The Liar

She carried the jacket back into the bedroom, got her manicure scissors out of her kit. Carefully, she widened the hole, telling herself she’d stitch it up later, before she bagged it for sale.

Slipping her fingers in the opening, she drew out a key.

Not a door key, she thought, turning it in the light. Not a car key. A bank box.

But what bank? And what was in it? Why have a bank box when he had a safe right in his office?

She should probably tell the lawyers, she thought. But she wasn’t going to. For all she knew, he had a ledger in there listing all the women he’d slept with in the past five years, and she’d had enough humiliation.

She’d find the bank, and the box, and see for herself.

They could take the house, the furniture, the cars—the stocks, bonds, money that hadn’t been nearly what Richard had told her. They could take the art, the jewelry, the chinchilla jacket he’d given her for their first—and last—Christmas in Pennsylvania.

But she’d hold on to what was left of her pride.

•   •   •

SHE WOKE FROM SHIVERY, disturbing dreams to the insistent tugging on her hand.

“Mama, Mama, Mama. Wake up!”

“What?” She didn’t even open her eyes, just reached down, pulled her little girl onto the bed with her. Snuggled right in.

“Morning time.” Callie sang it. “Fifi’s hungry.”

“Mm.” Fifi, Callie’s desperately beloved stuffed dog, always woke hungry. “Okay.” But she snuggled another minute.

At some point she’d stretched out, fully clothed, on top of the bed, pulled the black cashmere throw over herself and dropped off. She’d never convince Callie—or Fifi—to cuddle up for another hour, but she could stall for a few minutes.

“Your hair smells so good,” Shelby murmured.

“Callie’s hair. Mama’s hair.”

Shelby smiled at the tug on hers. “Just the same.”

The deep golden red had passed down from her mother’s side. From the MacNee side. As had the nearly unmanageable curls, which—as Richard preferred the sleek and smooth—she’d had blown out and straightened every week.

“Callie’s eyes. Mama’s eyes.”

Callie pulled Shelby’s eye open with her fingers—the same deep blue eyes that read almost purple in some lights.

“Just the same,” Shelby began, then winced when Callie poked at her eye.

“Red.”

“I bet. What does Fifi want for breakfast?” Five more minutes, Callie thought. Just five.

“Fifi wants . . . candy!”

The utter glee in her daughter’s voice had Shelby opening her bloodshot blue eyes. “Is that so, Fifi?” Shelby turned the plush, cheerful face on the pink poodle in her direction. “Not a chance.”

She rolled Callie over, tickled her ribs and, despite the headache, reveled in the joyful squeals.

“Breakfast it is.” She scooped Callie up. “Then we’ve got places to go, my little fairy queen, and people to see.”

“Marta? Is Marta coming?”

“No, baby.” She thought of the nanny Richard had insisted on. “Remember how I told you Marta can’t come anymore?”

“Like Daddy,” Callie said as Shelby carried her downstairs.

“Not exactly. But I’m going to fix us a fabulous breakfast. You know what’s almost as good as candy for breakfast?”

“Cake!”

Shelby laughed. “Close. Pancakes. Puppy dog pancakes.”

With a giggle, Callie laid her head on Shelby’s shoulder. “I love Mama.”

“I love Callie,” Shelby replied, and promised herself she’d do whatever she had to do to give Callie a good, secure life.

•   •   •

AFTER BREAKFAST, she helped her daughter dress, bundled them both up. She’d enjoyed the snow at Christmas, had barely noticed it in January, after Richard’s accident.

But now it was March, and she was thoroughly sick of it, and the bitter air that showed no sign of thawing. But it was warm enough in the garage to settle Callie into her car seat, to haul all the heavy garment bags into the sleek-lined SUV she probably wouldn’t have much longer.

She’d need to find enough money to buy a secondhand car. A good, safe, child-friendly car. A minivan, she thought, as she backed out of the garage.

She drove carefully. The roads here had been well plowed, but winter did its damage however exclusive the neighborhood, and there were potholes.

She didn’t know anyone here. The winter had been so harsh, so cold, her circumstances so overwhelming, she’d stayed in more than going out. And Callie caught that nasty cold. The cold, Shelby remembered, that had kept them home when Richard took the trip to South Carolina. The trip that was supposed to be a family winter break.

They would’ve been with him on the boat, and hearing her daughter chattering to Fifi, it didn’t bear thinking about. Instead she concentrated on negotiating traffic, and finding the consignment shop.

She transferred Callie to her stroller and, cursing the biting wind, dragged the top three bags out of the car. As she fought to open the shop door, keep the bags from sliding and block Callie from the worst of the wind, a woman pulled open the door.

“Oh, wow! Let me give you a hand.”

“Thank you. They’re a little heavy so I should—”

“I’ve got them. Macey! Treasure trove.”