefeller Center and walked further south, where she looked in the window of a shop and saw a four-inch-tall bronze statue of a Japanese samurai. The little warrior was strong and armor-clad, but he had a particularly engaging smile that reminded her of Michael. Thinking of all Mike had done for her, she very much wanted to buy a gift for him, and this statue would be perfect. She went into the store and asked to see the statue.

  It was in this store that Samantha learned what every true New Yorker knows: that everything in New York is for sale and what the price tag says has nothing to do with what an item actually costs.

  Contrary to the world’s opinion, there is no human being on earth nicer than a New York merchant when he’s showing his wares to a richly dressed customer. The man looked at Sam’s expensive designer suit, her Mark Cross purse, her Bally shoes, and the big diamond flashing on her finger and smiled sweetly as he handed the little statue to her. It wasn’t a false smile, for no one has ever loved anything or anyone as much as a true New Yorker loves buying and selling.

  “How much is it?” she asked.

  “Seven fifty,” the man said.

  Sam’s face fell. She wanted the statue, but that was far, far too much to pay.

  The merchant, who had a good eye for tourists—who were so naive they could be talked into anything at any price; in fact, tourists often bought things they didn’t want just to get the merchant to stop badgering them—thought Samantha was a New Yorker. She dressed like a New York woman, even had the nails of a New York woman. (In the rest of America, manicures were something only the richest, idlest, most vain women had, but in New York, thanks to the Koreans, manicure parlors were five to a block and eight dollars a session.) He thought Sam was acting when she said the price was too high; he thought she was playing the game.

  “It will be a hardship to me, but I can let you have it for five fifty.”

  Samantha looked startled. She’d not expected him to lower his price. “I’m sorry, that’s still too much.”

  Born in the city, the merchant thought. “Is there anything else in the store you like?”

  Thinking that was a very odd question, Samantha didn’t try to understand it but pointed to some garnet earrings that she liked and the merchant took them out of the window so she could look at them.

  She thought the earrings were lovely, but she refused to allow herself to covet them. It was better that she bought something for Mike to say thank you for all he�
�d done for her. “They’re nice but I’d rather have the statue, but it costs too much,” she said honestly.

  “How about five fifty for both of them?”

  Again Samantha looked startled, but she was beginning to understand. On impulse, she said, “Three fifty.”

  “Four twenty-five,” he said, taking the earrings off the counter.

  “Three seventy-five for both of them. Cash.” She held her breath, for that was every penny she had on her. She couldn’t go up even a nickel.

  “Four hundred and that’s all I can do.”

  Sam’s face fell again, and she looked as sad as she felt. “I’m sorry but three seventy-five is all that I can spend.” Slowly she turned toward the door.

  “Okay,” the man said in disgust. “They’re yours. Three seventy-five. Cash.”

  When Samantha left the store, she was feeling a little stunned, as though she’d just done the strangest thing of her life, and she walked for half a block before she realized that it was beginning to rain. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was nearly six o’clock. She knew without a doubt that Mike would be home waiting for her and he’d be furious.

  Having learned about bargaining, Samantha now learned about taxis: At the first drop of rain, all New York cab drivers headed for shelter. At least that was the theory proposed to explain why there were never any vacant cabs on the street when it rained, or maybe the rain might wash the cars, then they’d no longer deserve the name of New York cab. Standing at the curb side, she held her hand up, but no cab stopped for her. Well, she thought, perhaps New York isn’t perfect after all. Readjusting her grip on her shopping bags, she put her head down against the rain and started the long walk back to Mike’s town house.

  17

  As soon as she turned the corner onto Sixty-fourth Street she began to run. The rain was coming down hard now and she was getting wet, but that had nothing to do with her hurry—she was hurrying toward Michael. He might be angry that she’d left without telling him where she was going and he’d rant and rave a bit, but she knew that he’d be waiting and he’d be glad to see her. He’d be glad that she was safe and he’d want to hear about what she had been doing, what she had seen, what she’d bought. He’d want to know everything. She didn’t know how she was sure of this, but she was.

  He opened the door before she was on the top step. Obviously he had been watching for her. In spite of his immediate blustering, she was grinning at him.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he said, sounding angry, but she could hear the underlying relief in his voice. She also detected something else: curiosity. “If you’d been gone another minute, I’d have called the cops. Don’t you realize that this city is dangerous?”

  “Oh, Mike,” she said, laughing and running her hand through her wet hair. “There are thousands—millions—of women out there without a big, strong man to protect them.”

  She could see that he was partially mollified by her calling him a “big, strong man.”

  “Yes, well, they know what they’re doing, but you—”

  He stopped because she sneezed and the next minute he took her by the arm and led her to the bathroom they shared. “Out of those wet clothes. Now.”

  “Mike, my dry clothes are upstairs. I need—”

  “After today I’m afraid to let you out of my sight, even to go upstairs. I’ll get you something to put on.” He shut the bathroom door.

  For a moment Samantha stood looking in the mirror. Even to her, she looked flushed and happy, which is how she felt. Quickly she began to undress, hesitating over whether or not to remove her underwear, then, on impulse, she took it off too and rubbed herself with a towel. There was a knock on the door, and Mike opened it enough to hand her a bathrobe. Taking the robe, she saw right away that it had never been worn. The robe was too new, and it wasn’t something that Mike would wear. It was navy blue silk charmeuse with burgundy piping, the kind of robe a woman would buy a man, then become frustrated when he wouldn’t wear it. Only David Niven could wear something like this robe and feel comfortable in it.

