Читать книгу The Good Liar - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 7

One week later

Oakbrook, Illinois

I looked out my kitchen window. The Saturday afternoon sun was lighting the empty swing set and the bare winter ground. Another endless Saturday lay before me. I could remember, in a distant way, a time when my weekends were packed with activity and bursting with possibility.

I picked up the phone and called Liza’s cell phone. “It’s your sad, pathetic friend Kate,” I said when she answered.

“Don’t call yourself sad,” said Liza.

“Can I still call myself pathetic?”

“Absolutely.”

I laughed. Talking to Liza was about the only thing that got me laughing anymore.

“Are you back?” I asked.

“I was back, and I left again.”

“Where were you last week?”

“Montreal. And I got something for you.”

Liza Kingsley was always finding gifts for me on her travels. In Tokyo, she bought me a handbag in taupe-colored silk. I carried it for years until the lining began to shred. When Liza was in Budapest, she sent back a handwoven rug swirled with gold and celadon green. She was always going to London and bringing me packets of sweets from Harrods and, once, a cocktail dress in a chocolate brown, which she said would complement my eyes.

She was that kind of a friend. A great friend. Her friendship went beyond thoughtful gifts and a shared history. It was her phone calls and her visits and her cheerleading and her love that had propped me up and sustained me since Scott left.

And now this souvenir from Montreal.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I found you a man.”

I coughed. “What?”

“He’s amazing,” Liza said.

“I’m not ready to date.”

“Kate, it’s been ten months since he left. It’s time to dip your toe in the waters.” A pause. “And look, you’re not going to date. You’d just go on a date.”

Wind forced one of the swings into the air. A second later, it listed to a halt. “I don’t think so.”

“His name is Michael Waller.” She paused. “And he’s French.” Now she had a little goad in her voice.

“Don’t kid.”

“It’s true. Well, he’s American, but he’s of French descent, and he speaks the language fluently.”

“You’re taunting me.” Liza knew that French men, or at least men who could speak French, were my downfall. It was a trait uniquely embarrassing, because everyone I knew hated French men. Such men were thought pompous. Affected. Liza and I had grown up in Evanston, Illinois, but I’d spent six months after high school in a small town outside Paris, where I fell in love with a boy named Jacques. It was tragic. It was ridiculous. But I was hooked on the accent and the hooded eyes and the utter disdain French men carried for everyone, including themselves.

“It’s true,” Liza said again. “Of course, it’s just one of the six languages he knows.”

“Stop.” I turned away from the window and leaned against the stainless steel fridge.

“All true.”

“How old is he?”

She cleared her throat. “He’s a little older than you.”

“Spill it, Liza.”

“Michael is a very young fifty-five.”

“That’s seventeen years older than me!”

“I know, I know, but I wouldn’t recommend him if I didn’t think he was the perfect rebound man. Remember, this is just for fun.”

“But seventeen years?”

“Hey, Scott was our age, and that didn’t make a damn bit of difference, did it?”

I squeezed my eyes closed. It stung, yet Liza was absolutely right. The only thing that had made a difference was that I couldn’t have a child. Oh, I could get pregnant with a little medical assistance—and I did three times, in fact—but such pregnancies always ended in miscarriages. My body rejected the babies, and in return, Scott rejected me. Having a family was the most important thing in the world to him, even more important than his wife. And he was fiercely opposed to adoption. He wanted a baby who was his, he’d said over and over. Strangely, I didn’t think I even wanted children anymore. The quest had sucked me dry, left me with little maternal desire. So Michael’s age didn’t matter in that respect.

“You there?” Liza said.

“Unfortunately. I’m stuck in the house that Scott built.”

“Sell it.”

“I will. Soon. I just can’t take any more changes for a while.”

“What you need is a good night out with a nice, attractive man.”

“And that’s it? A night out?”

“That’s it. He lives in Vermont but he visits Chicago for business. It’s perfect.”

“How do you know him?”

“Work. He used to be at Presario. I haven’t seen him in years, but I ran into him in Montreal. And how fantastic is this? He’s opening a restaurant called the Twilight Club in St. Marabel. It’s outside Montreal.”

“Exactly how am I supposed to date a man who lives in Vermont and is opening a business in Canada?”

“Have you not heard me? I’m just talking about one date.”

“Why don’t you date him?”

She made a snorting sound. “He’s not my type, and I have no interest in the French thing, unlike you. So can I have him call you? He’s coming to Chicago to meet with investors for his restaurant. He’s staying at the Peninsula.”

“Expensive.”

“Well, he’s got money. I’m telling you, this guy has everything, Kate—looks, smarts, money, sense of humor.”

I stood away from the fridge and walked into the powder room just outside the kitchen. I flicked on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. “I’d need a haircut,” I said. My blond hair, which I normally wore to my chin, had become unruly over the past few months. The too-long bangs had to be pushed aside now and the ends were in desperate need of a trim.

“So get a haircut, for Christ’s sake,” Liza said. “Get some new clothes, get a massage, treat yourself. Head down to Michigan Avenue and do some Christmas shopping.”

“Maybe,” I said in a noncommittal way.

The truth was, I’d lacked motivation of any kind since Scott took off. For the first time in my adult life, I hadn’t even put up a Christmas tree. All I could manage was to drive to work every day, which was tough since I’d come to despise my job as an accountant at a medical-supply company. Before Scott and I got married, I used to work downtown at a big accounting agency, where we had major clients with interesting portfolios. Most people consider accounting boring, but I’ve always loved the order of it. My job seemed a challenging puzzle. But once I began working in medical supplies there were very few puzzles. Instead, I was crunching numbers about bedpans and catheters. The job was easier than my old one—and it was just a ten-minute drive from the house—but these things mattered only when Scott and I assumed we’d be having children. At least I hadn’t changed my name. My family’s name, Greenwood, was the one thing about my life that still felt like mine.

“God, I wish I was there to get you out of that house,” Liza said.

“Where are you now?”

“Copenhagen.”

Liza had an apartment in Chicago overlooking Lake Michigan, but as the head of international sales for Presario Pharmaceuticals, she was often globe-trotting.

“Your cell phone works in Copenhagen?”

“My cell phone works everywhere. And if it doesn’t I forward it to one that does.”

“How is Copenhagen?” I asked.

“Freaking freezing.”

“Are you having any fun?”

“When do I have time for fun?”

“Liza, you can’t work all the time.”

“Shut up, we’re talking about your pathetic life, remember? Let him take you to dinner.”

“You’re relentless.”

“Someone’s got to be. So what do you say?”

I groaned. And yet I felt buoyed just by talking to Liza. She had that effect on me. I glanced out the powder-room window at the lonely swing set. “All right. Have him call me.”