Faking It

Chapter 11

HE GOT UP and locked the doors to the gallery and the hallway, and she said, “That was thoughtful,” as he took her glass away from her.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

Tilda looked at him with contempt. “Well, duh. Would I be doing this if I wasn’t?”

“Good point.” He went over to the jukebox and started punching numbers at random.

“What are you doing?” She squinted at him through her glasses as the Exciters started to sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Cover,” he said, over the music. “In case you turn out to be a moaner for real.”

“Somehow I thought it’d be more romantic,” she said. “You know. Since we sort of know each other this time.”

He came over to her and took her glasses.

“Hey.”

“Reality is not a turn-on for you,” he said. “Stick with soft-focus.”

“Well, that’s a good point,” she said, and didn’t say anything at all when he turned the lights off so there was only the glow of the jukebox behind them. Then he came over, picked up her knees, and swiveled her around so her back was to the arm of the couch.

“Okay, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be more romantic than this,” Tilda said, as he pulled her hips down the leather seat. She managed not to roll off, but he stuck his hand out to catch her, just in case. A real gentleman.

“Here’s the deal,” Davy said, leaning over her. “You shut up. Both your mouth and your brain. You’ve probably talked yourself out of coming more times than you’ve come.”

“Hey,” Tilda said, annoyed, and he kissed her, that mouth on hers, hot and insistent, all that heat going straight into her brain and shorting out whatever it was she’d been going to say. “You do that really well,” she said, when he moved to her neck.

“I know,” he said into her shoulder. “Be quiet.”

He began to slide her T-shirt up, and she held onto it and tried to remember if she was wearing a good bra or not, definitely not one with safety pins but hopefully not a boring white one-

“Matilda,” Davy said.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re thinking.”

“Am not.”

“You had that look on your face, the one you get when you’re counting something.”

Tilda shrugged herself down on the couch a little more, which brought her into contact with him. Somehow, in all of the sliding around, he’d put himself between her legs. “How did you get there?”

“Practice,” he said. “Stop thinking.”

“It was sexual. I was wondering if my bra was good.”

He stripped her T-shirt over her head before she could stop him, catching it on her ear. She untangled it and looked down. White lace.

“It’s good,” he said. “Now make your mind a blank. Try not to pass out.”

“How long have we been doing this?” Tilda said. “Is my fifteen minutes up?”

He bent and licked her stomach, and she shut up, and then he moved down, flicking her belly button with his tongue as he slid her zipper down, and Tilda felt the heat spread low, which was surprising because there he was, right there in the room, dangerous as all hell.

She looked at the ceiling and thought, This could be good. As long as she kept her mouth shut. Positive thoughts. “I’m positive,” she said, surprising herself when it was out loud. “I’m positive I want the most incredible orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Okay.” He eased her jeans down, and she lifted her hips to help him because given the amount of hip he had to negotiate, that was only fair. “What’s my standard of reference?”

“Pretty damn good,” she said. “Scott knew what he was doing.”

“Scott?” Davy looked up at her. “Who’s Scott?”

“My former fiancé.”

“And you wait until now to mention him?”

“He’s former,” Tilda said. “Am I making snarky noises about Clea? No.”

Davy shook his head. “Okay, if it’s only pretty good, you’ve got it,” he said and bent down to her again.

“Talk’s cheap,” she said, but his hand slid between her legs as his cheek brushed her stomach, and his mouth was hot on her skin, and Tilda felt herself flush with something that wasn’t embarrassment. If she thought about it, she’d have to stop, but the deal was she wouldn’t think, and when he pushed her knee up, her hips rose to meet his hand and then his mouth. She gasped once as he licked inside her, and she grabbed the arm of the couch over her head to keep from sliding off, and then he licked again and got serious and she gave herself up to the pressure he built slowly in her, thinking, This boy has a great mouth. Don’t think about where it is.

Behind her, Betty Everett sang, “It’s in his kiss,” and Tilda relaxed into the familiar lyric and Davy’s unfamiliar mouth, thinking, I’ll never hear this song again without remembering how this felt, easing into heat, breathing in pleasure. When she was breathing pleasure so hard they could have heard her in the hall, Davy pulled back.

“Nice try,” she said, as Betty trailed off behind her.

“Quitter.” Davy bit her inner thigh.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “The deal was-”

Davy pointed his finger at her. “Fifteen minutes. And you’d be quiet.”

