The Liar

She glanced over at Emma Kate’s house, noted the handyman truck in the drive, and the bright red car behind it. She wondered how she’d approach Emma Kate now that they were both back in the Ridge.

And her friend got out of the car.

She wore a hoodie, too, in a bold candy-pink Callie would have loved. She’d changed her hair, Shelby thought as Emma Kate pulled two market bags out of the backseat. She’d hacked off the long nut-brown braid Shelby remembered, wore it all cute and shaggy, with bangs.

She started to call out, then could think of nothing to say and felt stupid and awkward.

As she swung the door closed, Emma Kate spotted her. Her eyebrows lifted under the warm brown fringe of bangs as she hauled one strap onto her shoulder.

“Well, look who’s standing out in the rain like a wet cat.”

“It’s just a drizzle.”

“It’s still wet.” She stood hipshot a moment, bags hanging from her shoulders, her wide mouth unsmiling, her deep brown eyes critical even through the rain. “I heard you were back.”

“I heard the same about you. I hope your daddy’s doing okay.”

“He is.”

Feeling more stupid just standing there, Shelby walked up the short driveway. “I like your hair.”

“Granny talked me into it. I’m sorry about your husband.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s your little girl?”

“With Mama. They have a playdate with Miz Suzannah’s granddaughter.”

“Chelsea. She’s a pistol. You got a destination, Shelby, or are you just out wandering in the wet?”

“I’m going into Viola’s, but I have all this time on my hands with Callie off with Mama, so . . . I’m wandering first.”

“Then you’d better come inside, say hello to my mother or I won’t hear the end of it. I’ve got to take her these groceries anyway.”

“That’d be nice. Here, let me take one.”

“I’ve got it.”

Rebuffed, as she was meant to feel, Shelby hunched her shoulders as they walked to the door. “I . . . Forrest said you’re with someone, and living in town.”

“I am. Matt Baker. We’ve been together about two years now. He’s at Viola’s right now, fixing one of the sinks.”

“I thought this was his truck.”

“They have two. This is his partner’s. Griffin Lott. Mama’s redoing the kitchen, and driving us all insane.”

Emma Kate opened the door, glanced back at Shelby. “You’re the talk of Rendezvous Ridge, you know. That pretty Pomeroy girl who married rich, was widowed young, come back home again. What will she do?” Emma Kate smirked a little. “What will she do?” she said again, and walked inside with her market bags.

6

Griff considered himself a patient man. He didn’t fly off the handle as a rule. And when he did, all bets were off, but it took a lot of pushing to get him off the ground.

But right at the moment he was seriously considering duct-taping Emma Kate’s pretty adorable mother’s mouth closed.

He’d worked on getting the base cabinets in all morning, and she’d been peppering him with questions all morning.

Breathing down his neck, hanging over his back, all but crawling up his ass.

He knew damn well Matt had taken off to Miz Vi’s place to spare himself the headache of his girlfriend’s sweet, chatty—and let’s face it—ditzy mother.

Worse, she was still dithering—“dithering” would be the word of the day—about the cabinets even as he installed them. And if he had to take them out because she changed her mind again, he might do worse than duct tape.

He had bungee cords, and he knew how to use them.

“Oh now, Griff honey, maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the white. They’re so plain, aren’t they? And white’s cold, it’s just a cold color, isn’t it? Kitchens ought to be a warm place. Maybe I should’ve gone with the cherrywood after all. It’s so hard to know before you see them right there where they’re going, isn’t it? How do you know what it’s going to look like until you see what it looks like?”

“Clean and fresh,” he said, trying to sound cheerful when he wanted to grind his teeth. “Kitchens should be clean and fresh, and that’s what you’re going to have.”

“Do you think so?” She stood, nearly at his elbow, twisted her linked fingers together. “Oh, I don’t know. Henry finally just threw up his hands and said he didn’t care either way. But he’ll care if it isn’t right.”

“It’s going to look great, Miz Bitsy.” He felt like someone, possibly himself, was shooting a nail gun dead center of his forehead.

He and Matt had dealt with fussy clients back in Baltimore. The control freaks, the whiners, the demanders and the ditherers, but Louisa “Bitsy” Addison was the undisputed queen of the ditherers.

She made the previously reigning champs—John and Rhonda Turner, who’d had them tear out a wall in their row house in Baltimore, build it back in, then tear it out a second time—seem resolute, steady as a brick wall—in comparison.

What they’d estimated as a three-week job—with a three-day contingency built in—was currently in week five. And God knew when it would end.

“I don’t know,” she said for the millionth time, patting her hands together under her chin. “White’s kind of stark, isn’t it?”