“No,” he said. “It’s because you kissed me in a closet and adopted Steve and support your family and painted armadillo footstools and really hot mermaids. It’s because you’re Matilda Scarlet, and I was born to love you as sure as I was born to con people, damn it.” She lifted her head to look at him and he added, “And I love you with everything I’ve got, which means your rat bastard father was wrong.”
She came up on her toes to meet him, slippery in his arms as her dress slid between them, and when she kissed him, her lips were soft and open on his, no more secrets, and if Davy hadn’t already been in love, that would have done it. “Pack your stuff,” he whispered against her mouth, holding her as close as he could. “We’re getting out of here.”
Tilda looked around. “You’re right.” She sighed and relaxed against him, pliant in his arms. “It’s a shame, though. It’s a good space.”
“I know,” Davy said. “I’m thinking we paint a mermaid mural in here and put in a pool table. And a jukebox with music from this century.” He felt Tilda laugh into his shirt. “I love you, Matilda,” he said into her curls, breathing in cinnamon.
“I love you, too,” she said, and he felt his own tension go because she’d finally said it. “But I don’t play pool.”
“You will,” he said. “It’s your kind of game. Now pack.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, upstairs, Gwen was trying to figure out what to do with Mason. He was a nice man and a competent lover and she wanted him out of her apartment, out of her building, and possibly out of her life, although that was probably an overreaction. Why couldn’t he be like other men and leap out of bed, citing morning meetings or something?
“That was wonderful, Gwennie,” he said, kissing her again.
Get off my leg. “It was,” she said, “but I think you should go. Nadine is downstairs, and I don’t want her to think—”
“Of course,” Mason said, pulling her close. “You’re absolutely right.” He kissed her again, and then got out of bed, which gave her a chance to grab her robe, wondering why she was so cranky. Mason had been very sweet, and first times were always a problem, or at least they had been in her teens which was the last time she’d had a first time—
“You don’t need to see me out,” Mason said when he’d dressed, coming around the bed to kiss her again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He looked at the clock that said twelve-thirty, and added, “Or I guess I’ll see you today.” He smiled at her, almost shy. “It’s a brand-new day, Gwennie.”
“Yep,” she said, smiling back and thinking, Leave.
She walked him to the door, and patted his arm, and he had started down the hall, when Ford came up the stairs, passing him on the way. He stopped when he saw her.
What? Gwen thought, sticking out her chin. You’re a hit man. Cut me a break.
He shook his head at her and went inside his apartment, slamming the door behind him, and she felt like hell, which was ridiculous.
She went back into her apartment and into the bedroom and looked at the rumpled bed, all white in the lamplight, like the site of a virgin sacrifice. Which was damn funny when you considered how long it had been since she’d been a virgin and the kind of track record she’d had before she’d married Tony.
Maybe another vodka was in order. She was turning into a real lush, but at least she had good reason. She had problems. She tied her robe tighter, and went back into the hall, and Ford opened his door.
“Listen,” she said, before he could say anything. “Don’t give me any crap. I’m having a hard life.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Hey, I get to make my own choices.”
“Not when they’re that bad,” Ford said. “You couldn’t wait another week, could you?”
“Why another week?” she said, and thought, Davy. “Listen, you have to stop killing people.”
“Killing people?”
“Someone overheard a phone call,” Gwen said, looking at the ceiling.
She heard him move, and when she brought her eyes down he was there, and then he kissed her, his body blocking out all light and his mouth blotting out all thought, and she should have slapped him silly.
Instead she almost crawled inside his shirt in her enthusiasm for his mouth, and when he finally broke the kiss, he had to push her away to look her straight in the eye. “Okay, it’s only a mistake if you do it again,” he said.
“Hey,” she said, holding up her left hand. “I’m engaged.”
He took the ring off her finger as she pulled her hand away. “And now you’re not,” he said, pocketing it.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” she said, trying not to be the kind of woman who was turned on by domineering men, which was a laugh, considering Tony. “I’ll kiss anybody I want. I’ll get engaged to anybody I want. I’ll sleep with anybody I want. Give me back that ring.”