The thought of where that finger had been made her blush. Not to mention where his head was now. “Well, what-” she began, trying to brazen it out, but then the jukebox started the Sisters, and by the time they’d finished the first line of “All Grown Up,” Davy’s head was back down, and he began to slowly lick all that heat back into her. She shivered and felt the tension start in her again, as tight as it had been before, and she slid back down the couch, closer to him, she hadn’t lost anything, and this time the heat rose much faster so that when the Ladybugs finished “Sooner or Later,” and Davy pulled away again, she smacked his shoulder and said, “Don’t stop.”

He shook his head. “I should have gagged you,” he said, and kissed her stomach, and she shivered under him. He slid down again, and then stopped as the Shirelles began to sing “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” “This music,” he said, sounding exasperated, and then he bent back to her and started the heat all over, kicking it up higher, each time he stopped it went higher, only this time he kept going, this time his hands were rough on her hips, this time she felt the heat come welling up, and she squirmed and clenched and gasped and thought, Don’t say anything, until finally she broke, her body arching under his mouth as she bit her lip, and the aftershocks made her jerk even after he slid up to kiss her neck. When she’d stopped, still clinging to him, he said in her ear, “And a minute to spare. I win.”

“Uh,” she said, realizing vaguely that the Shirelles were gone and Damita Jo was singing “I’ll Save the Last Dance for You,” and Davy was hard against her, and then he pushed her knee up again and slid inside her -Space Invaded, she thought- and he felt good as she relaxed into afterglow, holding him absentmindedly while he moved and shuddered and came, and she felt warm but not really involved in what he was doing.

When he pulled away from her, she wasn’t sure what to say, so she tried, “Thank you,” and tugged her jeans back on and looked for her T-shirt.

“You know, you have a really short attention span,” he said, as he got rid of the condom. “You come once and you’re gone.”

“I faked it,” Tilda said, pulling her shirt over her head, and when he laughed, she gave up. “Okay, you won.” She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the leftover warmth. “Thank you.”

“I’m feeling fairly grateful myself,” he said, his voice as calm as ever.

I didn’t even make a dent in his concentration, she thought. It had felt good, okay great, but not great enough to get rid of this damn weird feeling that always hit her afterward. You don’t know me. You think you’ve had me, but you don’t know me.

Of course, it was a damn good thing he didn’t know her. She was going to have to stop saying yes, or he’d get to know her. Maybe she needed therapy. Maybe she and Gwennie and Louise could go, and they could get a family deal.

“You’re thinking again,” Davy said as he pulled his pants back on.

Tilda opened her eyes and forced a smile. “Just that you’re off the hook for the rest of the paintings now.”

“Oh, we’ll get the rest of the paintings.” Davy stood up, dressed again. “But it’ll have to be quick. I’m on my way to Australia.”

“Right,” Tilda said, not surprised that the other paintings were still a sure thing. Davy kept all his promises and got everything he went after. Which was why from now on, she had to be something he wasn’t going after. He was just too damn dangerous.

Behind her, the Paris Sisters sang “I Love How You Love Me,” evidently not the kind of women who ever had weird thoughts after sex, and Tilda felt depressed and wondered why. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Long day. Strong orgasm.

“You’ve got that look again,” Davy said.

“Really tired.” Tilda stood up and zipped her jeans. “Well, good night.”

“Celeste, we’re sharing the same bed,” Davy said as she unlocked the door.

“Right,” she said. “See you there, Ralph.” Then she took the steps two at a time while he stood at the bottom, shaking his head.

TILDA GOT up the next morning careful not to wake Davy. She couldn’t find Nadine, so she turned Steve over to Gwen for baby-sitting while she went to work. Gwen didn’t seem to mind. “Variety,” she said, looking down at the little dog. “I live for it.”

“Are you okay?” Tilda said, taken aback.

“Fine,” Gwen said.

“Mason was sweet last night at poker,” Tilda said, prodding a little. “How was lunch?”

“Nice,” Gwen said.

“Gwennie?”

“We talked about the gallery. He appears to yearn for it.” She flipped open her Double-Crostic book.

“Maybe we should talk about the gallery.” Tilda picked up a little yellow paper umbrella Gwen had stuck in her pencil holder. “Drinking on the job?”

