Chapter 2 - The first lie was small enough to excuse—until we compared the second one
Thomas did not sit immediately.
Neither did I.
We remained in the hallway looking at one another with the wary recognition of people who had just discovered a third person had been speaking through both their mouths.
“Let me be very clear,” I said. “I did not invite you.”
“I gathered that.”
“I was told Willow Pines had an emergency bedbug problem.”
Thomas’s face hardened.
“It does not.”
“They said residents had to leave.”
“They do not.”
I crossed my arms.
“And you?”
“Clara said she worried about you being alone over Thanksgiving. She said you had offered the guest room and thought companionship might be pleasant.”
I laughed.
It came out sharper than intended.
“Companionship.”
“Yes.”
“I was told you were practically homeless for four days.”
“I have a perfectly functional apartment.”
Silence.
Then Thomas added:
“And Willow Pines has two guest suites.”
I stared at him.
“Available?”
“I would assume so, though I did not ask because Clara insisted the arrangement had already been settled.”
Already settled.
There it was.
The phrase beneath so many family favors.
We had both been approached after the decision.
Different stories.
Same destination.
I almost called David immediately.
Thomas stopped me without touching me.
“May I suggest something?”
I looked at him.
“People lie more cleanly when they have not yet learned the lies have been compared.”
That sentence changed my opinion of him.
Just a little.
“You were a lawyer,” I said.
“Appellate.”
“That explains the face.”
“What face?”
“The one suggesting every room is secretly a courtroom.”
Again, that near-smile.
Then:
“I am not proposing intrigue for entertainment, Mrs. Harris. I simply think we should know whether this was one foolish simplification or something more deliberate before confronting anyone.”
He was right.
I hated that.
So I made tea.
He declined coffee.
I silently judged him.
By seven, we were seated opposite one another at my kitchen table.
I wrote down what David had told me.
Thomas wrote what Clara had told him.
Mine:
Emergency fumigation.
No hotel options.
Four days only.
Thomas is low-maintenance.
Clara feels guilty.
No alternative.
His:
Eleanor personally invited you.
Eleanor dislikes being alone for holidays.
You will be good company for her.
She enjoys classical music.
It will help both of you.
The arrangement was her idea.
Thomas tapped his pen against the paper.
“They did not merely omit information.”
“No.”
“They tailored the story.”
“Yes.”
“To make refusal less likely.”
I looked at the two lists.
One made me feel charitable.
The other made Thomas feel useful.
Different emotional hooks.
That bothered me more than the original lie.
Because lies designed around another person’s weakness require observation.
They had thought about what each of us would be too proud to refuse.
For me:
Help someone who has nowhere else.
For Thomas:
Do not insult a lonely widow who asked for company.
“They know us,” I said.
Thomas’s expression changed.
“That is precisely why this feels worse.”
I called David at eight.
Not to confront him.
To listen.
“How’s everything?” he asked immediately.
“Fine.”
“You two getting along?”
There was a fraction too much eagerness in it.
“Thomas is still alive.”
David laughed.
“See? I knew this would work.”
Work.
I let the word sit.
“What would work?”
Another fraction.
Then:
“The arrangement.”
“Of course.”
“How is he?”
“Ask him yourself.”
“Oh, Clara’s handling Thomas.”
There it was again.
Handling.
I looked across the table.
Thomas had heard.
His jaw tightened.
I changed the subject, wished my son a pleasant cruise, and ended the call.
Thomas did not speak for several seconds.
Then:
“Clara says David is ‘handling Eleanor.’”
My cup stopped halfway to my mouth.
“She actually uses that phrase?”
“Frequently.”
I set the cup down.
Suddenly four days felt much longer.
But not because I feared Thomas.
May you like
Because I was beginning to wonder what exactly our children believed required handling.
Cliffhanger: Eleanor and Thomas realized David and Clara routinely described them as people to be “handled”—and both began to suspect the Thanksgiving arrangement was not an emergency at all, but a test.
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