“No,” he said.
“I’m still engaged,” she said and went back into her apartment, slamming the door in his face, suddenly feeling pretty damned good. The world had swung around and two men had jumped her in one night, not bad for a middle-aged former singer and grandmother of one. It was almost like the old days, guys lining up, and all she had to do was choose. And it was happening because she wanted it to, because she needed the change, because she was done sleeping through life.
And Tilda was fine with her leaving. She could go.
For the first time in years, Gwen felt no interest in a Double-Crostic.
But just because she wanted it to happen, that didn’t mean she was with the right guys. Okay, definitely not Mason, she thought. What was I thinking? Well, she’d been thinking about the mortgage, but maybe they could work something out. And definitely not the hit man across the hall, either. She’d done the charming-crook thing with Tony. Forget it.
But definitely somebody. There will definitely be somebody. Definitely, I am back in the game.
She went to change the sheets, and found herself humming one of those obnoxious songs with forgettable lyrics and an unforgettable tune, cha-cha-ing around the mattress with a spring in her step as she reclaimed her bed. When the bed was smooth and new again, she picked up the phone and called down to the office. “Ethan?” she said, when he answered. “What is this?”
She hummed a few bars and Ethan said, “Wait. Let me get Nadine.”
“What?” Nadine said when she picked up the phone and Gwen hummed again. “It’s that Beach Boys thing,” she said. “Something, Jamaica, oooh, I’m gonna take ya.”
“Aruba, Jamaica,” Gwen said, the song dying on her lips.
“Where is Aruba anyway?” Nadine said.
“The Caribbean,” Gwen said. “Bring me up the vodka, would you, honey?”
“ABOUT MUSSOLINI and Grandma,” Tilda said, later that night in bed, as Davy was dozing off, his arms around her.
“You have to ask before we do it,” he said sleepily into her neck.
“Right,” Tilda said, trying to free her arm from under him. “When do you think we’ll be playing that one?”
“Whenever you want,” he mumbled.
“No,” Tilda said, “I meant when ...” Her voice trailed off as he began to snore.
Steve took that for a signal and jumped up on the bed.
“What I want to know,” Tilda said to Davy’s unconscious body, “is when are you leaving me, you bastard, and are you coming back?” She swallowed. “Because I’m believing in you and that can’t be good.” He snored again and she had a moment’s suspicion that he was faking it. Then she remembered that he hadn’t had any sleep the night before, that he’d sold furniture for hours straight, that he’d moved the entire contents of her studio up five flights of stairs, and that he’d just made athletically passionate love to her. “He’s really out, Steve,” she said to the dog. “But tomorrow we ask him. We are not going to be those people who dillydally and then regret it. He said he loves me. He said he’s going to get rid of the forgeries. He’s staying. Right?”
/> Steve sighed and stuck his nose under the quilt. Tilda lifted the edge for him and he tunneled under.
“You’ll never leave me, will you, Steve?” she said to him. Then she looked over at Davy and said, “You never will, either.”
She looked around the attic, now stacked full of easels and foam core board and paint and canvas, even her drawing board in one corner, and she thought, This is so much better. This is so right.
She looked at Davy again, asleep beside her, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Then she slid down under the covers between the two men in her life and fell asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING when Tilda went down for muffins, Eve was sitting in the office, looking like death.
“What?” Tilda said, still on a high from the night before. “What happened?”
“Can we go someplace else?” Eve said. “I want to get out of here.”
“Sure,” Tilda said, “What’s wrong?”
“I told Simon I was me,” Eve said.
“Oh, boy,” Tilda said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 19
“WHAT HAPPENED?” Tilda said when they were sitting in a booth at the diner and had ordered omelets.
“He’s leaving,” Eve said, her voice husky.
