False Premises Read Free Page A

so.
    Laura’s boyfriend answered the door. Dave Holland had a case of bed head—the hair on the back of his head stuck straight up in the air like the flag on a mailbox—and he wasn’t wearing his thick glasses. He gave me a goofy grin and queried cautiously, “Erin?”
    “Yes. Hi, Dave.”
    “Well. Hello there. Long time no see.”
    “How’ve you been, Dave?”
    “Good. Just got back from a long business trip to Atlanta late last night.”
    “Oh, dear. I hope I didn’t wake you. I came over to see Laura. Is she home?”
    “Yeah. She’s in the john or something, but she’ll be right out. Come on in.”
    “Thanks.” I closed the door behind me as I entered the foyer. To my frustration, Dave, who was at least six foot two, was standing so close to me that he was blocking my view into the house.
    He rocked on his heels a little and crossed and then re-crossed his arms. “I’d offer you something to drink, but it’d take me forever. My glasses seem to have disappeared. My eye glasses, I mean, not the drinking glasses. Anyway, point is, I’m as blind as a bat without them.”
    “Jeez. That’s got to be really unpleasant. Don’t you have any backup glasses, or contact lenses?”
    “Yeah, but I seem to have misplaced those, as well. All I’ve got are my prescription sunglasses, but I feel like an idiot wearing those indoors. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Laura’s still loving all these hoity-toity old antiques you pulled together for us. Hardly a day goes by when she doesn’t mention how much she likes this thing or the other.” He stepped back and leaned against the doorjamb.
    “That’s great to hear. I’m always . . .” My voice drifted as my attention was captured by the Louis XV mirror in the foyer. Something was terribly wrong.
    “You’re always what ?” Dave prompted.
    Stunned into silence, I walked over to the giltwood mirror and gently touched the frame. This was a cheap copy of the astonishing circa 1760 piece that I’d helped them purchase for twenty thousand dollars! And I’d had to dicker hard to get the antiques dealer to sell it at that price.
    Dave squinted at me. “Is something the matter with the mirror? Or with your face?”
    “The mirror was hanging a little crooked.” Inwardly, I was shaking. Because Laura was my friend but I barely knew Dave, I wanted to discuss this with her first.
    Had my clients been swindled? Had someone managed to swap this mirror with the expensive one that I’d installed? But how would that be possible? Laura’s knowledge of antiques was comparable to my own. The inferiority of the scrollwork on the gold spray-painted frame was blatant.
    I took a calming breath. Surely I was panicking over nothing. Dave or Laura must have simply decided that twenty grand for a mirror was too much, so they’d returned it.
    “Grab a seat,” Dave suggested as he ushered me into their front room. “I’ll go see where she is.”
    My knees nearly buckled, but I managed to sputter “Thank you” as he wandered away to look for Laura. Though horror-struck, I remained standing. This room had been my personal masterpiece—my chance to work with an unlimited budget and a sophisticated client whose tastes mirrored my own. The results had been glorious, a radiant ensemble of unparalleled beauty in these irreplaceable handcrafted pieces that brought such serenity and warmth to the space, a household that conjured images of less-harried times when one-of-a-kind quality was celebrated and attention to detail mattered. Now just the dressings remained. The subtle peach hues on the ethereal lofted walls were the same, as were the vibrant window treatments, the to-die-for accessories, and even the spectacular Oriental area rug with its rich classic royal reds and blues. All unchanged. But the antiques, the very heart and soul of the room and which I’d poured my own heart and soul into to find, had been replaced with fakes.
    Reeling, I studied the chair by the