  Slipping her arms in it, she hugged the silk to her. It was Mike’s and it felt good.

  When she left the bathroom, she was toweling her hair dry. Mike met her in the kitchen, a drink in his hand.

  “No,” she began, but he pushed the drink toward her and she took it.

  “Now,” he said sternly, “I want to know where you have been. What caused you to run off like that and scare me half to death and—?”

  She took a deep swallow of her gin and tonic. “If you don’t stop complaining, I won’t show you what I bought you.”

  That statement made his eyes widen.

  She smiled. “Come on,” she said and led the way into the breakfast area, where they could sit and watch the rain through the glass doors. She left him there while she went back to the foyer to get her bags, and when she returned he was sitting at the table.

  “Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” she said.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Mike did what she asked as she unwrapped the little samurai and put it in his hands. When he opened his eyes, she watched his face to see if he was pleased.

  Mike didn’t say anything for a moment as he held the little statue. He liked the sculpture, liked it very much. In fact, it was something he might have bought for himself, but more important than his liking the statue was the fact that she’d given it to him. Never before had an unrelated female given him a gift when it wasn’t his birthday or Christmas. All of the other presents he’d received from females had been impersonal, a sweater or a tie or a wallet. And the gifts were usually followed by the female saying, “Let’s go out to dinner and show it off,” which meant that he’d spend more than the present had cost.

  “Do you like it? I thought he looked rather like you. You know, kind of fierce, but rather sweet, too…smiling.”

  He was looking at her as though seeing her for the first time. From what he saw on her face, he might as well have been seeing her for the first time, for she looked different: She looked happy. “Yes, I like it,” he said softly, puzzled by the pleasure his words seemed to give her. Could giving a gift to another person please someone that much?

  Leaving his chair, he walked to the glass doors and examined the man in the light, looking at his facial features, studying the intricate carving of his clothes. When he looked up, Sam was standing beside him.

  “He’s the nicest present I’ve ever received in my life,” Mike said truthfully. Normally, when he received a gift from a woman, he kissed her, then, after an expensive dinner, took her to bed, but now he just smiled at Sam as his hand curled about the little statue—and that smile, at that moment, seemed more intimate than what he’d shared with other women in bed.

  They went back to the table and when she began to talk, he watched her as much as he listened to her. She was telling him of the great and wondrous experience she’d had when she’d bargained for the purchase of the man. To hear her tell it, she had fought her way through enemy territory to explore new frontiers.

  “What else did you buy?” he asked, looking at her shopping bags.

  As she began to pull out other purchases to show him, Mike knew without being told that this showing of what she’d bought was a new experience for her. How odd, he thought, because his sisters and his mother, and sometimes it seemed that every female in the neighborhood, used to gather in their dining room to look at each other’s purchases.

  Extravagantly admiring everything she showed him, he made comments about all of it. He listened with interest and pleasure as she told him about Madison Avenue and Fifth Avenue and what the other women had been wearing and what she had seen and how she’d eaten a hot dog from a street vendor—all of it so ordinary, but seen through Sam’s delighted eyes, all of it so wondrous.

  When she’d shown everything except the white nightgown, she seemed to run out of words and she sat down, all her purchases on the table about her and sipped her drink.
Smiling, she looked out at the rain.

  “Oh Mike,” she said, “I haven’t been this…” She seemed to search for the words. “This happy, in years.”

  “The shopping made you happy?”

  She laughed. “Yes and no. The selfishness of this city, of having my hair done and my nails polished, of living here in this house and not having to cook and having you look at me as though—” She broke off, then after a quick glance at him, said no more.

  After a while, he spoke. “What did you do in Santa Fe?” he asked, genuinely curious, for as far as he could tell, nothing she’d done since coming to New York was unusual. His sisters, his mother, and all the females he’d ever known seemed to spend their lives fooling with their hair and nails.

  “I worked,” Samantha said, knowing she should keep her mouth shut, but the drink was making her relax. “I worked at ComputerLand five days a week, and two evenings and Sunday evenings I taught an aerobics class at a local spa. The time I wasn’t at work I did housework and bill paying and groceries, that sort of thing.”

  “And what did your husband do?” He hadn’t meant it to, but the word husband came out with a sneer.

  A humorless little laugh escaped Samantha as she held her drink aloft in a mock toast. “He was writing the Great American Novel.”

  Her words gave Mike some insight as to why she’d once made a snide remark about writers. “And what did you do when you lived with your father before you got married?”

  Downing the last of her drink, she looked back at the rain, and when she spoke, he could barely hear her. “I saw a TV show once where someone asked a man why he remained married to his terror of a wife. He was such a nice man, you see. The man said that sometimes he thought he was like a clock and that his wife kept him wound up and that he was afraid if he didn’t have her, he’d sit down somewhere and never get up again, that he’d be like a clock that no one remembered to wind. I think my father and I were like that man. My mother was an outgoing, social person and I think she wound my father and me up. After she died, we…we sort of unwound.”