“Don’t you have to paint today?”

“Just the base coat,” Tilda said, looking at the crostic book. Gwen had been doodling little umbrellas in the book margins. “And then Davy and I are going after a painting. What is it with you and umbrellas?”

“So how is Davy?” Gwen said. “Happy?”

“Asleep.” Tilda put the umbrella back and escaped out through the office.

But when she opened the door to the van, Nadine was sitting in the passenger seat.

“Hello?” Tilda said.

“I want to come along,” Nadine said, and she still looked a little rocky from the Poor Baby, so Tilda said, “Sure,” and climbed in.

“Here’s the thing,” Nadine said when they were heading north. “With Burton gone, so is the singing gig.”

“There are probably other bands,” Tilda said. “You have a great voice, Dine.”

“I didn’t like singing with the band,” Nadine said. “I know that’s where the money probably is, but it was noisy and a lot of the songs were stupid and nobody really listened anyway. It wasn’t really music.”

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Do you want me to talk to your dad about the Double Take?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Nadine said. “I’m underage. I can’t sing there for another two years even if he wanted to let me, which he doesn’t. But that’s okay. I’m thinking I might want to be a painter.”

“Oh,” Tilda said, light dawning. “Well, today is not going to be very interesting. I’m painting the base coat and looking at color samples under the light there. Tomorrow I’m doing the underpainting. You can help with that if you want.”

“That’d be good,” Nadine said. “Because you make pretty good money doing this, right? I mean, you were in that home magazine and everything.”

“That helped,” Tilda said, thinking of Clarissa Donnelly and her sunflowers, the magazine left strategically nearby. “But it’s not exciting work, Dine. It’s a lot like you and the band. It’s painting, but it’s not art. I’m copying other people’s art to make wallpaper.”

“But it makes money,” Nadine said.

“You do not have to support this family,” Tilda said.

“Right,” Nadine said. “You think I could learn to do this?”

“I think you can do anything,” Tilda said.

“Cool,” Nadine said, and sighed. “So what’s this about Mr. Brown?”

“What?” Tilda said.

“Mr. Brown. When he moved in, you told Grandma you thought his name was fake. Should we worry?”

“No,” Tilda said. “If that becomes a problem, I can take care of that, too.”

“You know, I can help,” Nadine said, sounding exasperated.

“Why don’t you be a kid instead?” Tilda said. “Enjoy it while you’ve got it.”

“You obviously don’t remember what being a kid is like,” Nadine said and slumped down in her seat.

Being an adult has its drawbacks, too, Tilda thought, and took the exit for her next mural.

BACK IN Tilda’s bedroom, Davy woke up feeling less than triumphant, especially when he rolled over and she was gone. He squinted at the clock. It was after ten, she’d had to start a mural today, it didn’t mean anything that she wasn’t there, but still…

Yeah, like you’ve ever wanted to wake up with a woman you’ve slept with, he told himself. Especially one who seemed less than pleased with the night before, which was really confusing because she’d definitely made it that time. Complicated woman, Celeste.

Maybe getting the fifth painting that afternoon would work the kinks out of her. That was the problem with women, they were high maintenance, needed attention all the time, flowers, phone calls-

“Oh, hell,” he said, remembering his sister Sophie. She’d probably tried to call him. He crawled out of bed and found his cell phone in his jacket pocket and clicked it on to check his messages. It rang almost immediately and he looked at the number. Nobody he knew. “Hello?” he said.

“I’ve been calling you for days,” Ronald said. “You should leave that cell phone on.”

“So I can talk to you?” Davy said, sitting back down on the bed. “No.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Ronald said. “I wanted you to know that Clea knows you’re in town.”

“Yeah, I know,” Davy said.

“Well, I didn’t tell her,” Ronald said.

“Blow me, Rabbit.”

Ronald exhaled loudly into the phone, apparently in disgust. “I’m trying to help you. She’s really angry. You’re in danger.”

“Am I?” Davy said.

“She’s hired a hit man, Davy,” Ronald said.

“Good to know,” Davy said, checking his watch.

“I didn’t tell you this before,” Ronald went on, “but one of the reasons she had to have your money is that her husband didn’t leave her anything. She needs that money, Davy. You should get out of town.”

“She’s lying to you, Rabbit,” Davy said tiredly.

