The Liar

27

It took time to finish the room he wanted for Callie, to build a front porch swing. But he had plenty on his hands as Shelby was wrapped up in the plans for the engagement party.

Or more, from what she said, in keeping Bitsy under control.

He filled evenings and nights he couldn’t be with her chipping away at projects on the house, and planning for down the road.

When they finally managed an evening together, she vetoed his suggestion of dinner out for a casual one at his place.

That was fine with him.

He was out in the yard when she arrived, just hanging the tire swing he’d made on a sturdy branch of an old hickory.

“Look at that!” she called out. “There’s something Callie will make a beeline for.”

“Pretty cool, huh? Got the tire from your grandfather.”

He’d built it horizontally, choosing a mid-size tire that would suit a little girl’s butt, and had fed the chain through a garden hose to protect the branch.

“It’s so sweet.”

“Wanna try it out?”

“Of course I do.” She handed him a large insulated jug, leaned in when he slid an arm around her for a kiss.

“What’s in here?”

“Hard lemonade. My granddaddy’s recipe, and it’s a winner.” She scooted onto the tire, gave the chains a tug. “It’s sturdy.”

“Fun can be safe,” he said, gave her a push.

She leaned back, hair flying, gave a laugh. “And it is fun. What made you think of such a thing?”

He didn’t want to say—yet—that he’d been looking at plans for backyard swing sets, and had stumbled across the idea. “Just came to me. I had this friend—what was his name? Tim McNaulty—when I was about Callie’s age. He had one of these in his yard—set vertical. This way makes more sense.”

“I love it. So will she.”

As if hypnotized, the dog sat on the ground, his head tilting this way, then that, following Shelby’s rhythm. “I swear, that dog’s bigger than he was when I saw him a few days ago.”

“Next outdoor project’s a doghouse. A big one.”

“He’ll need big.”

She jumped off the swing. “I’m sorry I’ve been so tied up lately. I feel like I’ve had barely a minute without something that needed doing.”

“I know the feeling. It’s no problem, Red. Our best pals are getting married. It’s a lot.”

“It’d be a Macy’s Day Parade if I couldn’t keep Miz Bitsy down, and that’s taken every bit of creativity and energy I have. She’s jumping so fast from this party to the wedding and back again, my head’s on a constant revolution. She got it into her head Emma Kate should arrive at the ceremony—venue yet to be determined—in a princess carriage. White horses and a carriage, as Emma Kate had that on her wedding list when she was about twelve. It took some doing to nudge her off that one.”

“Emma Kate’s going to owe you for the rest of her life.”

“That’s a benefit. Why don’t we— Oh, Griff, you got a porch swing!”

Speaking of beelines, she made one herself, twirled a circle, the full skirt of her grass-green sundress billowing. “I just love it! How’d you find one this wonderful blue?”

“Like your eyes.” He followed her onto the porch. “I painted it. I made it.”

“You made it yourself? Of course you did.” She sat down, pushed off gently with her feet. “And it’s perfect, just perfect for sitting here on a lazy afternoon or a quiet evening. It’d be extra perfect if you got us a couple of tall glasses, and sat down here with me so we could sample that hard lemonade.”

“Be right back.”

When the dog tried to climb up with her, she hefted him up—no easy task now. “You’re almost too big.” But she hooked an arm around him, swinging and thinking she’d rarely seen a prettier spot.

All so green and private with the sky a blue dome dashed with white clouds. She could hear the stream, fast and lively from the last rains, and the insistent, echoing rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker busy somewhere beyond the green, setting up the percussion section for the chorus of birds.

“He’s got my spot,” Griff said when he brought out the drinks.

“He didn’t want to be left out.”

Resigned, Griff sat on the other side of the dog, who wiggled with absolute joy.

“There couldn’t be a better spot for a porch swing.” She sampled the drink. “I think I did Grandpa proud.”

“I’ll say.”

“It goes down easy, but it’s got a kick. It’s made for sipping. And sipping on a warm evening, on a porch swing, is even better. You’ve got your own little Eden here, Griffin.”

“Eden needs considerable work yet.”

“If Adam and Eve had put some time into working the garden instead of picking apples, they might still be there. Gardens, houses, lives, they’re a continual work in progress, aren’t they? I stopped progress on mine for a while, but I’m making up for it. It’s peaceful here. The light, the swing, this very fine lemonade. You, this sweet dog. I’m going to get what’s not peaceful out of the way, then we won’t have to think about it again.”

“Something happened.”

“I don’t know for certain, but I know now you didn’t talk to Forrest this afternoon.”

“No, not today.”

“I’m guessing he knew I was coming over, and I’d tell you. The police think they might have a kind of witness. On the detective. The FBI agents are going in to talk to him.”

