One Last Lie (3 page)

Jumping off the stool, Jonathan stood next to the island and straightened the small stack of magazines sitting by the counter’s edge. The whole conversation made his stomach feel glacial, frozen from the inside out, and he’d lost his appetite — for guacamole and for Angela.

“I don’t trust her, Philip.” Jonathan curled his fingers around a loop in Philip’s jeans. “Fifteen years you don’t hear a peep, and now, here she is out of the blue. I don’t like it.”

Philip turned and smiled; he was used to Jonathan’s distrust of people. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about her,” said Philip, kissing Jonathan’s forehead. “She’s harmless.”

Jonathan pulled back. “You say that about everyone. I’m older than you and I’ve met more crazies. I don’t trust this one.”

“You’re older than me?” Philip laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “Are you kidding me? You’re what, five years older than I am and suddenly you’re mister Man of the World? C’mon Jonny, give me some credit, will you please?” He straightened the collar on Jonathan’s green Polo shirt, rubbed his hand along Jonathan’s well-defined pecs and winked. “You have the biggest, most beautiful blue eyes…”

Jonathan held back a smile. “Don’t start the bullshit, Philip. I’m just telling you…”

“I know, Jonny, I know. Yeah, you’re right, it’s been fifteen years. But we’ve all changed. When she called, she really did sound like a different person. I’m hoping she’s now only the good Angela, and left the evil one back in Boston.”

Just like Philip
, Jonathan thought,
always searching for the good in people. Even in a psycho-killer.
He took another deep breath and entwined his fingers within Philip’s.

“If she shows one sign of lunacy, I’ll drive a wooden stake through her heart and throw her out on the lawn.” He looked at the pots, pans, utensils and avocado peels strewn about the kitchen. “After I have her help me clean this mess.”

Philip pulled Jonathan’s wrist toward him and twisted him around, slapping his butt as he walked out of the kitchen and through the foyer toward the front door. The doorbell didn’t even ring before Jonathan heard the door open and a scream, as though from the devil herself, echoed past the foyer, through the kitchen, and straight into Jonathan’s head.

3

While Philip greeted his guest and her shrieks of excitement settled into murmurs and giggles, Jonathan braced himself against the sink with his back toward the faucet. He pressed both hands flat against the black granite, fingers wrapped around its rounded edges, and waited for the giant creature to fill the doorway and spew fire from her mouth. He glanced around the kitchen, feeling perspiration mist over the back of his neck, embarrassed by the chunks of avocado stuck to the chrome backsplash and the endless array of cooking utensils on every inch of counter space.

When Philip walked into the kitchen, arm in arm with Angela, Jonathan’s mouth dropped open and he suppressed a groan. The woman was stunning. According to Jonathan’s on-the-spot calculations, she weighed no more than 110 pounds and had the figure of a runway model — too short in stature to walk the platform, but gorgeous enough to have her unblemished face on the cover of
Elle
. Her black hair was swept back and pulled tight, twisted elegantly into a French braid that reached mid-spine. She wore a hint of eyeliner that accentuated her blue eyes, a sweep of rose blush slightly coloring both cheeks, and subtle pink lipstick that brought out the sensuous curve of her lips. Jonathan was far from a fashion guru, but her understated clothing had to be designer-made. She wore a beige blazer over a white silk and lace teddy. Both blazer and teddy flowed seamlessly over a black linen skirt with a hem just below her knees, accentuating thin, shapely calves. If there was one name Jonathan knew, it was Prada, and he had no doubt her black shiny pumps were screaming the name as she slowly approached him.

This couldn’t be Angela. This couldn’t be The Square
.

Before Jonathan could back away, she ran to him, flung both arms around his neck and pulled him close. He kept both arms at his sides and searched Philip’s face for some kind of assistance, or at least reassurance this
was
Angela. Philip shrugged and tightened his lips, also apparently at a loss for words.

“So you’re the one who finally got Philip,” she said in his ear, loud enough to simulate conversation, yet soft enough remain a whisper. “Congratulations.” She gave him a gentle squeeze, wrapped her hands around his biceps and let his arms slide down through her hands. She grabbed his wrists and stepped back. “My, you
are
hot!” Her voice was now loud enough for Philip to hear. “You were right, Philip. Those lashes are to die for!”