“No,” Ronald said. “It’s true. He had a great art collection and the warehouse it was in burned down, and the insurance company is refusing to pay. He was wiped out. She really needs your money. Let her have it and go.”

“A torched warehouse? Christ, that’s the oldest fraud in the book. I can’t believe she-” Davy said, and then stopped. “Wait a minute. How do you know he had a great collection?”

“I told you, I helped Clea value it after he died. That’s how we met. She turned to me in her grief and-”

“The warehouse burned before he died, Rabbit. You just said so.”

“Oh,” Ronald said. “Well, yes, I helped value it before he died. But nothing happened between us until-”

“My ass,” Davy said. “You helped Clea burn an empty warehouse to collect the insurance. Where are the paintings now?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ronald said. “I’m trying to save your life. I’m not kidding.”

“I know,” Davy said. “You have no sense of humor. Tell Clea I said hi and not to burn any more storage facilities. Does she still do that thing with the feather and the ice cube?”

“What?”

“Oh, Rabbit, don’t tell me you gave her three million dollars and she never pulled out the feather and the ice cube.”

“I don’t know why I called you,” Ronald said. “You don’t deserve to be saved.”

“You called me because if somebody tries to kill me, you want to be sure you don’t go down for it,” Davy said. “You’re covering your ass, as usual. And I don’t deserve most of the stuff that happens to me, including having all my money stolen by a Judas of a friend.”

“It wasn’t your money,” Ronald said automatically.

“Good-bye, Rabbit,” Davy said. “Call me if Clea hires anybody else. I live for these updates.”

“She hired some help around the house,” Ronald said, trying to be snotty. “I’ll call you if she gets a dog.”

“Around the house,” Davy said, straightening. “Does this help live in?”

“I think so,” Ronald said. “Why?”

Oh, fuck, Davy thought. They should have gone after the last painting sooner. Now he had a third person to get out of the house, and it wasn’t likely Mason and Clea were going to let Gwen invite the kitchen help to the gallery for the night.

“Davy?”

“What does the help look like?” Davy said.

“Thin. Dark hair. Rather foolish looking. Not anybody Clea would sleep with,” Ronald said, sticking to the essentials and ignoring the fact that if he’d said “blond” instead of “dark hair,” he’d have been describing himself.

“I think I know him,” Davy said. I think I dragged him into an empty room after Tilda kicked his head in.

“He didn’t look very competent,” Ronald said. “But then, it’s hard to get good help.”

“Yeah, I know,” Davy said. “They embezzle from you.” He hung up and tried to work out a plan to get the help out of the house. Maybe he could find out the guy’s night off. There was always a way. Life could be a lot worse. He could be Rabbit.

“No, I couldn’t,” he said and went to shower.

DAVY WAS waiting when Tilda came back for lunch, and they took off for Clintonville and the fifth painting with Tilda as a redhead again. The Brenner house was a foursquare, maintained but not rehabbed, with a front porch crowded with pots of greenery that Davy recognized under the generic heading of “grandmother’s houseplants.” The woman who opened the door would have fallen under the heading of “nice old lady” had Davy been a nice young man. Instead, he looked at her and thought, Mark.

“Hi,” he said, smiling his best nice-young-man smile, and sure enough, Mrs. Brenner smiled back. Such a nice young man. “My name is Steve Brewster, and I’m collecting for Art for Masses. We ask for donations of old paintings and framed artwork which we sell to benefit the homeless.” She nodded, smiling back at him. “There was an article in the Dispatch not too long ago,” Davy lied. “Maybe you saw it?”

“Why, yes,” the woman said, adjusting her glasses.

God protect this woman, Davy thought, but he said, “We were wondering if you might have an old painting or two hanging around.” He grinned. “So to speak.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I did have an attic full of them, but my husband’s nephew Colby cleaned it out for me. I think he hauled all of them to the dump.”

Hell. “That was thoughtful of him,” Davy said.

“Not really,” the woman said, losing her smile. “He charged me quite a bit for it. And then there was the fee at the dump. After all that, I almost wished I’d left them up there.”

Fee at the dump, Davy thought, and immediately downgraded the nephew from good human being to classic cheating mark, the guy who deserved to go down. “I don’t suppose he told you which dump?” Davy said. “We do a lot of salvage.”

“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “but it was an expensive one.”

