Welcome to Temptation

  “Well, Amy always said—” Sophie looked around for her sister. “Amy?”

  Amy had faded off into the darkness of the yard, and Sophie could see her moving in the bushes beside the porch. “What are you doing?”

  “Just checking to make sure we put the equipment away.” Amy came back on the porch, picked up her drink, and she and Clea began to talk about the video.

  “I want the tape to send to L.A.” Clea said. “To a producer I know out there, Leo Kingsley.”

  “That sounds familiar,” Amy said to Sophie.

  Sophie nodded. “Davy used to work for him. That’s how he met Clea.” And then he brought her home to meet the family and she dumped him for Zane. Sophie took another sip of cider and brandy. She should get over that since Zane had turned out to be enough punishment all by himself. She let her head fall back and listened to Dusty and looked out into the lush green darkness of the trees that separated the house from the river.

  “So what about this Frank?” Amy said.

  “Frank.” Clea didn’t sound nearly as excited about Frank as she had earlier in the day. “He called about a month ago, and it made me... nostalgic. He said, ‘Why don’t you come home, we’ll talk about the deal here, it’ll be just like old times,’ and I thought, what a great idea to film for an audition tape— going home, meeting my old high-school flame, sort of a love story/documentary, you know?”

  Amy nodded. “How long did you and Frank go together?”

  “One night.” Clea emptied her glass and reached for the pitcher to pour another. “I, of course, thought it was going to be forever.”

  “One night?” Sophie thought of Frank: pudgy, badly dressed, and annoying as hell. One night would be plenty.

  “I was in love.” Clea made it sound like, I had the plague. “And he acted like he was. And he was so good-looking—”

  “Frank was good-looking?” Sophie said.

  “It was twenty-four years ago,” Amy said. “Shut up and let her talk.”

  “—and we were doing Taming of the Shrew for the senior play,” Clea was saying. “And you know how it is when you rehearse and rehearse and pretend you’re in love. Except I really was. He was just everything back then.”

  If Temptation was a place where Frank was just everything, Sophie was leaving town. Somebody smart, good-looking, and successful, somebody like the damn mayor, that made sense. But Frank?

  “He’d been dating Georgia Funk forever,” Clea said. “But on Saturday night, after the cast party, Frank took me out to the Tavern for a Coke, which, let me tell you, was big stuff. And he parked in the back which is pretty much Temptation’s lovers’ lane, and he made his move, and that’s when I lost my virginity.” Clea drained her second glass.

  “Ouch,” Sophie said.

  “He promised me he was through with Georgia,” Clea said. “But when I got to school on Monday, she was wearing this tiny chip of an engagement ring.”

  “Maybe we could film a murder mystery,” Amy said.

  “He said she was pregnant,” Clea said, “and they got married fast enough. And then eleven months later, sure enough, she had a baby.” Clea reached for the pitcher again, and Sophie held out her glass.

  “So she lied or he lied,” Amy said.

  “She lied,” Clea said, as she poured Sophie’s cider. “Their wedding picture was in the paper. You’ve never seen a more miserable-looking groom.” She took a sip from her glass and then topped it up from the pitcher. “And that’s how I lost my virginity and went to Hollywood to become a movie star.” She laughed, but she looked grim, even in the candlelight.

  “Does anybody ever have a good losing-my-virginity story?” Amy said. “I lost mine to Darrin Sunderland after the homecoming game my junior year, and it was lousy.” She sipped her cider and brightened. “Fortunately, sex got better.”

  “It was pretty good with Frank,” Clea said. “I mean, the sex wasn’t wonderful, but he was nice to me. And really grateful.”

  “Darrin was too drunk to be grateful,” Amy said. “Which taught me my first lesson about sex: They have to be sober. It’s one of the ‘Classic Blunders,’ right up there with ‘never get involved in a land war in Asia.’ ”

  “My first lesson was not to believe anything a guy tells you when he wants it,” Clea said. “The best guy I was ever with was a crook, so that tells you about my taste in men.”

  “You didn’t know Zane was a crook,” Sophie said.

  “No, Zane’s a mistake,” Clea said. “Davy’s a crook.” When Sophie sat up fast and rocked the swing, she added, “And you know it, so don’t even try to defend him. I know you love him, but he’s as crooked as everybody else in your family tree.”

  “Excuse me?” Sophie said, ice in her voice.

  “Except for you and Amy,” Clea said. “And sometimes I have my doubts about Amy.”

  “Everybody does,” Amy said cheerfully.

  “But I have no doubts about you, Sophie,” Clea went on. “You’ll never do anything wrong. I’ve never met anybody as straight as you. I bet you even lost your virginity well. Elegantly, with no trauma.” She toasted Sophie with her glass. “I bet you didn’t even get your clothes mussed.”

