Faking It

  Ford was standing there, holding it with one of those this-woman-is-a-moron looks on his face.

  “I wanted to do it myself, okay?” Gwen said, not in the mood to be condescended to.

  “Why?” Ford said.

  “Because I’ve been staring at it for years, and it’s been sneering back at me, and I wanted to put it in its place.”

  “So order me to do it,” Ford said.

  “Not the same thing,” Gwen said.

  “It’s all you’ve got,” Ford said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’m leaving it,” Gwen said. “Give me that damn hammer.”

  “No.”

  “It’s my hammer.”

  “Not anymore,” Ford said.

  “It’s so unlike you to be playful,” Gwen snarled. “Give me that hammer.”

  “I’m not playful,” Ford said. “I’m preventing injury and possible death. You almost killed me with this thing. Get your ass off the ladder.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be standing there,” Gwen said, and then she frowned at him. “Why were you standing there?”

  “You’re making a lot of noise,” Ford said. “I thought you might need help.”

  “I need no help.”

  He sighed. “Get off the ladder, Gwen. Let me look at the ceiling and see what it needs.”

  “It needs to get whacked,” Gwen said viciously, and then remembered what he did for a living.

  “Get down,” Ford said, and unable to think of any way to take back the “whacked,” Gwen climbed down.

  He climbed back up, tall enough that he could touch the ceiling. “It needs a nail,” he said as he climbed back down. “The old one fell out. Whacking it will not help.”

  “Good to know,” Gwen said brightly.

  “Where are your nails?”

  “Nails?” Gwen said.

  “Where’s Davy?”

  “Out front.”

  “Good,” he said. “Go do something that does not require tools.”

  “Hey,” she said, but he was already heading out the door to Davy. “And what makes you think that Davy has nails?” she said to him through the plate glass, only to see Davy reach in his shirt pocket and hand over something that looked like nails.

  Sometimes, she purely hated men.

  Ford came back in, climbed the ladder, tacked the ceiling back up with two precision taps, climbed back down, folded the ladder, and carried it to the back.

  “For all you know, I still need that ladder,” Gwen called after him.

  “Not after your last performance,” Ford said, coming back out of the office. “What else has to be done?”

  “Nothing,” Gwen said, moving in front of the cracked side window.

  “Got a tape measure?” Ford said.

  “Why?”

  “So I can measure that window.”

  “We have somebody coming in to do that,” Gwen lied.

  “Give me the damn tape measure, Gwen,” Ford said, and Gwen gave up and went in the office for the measure.

  “I don’t see why you’re doing this,” she said when she’d handed it to him.

  “It’s a nice building,” Ford said, stringing out the measure. “I like seeing things put right.”

  “You do?” Gwen said, trying to square that with the hit man thing.

  “That’s my game. Write down twenty-seven and a half inches.”

  Gwen went for paper and wrote it down. When she went back to him she said, “Your game is remodeling old buildings?”

  “By thirty-two and a quarter,” Ford said, retracting the tape. “No, my game is restoring justice to the world.” He handed her the tape.

  “Oh,” Gwen said. “Justice.”

  “And order,” Ford said. “Where’s the nearest glass place?”

  “Glass place?” Gwen said.

  “Where’s your telephone book?” Ford said, with infinite patience.

  “I’m not an idiot, you know,” Gwen said.

  “I know.”

  “This isn’t my idea, all of this.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not even sure I want this,” Gwen said.

  Ford sat down on the edge of the table. “So why are you letting them do it?”

  “We need the money,” Gwen said, looking around. “And the place really is shabby. And Tilda wants it. Tilda’s the one who gets things done around here.”

  “Why don’t you leave?” Ford said, and Gwen jerked her head back to look at him.

  “Leave?”

  “Take a vacation,” Ford said.

  “A vacation.” Gwen looked at him, stumped. “Where would I go?”

  “The Caribbean,” Ford said. “Aruba. Scuba diving.”

  “I don’t know how to scuba dive.”

  “I’ll teach you,” he said, and Gwen lost her breath. “This is my last job,” he went on. “I’m retiring and heading south for good. Taking the boat to Aruba. You could come along.”

  “Scuba diving,” Gwen said, grabbing onto something concrete. “Isn’t that dangerous? Don’t people die?”

  “People die in their beds, Gwen,” Ford said. “Doesn’t mean they don’t hit the sheets.” He stood up. “It’s a big boat. Plenty of room. I’ll get your window glass.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said, still a little breathless, and when he was out the door, she sat down at the counter, looked at the nine brightly colored umbrellas in her pencil cup, and thought, I want to go.

  Well, that was ridiculous. She couldn’t leave the family, and she’d never had the slightest desire to scuba dive, and the only thing she knew about Ford was that he was a hired killer who brought her piña coladas and fixed her ceiling. Of course, he was retiring, and she was all for forgiveness and forgetting the past, especially if it was her past, but if his last job was going to be killing Davy, that would pretty much be her sticking point.

  Tilda came in carrying a can of blue paint, her hair standing up all over her head in little curls. “Are you okay?” she said. “You look sort of poleaxed.”

