A Field Guide to Deception (39 page)

That evening, her shoulders already sore from wielding the sledgehammer, Liv swung by Kyle's apartment building. Phoned him as she
used her key on the exterior door, and started up the stairs.

“Second floor, back apartment,” he said, and then hung up.

She could see the watermark in the hallway. The pipes had burst in the bathroom, and ruined the woodwork, flooded the subfloor. Kyle had pulled up the carpet, and toweled the floors.

“Tell me you can finish the fucking bathroom,” he said. “I know you'll get this shit handled quicker than me, and I'm the guy laying new carpet in here, maybe the hallway too. My tenant's on vacation, the apartment downstairs had water pouring through the ceiling this morning. Fucking plumbing kills me. My guy got this bitch under control. Good news, except I can't do the fine work like you. Tell me it's handled.”

Liv took out her phone, speed-dialed Claire. “It's handled.”

He grinned at her. “You're giving me thrills, kid. Thrills.”

Two days later, Kyle's number panned across her phone, and she considered letting it go to voicemail, but answered instead. Knew she could use lunch as an excuse; Hoffman's wife had made lasagna, a green salad, and poured water into the glasses as Liv opened her phone. The stove and refrigerator like displaced refugees in one half of the dining room, a table set for three in the other.

“I want to take you out for drinks. You've done me some favors, and I want to talk to you about a few things. You up for some drinks this week?”

“I'll clear it with Claire, call you back.”

“I like that plan. Talk soon.”

Drinks at Zola, and she liked Kyle more all the time. They were in jeans, light sweaters, both of them taut, rangy, getting looks from every direction. They sat in the leather booth nearest the bar, on display in the alcove beside them, a nurse's cap.

“You been here before?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I love this place. Waiter's hopeless.”

A soccer guy in a ringer T-shirt and black Adidas sneakers came over, knelt beside them. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “The usual?”

“My oldest son. Bruce, this is Liv.”

“Hey, Liv. How about I surprise you?” He stood without waiting for an answer. “Leave it to me.”

Bruce brought them Scotch, a pitcher of beer, and four plates of samplers. On the stage, two girls with guitars threw their voices like darts.

“I'll make myself sick if I don't tell you what I'm thinking and get it out of the way.” Kyle sipped his Scotch, flexed an eyebrow. “Yeah, that's working. Now, Liv, I got these twelve apartment buildings, and they are value for money. I know you like independent. I'm not trying to bind you to anything. But I see you're skilled, and I'm thinking like an investor. You with me? I'm thinking about investing in you.”

She had a strange sensation that he was asking to be her corner man. “You want to manage me?”

He laughed. “I want to invest in you. You ever think about building on a bigger scale? Get the big equipment, and the big contractor jobs, and start building some shit that'll still be standing when Bruce is middle aged.

“You and me, we see the value in hardwood. We see that it's all in the craft. Plywood and the rest of this shit can smoke me. People want contractors that build a good, lasting product. You and me are partners in an S-Corp. I'm the investor, you run the thing, and we split the profit 50-50. You with me? Right in half. You're the one hires the crews, manages the jobs. I'm the guy keeps the equipment running smooth.”

He paused, sipped his drink, stared at her. “What happens now if you get hurt? You make good money, I know you do. But for how long? Your body can't take this shit forever. You worked a crew before?”

“Yeah.”

“How'd you like it?”

“I liked it. Running the whole operation, though, that's something else.”

“Same concept on a bigger scale is all.”

Liv shook her head. “You make everything sound easy.”

“Take a little time with this. Think it over. You got a little kid now. Objectives shift when there's a kid, you with me?”

She was. She was with him. This guy she admired, offering to bank her. High maintenance, frenetic, but with connections, and capital: a pragmatic businessman. Bruce dropped by with another round of Scotch, crouched beside Liv, explained that he coached a co-ed indoor soccer team, that they were always short girls. Wondered if she'd be interested in coming to a game sometime.

“How old are most of the players?” Liv asked. She figured him for twenty-two tops.

“We have a guy that's twenty-five. He's like our best player. Just come to a game.” He handed her a schedule. “Check us out, and then decide.”

He cleared their plates, and Liv grinned as Kyle yanked at his hair, told him. “You two operate.”