  “I lost it to Chad Berwick in Iowa, one month before school was out, my junior year,” Sophie said, trying to keep her voice even so she wouldn’t spit on Clea. “I thought I’d con him into taking me to prom because I wanted to be ‘in’ just once, and nobody was more in than Chad. Except it was awful, and when I got to school on Monday, everybody knew. And when I went to the cafeteria at lunchtime, his best friend came up and stuck his finger in the pie on my tray and scooped out this big, gloppy cherry and said, ‘Heard you lost this, Sophie.’ And then everybody laughed.” Sophie kept her voice flat, but she felt sick all over again as the memory came back; smelled the bread-and-butter smell in the cafeteria, saw the gray linoleum floor and turquoise wall panels, and heard the smothered laughter.

  After a minute, Amy said, “Jeez.”

  “I knew better,” Sophie said, trying to sound offhanded. “Mama warned me about the town boys. They had to be nice to the girls they knew, so they’d go after the outsiders like me instead. And then I thought I’d be so smart, trick this town boy into taking me to prom.” She shook her head. “Clearly not my father’s daughter. Can’t even run a decent con.”

  “I didn’t know,” Amy said, sounding miserable for her.

  “You were ten,” Sophie said. “I didn’t feel like sharing. But I did make Dad leave us in the next town we stopped in so you and Davy could finish growing up in one place. And by the time you were a high-school junior, you belonged.” She smiled at Amy to reassure her. “To the wrong crowd, of course, because you’re a Dempsey, but still.”

  “And then I ended up with Darrin Sunderland,” Amy said.

  “I can’t do everything,” Sophie said. “You have to pick your own guys.”

  “Well, that explains why you were so cold to Phin Tucker,” Clea said.

  Sophie frowned at her. “What?”

  “Town boy.” Clea gestured with her glass. “The high-class town boy to end all town boys. You’re making him pay for Chet Whosis.”

  “Chad,” Sophie said, thinking of Phin Tucker and his perfect face and perfect body. “Chad was tall and blond, but that was it. The mayor doesn’t look anything at all like him.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Clea said. “Frank’s still the guy I lost, and any town boy is going to be the guy who fucked you over. That’s history. It keeps repeating on you.”

  “So you’re making this film to get Frank back?” Sophie said, trying to get the conversation off town boys and Phin Tucker.

  “No.” Clea shuddered. “Did you see him today? What a fathead he grew up to be.”

  “We noticed.” Amy sounded a lot more concerned than the occasion warranted. “You still want to do the video, right?”

  Clea nodded. “All I need is film that shows I’m still bankable. When I talked to Leo, he sounded i
nterested because he has this sequel he wants to make, but I don’t want to do that.”

  “He wants to make a sequel to Always Tomorrow?” Amy asked doubtfully.

  “I thought you were dead at the end of Always Tomorrow,” Sophie said.

  “Not Always Tomorrow,” Clea said. “Look, all you guys need to do is make me look good on tape.”

  “That’s not hard,” Amy said. “As long as we get the light right, you still look great.”

  “Thanks,” Clea said, as if she wasn’t sure that was a compliment.

  “And I’m still up for murder,” Amy said. “Although I think Chet in Iowa deserves it more. Maybe we could go on a spree. We knock off Frank, and then on the way to Iowa to kill Chet, we find Darrin and break his kneecaps.” She stopped, caught by a thought. “You know, that would make a great movie.”

  “Chad, not Chet,” Sophie said. “And that was fifteen years ago. I’m over it.”

  “You’re never really over it.” Clea looked out into the night. “You just learn to live with it.” She sighed. “Don’t you wish you knew then what you know now? Don’t you wish you could go back and fix it?”

  “I’m not sure I’d know what to say even now,” Sophie said. “ ‘Get your finger out of my pie’ doesn’t seem enough.”

  “How about ‘Yes, and he was lousy’?” Amy said. “You could at least make sure Chet didn’t get any more.”

  “Chad,” Sophie said. “It’s all right. Really. I’m over it.”

  “And what would you do if Chad showed up in the path of your speeding car?” Clea asked.

  “I’d run him down like the dog he was,” Sophie said. “And his little best friend, too.”

  “Well, don’t get confused and go after the mayor instead,” Amy said. “At least not until the video is done.”

  “I won’t do anything to the mayor.” Sophie thought of him as she said it, so carelessly confident that he was barely conscious. She found herself gritting her teeth, so she relaxed her jaw, took a deep breath and added, “No matter how appealing that might be.”

  While Sophie was drinking cider punch, Phin had gone home to his mother’s brick house on the Hill and found his little blonde daughter waiting for him on the spacious, empty porch, her hands on her nonexistent hips.

  “You’re very late,” Dillie told him in her precise, Tucker voice as he climbed the white stone steps. “Dinner is waiting.”

  “I apologize,” he said. “Did you take your vitamin today?”

  Dillie sighed with the exaggerated patience of a nine-year-old. “Yes. A Wilma. Jamie Barclay doesn’t have to take vitamins.”