Philip shrugged again, not much help to either of them.

“You look like you were expecting someone else.” She puffed out her cheeks, lifted her arms so they hung way out to her sides, and slowly clomped backwards, side to side toward Philip. “Someone who walks like this maybe?” She was doing a perfect imitation of the person Jonathan expected to trudge through the door.

He forced a laugh.
Was it acceptable to laugh with someone who was ridiculing herself?
He wasn’t sure of anything except his rising level of discomfort. He pasted a smile on his face, watching her move back to Philip’s side.
She’s a little strange
, he was thinking, when out of the blue her puffed out face displayed a glimpse of what she must have looked like all those years ago. For a fraction of a second the smile in her eyes changed into a sorrowful grimace; the corners of her mouth turned down, and her self-ridicule transformed into a challenge:
no one can laugh at me now.
It was as though she’d coughed up remnants of a person she despised and was asking Jonathan if he despised her, too.

Before he had a chance to react, the beautiful woman returned, her hand grabbing Philip’s shoulder, her lean body pushing against his side. “I can’t wait to catch up with both of you. But first, how ‘bout a Double G and T?”

Philip gave her a peck on the cheek and practically skipped into the wet bar area, a short hallway that led into the expansive living room. He lifted the glass-paned door of the cherry wood cabinet that held nearly every kind of liquor imaginable. Although neither of them drank often (one or two martinis and they’d usually find themselves slurring over one another), they kept a fully stocked cabinet for get-togethers and impromptu parties. “Grey Goose and Tonic.” Philip held up a three-quarter full bottle of the vodka and a tumbler he’d filled with ice. “Double G is Grey Goose and T is tonic,” he informed Jonathan as he returned to the kitchen.

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Duh,” was all he could think of to say. He was still trying to feel out the situation. Who was this girl and why was she here? No doubt she had an attractive flair about her, an élan of sophistication combined with apparent zeal for her new, thinner life. His uneasiness in new social situations was a given — both he and Philip had accepted it years ago. Philip blamed it on some deep-seated insecurity; Jonathan blamed it on the simple fact that people were strange and couldn’t be trusted. He’d gradually learned to accept their current circle of friends. But when a new face entered his life, Jonathan would always step back and wait for the newbie to prove himself.

Tonight’s new face had been thrust upon him without sufficient warning — his internal uneasiness attested that fact. To make matters worse, this newbie arose unannounced from Philip’s past and was someone Jonathan had no clue existed before tonight. Feeling the sweat on his palms, he recognized the absurd direction in which his thoughts were heading and decided to stop them in their tracks.

“Give me a Double G and T, too.” He blurted, and then smiled at Philip’s surprised expression.

“You sure?” Philip headed toward the wet bar. “You know how you get sometimes…”

“What’s this?” said Angela, “Do we have a lightweight among us?”

“
Two
lightweights,” Philip said before Jonathan had the chance. “I’m not the partier I used to be, Angie.” He grabbed two tumblers from the cabinet. “And since I’ve been working so hard at preparing our meal, I’ll have one, too.” He set the glasses on the counter next to Angela’s. “And I mean only one.”

“Oh, Philip, I’m disappointed in you.” Angela rubbed her palm against his back and gently caressed between his broad shoulders. “But I have to admit, since I lost all that fat, I’m kind of a lightweight, too.”

Jonathan felt a sense of relief. Finally, someone mentioned the word
fat.

Philip mixed their drinks like a scientist in a lab, carefully measuring each ounce of vodka with his eyes. After placing the lime wedge atop Angela’s Double G and T, he spun around and set it in her open hand.

“Speaking of fat, you must tell us what you did to lose all that weight. I mean, you look unbelievable. There’s no way I would have…”

Jonathan crept ever so slowly toward his drink. “Let’s discuss this on the deck,” he interrupted, feeling the need to douse his discomfort with liquor before heading into the fat zone. “I want to get some fresh air before the mosquitoes start their dive bombing exercises.”