“Oh.” Tilda took her hand. “Is that good?” She ducked her head to see Eve’s face. “No?”
“He didn’t believe me,” Eve said. “Not at first. I had to get the wig and show him.”
“And then?”
“And then he was mad as hell,” Eve said. “So I told him if he’d been paying attention that he’d have noticed, the way Davy knew you. I told him he was getting two for one. I told him he probably had secrets from me, too, but that I’d understand.”
“And he didn’t buy it,” Tilda said, scrambling to think of a solution. “Maybe if you give him time—”
“He’s a thief,” Eve said flatly.
“Oh.” Tilda regrouped.
“He told me all about it when I said that thing about his having secrets I’d understand. He said he didn’t think I would, that he’d been a thief for years before the FBI asked him to consult. Since he was a teenager. He stole from everybody.”
Tilda swallowed. “Everybody makes mistakes.”
“He stole, Tilda,” Eve said, taking her hand back. “He went into people’s houses and he took their things. He just took them. He still doesn’t think it was wrong. He says he only took from people who could spare it.” Eve shook her head. “That’s like Ford only killing people who deserve it. It’s what he did that counts, not who the victims were.”
“Well, he’s reformed,” Tilda said. “Maybe—”
“People don’t reform,” Eve said. “Not hike that. There’s a piece of him missing that let him do that. And he’s not even sorry. He’s just mad about Louise. He says I lied to him, which I didn’t. I never said I wasn’t Louise.”
“I don’t think that’s the point,” Tilda said. “I think—”
“We just stood there and looked at each other,” Eve said. “Like we were looking at each other for the first time.”
“Well, you were.”
Eve shook her head. “All I could think of was, I slept with him and he was a thief. And he kept saying that he couldn’t believe he’d slept with Nadine’s mother. Except he didn’t say ‘slept with.’ I didn’t even tell him that it wasn’t me, it was Louise. He wouldn’t get it. And I didn’t care.”
Tilda sighed. “Look, you hit the sheets about fifteen minutes after you met, and then you lied to each other for almost three weeks so you could keep on doing it. It’s not a huge surprise that it didn’t work out. Can’t you just chalk it up to experience and great sex?”
“Is that what you’re going to do with Davy?” Eve said, her mouth set in hard lines.
“No,” Tilda said. “Davy is forever. But that’s because we know the truth about each other.”
“Davy’s a con man,” Eve said. “Did you know that?”
“Yes,” Tilda said. “He told me.”
Eve looked at her in outrage. “And it doesn’t bother you?”
“He is what he is,” Tilda said. “He’s not breaking the law anymore, and neither am I, and we can make our peace with that.”
Eve shook her head. “I don’t see how you can stay with him knowing the truth.”
“I think it’s like a litmus test,” Tilda said. “If you’re going to make it, you can tell each other anything, and it may not be what you want to hear, but it doesn’t matter. Even if you cry all over him and end up a soggy, pathetic mess.”
“So it’s love,” Eve said, clearly not buying it. “Well, that’s very optimistic of you, but you’re still trusting a con man.”
“And he’s trusting an art forger,” Tilda said, exasperated. “Nobody’s perfect. Everybody who’s ever loved anybody has had some stuff to get past. So you get past it because you really don’t have any other choice. You can’t leave.”
Eve shook her head. “I just can’t be that way.” She sounded almost smug, and Tilda lost what little sympathy she had left.
“You love Andrew,” she said.
“Well, of course, I—”
“And sixteen years ago he used you to convince himself he wasn’t gay,” Tilda said. “He knew he was gay, he’s always known, but he didn’t want it to be true, and he knew you loved him and would do anything he asked, and he slept with you to lie to himself.”
Eve’s face was like stone.
“And he’s felt like hell about it ever since,” Tilda said. “As much as we all adore Nadine, she stopped your life in its tracks at eighteen.”
“Andrew stopped, too,” Eve said.