  “Jamie Barclay is going to be sorry about that someday.” He kissed her on the top of her head and let his cheek stay there for a minute before he said, “Who is Jamie Barclay?”

  “Jamie Barclay moved in two houses down across the street on Monday. Jamie Barclay gets to walk lots of places alone. I’m old enough to do that. I could walk from here to the bookstore by myself.” Dill stuck her chin out, and her long pale hair fell away from her odd little pointed face.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Well, when can I walk by myself?”

  “When you get your driver’s license.”

  “You always, always say that.” Dillie scowled at him. “That’s when everything happens.”

  “It’s going to be a busy day,” Phin agreed. Since he wasn’t planning on letting her get her license until she was twenty-one, he wasn’t worried.

  “Well, I already know about babies so we won’t have to do that,” Dillie said. “Grandma told me some stuff a long time ago, but then Jamie Barclay told me a lot more today.”

  Phin bent down to look at her. “Is Jamie Barclay a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl.” Her voice was full of admiration. “She knows a lot.”

  “Wonderful.” Phin straightened again. “I thought I told you not to talk to strangers. And she’s probably wrong, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay. I have an idea,” Dillie said, switching gears on him. “A good idea.”

  “Okay,” Phin said cautiously. The Tucker porch didn’t have any chairs because the Hill was not the kind of place where people sat on their front porches and chatted, so he sat down on the top step, and Dillie sat down beside him, a featherweight in a white T-shirt and tan shorts.

  “I was thinking,” Dillie said, “that you and I could go live over the bookstore. Where you used to live.”

  “Dill, there’s only one room that’s livable up there. The rest is storage. We couldn’t get all your stuff in there, let alone mine.”

  “I could get rid of some of my stuff.” Dillie stuck her chin out nobly.

  “That would be tragic.”

  Dillie shifted in her chair. “It could be just us. We could be...” She stared into space, searching for the right word, narrowing her gray eyes and pursing the cupid’s-bow mouth she’d inherited from her mother, and Phin felt the instinctive parental ache that still took him by surprise after nine years: How was I lucky enough to get this child, and how can I ever keep her safe enough? He hadn’t wanted to get married, he hadn’t wanted a baby, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to be a single father. And now he couldn’t imagine life without her.

  “We could be private,” Dillie said finally.

  “We’re not cramped here,” Phin pointed out. “There are fourteen rooms. It’s a wonder we don’t lose each other.”

  “We have to be with Grandma Liz all the time,” Dillie said. “I really love Grandma Liz but I would like it to be just us family. If it was just us, we could have hot dogs. And paper napkins. And dessert when it’s not the weekend.” She put her hand on his arm, and said, “Please?” looking up at him with intense gray eyes, and he looked down to see a smear of purple on his shirt sleeve.

  “Blackberry?” he said.

  Dillie pulled her hand back. “Grape. I had toast ‘cause you were late.” She turned her hand to look at the jam-smeared edge of it. “It was goopy.”

  “So it was.” Phin handed her his handkerchief. “Paper napkins, huh?” This wasn’t one of Phin’s priorities, but if it had come to loom large in his daughter’s life, it had to be dealt with.

  “That’s just an example.” Dillie licked her hand to dissolve some of the jam and then scrubbed at it with Phin’s handkerchief.

  Phin sat back and considered the situation. It had made sense to move in with his mother when Dillie was born because somebody had to take care of the baby. But Dillie wasn’t a baby anymore. And it must have taken a lot for his preternaturally polite daughter to say, “I want out.”

  They could rent a house, he supposed, but since he owned the house by the river his mother-in-law lived in, and the bookstore house, and Liz had this semi mansion on the Hill, it seemed like a waste of money. And if he and Dillie moved, who’d take care of her during the day while he ran the bookstore? She’d end up back here on the Hill with Liz anyway, which was the way his mother wanted it. “She’ll be a Tucker,” she’d told Phin when he’d brought the baby home from the hospital. “Leave everything to me.”

  Thinking about it now, he could see Dillie’s point. Being a Tucker was often a pain in the ass.

  “Compromise,” he said, and Dillie sighed. “How about if we stay at the bookstore one night a week? Like a sleepover. We’ll have hot dogs and dessert and no napkins. And we can try to put the overstock into two rooms instead of three so you can have your own room.”

  Dillie tilted her head, considering it, looking pensive and delicate in the evening light. Phin knew she was a tough little kid, he’d seen her on the softball field, but still her thinness shook him. “You looked just like that when you were her age,” Liz had told him. “You were six foot at fourteen and didn’t stop then. She’ll fill out when the time comes.”

  “How about,” Dillie said in her patient, measured voice, “if we try that for a little while and then if I’m good, we always stay there?”

  “How about you
take what you can get?”

  Dillie exhaled. “It needs to be just us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need a mom.”

  Phin went very still. “A mom.”

  “Jamie Barclay has a mom. Jamie Barclay said her mom said I needed a mom, too.”

  “Jamie Barclay’s mom is wrong,” Phin said grimly.