“Taught him everything he knows,” Kyle said. “You give this offer some thought. Talk to your girl. I got time.” He reached into his coat pocket, tossed some pictures on the table. “My kids when they were little. Fucking beautiful shots here.”

Thirty-eight

With with-child, refrain

Simon watched trains running on epic tracks, crashes set to Thomas' theme music, video narration shot by eight year olds, and posted on You Tube. Occasionally he'd cackle with laughter, and Claire would glance away from the bank statement, enjoy her kid for a moment.

A key in the lock, and Liv let herself in, stomped snow from her boots, set the bags of food down to lift Simon, kiss him, inquire after his day.

“And how's Mommy?” Liv asked as she carried Simon, and the food, into the office.

“Mommy's cross,” Simon said.

“Yes, she is,” Claire said.

Liv laid boxes of Chinese on the desk, took some bowls and napkins from the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets. “Why cross?”

“I'm doing the bank reconciliation, and it isn't reconciling. Something's wrong with the last payroll, or something.”

Liv handed Simon a bowl of fried rice and a spoon. Claire helped herself to a mix from each of the cartons, served Liv as well.

“You'll sort it,” Liv said.

This was true, Claire knew, but not the same as commiseration. “Eventually,” she allowed.

Simon told Liv about the mouse he'd seen in the parking lot. How Bailey had said it must live on pastries. Claire gave him another scoop of rice, and some lemon chicken.

“Did they get off alright, the Napa expedition?” Liv asked Claire.

“They were like little kids on their first adventure. Julia came by here for Bailey. She'd bought Travel Scrabble to play on the plane. It was kind of sweet.”

After pulling a bottle of white wine from the walk-in, Claire offered Liv a glass.

“Not for me, thanks,” Liv said, wishing for a beer.

Claire poured milk for both of them, sipped at her wine, and said, “Sophia asked if she could drop in on us this weekend. I guess she's anxious when she's alone.”

“What happened to the boyfriend?”

“They split.”

“That sucks.”

“Bailey almost called the trip off. She's that worried.”

Simon brought his plate over to the desk, stood at the edge in order to eat with them. Nobody ate rice like Simon.

“I'll take Simon back with me,” Liv said, “if you think you'll be here awhile yet.”

“I'd love that. Did you get your car seat back from Bailey?”

“No. How about, I'll take your car, and change the oil in it tonight?”

“In the freezing dark?”

“In the heated garage.”

“Wow, are you in the running for some award?”

“Darling,” Liv grinned. “You know I'm a compulsive overachiever.”

“Compulsive,” Claire laughed, “is half right.”

Snow dusted them on the walk to the car, sticking already to the parking lot. Claire strapped Simon into his seat, kissed him good night, anticipating a long evening's work ahead of her. Liv had started the car, and half-finished clearing the windows.

“Thanks for dinner,” Claire said.

“Anytime, beautiful.” Liv kissed her, waved goodbye.

Sated and reinvigorated, Claire returned to the office, and finished
the reconcile forty-five minutes later. While checking the locks, before she put out the light, or set the alarm, she heard a knock at the door. Anxious, in spite of herself, certain the pink-haired girl had returned, maybe with a weapon, she backed away from the door, and edged toward the heavy pans. Then she heard a key in the lock, and the door swung open.

“You said you'd be here late,” Sophia said.

“Jesus, you scared me.” Claire crossed to the girl, and bolted the door. “What's happened?”

“I'm sorry to come here like this, but I can't be at home.” Sophia dropped her bag on the floor. Her eyes and nose were wet. “I freaked myself out watching
X-Files
reruns. I don't know what I was thinking.” She burst into sobs, her arms around her belly in one last attempt to hold herself together.

Claire held her, murmured, “Honey, honey.”

“I don't want to be pregnant anymore. It's so hard. I'm sore, and tired, and a crybaby, and I'm frightened all the time. I'm scared of everything. I've never been so frightened.” She choked, and hiccupped, and kept sobbing. “I wasn't supposed to be doing this alone. I can't do this by myself. Help me. Please help me. This poor kid. He's going to hate me.”

Claire rubbed her back, hummed, held on.

Claire had the truck's wipers on high, and still had to wipe the windshield to see. “I can't believe you drove around in this,” she told Sophia. “The
X-Files
scared you more than a blizzard?”