“What did he see?”

“They’re not altogether convinced he saw much of anything, or anything useful. But the man—a boy, really—was in the building the night Privet was killed. He said how he heard this pop. Just one pop, like a muffled firecracker, he said. He didn’t think much of it. The timing’s right, and more, he saw who they think is the killer leave.”

“Harlow?”

“They can’t say for sure, but he’s claiming the person he saw wasn’t that big—tall or broad. No beard, either. He says blond hair—very blond—and glasses with thick, dark rims. Wearing a dark suit. He says how he can’t be sure of much, it was only a quick glimpse—saw him leaving the building when he was looking out the window. Saw him walk across the street and get into a big SUV.”

“Wig, glasses, shave.” Griff shrugged. “At a glance, in the dark, it’s hard to say if it was Harlow or not.”

“More, he was a little high at the time, and where he shouldn’t have been. That’s why he didn’t say anything until he was picked up for possession, and not the first time on that. He’d been working as a photographer’s assistant in that building, and he’d gone in late because he was setting up to shoot some porn on the side. He’s trying to make a deal so he doesn’t have to go to jail.”

“So he could be making it up trying to save his ass.”

“He could, but he has the time, and that single pop. Just one. The police didn’t say how many times Privet was shot, how many shots fired. So that’s something to consider.”

Griff considered it while they glided on the swing and sipped. “It’s a stretch to think somebody else shot the PI. Same gun, that’s what they said, as the one used to kill Warren. And we know Harlow was in the area. But let’s stretch it. Somebody else is involved, somebody else hired the detective. Maybe somebody connected to the Miami Montvilles, or the insurance company, or somebody Richard worked with at some point.”

“It makes me wonder if maybe that somebody killed Richard and staged the boating accident.”

“Bigger stretch.”

“I know it, but he was so determined to go, so I’m wondering now if it was to meet somebody, to finally deal with the jewelry he’d stolen. Another double cross, but on him this time.”

“What would you do if you’d just gotten your hands on millions in jewelry—not hot anymore—and had killed to get your hands on it?”

“I’d run fast and far, but . . .”

“There are still two people who want what you have,” Griff finished. “So you hire a detective, and you put him on it. And on you, Red, in case you knew something.”

“Griff, it’s made me think about how many people I let into that house up North in those weeks after Richard’s death. I might have let his killer—if there was one—inside to give me an appraisal, to take something away. Or all the times I was out of the house for hours at a go. Someone who knew how could’ve gotten in, looked around all they wanted. If Richard left something behind that mattered in all this.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m making it more complicated than it already is.”

“It’s pretty risky to try to stage a boating accident in the middle of a storm. Why not just dump the body—or leave it like the others?”

“I don’t know.” But she’d chewed it over endlessly. “I was thinking to buy time. Or maybe it was an accident—killing Richard, I mean. And the rest happened from there. And the simplest is usually right,” she finished. “Richard died in an accident. Harlow killed the woman and the detective. And this witness was coked up, got no more than a glimpse out a window. I’m going to stop worrying about it as of right this minute.

“We’ve got this beautiful evening, and a few hours to enjoy it.”

“Maybe you could stay, just stay again. I could get another invitation to breakfast.”

She smiled, sipped. “It happens I have an overnight bag in the car, in case I got an invitation.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Thank you. It’s on the floor of the passenger seat. Oh, and there’s a blanket on the seat. Would you bring that, too?”

“Are you cold?” he asked as he headed for the car. “It must be eighty, at least.”

“I do love a warm evening. Makes me feel like I’ll never want to go inside, just stay out, watch the sky change, the light change, hear the first night birds when twilight comes.”

“We can stay out as long as you want.” He started back with bag and blanket. “I fell back on the old reliable of steaks on the grill.”

“That sounds perfect. For later.”

She took the blanket from him, gave it a quick whip in the air to open it.

“Where’d the dog go?”

“Oh, I put him inside, with the rawhide bone I had in my pocket. I think we’ll all be happier this way.” She laid the blanket on the porch, straightened, shook her hair back. Smiled. “Because I think it’s time you got me naked on the porch.”

She staggered him. Aroused him. Delighted him. “Is that what time it is?”

“I think it’s past time, but I know you’ll make up for it.”

“I can do that.” He set her bag aside, pulled her into his arms.

He took his time so the kiss alone left her limp—all watery knees and misty thoughts. He had a way of making that meeting of lips into a long, slow shimmer. A kindling rather than an explosion.

Wrapped in him, seduced when she had thought to seduce, she let herself be guided, let herself be glided along the river of sensation. Swaying to him, with him, on the old front porch with the sunlight like shattered gold and the world too still for a single leaf to stir.

