Faking It Read online

  “And teeth. But I am not afraid.”

  “You and Steve have a lot in common.” Tilda handed the dog to him.

  “Speaking of dangerous females,” Davy said, slinging the dog under his arm, “where has Louise been? Simon’s starting to think she’s a figment of his imagination.”

  “She’ll be back at the Double Take Wednesday night. She has Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday off.” She opened the bedroom door and saw her bed, looking vast and white in the moonlight.

  “She takes three nights off from sex?”

  “From the Double Take,” Tilda said. “Tell Simon to be patient.” Really patient, she’s not coming back here.

  “That’s two days from now.” Davy put Steve on the floor. “I don’t know if he has that much patience. I don’t even think I do.”

  “Develop some,” Tilda said.

  “So that’s a no,” Davy said.

  “If the question is what I think it is,” Tilda said, “then, yes, that’s a no.”

  “You know, Vilma, playing hard to get can backfire.”

  “I’m not playing,” Tilda said and locked herself in the bathroom to change into her pajamas. She liked sleeping in T-shirts better, but they had an adverse effect on Davy.

  When she came out, he was already in bed, looking annoyed. She crawled in beside him, perversely glad he was there, and held up the quilt for Steve to tunnel under. Cozy, she thought as she felt the dog snuggled up to her through the sheet. She glanced over at Davy, who was fighting with his pillow and looking not cozy.

  “So tell me, Vilma,” he said, punching the pillow again. “If you’re not playing, why do you let me back in your bed?”

  “In my bed,” Tilda pointed out. “Not in me. There are limits here.”

  “In your dreams.” Davy shoved his pillow behind him. “If I wanted to be in you, I’d be in you. You have lousy pillows. Why is that? Is Gwennie anti-pillow?”

  “How would you be in me?” Tilda looked at him with contempt. “You would not be in me.”

  “I have charm.” Davy shoved the pillow again. “Tomorrow I’m getting you better pillows.”

  “You do not have charm,” Tilda said and then honesty made her add, “well, you don’t have that much charm.”

  “I have charm you haven’t experienced yet,” Davy said. “Unplumbed depths of charm not yet unleashed on you.” He punched the pillow again.

  “Well, let me know if you plan to unleash it,” Tilda said, snuggling down against her own pillow. “I want to brace myself.”

  “Won’t do you any good,” Davy said. “I’ll get you anyway. How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Sink down into that pillow.” He frowned at her. “You gave me the lousy pillow.”

  “I didn’t give you anything. You took it.”

  “Let me see.” Davy jerked her pillow out from behind her and Tilda’s head bounced on the bed. He punched it a couple of times and shook his head. “No, this one’s lousy, too.” He dropped it on her face, and as she pulled it off she heard him say, “Tomorrow we get new pillows.”

  “I like this pillow.”

  “You think you like that pillow,” Davy said, trying to get comfortable again. “Once you try the new pillows, you’ll spit on that pillow.”

  “I will still like this pillow.”

  Davy leaned over her and Tilda blinked at how suddenly close he was. “Work with me here,” he said. “This is vitally important.”

  “Pillows are vitally important,” Tilda said.

  “Yes,” Davy said, so seriously she had to smile.

  “Can you admit,” he said, “that there is a slim possibility that there might, just might, be a better pillow than the one under your head right now?”

  “Well—”

  He leaned closer. “Possibly, maybe, might be, yes?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said.

  “Then tomorrow I am getting you new pillows.”

  “I like these pillows.”

  “Did you know that after a year, half the weight of a pillow is dust mites?”

  Tilda sat up, almost bumping into him. “What?”

  “I swear to God it’s true,” Davy said, leaning back. “How old are these pillows?”

  “They were here when I moved back home five years ago,” Tilda said, looking at her pillow in horror.

  “We get new pillows,” Davy said, and tossed his on the floor.

  “Oh, gross,” Tilda said and shoved hers after his.

  “Of course, now we have nothing to sleep on,” Davy said. “Want to have sex?”

  Tilda grinned at him. “That’s your boundless charm?”

  “No, I spent all my charm talking you out of the pillows.” Davy got out of bed, picked up his shirt from the chair, and wadded it into a ball as he came back to her. “I thought I might get you on the momentum.”

  “You’re pathetic,” Tilda said.

  “So that’s still a no.”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “That’s still a no.”

  “Confusing.” Davy stuffed his shirt under his head and rolled away from her.

  Tilda looked at the lovely strong line of his shoulders in the moonlight. “I know,” she said and rolled away from him.

  GWEN OPENED the gallery on Wednesday morning, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up a Shirelles medley on the jukebox, got a pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic, and thought, Someday I’m going to die, and my body will still do this. And nobody will notice.

  To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and the loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air, while the Shirelles sang “I Met Him on a Sunday.” She should mention the cracked window to Simon, who’d evidently exhausted the entertainment possibilities of Columbus without Louise, and was now poking around the building, making notes to update the security. “This place is a burglar’s dream,” he’d told her. She’d gestured to the Finsters. “And he’d steal what?”

  Davy had been grumpy for the past two days, too, which had to be either his money or Tilda, Gwen wasn’t sure which but she was sure it wasn’t good. “He’s FBI,” Gwen told Tilda. “Make him happy. Whatever it takes.”

  “Mother of the Year, you’re not,” Tilda said. He was also spending a lot of time playing pool somewhere with people who had deep pockets. “You could earn a living doing that,” Gwen told him when he came in one night and gave her more muffin money. “And then it wouldn’t be fun anymore,” he said, and went upstairs to Tilda’s room.

  And then there was Ford, who had brought her piña coladas every day without once breaking into an expression, although he did stay to talk about the gallery. It was flattering how much he wanted to know about her and sad how little there was to tell. The piña coladas helped ease the shame considerably. She had four umbrellas now, pink, blue, green, and yellow, and she kept them in her pencil holder where she could see them because she figured they were as close as she was ever going to get to blue water and white sand.

  That’s pathetic, she thought, which made her think of Mason, who’d called both Monday and Tuesday to thank her for going to lunch and then talked about the gallery wistfully. He was working up to asking her something, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was: he wanted to buy the gallery. Heaven, she thought, except that she couldn’t, so no point in thinking about it. But at least her life was expanding. Now instead of looking forward to a Double-Crostic every day, she could look forward to a Double-Crostic, a phone call from Mason, and a paper umbrella from Ford. “Whoa, Nellie,” she said, “now I’m really getting somewhere,” and slapped open her Double-Crostic book.

  By noon, having written in “ophidian” for “snakelike,” “nimiety” for “redundancy,” and “enswathe” for “wrap as a bandage,” she was feeling much better. Of course anybody who would use “dofunny” as an answer for “gadget” was clearl