“Could I have your nephew’s phone number?” Davy said, trying to keep his voice from growing grim. “That dump sounds like a good place for us. For charity.”

“Of course,” the woman said and disappeared back into the house, leaving her door open.

Oh, honey, Davy thought. Get a Doberman.

“Here it is,” she said, coming back to the door with a slip of paper and a five-dollar bill in her hand. “He’s up in Dublin.”

The creep lived in upper-crust Dublin but he was still ripping off his aunt? Take this guy for everything he’s got, Davy’s lesser self whispered.

“I’ll give him a call,” Davy said, turning his inner con man back to the job at hand. “And I’ll make sure to send you a receipt so you can claim the donation on your income tax.” He tried to take the paper without the bill, but she shoved both at him.

“Oh, no, I’m just sorry I couldn’t help more,” the woman said. “Please take this, too. I’m sorry it can’t be more-”

Jesus, Davy thought. “Absolutely not,” he said, sliding the slip of paper out from under the bill in her hand. “Our charter only allows us to accept artwork. You’re much too generous.”

“Well, I still have my home,” she said. “And they don’t, poor things. Are you sure you won’t take this? Why don’t you use it for your lunch? You should be rewarded, too.”

Davy gazed at her sadly. The urge to say, “Look, never give to anybody door to door, never leave your door unlocked especially when there’s a strange guy asking for money on your porch, and never, ever, ever let your nephew in the house again,” was overwhelming. “I really can’t,” he said. “But the gesture is appreciated. You have a really nice day.”

“Thank you,” she said, holding the five to her chest with a gesture that told Davy all he needed to know about how much she would have missed it. “You have a good day, too.”

The screen door banged closed behind him as he went down the cracked concrete steps, and he gave serious thought to calling Colby in Dublin and offering to sell him some nice land in Florida. Instead he got back in the car and called the number on his cell phone.

“What are you doing?” Tilda said. “I don’t get to play on this one?”

Davy waved her off as a bored-sounding woman answered the phone. “He’s not here,” she said when Davy asked. “He won’t be back until late.”

“I’ll call back later,” Davy said. “I’m interested in some paintings he took to a dump. You don’t happen to know which dump, do you?”

“He didn’t take any paintings to a dump,” the woman said, sounding outraged at the thought. “He sells stuff like that at the flea market on South High.”

“Is that where he is now?” Davy said, keeping the grimness from his voice.

“He’s at work,” the woman said. “The flea market opens Thursdays.”

“Right,” Davy said, but she’d already hung up.

“What’s wrong with you?” Tilda said.

“These guys are scum,” he said. “The guys who rip off people who can’t afford it. The bullies and the grifters and the snakes. I hate them.”

When she didn’t say anything he looked over at her. She looked pale, her eyes huge behind her glasses.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of him. But we are not giving him money.”

“Okay,” she said faintly.

“Take it easy, Betty,” he said, patting her knee. “You just aren’t cut out for crime.”

“Oh, no,” Tilda said. “I’m really, really not.”

What a shame, he thought, and put the car in gear.

TILDA WENT upstairs to bed that night at eleven, with both Steve and Davy behind her, determined to say no if Davy made his move. And he was going to, he had that cheerful look in his eye. Steve was looking fairly cheerful, too, for a change, but on the third-floor landing, as they passed Dorcas’s room, the door opened, and Dorcas peered out.

“Could you guys keep it down a little?” she said.

“What?” Tilda said, startled. “We didn’t say anything.”

“Not now,” Dorcas said. “Friday and Saturday night.” She shook her head at them. “All that moaning and screaming. I couldn’t paint.”

“That wasn’t us,” Davy said regretfully. “That was Simon and Louise.”

“Simon?” Dorcas said, as Ariadne walked out on the landing.

“A friend of Davy’s,” Tilda said. “And it was only the weekend. Louise isn’t-”

Ariadne swatted Steve, claws bared, three times fast.

Tilda scooped up the startled dog and held him out of harm’s way as Dorcas said, “Ariadne!”

“What the hell was that for?” Davy said.

“Past crimes.” Tilda propped Steve on her shoulder and he looked down at Ariadne, eyes wide. “It’s okay, Steve. She’ll get over it. I’ll tell Louise, Dorcas.” She started up the stairs again, and Davy followed her.

“What did he do to Ariadne?”

“He made a pass,” Tilda said, trying to keep the discussion PG.