He eased the zipper down at the back of her dress, enjoying, lingering over every inch of skin he exposed. Soft as silk, smooth as lake water.

His to touch.

He nudged the straps from her shoulders, gave himself the pleasure of laying his lips there. Stronger than she looked, he thought. Shoulders that didn’t shirk from lifting a load.

He wanted—needed—to help her with the weight.

For now, he gave the dress a little brush so it flowed like air to her feet. The pretty bits of lace she wore echoed the tender green of the dress.

“I bought them special.” She laid fingertips between her breasts when he looked down at her. “I shouldn’t’ve spent the money, but—”

“Worth every penny. I’ll pay you back.”

“I’m counting on it,” she said before his mouth took hers again.

A little stronger, a little deeper now so her head fell back to accept all he offered, to give all he asked.

He drew her down with him so they knelt on the blanket. Their lips broke apart long enough for her to tug the T-shirt he wore over his head; met again as she tossed it aside. Hot flesh under her hands, the water and soap of his shower teasing her senses as she played kisses over the curve of his shoulder.

And still that faint, lingering scent of sawdust, reminding her as the calloused palms reminded her, he worked with his hands.

A quick shiver ran over her skin, ran into her blood when he flicked the clasp of her bra open. Those working hands cupped her breasts, the rough pads of his thumbs stroked across her nipples, waking new needs, churning up a storm in her belly.

Everything in her so full now, so tender and already yearning. But his hands continued to play over her, finding more, stirring more.

He laid her back, ran his finger along the edge of the panties, along that vulnerable line between thigh and center.

That sound in her throat, not quite moan, not quite sigh. It could undo him. His own needs gathered, but he held them, held them, floating his palm over the lace, building the heat under the thin barrier until her hands lost their grip on him.

Her breath quickened, deepened; the lids lowered over the magic blue of her eyes.

His to touch, he thought again. His to have.

He slipped that thin barrier away and took her up, took her over with his hands.

It burst through her, lightning through the storm, slashing pleasure, a new flash of deep, driving need. She dragged at his belt, impatient now for all, to take, be taken.

He drew her up again to help her, then took her hands in his to still them when she yanked at his jeans.

“No rush.”

Her breath in rags, desire a single mad ache, she looked at him—and saw that same need, that same aching.

“Maybe I’m in more of a hurry than you.”

“Let’s just take a minute.” He kept her hands trapped in his, took her mouth again. “I love you.”

“Oh, God, Griff.”

“I need to say it, need you to hear it. While I’ve got you naked on the porch. I love you. I don’t have to rush it.”

“I can’t get a handle on what I feel, on what you do inside me even when you’re not there. It’s so much.” She pressed her face into his shoulder. “It’s all so much.”

“That works for now.” He eased her back so he could bring up her hands, kiss them before he let them go. “It all works.”

He shifted, lowering to the blanket again so she lay over him. He threaded his fingers through her hair, loving the mass of it, the wild curls and color.

She didn’t have his patience, but she tried to find some, guiding him now through the kiss, letting her hands stroke and stir, feeling his heart kick under her lips.

When at last there was nothing between them, she rose over him, took him in.

Filled. Surrounded. Joined.

She pressed his hands to her heart so he could feel it drumming while she set the rhythm.

Slow, she fought to keep it all slow, and found the staggering pleasure of that easy pace. Rolls of it flowing in like a sea, building layer by layer like clouds.

With the air thick as honey, the sunlight streaming, she rode him over that sea, higher into those clouds. She clung, clung, clung to that breathless peak. Then let herself be swept away.

She could hear the birds again, little trills and whistles through the circling woods. She could even hear the faintest rustle of the faintest breeze through the trees, like quiet breath, now that her heart wasn’t hammering in her ears.

And she knew the pure, sated joy of lying limp on the porch, a thoroughly satisfied woman, beside the man she in turn had thoroughly satisfied.

“I wonder what the UPS guy would’ve thought if he’d come driving up to the house.”

Shelby managed a sigh. “Are you expecting a delivery?”

“You never know. I didn’t even think about it. Who could think?”

“It’s nice not to think. It seems I spend most every hour of my day having to do just that. I don’t think when I’m singing, and I don’t have to think when you start kissing me. I guess it’s like a song.”

“I was thinking.”

“Mmmm.”

“I was thinking you looked like some sort of mountain goddess.”

She choked out a laugh. “Goddess. Do go on.”

“All that crazy red hair, the moon-white skin. So slim and strong, and eyes like blue shadows.”

“Well, that is like a song.” Moved, and a little nervous with it, she rolled over again, propped on his chest. “You’ve got some poetry, Griffin.”

“That’s about it.”

“It’s more than enough.” She traced a finger down his cheek. “You could be a god, all these hollows here.” And down the other cheek. “The sun-streaked hair, all those fine, fine muscles.”

