Mothers and Other Liars
Mothers and Other Liars
AMY BOURRET
In memory of Anne Marie and Estel Henry “Wede” Wedemeyer, a bighearted pragmatist and a hardworking dreamer who taught me to believe in daffodils and in love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
During the long journey from blank page to published book, I have incurred debts of gratitude rivaling a small country’s deficit. Mere words are never enough, but: to the Dunston’s Gang for critique and camaraderie and for never letting me rest on my metaphors. Shoutouts to Paul Coggins for advice on Ruby’s legal matters (though any mistake or use of creative license is mine); to David Norman for loving this story enough to take it to Hollywood and for several choice morsels; to Harry Hunsicker for a few well-timed kicks in the butt; and to Will Clarke for easing my way down the road. A special thank-you to Alison Hunsicker, ex-officio member and an early reader who provided spot-on feedback.
To the other critique groups I have had the privilege to be a part of along the way: special thanks to Colleen Rae, who helped me find Ruby’s voice, and to the Aspen Writers’ Foundation and Catherine O’Connell, who keeps their group going so that a writer’s world is a less lonely place.
To JSP for early encouragement and eleventh-hour advice.
To the fabulous Jenny Bent, who talked me down from a couple of ledges with grace and humor. Thank you for “getting” me.
To Jen Weis and the team at St. Martin’s for bringing Ruby’s story to print with care and enthusiasm.
To the teachers who nurtured my creative spark and hammered on the grammar: Mrs. Bush, Mrs. Krueger, and Mrs. Kessler, and all of you overworked and underpaid teachers out there, know that you do make a difference.
Finally, to my friends and family, who encouraged, cajoled, and supported me through all these many days, and who rescued me when I was spending too much time in my head. I don’t know how I would do this writing stuff without you. A special thank-you to Susan Virginia Metcalfe Shores for never letting me forget my long-ago promise to put her name in print, and for never wavering in her belief that I would. And for, well, everything else, my mom, who lies only every now and again.
Thank you, all of you,
always,
amy
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
—Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act I
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
Ruby Leander’s third life ends with the flip of a page. The photograph catches her eye first. Then the words shriek at her, in stark black and white. Lines of type shift on the page, curl into a tight ball, somersault, gathering sentences, whole paragraphs, gaining momentum. And just like that, on an otherwise ordinary Thursday, this life is over.
She slams the weekly tabloid shut, sandwiching the article between weight-loss ads and pictures of celebrities misbehaving. As her client, Antoinette, approaches, Ruby tosses the magazine aside.
Antoinette bustles up to the nail station, oversized tote bag banging against her curvy hip. Thursday is Ruby’s late day, to accommodate the working women. Antoinette has a standing appointment in the last slot. Margaret’s partner, Molly, baby sits Lark—though nine-year-old Lark would cringe at that word. And Antoinette and Ruby go to dinner. This is their routine.
“Sorry. Sorry. Shakespeare had it right. I want to kill all the lawyers.” Antoinette plops down on the seat across the narrow table. Her thick hair is tamed into a demure bun, her white blouse closed a button higher than before her recent promotion from the court clerk’s office to judge’s secretary. She pauses, looks at Ruby. “You okay?”
No, Ruby is no
t okay. The photograph, the words, are burned into her brain. From a serendipitous thirst, a wrong turn, and a chance meeting—and a big lie—she built this Santa Fe life for herself and her daughter, Lark. This is no sand-castle life that could wash away in the evening tide; this is a mountain life, strong and tall and solid. Yet even mountains erode, and this one is crumbling at her feet. She is definitely not okay.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
Without a doubt, that photograph is of Lark; a similar shot sits in a frame in their living room. This life is over, but what she does about the article will define what the next life will be—for her and for Lark.
“You sure you’re okay?” Antoinette’s voice sounds tinny, as if traveling from a soup can and string, what with having to penetrate that photo before reaching a piece of Ruby’s brain. “It’s not…”
“I’m fine. Really.” Ruby tries to ignore the worry creasing Antoinette’s brow and avoid meeting Margaret’s eyes in the mirrored wall that lines the hair stations. Margaret doesn’t miss much in her salon.
“You know you can tell me anything.” Antoinette’s voice is soft with concern.
The kindness soaks into Ruby’s skin, rises to a lump in her throat. “I know.”
As Antoinette turns to the rack on the wall to choose her polish, Ruby picks up the tabloid from the floor beside her chair, fans through to the page. She rips out the article, folds it into a tidy square, then gestures to the sudsy manicure dish. “Soak a minute. I’ll be right back.”
In the back room of the salon, Ruby braces her arms on each side of the sink, fights the nausea pulsing against her throat. She turns on the faucet, splashes her face, the cold water a welcome slap against her hot cheeks. Over the past decade, she has never once thought of herself as a criminal; Ruby did right by that child, even if the law doesn’t agree. But now a boulder is careening their way.