“Oh.” Davy looked back down at Ariadne on the landing. “Doesn’t he get points for being open-minded?”

Tilda gave up on the PG. “He tried to hump her.”

“Steve, you dummy,” Davy said. “You gotta buy her a couple of drinks first, get her liquored up.”

Tilda had a momentary vision of Steve leaning up against the landing wall, asking Ariadne if she came there often, and laughed.

“Then when you’ve got her laughing,” Davy said to Steve, “make your move.”

“I too have claws,” Tilda said.

“And teeth. But I am not afraid.”

“You and Steve have a lot in common.” Tilda handed the dog to him.

“Speaking of dangerous females,” Davy said, slinging the dog under his arm, “where has Louise been? Simon’s starting to think she’s a figment of his imagination.”

“She’ll be back at the Double Take Wednesday night. She has Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday off.” She opened the bedroom door and saw her bed, looking vast and white in the moonlight.

“She takes three nights off from sex?”

“From the Double Take,” Tilda said. “Tell Simon to be patient.” Really patient, she’s not coming back here.

“That’s two days from now.” Davy put Steve on the floor. “I don’t know if he has that much patience. I don’t even think I do.”

“Develop some,” Tilda said.

“So that’s a no,” Davy said.

“If the question is what I think it is,” Tilda said, “then, yes, that’s a no.”

“You know, Vilma, playing hard to get can backfire.”

“I’m not playing,” Tilda said and locked herself in the bathroom to change into her pajamas. She liked sleeping in T-shirts better, but they had an adverse effect on Davy.

When she came out, he was already in bed, looking annoyed. She crawled in beside him, perversely glad he was there, and held up the quilt for Steve to tunnel under. Cozy, she thought as she felt the dog snuggled up to her through the sheet. She glanced over at Davy, who was fighting with his pillow and looking not cozy.

“So tell me, Vilma,” he said, punching the pillow again. “If you’re not playing, why do you let me back in your bed?”

“In my bed,” Tilda pointed out. “Not in me. There are limits here.”

“In your dreams.” Davy shoved his pillow behind him. “If I wanted to be in you, I’d be in you. You have lousy pillows. Why is that? Is Gwennie anti-pillow?”

“How would you be in me?” Tilda looked at him with contempt. “You would not be in me.”

“I have charm.” Davy shoved the pillow again. “Tomorrow I’m getting you better pillows.”

“You do not have charm,” Tilda said and then honesty made her add, “well, you don’t have that much charm.”

“I have charm you haven’t experienced yet,” Davy said. “Unplumbed depths of charm not yet unleashed on you.” He punched the pillow again.

“Well, let me know if you plan to unleash it,” Tilda said, snuggling down against her own pillow. “I want to brace myself.”

“Won’t do you any good,” Davy said. “I’ll get you anyway. How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Sink down into that pillow.” He frowned at her. “You gave me the lousy pillow.”

“I didn’t give you anything. You took it.”

“Let me see.” Davy jerked her pillow out from behind her and Tilda’s head bounced on the bed. He punched it a couple of times and shook his head. “No, this one’s lousy, too.” He dropped it on her face, and as she pulled it off she heard him say, “Tomorrow we get new pillows.”

“I like this pillow.”

“You think you like that pillow,” Davy said, trying to get comfortable again. “Once you try the new pillows, you’ll spit on that pillow.”

“I will still like this pillow.”

Davy leaned over her and Tilda blinked at how suddenly close he was. “Work with me here,” he said. “This is vitally important.”

“Pillows are vitally important,” Tilda said.

“Yes,” Davy said, so seriously she had to smile.

“Can you admit,” he said, “that there is a slim possibility that there might, just might, be a better pillow than the one under your head right now?”

“Well-”

He leaned closer. “Possibly, maybe, might be, yes?”

“Yes,” Tilda said.

“Then tomorrow I am getting you new pillows.”

“I like these pillows.”

“Did you know that after a year, half the weight of a pillow is dust mites?”

Tilda sat up, almost bumping into him. “What?”

“I swear to God it’s true,” Davy said, leaning back. “How old are these pillows?”

“They were here when I moved back home five years ago,” Tilda said, looking at her pillow in horror.

“We get new pillows,” Davy said, and tossed his on the floor.

“Oh, gross,” Tilda said and shoved hers after his.

