The Liar

Another woman—this one very pregnant—stepped out from a back room. “Good morning. Well, hello, cutie,” she said to Callie.

“You got a baby in your tummy.”

“Yes, I do.” Laying a hand over it, Macey smiled at Shelby. “Welcome to Second Chances. Do you have some things for us to consider?”

“I do.” A quick glance around showed Shelby racks and shelves of clothes and accessories. And a very tiny area dedicated to men’s clothes.

Her hopes sank.

“I haven’t had a chance to come in before, so I wasn’t sure what you . . . Most of what I brought in are suits. Men’s suits and shirts and jackets.”

“We don’t get nearly enough menswear.” The woman who’d let her in tapped the garment bags she’d laid on a wide counter. “Is it all right to take a look?”

“Yes, please.”

“You’re not from around here,” Macey commented.

“Oh, no. I guess not.”

“Are you visiting?”

“We— I live here in Villanova right now, just since December, but—”

“Oh my goodness! These are gorgeous suits. Pristine condition so far, Macey.”

“Size, Cheryl?”

“Forty-two Regular. And there must be twenty of them.”

“Twenty-two,” Shelby said, and linked her fingers together. “I have more in the car.”

“More?” both women said together.

“Shoes—men’s size ten. And coats and jackets, and . . . My husband—”

“Daddy’s clothes!” Callie announced when Cheryl hung another suit on a holding rack. “Don’t touch Daddy’s clothes with sticky hands.”

“That’s right, baby. Ah, you see,” Shelby began, looking for the right way to explain. Callie solved it for her.

“My daddy went to heaven.”

“I’m so sorry.” One hand on her belly, Macey reached out, touched Callie’s arm.

“Heaven’s pretty,” Callie told them. “Angels live there.”

“That’s absolutely right.” Macey glanced at Cheryl, nodded. “Why don’t you go out, get the rest?” she told Shelby. “You can leave— What’s your name, cutie?”

“Callie Rose Foxworth. This is Fifi.”

“Hello, Fifi. We’ll watch Callie and Fifi while you bring the rest in.”

“If you’re sure . . .” She hesitated, then asked herself why two women—one of them about seven months along—would run off with Callie in the time it took her to get to the car and back. “I’ll only be a minute. Callie, you be good. Mama’s just getting something out of the car.”

•   •   •

THEY WERE NICE, Shelby thought later as she drove off to try local banks. People were usually nice if you gave them the chance to be. They’d taken everything, and she knew they’d taken more than maybe they might have but Callie had charmed them.

“You’re my lucky charm, Callie Rose.”

Callie grinned around the straw of her juice box, but kept her eyes glued to the backseat DVD screen and her ten millionth viewing of Shrek.

2

Six banks later, Shelby decided the luck may have run out for the day. And her baby needed lunch and a nap.

Once she had Callie fed, washed and tucked in—and the tucking-in part always took twice as long as she hoped—she geared up to face the answering machine and the voice mail on her cell phone.

She’d worked out payment plans with the credit card companies, and felt they’d been as decent as she could expect. She’d done the same with the IRS. The mortgage lender had agreed to a short sale, and one of the messages was from the realtor wanting to set up the first showings.

She could’ve used a nap herself, but there was a lot she could get done in the hour—if God was kind—Callie slept.

Because it made the most sense, she used Richard’s office. She’d closed up most of the rooms in the big house, cut the heat back wherever she could. She wished for a fire, glanced at the black and silver gas insert under the black marble mantel. The one thing she’d enjoyed in the overwhelming house was being able to have a fire—the warmth and cheer of it—at the flick of a switch.

But that flick cost money, and she wouldn’t spend it just to have gas flames when the sweater and thick socks kept her warm enough. She got out the list she’d made—what had to be done—called the realtor back, agreed to the open house on Saturday and Sunday.

She’d take Callie off somewhere, get them both out and leave that business to the realtor. Meanwhile, she dug out the name of the company the lawyers had given her that might buy the furniture so she could avoid repossession.

If she couldn’t sell it in a swoop, or at least a good chunk of it, she’d try doing pieces online—if she ever had access to a computer again.

If she couldn’t get enough, she’d have to face the humiliation of having it repossessed.

She didn’t think the neighborhood ran to yard sales, and it was too damn cold anyway.

Then she returned the calls from her mother, her grandmother, her sister-in-law—and asked them to tell the aunts and cousins who’d also called that she was fine, Callie was fine. She was just real busy getting everything in order.

She couldn’t tell them, not all of it, not yet. They knew some, of course, and some was all she could share right that minute. Talking about it made her angry and weepy, and she had too much to do.