Page 160 of White Lies


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“My attorney can’t look at this until this afternoon.”

“Then get another attorney,” I say. “You’ve had time, and this is a gift. I can insert another name in this paperwork in sixty seconds. Have the signed documents here by three or I will.” I hang up and start counting. One. Two. My phone rings again.

I answer. “I’ll just sign the damn thing. I’ll be there at two.” He hangs up.

And I have the outcome I’m after. That club is not mine. Faith is.


I spend the fifteen minutes that I manage to spare for lunch on the phone with Faith, sharing her excitement that her paintings have officially been received. By two, I have my document from Kurt. By four, I have about ten crisis situations that ensure I’m going to have to work late. I text Faith:I’m going to have a late night. I’ll text you on the way home about dinner.

Faith replies with:Why don’t I bring you dinner?

I reach for the sandwich I’ve had sitting on my desk since noon, toss it in the trash, and type:Chinese?Because she was craving it before bed last night.

Perfect,she replies.I’ll text you when I’m on my way.

I think of her spending her money to pick up that meal, and I dial Charlie, arranging to add Faith to my fast cash account and ordering her a credit card. Once I’m done, I buzz Rita. “Come.”

She appears in my doorway almost instantly. “Come? That doesn’t work when my husband says it, and it won’t work when you say it.”

“I said come, and you’re here,” I say. “It worked.”

“Only because I have work for you.” She marches to my desk and again sets a stack of documents in front of me. “Sign. Read. Sign. Call about this and be the bastard that you are. Sign.”

“I need the top three realtors you suggest and the top three remodeling services.”

She gives me a keen look. “Are you buying a new house?”

“Faith and I are going to buy a new house.”

“And she hasn’t agreed; thus, you want to make her feel in control by her choosing the contacts you work with.”

“You know me a little too well sometimes.”

“I’ll get you the names.” She starts to turn and seems to change her mind. “A jeweler takes quite some time to customize a ring—perhaps six to eight weeks. Shall I line up a few for you to interview?”

A ring. A wedding. I wait for the hesitation, the wall, the pushback, but there is none. “Yes. Line them up.”

“Price range?”

“Whatever it takes to get perfection.”

Her lips curve. “I’ll let them know.”

A ring, I think. A wife. Holy fuck. This is happening. I’m going to make it happen.


I send Rita home at six. Faith sends me a text at six thirty on her way to pick up the food. At seven, I toss down my pen, pressing fingers to my eyes, finally done with a brief I need by morning. The elevator dings, and Faith appears in the doorway, giving me a shy smile, her pink lipstick the same pale shade as her Allure Gallery T-shirt, which she’s paired with faded torn jeans.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Starving,” I say, standing up and closing the space between us to take the bags. “For you, but I’ll settle for what’s in the bags until we get home.”

“Home,” she says, biting her lip. “I can’t get used to that.”

“You will,” I promise, motioning with my head and leading her to the small round conference table to the left of my desk. Once we’ve settled into our seats, takeout containers in front of us, I reach into my jacket and set a small sheet of paper on the table. “These are the names and numbers of the top realtors and remodelers in town. I want you to pick the ones you want to work with.”

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