TWO
Ruby flings the door open at the first crunch of gravel on the driveway. She gnaws her lower lip as Molly’s car parks beside the porch. Clyde bursts from the car first, a flash of four-legged auburn highlights leaping up at Ruby for a quick lick before bounding around the corner into the backyard. Lark’s butt emerges next, followed by the rest of the child tugging out a purple backpack.
As Molly pulls away, Ruby waves and mouths “thank you,” pretends not to see the questioning look in the woman’s eyes. Lark barely reaches the porch before Ruby grabs her, pulls her into a tight hug. Ruby draws in a deep breath through her nose, savors the hint of Larkness buried under scents of horse and a day outdoors.
“Mo-om,” Lark says into Ruby’s shirt. “You’re squi-ishing me.”
Ruby loosens her grip, moves her hands to Lark’s shoulders. “Sorry, baby.”
“What’s the matter?” Lark steps away from Ruby and into the house.
Ruby picks up Lark’s backpack, follows her inside. “Nothing’s wrong. I just needed my Lark fix.”
“You were jonesing, huh?”
Even in her terror, Ruby can’t help laugh. “Jonesing? Where on earth…”
“I’m precocious, remember?” Lark tucks a wisp of angel-wing hair behind her ear.
Ruby crosses the living area, moves to the sink nestled in a corner of the tiny kitchen. Through the gap in the curtains behind the sink, a sliver of the Sangre de Cristo mountains is awash in purple evening light. Reaching past the herb garden and Lark’s latest project, an avocado pit suspended over a glass by toothpicks, she tugs the curtains closed against any possibility of prying eyes.
A door slams. Ruby startles. She drops her hand from her throat when she sees Clyde, who nosed open the screen door to the back porch. He pads over to her, rubs his sleek doggy body against her legs. Normal, she tells herself. Just act normal.
She leans back against the kitchen counter. “You hungry?”
Lark throws herself onto the sofa that they inherited with the house. “We were just finishing our burgers when you called. We were going to the movie.” Petulance mixes with concern in Lark’s voice.
Molly hadn’t asked any questions when Ruby called her. Ruby’s tone had probably put her off. Back at the salon, Antoinette’s face had registered somewhere between hurt and confusion when Ruby asked for a rain check from their regular Thursday girls’ night. Ruby didn’t intend the edge in her voice, but it cut Antoinette just the same.
Ruby is going to have to explain everything, to Margaret and Molly, to her boyfriend, Chaz, to Antoinette. To Lark. First, though, she has to understand it, believe it, herself.
THREE
“Can we watch one here? A movie?” Lark asks.
Ruby nods. “Your pick.”
Lark slides off the sofa, opens the oak armoire, runs her finger down the videocassettes stacked beside the TV—Ruby has yet to upgrade the collection to DVD. “Singin’ in the Rain?”
“Again?” Ruby says. “Whatever. But bath first. You reek of horse.”
“We rode out at Rancho Enchanto.” Lark still uses her years-old mispronunciation of Rancho Encantada, the fancy horse stables and residential development just north of Santa Fe. “I got to ride Gus.”
Ruby follows Lark into the bathroom sandwiched between the two bedrooms. When the tub is filled, Ruby sits on the toilet lid while Lark soaks the dirt and sweat and summer off her lithe body. Clyde sits at Ruby’s feet, his chin resting on the edge of the tub.
“You got camp tomorrow,” Ruby says. Lark has attended the twice-a-week Girls Inc. day camp for the last few years, part of Ruby’s patchwork of care for Lark while school is not in session.
“Yeah. The image lady is coming again.” Already a crisp line divides Lark’s legs into the creamy part shielded from sun by her shorts and the bronzed lower limbs.
“Images?” If Ruby can keep Lark talking, she might be able to fake her way through a cheery bath time.
“Of us. Girls. Last time she showed us pictures from magazines and stuff. And asked us what we thought the pictures said about the girls in them. She showed us how the people who make the clothes put us into either ‘Girly girl’ or ‘Naughty girl.’ Like the T-shirts that say ‘Boys Will Be Toys.’ The ones you won’t let me wear.”
Ruby shakes her head at Lark’s bubble beard. Sometimes the kid is nine going on forty, sometimes nine going on four. “The ones you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.”
“Well, anyway, we’re making our own shirts. Tomorrow we get to draw what we want on them and then she’s going to take the pictures and put them on the shirts.” Lark pauses to scrub her face with the washcloth. “We’re supposed to draw things that show who we are. Like it’s okay to use ‘Princess’ or ‘Flirt’ if we want, but what else are we?”