Page 22 of City of Liars

“No sir, Mr. Carter,” he said, doing his best to tone down his brogue, which he was all too aware marked him as lower-class, even though he’d gotten top marks in the village school before his father’s death had sent their family fleeing to America. “Everything’s just fine. Can I get you something else to eat? Some grilled oysters, perhaps?”

Charles shook his head, giving a sheepish smile. “No thank you, James. I’ve already gorged myself, waiting for my less-than-punctual friends to make an appearance. It’s quiet in here right now. Why don’t you have a seat?”

James gave an uneasy glance around. If sharing one’s private woes with club patrons was frowned upon, sitting down to have a chin-wag, like they were a couple of regular fellas, was out of the question. “I appreciate the invitation, sir, but I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

“Nonsense,” Charles said, in a tone that didn’t brook refusal. “I insist, and I’ll take full responsibility. Have a seat.” He gestured to the leather couch opposite him.

Before James quite knew how it had happened, he was sitting across the polished wood coffee table from Charles Carter, and the man was asking him all sorts of questions about his life: Did he have a wife? Children?

James was only eighteen, but he was well aware he looked older. Besides, by his age, plenty of guys were married off. “No, sir,” he said, swallowing hard. “I have a sister, though.”

Charles dug in his pocket, pulling out his wallet, and dropped a small photograph onto the surface of the table. “That’s my daughter, Ella,” he said, with unmistakable pride. “Isn’t she lovely?”

James leaned in closer, to see. The photo was of a girl about two years old, cradling a cat in her arms, with a headful of curly ringlets and wide eyes. She smiled directly into the camera, with the self-assurance of a child who knew she was loved, and her chubby cheeks were a sure indication of the fact she never missed a meal. He thought of Maisie’s hands, red and rough from doing rich people’s chores, and his stomach twisted. Why did his sister, whose only crime was being born into poverty, deserve to suffer, while this little girl had the best of everything?

Charles was looking at him expectantly, dark brows raised, and James forced himself to swallow his rage. “She’s beautiful, sir,” he managed. “You and Mrs. Carter must be very proud.”

Beneath his well-trimmed mustache, a wistful smile lifted the corners of Charles’s lips. “We are. She was somewhat of a miracle, you see. Mrs. Carter and I have been married for quite some time, and the Lord didn’t see fit to bless us with a little one until Ella was born. I’m afraid perhaps we dote on her more than we should.”

As James was considering how to reply, two men swept through the heavy front door of The Players, bearing a gust of cold air. Charles stood, and James shot to his feet as well, snatching his tray off the table, his cheeks burning. Ignoring the sidelong glances the other men gave him, he took their orders and retreated to the kitchen, the press of their eyes heavy on his back. As he strode away, he could hear Charles admonishing them for their lateness, and one of them teasing him about his choice of companion in their absence.

James’s cheeks burned even hotter. It didn’t matter how polite Charles Carter was to him, or what invitations he extended. The divide between them couldn’t be erased. He’d been foolish to even entertain the idea that Charles might want to loan him the funds to absolve his debts and help Maisie. No, he’d have to find another way.

12

Theo

Ipulled up in front of the red brick colonial on Forest Hills Drive and sat with the engine idling, willing myself not to panic. The house was a two-story with green shutters, fronted by a manicured lawn and bordered by hedges of azaleas. It was the quintessential Forest Hills home—gracious, welcoming, and grand without being ostentatious. And inside might be the woman whose loss had been responsible for driving my great-grandmother to madness, my grandmother to despair, and my mother to the bottle.

Liv had told me her grandmother loved the piano. That was the excuse we’d devised: I could show up and play for her. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I felt like a traveling organ grinder, minus the monkey.

“The hell with it,” I muttered, shutting off the car and getting out. I gave myself a quick once-over—khakis pressed, button-down ironed, limbs still attached—and then headed for the house. If this was going to be a cluster fuck, best to get it over with.

Laughter emanated from within, mingled with the tinkling notes of a piano. I had my fist raised to knock when the door swung open, revealing Liv. She wore jeans that hugged every curve and a blue sweater that matched her eyes. And God, she was stunning. For a second, I forgot my manners and stared.

Liv cleared her throat and, embarrassed, I extended a hand. She rolled her eyes and ignored it, wrapping her arms around me in a hug. I inhaled the coconut-and-vanilla undertones of her perfume and the floral scent of her shampoo as she melted against me, her breasts against my chest, her head tucked under my chin. Then she pulled away, leaving me off-balance.

What was it about this woman that knocked me on my ass? And what the fuck was I going to do about it?

“Earth to Theo.” She snapped her fingers in front of my face, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear anything I just said? Because I’m pretty freaked, and if we’re both hanging out on Space Mountain, there’s no way this is going to work. One of us needs to hold it together.”

“Sorry.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I was…ah, forget it. Let’s start over. Hello, Liv. Thanks for having me.”

She broke into a shaky smile. “Hello to you too. What I said was, welcome to the impending apocalypse. Please ignore the total awkwardness of this situation and come in.”

As I stepped into the foyer, her smile faded into a worried expression that clouded her eyes and flattened her lips into a thin line. “I meant what I said on the phone,” I told her, stepping closer so we wouldn’t be overheard. “I won’t cause any trouble.”

“You’d better not.” She rubbed a palm down one of her denim-clad thighs, a gesture I recognized from the other night as a nervous tell. “You promised, Theo. Don’t say anything.”

“Like, not anything at all?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood as much for my own benefit as for hers. “That could get a little weird, don’t you think? Should I claim to only communicate through my music, like a selectively mute virtuoso?”

“This is not funny!” She swatted me on the shoulder, hard enough that I winced. “My parents—you don’t understand. They’re not…forgiving.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I get that. If grudge-holding was an Olympic sport, my mom would medal.”

Both palms were at it now, smoothing the unwrinkled material of her jeans—God, had she ironed them?—again and again. “It’s not just that. I… Have you ever seen Gilmore Girls?”

I blinked at this non sequitur, then nodded warily. A woman had once called me “Luke with a better hairline, more money, and commitment issues,” which had intrigued me enough that I’d watched the first couple of episodes. Much as I hated to admit it, the show had sucked me in. “Why?”