“No,” Tilda said. “He went on and found the love of his life and the career he always wanted. Andrew doesn’t stop for anybody. And good for him, too, he’s doing it right, but he still screwed up in the past, and you’ve forgiven him.”
“I screwed up, too,” Eve said miserably. “I knew he was gay and I thought I could change him, if I just loved him enough.” She stopped and swallowed. “I lied to him. I told him I was on the pill. I should have let him be him. I used him, too.”
“So neither one of you should love each other,” Tilda said, completely exasperated. “You did lousy things to each other, just like you and Simon, so—”
“It’s not the same,” Eve said.
“I know it’s not the same,” Tilda said. “You don’t love Simon. Which is my point. Let it go. Kiss him good-bye, wish him luck, move on.”
The waitress brought their omelets and Tilda busied herself with salt and pepper, waiting for Eve to say something. When her omelet was half gone and Eve’s was still untouched, Eve finally spoke.
“I thought you’d be there for me,” she said. “I thought you’d be on my side.”
“I am on your side, always,” Tilda said. “But you don’t love him. That means it’s good that it’s over. That means that it worked out right.”
“Then why do I feel like hell?” Eve snapped.
“Because you wanted it to be right,” Tilda said, feeling sorry for her again. “You wanted Simon to be a law-abiding FBI stepfather to Nadine and the perfect husband for you, and it wasn’t ever going to happen. It was Andrew all over again.”
Eve sat silent for a moment, staring at her congealing breakfast, and then she pushed her plate away. “It still hurts.”
“Oh, baby.” Tilda went around the table and slid into the booth beside her. “I know it does,” she said as she put her arms around her sister. Eve put her head down on Tilda’s shoulder. “Poor baby. I’m sorry, I really am.”
“I can’t believe how dumb I am,” Eve said, her voice muffled.
“You’re not dumb,” Tilda said, tightening her arms. “Poor baby. Poor, poor baby.”
“Am I ever going to get this right?” Eve said, holding on to Tilda. “I’m thirty-five, for God’s sake, and I’m still screwing up.”
“Gwennie’s fifty-four and getting ready to shoot herse
lf in the foot,” Tilda said. “I don’t think there’s an age limit. Let’s just hope Nadine has not inherited our lousy track record with men.”
“I thought you and Davy—”
“I have great hope,” Tilda said, “that he will break the Goodnight curse. But if he doesn’t, I’ll survive. And he’ll be leaving me in a much better place. Maybe Simon’s leaving you in a better place, too.”
Eve was silent for so long that Tilda leaned over to look in her eyes.
“Do you ever wonder if you’re Tilda pretending to be Scarlet or Scarlet pretending to be Tilda?” Eve said.
“No,” Tilda said. “But it’s a damn good question.”
“Because I think I’m Louise.”
“Oh, boy,” Tilda said.
“Eve doesn’t love him. Louise might.”
Tilda leaned over her to call to the waitress. “Is it too early to get a drink here? Can we ... No?” She opened her purse and put bills on the table for the omelets. “Come on, cookie,” she said, pulling her sister out of the booth. “We’re going home for some pineapple-orange.”
❖ ❖ ❖
THREE BLOCKS AWAY, Clea sat across the breakfast table from Mason, mad as hell. First Thomas didn’t show up to make breakfast, then Ronald stood her up, and now Mason was sitting there drinking coffee, just as if he hadn’t come home late and then turned her down when she offered to help him relax.
He’d slept with Gwen Goodnight.
He looked up at her now and she smiled and thought, You fucking bastard. “More coffee?” she asked him.
“Clea, it’s over,” he said, not unkindly.
“What’s over?” she said brightly, as her entire body went cold.
“Us,” he said. “It was fun, I had a good time, you had a good time—”
Want to bet?
“—but it’s over. I’m in love with somebody else.”
“Gwen Goodnight,” Clea said.
“I’m sorry, Clea,” he said, and he sounded as though he meant it. “I just fell in love.”
“With her gallery,” Clea said before she could stop herself.