“Of course, now we have nothing to sleep on,” Davy said. “Want to have sex?”

Tilda grinned at him. “That’s your boundless charm?”

“No, I spent all my charm talking you out of the pillows.” Davy got out of bed, picked up his shirt from the chair, and wadded it into a ball as he came back to her. “I thought I might get you on the momentum.”

“You’re pathetic,” Tilda said.

“So that’s still a no.”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “That’s still a no.”

“Confusing.” Davy stuffed his shirt under his head and rolled away from her.

Tilda looked at the lovely strong line of his shoulders in the moonlight. “I know,” she said and rolled away from him.

GWEN OPENED the gallery on Wednesday morning, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up a Shirelles medley on the jukebox, got a pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic, and thought, Someday I’m going to die, and my body will still do this. And nobody will notice.

To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and the loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air, while the Shirelles sang “I Met Him on a Sunday.” She should mention the cracked window to Simon, who’d evidently exhausted the entertainment possibilities of Columbus without Louise, and was now poking around the building, making notes to update the security. “This place is a burglar’s dream,” he’d told her. She’d gestured to the Finsters. “And he’d steal what?”

Davy had been grumpy for the past two days, too, which had to be either his money or Tilda, Gwen wasn’t sure which but she was sure it wasn’t good. “He’s FBI,” Gwen told Tilda. “Make him happy. Whatever it takes.”

“Mother of the Year, you’re not,” Tilda said. He was also spending a lot of time playing pool somewhere with people who had deep pockets. “You could earn a living doing that,” Gwen told him when he came in one night and gave her more muffin money. “And then it wouldn’t be fun anymore,” he said, and went upstairs to Tilda’s room.

And then there was Ford, who had brought her piña coladas every day without once breaking into an expression, although he did stay to talk about the gallery. It was flattering how much he wanted to know about her and sad how little there was to tell. The piña coladas helped ease the shame considerably. She had four umbrellas now, pink, blue, green, and yellow, and she kept them in her pencil holder where she could see them because she figured they were as close as she was ever going to get to blue water and white sand.

That’s pathetic, she thought, which made her think of Mason, who’d called both Monday and Tuesday to thank her for going to lunch and then talked about the gallery wistfully. He was working up to asking her something, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was: he wanted to buy the gallery. Heaven, she thought, except that she couldn’t, so no point in thinking about it. But at least her life was expanding. Now instead of looking forward to a Double-Crostic every day, she could look forward to a Double-Crostic, a phone call from Mason, and a paper umbrella from Ford. “Whoa, Nellie,” she said, “now I’m really getting somewhere,” and slapped open her Double-Crostic book.

By noon, having written in “ophidian” for “snakelike,” “nimiety” for “redundancy,” and “enswathe” for “wrap as a bandage,” she was feeling much better. Of course anybody who would use “dofunny” as an answer for “gadget” was clearly insane, but that was puzzle-makers for you. She was still annoyed with this yahoo for spelling “toffee” with a y. And that “heavily built birds” clue that turned out to be “rough-legged hawks” was just-

“Grandma?”

Gwen looked up from her book. Nadine stood there, looking solemn with Ethan behind her.

“I thought you went to paint the mural with Tilda,” Gwen said.

“I did,” Nadine said. “Yesterday. We painted the under-painting. It was boring so I’m not going to be a muralist.”

“Probably a good idea,” Gwen said. “So now what?”

Nadine looked at Ethan. “Well, Ethan and I were concerned about Mr. Brown.”

“Why?” Gwen said.

“Because Aunt Tilda said he had a fake name,” Nadine said.

“She was kidding,” Gwen said, going back to her Double-Crostic.

“I don’t think so,” Nadine said. “Ethan and I bugged his phone.”

Gwen jerked her head up. “Nadine.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Goodnight,” Ethan said. “We didn’t hurt the phone.”

“It was really easy,” Nadine said. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll be a detective.”

“I’m thinking you’ll go to jail,” Gwen said. “That’s illegal. You stop it right now.”

“We’re not the ones going to jail,” Nadine said, and Ethan nodded. “Not after what we heard.”

“What?” Gwen said, not really wanting to know. She liked those little umbrellas. And the piña coladas were good, too.

“Mr. Brown is a hit man.”

“Oh, hell,” Gwen said, and closed her Double-Crostic book.