  “I’m fine,” Gwen said. “Stop running your fingers through your hair. You look wild.” Tilda patted her hair, which did nothing, and Gwen said, “Do you ever think about staying home and taking over the gallery?”

  “No.” Tilda squinted at her reflection in the office window and patted her hair again.

  “Okay,” Gwen said, feeling hugely disappointed even though she’d known that was what was coming.

  “Because I’ve got at least another decade of murals to finish first. Do you want me to?”

  “No,” Gwen said. “But I didn’t want to stand in your way.”

  “Nobody stands in my way,” Tilda said and carried the paint can out through the office.

  I should be like that, Gwen thought, and imagined announcing to Ford, “Nobody stands in my way.” Although why it had to be Ford was a mystery. She should say it to Mason. “Mason, you’re a nice person, but I don’t want you to run the gallery.” Although if he’d get them out of debt, the whole family would be free. He could have the gallery if he’d get them out of debt. At this point, he could have her if he’d get them out of debt.

  Davy came in from the street, whistling, and went into the office.

  Of course, that would mean she’d never scuba dive. But the family would be safe.

  That was the problem. Once you’d given birth, you never really thought “I” or “me” again. It was always “we.” What’s best for “us.” Even though what’s best for “us” was often lousy for “me.” She had two beautiful children and an equally beautiful grandchild, all of whom were fairly happy and healthy and who loved and supported each other. She didn’t have to go to a horrible job every day, she could work Double-Crostics whenever she wanted, and nobody ever said, “Gwennie, don’t do that.” At least not for the past five years anyway. It was all good.

  Well, mostly good. While it was true that Tony had been domineering, there’d also been some very nice things about him. Like sex, for
example. That was a loss. She’d been okay with celibacy, but then it had started raining men at the Goodnights’ and suddenly she was getting a lot of lunches. And piña coladas. Maybe she should think about it, make a plan. She was only fifty-four. Mason was clearly interested, a good steady man who understood finance and loved the gallery. Really, it was a no-brainer. She closed her eyes and tried to seriously imagine a life with Mason.

  Scuba diving, she thought, and her mind washed through with blue-green water and bright-colored fish, like one of Homer’s paintings, only real, with sun on her face, and the water flowing over her body, and Ford—

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought and got up to move the chairs into the office. She could sweep the floor. That didn’t involve tools. Or a great deal of thought.

  Tilda came out of the office with a paintbrush. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Gwen said. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Davy wants to paint the front today.” Tilda nodded her head back at the office where Davy was now looking doubtfully into an open paint can, Nadine frowning over his shoulder. “We might have to block off the entrance.”

  “And that would be a problem because so many people come in?” Gwen said. “I don’t—”

  The street door to the gallery opened, and an older man with dark red hair and darker eyes came in, something about him very familiar. “Hello?” Gwen said, trying to place him.

  “Hello, darling,” the man said, and Gwen had one horrible moment when she thought he might have been somebody she’d slept with before Tony and had now completely forgotten. He was somewhere between fifty and eighty, so the age range was right.

  “Do I know you?” Gwen said, fingers crossed that she didn’t.

  “Call me Michael, love,” he said, so innocently her eyes narrowed. “I’m looking for Davy Dempsey. Tall boy, dark hair. Is he here?”

  “Davy?” Tilda said, surprised. “He’s back—” She stopped because the man smiled at her warmly and detoured around her to open the office door. “Uh, wait—”

  Inside the office, Davy looked up and froze, and Gwen thought, It can’t be another hit man. How many people hate this guy?

  “I should have known,” the man said to Davy, his voice light. “Me on the road, running for my life, and you here with a daisy hand.”

  “Daisy hand?” Gwen said.

  “Three queens,” Davy said grimly. “Hello, Dad.”

  Chapter 15

  “HOW THE HELL did you find me?” Davy said, when he was staring at Michael across the table in Simon’s room. It seemed odd that there was nothing on the table. He kept expecting Michael to pull out a deck and start dealing.

  “That friend of yours, Simon,” Michael said. “I called him in Miami a couple of weeks ago, looking for you.”

  “And he gave me up,” Davy said, planning on having a talk with Simon later.

  “It took some persuading,” Michael said.

  Davy sighed. It was Michael. Simon hadn’t had a chance.

  “And then it took me a while to get here,” Michael went on. “I had commitments. And Greyhound is not the Concorde.”

  “You took the bus?” Davy said, dumbfounded. “That’s not like you.”

  “I am temporarily embarrassed of funds,” Michael said, with the ghost of a grin.

  “I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today! My father, Wimpy.”

  “I have to keep a low profile,” Michael said. “There appears to be a warrant out for me.”

  “That also is not like you.” Davy sat back, unconcerned. “You usually don’t get caught.”

  “There was a woman,” Michael said darkly.

  “There always is.”

  Michael grinned at him. “You should talk. I walk in and find you with three. You’re me all over again, boy.”

  “I am nothing like you,” Davy said.

