Whispers and Lies Read Free Page B

how long she was planning to stay. Not even what she’d been doing at the hospital when she saw my notice. Nothing really except her name.
    She said her name was Alison Simms.
    At the time, of course, I had no reason to doubt her.

T WO
    S he arrived for dinner at exactly seven o’clock, wearing a pair of black cotton pants and a sleeveless black sweater, with her hair pulled dramatically back and twisted into a long braid, so that she looked like an extended exclamation point. She was carrying a bouquet of freshly cut flowers in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. “It’s an Italian Amarone, 1997,” Alison announced proudly, then rolled her eyes. “Not that I know anything about wine, but the man in the liquor store assured me it was a very good year.” She smiled, her lightly glossed lips overtaking the entire bottom half of her face, her mouth opening to reveal an acre of perfect teeth. My own lips immediately curled into a heartfelt smile of their own, although they stopped short of exposing the gentle overbite that not even years of expensive orthodontics had been able to correct completely. My mother had always claimed the overbite was the result of a stubbornchildhood habit of sucking on the middle and fourth fingers of my left hand while simultaneously rubbing my nose with the tattered remains of a favorite baby blanket. But since my mother had virtually the same overbite, I’m inclined to believe this aesthetic deficiency is more genetic than willful.
    Alison followed me through the living and dining rooms into the kitchen, where I unwrapped the flowers and filled a tall crystal vase with water. “Can I do anything to help?” Eager eyes ferreted into each corner of the room, as if memorizing each detail.
    “Just pull up a chair, keep me company.” I quickly deposited the flowers in the vase of lukewarm water, sniffing at the small pink roses, the delicate white daisies, the sprays of purple wildflowers. “They’re beautiful. Thank you so much.”
    “My pleasure. Dinner smells wonderful.”
    “It’s nothing fancy,” I quickly demurred. “Just chicken. You eat chicken, don’t you?”
    “I eat everything. Put food in front of me and it’s gone within seconds. I’m the world’s fastest eater.”
    I smiled as I recalled the way she’d demolished the piece of cranberry-and-pumpkin cake I’d given her that afternoon. Had it only been a matter of hours ago that we’d met? For some reason, it seemed as if we’d known each other all our lives, that despite the difference in our ages, we’d been friends forever. I had to remind myself how little I actually knew about her. “So, tell me more about yourself,” I said casually, searching through the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew.
    “Not much to tell.” She sank into one of the wicker chairs at the round glass kitchen table, although her posture remained erect, even alert, as if she were afraid of getting too comfortable.
    “Where are you from?” I wasn’t trying to pry. I was just curious, the way one is usually curious about a new acquaintance. I sensed a certain wariness on her part to talk about herself. Or maybe I didn’t sense anything at all. Maybe the small talk we made in my kitchen that night before dinner was nothing more than it appeared to be, two people slowly and cautiously getting to know one another, asking normal questions, not overanalyzing the responses, moving from one topic to the next without any particular plan, no hidden agendas.
    At least there were no hidden agendas on my part.
    “Chicago,” Alison answered.
    “Really? I love Chicago. Where exactly?”
    “Suburbs,” she said vaguely. “How about you? Are you a native Floridian?”
    I shook my head. “We moved here from Baltimore when I was fifteen. My father was in the waterproofing business. He thought Florida was the natural place to be, what with all the hurricanes and everything.”
    Alison’s green eyes widened in alarm.
    “Don’t worry.