“We’re a set.”

She laughed, lowered her forehead to his. “How deep is that stream of yours these days, Griff?”

“I guess about to mid-thigh—your thigh.”

“That’ll do it. Let’s go splash in the stream.”

He opened one eye, one cat-green eye. “You want to splash in the stream?”

“With you, I do. We can finish working up an appetite, and have another glass of that lemonade while we put dinner together.”

Before he could think of a reason against, she got up, tugged on his hand.

“We’re still naked,” he pointed out.

“No point getting our clothes wet, is there? Let the dog out,” she suggested, then dashed away.

A goddess, he thought. Or what was that thing . . . a sprite. But he didn’t imagine sprites had such long legs. He let the dog out as Shelby ran over his lawn, then, thinking of the more practical, ducked into the house, grabbed a couple of towels.

He wasn’t a prude—and would have been insulted to be termed one. But it felt pretty damn weird to rush over his own front yard wearing nothing but skin.

Before he got through the flanking trees, he heard the splash, the laugh, and the joyful yip of the dog.

She made rainbows, he thought, the way she tossed water up so the drops caught the dappled light and shone into quick color. The dog lapped, barked, swam some in the deeper water, then shook himself in the shallows.

Griff hung the towels over a branch.

“It’s so wonderfully cool. You could drop a line in here, maybe catch something. You follow the stream down a ways where it widens, deepens, you could catch your supper most any evening.”

“I’ve never fished.”

She straightened, naked and obviously stunned. “In your life?”

“I grew up in the ’burbs, Red, spent a lot of time with urban activities.”

“We have to fix that the very first chance we get. Fishing’s good for you. It’s relaxing, and you’re a patient man so it should suit you. What kind of urban activities?”

“Me?” He stepped into the water, and she was right, it was cool. “Sports mostly. Basketball in the winter, baseball in the summer. I never went out for football. I had a pretty skinny build.”

“I like baseball.” She sat down in the water, let it bubble over her. “I believe my daddy might have traded me for another model otherwise. What position did you play?”

“Did some pitching, covered second. Liked playing second better, I guess.”

“How come you’re not playing on the Raiders softball team? The Ridge has a pretty good team.”

“I might try it next year. This year, free time’s for the house. Aren’t you worried about rocks under your ass, or some fish swimming up . . . where I just was?”

She laughed, lay back enough to dip her hair in the water. “You really are citified yet. I know a couple of good swimming holes. We ought to try one some night.”

“Maybe I’ll put in a pond. I thought about a swimming pool, but that’s a lot of maintenance, plus, it doesn’t fit here. But a pond would.”

“You could do that?”

“Maybe. Something to think about down the road.”

“I love to swim.” Relaxed, even a little dreamy, she trailed her fingers back and forth to ripple the water. “I started teaching Callie before she could walk. And we had a pool in the condo in Atlanta, so we could swim all year-round. When she’s a little older, I’ll take her rafting with one of Clay’s groups. She’s fearless, and she’d like that. But I want another year or so on her first.”

She cocked her head. “Have you tried that?”

“The white water? Yeah. It’s a rush. I figured on going again when my parents come down in August.”

Her trailing fingers stilled. “Oh, they’re coming for a visit?”

“Working vacation—they’ll give me about a week on the place in early August. I’ve got some work I want to get done before they do. And I want them to meet you.”

That had nerves dancing in her stomach.

“I want them to see for themselves I’m not exaggerating.”

“You’ve told them about me?”

He gave her a long look. “What do you think?”

“Well.” She sat up again. Those nerves were doing an enthusiastic clog dance now. “Um. Well, my family has a big backyard party early in August. If the timing’s right, and you think your parents would like to come, they’d be welcome.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Are you cold?”

“No.” More than nerves, she thought, and glanced—suddenly uneasy—over her shoulder. “A goose walked over my grave, I guess. But I’m glad you brought the towels.” She rose, water sluicing off her skin, reached for one. “I didn’t think about drying off.”

He tipped her face up. “Do you have a problem meeting my parents?”

“No. It makes me a little nervous, but that’s natural, isn’t it? It’s . . .” She hunched, shivered. “Something between my shoulder blades, and now I’ve got the willies for no reason I can name.”

She wrapped the towel around herself, felt marginally better. So she leaned into him. “I’m nervous about meeting your parents, but I’m glad I will. I think it’s nice they’d come down here to help you with the house, spend time with you. And I think they must be good people to have made someone like you.”

“You’ll like them.”

“I bet I will. Let’s go in, all right? I can’t settle this itch between my shoulder blades.”

He took the other towel, then her hand.

Field glasses followed them through the trees, across the lawn.