  Michael laughed. “You’re right, you’re nothing like me, you are me. Of all my children, Davy boy, you’re my heir.”

  “Oh, good. I’ve always wanted to own two decks of marked cards and a penny whistle.”

  “Now, Sophie,” Michael went on as if he hadn’t heard, “she had the skill, right from the beginning. She could look at you with those big brown eyes and take you for everything you had. But she didn’t have the heart for it.”

  “She has morals,” Davy said, thinking, And because of that, she’s a soft touch, which you know all too well.

  “And little Amy, she loved it, but she didn’t have the skill. Too scatterbrained. But you, you were born for this. You have the skill and the heart, you have it all, you could be greater than I am—”

  “Oh, spare me,” Davy said, fed up. “Look at you, the Great One. On the lam at sixty, scamming for quarters, playing monte for motel money, that’s your idea of greatness?”

  “It’s action, isn’t it?” Michael said. “That’s what Nick the Greek said.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Nick the Greek said when he was washed up, playing two-bit poker instead of high-roller,” Davy snapped. “That’s what he said before he died broke. Is that how you want to live?”

  “It’s living.” Michael leaned forward. “It’s not sitting around wishing you were living and denying what you were born for. It’s not shilling for the freaking FBI.” He shook his head at Davy. “You miss it. Don’t tell me you don’t. What are you doing for the kick these days, Davy my lad? Picking daisies?”

  “Okay,” Davy said. “Back off on the Goodnights. And in Gwen’s case that means literally. She’s got a steady guy with money who’s getting serious. Stay away.”

  “Ah, that’s not for her,” Michael said. “Women like Gwen Goodnight do not go for steady men.”

  “She deserves somebody she can count on,” Davy said. “That is not you.”

  “She deserves a damn good time,” Michael said. “That’s most definitely me. Besides, she can’t count on anybody. Nobody can. You’re born alone and you die alone, Davy. So you better know yourself, because you’re the only one who ever will.”

  “I know myself,” Davy said grimly, “and I’m happy.”

  “After all I’ve taught you,” Michael said sadly. “How many times did I tell you, the guy to beat at the table is the one who doesn’t know what makes him weak and what makes him strong. And now look at you, pretending you’re someone else, shirking your gift.” He shook his head. “Good thing for you I showed up.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Davy said. “We’re all thrilled when you show up. I have news for you. I’m not playing the game anymore, and neither are Sophie and Amy.”

  “Then you’re not living,” Michael said. “I’d worry, but I know you too well. You’ll be back. You need the edge.”

  “Did you come here for a specific reason?” Davy said. “Or just to piss me off?”

  “I’m on my way to see my grandson,” Michael said, settling back.

  Davy thought of the hell Michael could make for Sophie, her peace shattered, her reputation ruined in a small town that never forgot anything, not to mention the monetary damage he could do when he sang his song to her. “No you are not.”

  “A man is entitled to see his grandson,” Michael said, expanding a little. “Sophie would want me there. I hear she named him after me.”

  “She named him Dempsey, which is not specifically you. And you are staying out of her way, the same way I do. She has a good, law-abiding life and she doesn’t need us screwing it up for her.” He stood up. “The fun’s over. You’re leaving now.”

  “I thought we’d both go,” Michael said, not getting up. “This weekend. Family reunion. You could keep me in line.” He smiled at Davy cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

  “You don’t know where she is,” Davy said, relaxing.

  “Of course I do,” Michael said. “She’s here in Ohio.”

  “It’s a big state,” Davy said. “You wouldn’t think so, but it is. Have a nice time searching it.”

  “I’ll find out,” Michael said. “Good God, boy, it’s no
t like I mean her harm. I love her. She’s her mother all over again. And she has my first grandchild. I want to see the boy, see the men my girls married.”

  He said it with such sincerity that Davy was impressed. “You lie through your teeth and you make it sound like ‘Danny Boy.’ I’m amazed they ever got enough on you to arrest you.”

  “Technically they didn’t,” Michael said. “It was a bum rap. And I’m telling the truth. I want to see this boy.”

  “This boy was born a year ago.” Davy folded his arms and stared down at his father grimly. “Your girls were married three years ago. You’re looking for cold cash, a warm bed, and a hot meal in a place the law won’t find you, and once you get there you’ll scam somebody, and it’s a little town and everybody will know, and Sophie will be humiliated. And here’s some news that may not have trickled down: Amy married a cop. I know this guy. He is not sentimental. He will not think you’re a colorful old grandpa. If there’s a warrant out for you, he will can your ass without blinking.”

  “You have such a cynical view of human nature,” Michael said thoughtfully.

  “Gee, wonder why,” Davy said, feeling like a thirteen-year-old even as he said it.

  “It was that woman,” Michael said. “I warned you about her.”

  “What woman?” Davy said, legitimately confused.

  “That Cleopatra blonde,” Michael said. “That one you had in L.A. She had you so roped you couldn’t have scammed a Sunday school. She was the worst thing for you. She made you bitter.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Davy said, surveying him. “There’ve been darker influences.”