As they walked through the living room on their way to the deck, Angela stopped, leaned against the baby grand and gazed at the ceiling as though she were wishing on stars. Jonathan was about to ask if she was okay, when she took a sip of her drink.

“This cathedral ceiling is absolutely beautiful,” she half whispered, “and that crown molding is to die for. Not too ornate, not too simple. Just right.” She studied the room, stretching her neck to see past the Georgian-style pocket door leading into the formal dining room. “These colors fit you guys to a tee… mocha walls, maple and cherry, brown suede, everything… everything is just gorgeous. It’s like the perfect mix of casual chic and classic. I love it.” She took another sip of her drink and swallowed slowly. “This must be Jonathan’s doing.” She looked at Jonathan and raised her left eyebrow. “Philip was never into décor.”

Jonathan lifted his glass to his lips, glad Angela liked his taste, but a bit uncomfortable about the compliment. “Thanks,” he half-whispered into his Double G and T before taking a huge gulp.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Philip interjected, “I had some say in the décor!”

Angela softly patted his cheek. “I’m sure you did.” she winked at Jonathan. “I remember your apartment at BU. Bare walls, a consistently unmade bed, two pairs of jeans hanging in the closet, and a dead plant sitting atop an upside down milk crate.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan added, “that’s pretty much the way I found him.”

Philip laughed. “You’re full of shit.” He turned to Angela. “And you’re full of it too. My apartment wasn’t that bad.” He took a sip of drink and pretended to be thinking of the past. “I remember having three pairs of jeans in the closet!”

Philip wrapped his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the French doors that ran along the back wall of the living room. When he slid open the door leading to the two-tier deck, a wave of humidity drifted inside, carrying the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle.

“It’s almost seven o’clock, I thought it would’ve cooled off by now,” Philip said, closing the door once they were all outside. “We’re way too used to air conditioning, Jonny. We definitely have to get out more.”

The pinkish hue created by the setting sun filtered through the spaces between the leaves of the giant maples, casting a soft crimson haze that hovered inches above the thick expanse of manicured grass. The three of them walked to the deck railing and looked out over the burgeoning backyard flora.

A thicket of forsythia rimmed the edges of the acre lot, their bright yellow flowers clinging to the branches that stood almost six feet high. Billowy andromeda overlapped the forsythia with spidery, ecru-colored tendrils hanging motionless in the heavy air. This hedgerow, along with the maple and ash trees, ornamental grasses, and other precisely ordered plants and flowers, helped create a natural boundary from the rest of the world. Along with the stitching of copper-lantern-shaped garden lights threading through the boundary, the back yard resembled a mini-village.

Angela stood between the two men, the three of them silent, absorbing the stillness of the approaching dusk. Jonathan felt an intense hush pervade his being — an air of understanding that somehow pulled them together in a way that would remain forever.
Strange
to feel this way about someone I don’t even know
, he thought
.

At that moment, Angela broke the silence. “This is a like a photograph, guys, it’s just surreal back here. But where’s the dog?”

“What dog?” asked Philip.

“You must have a dog. I mean, two gorgeous men, a beautiful house in Westport, the best cars too, I’m sure. Only two things are missing: the white picket fence and the dog.”

“Ha,” Philip said, glancing at Jonathan, “I wanted the fence, but Jonathan said no to that. He walked over to Jonathan and grabbed his hand. “And as far as the dog goes, Mister ‘No poop in my backyard’ here said no to that also.”

“Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to bring up any sore subjects.” Angela sauntered across the deck and studied each piece of furniture carefully before sprawling onto a lounge chair. “Let’s just sit and catch up a little. I never get quiet like this in the city.”

Philip gasped. “I forgot the appetizers. Let me just…” He placed his glass on the stone-topped table and turned toward the door.

“None for me,” Angela said, patting her stomach, “That was my first rule when I finally decided to lose the weight. No appetizers and no desserts… entrée only. And since most of the time appetizers and desserts were my entrée, I pretty much starved at the beginning.”

Philip turned to Jonathan with a look that needed no words.