Faking It Read online

  “Stop flirting with strange men, Vilma,” he told her, pulling her close.

  “I wasn’t flirting and he’s not strange,” she said as she snuggled under his arm. “In fact, he’s very sweet. He’s not even mad that I turned him down.”

  “For what?”

  “Marriage,” Tilda said, laughing. “What is with you?”

  “He proposed?”

  “Six months ago. I told you this.”

  “Oh,” Davy said, feeling foolish. “Right. Sorry.”

  “Are you kidding?” Tilda said. “I love it that you’re jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous,” Davy said. “But if he comes near you again, I’m breaking his fingers.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Ralph.” She stretched up and kissed his cheek. “He doesn’t have the fine understanding of living on the edge that you do. So few men do.” She smiled past him and turned to see Michael handing over another Finster. “Of course, you had a great teacher.” Before he could deny it, she slid out of his arms. “Furniture to sell,” she told him. “Move that armadillo footstool and wonderful things will happen to you later.”

  Wonderful things are going to happen anyway, he thought as she walked away from him. He looked back at Michael. Okay, maybe part of him was Michael. The charming part. He’d take that legacy. Across the room, a woman picked up the armadillo footstool, and Davy went to help her.

  Three footstools, an armoire, and a garden bench later, Nadine came back into the gallery from the street, looking enraged.

  “Your father,” she said.

  “Now what?”

  “Kyle came by to see me,” Nadine said, “and your dad scared him away. I didn’t want to see him but I wanted to tell him that.” She glared at Davy. “What is wrong with you people?”

  “We’re very protective of our womenfolk,” Davy said, giving up.

  Nadine’s frown eased a little. “I thought you were on your way to Australia.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I am not your womanfolk,” Nadine said, her scowl back in place. “If you’re not staying with Aunt Tilda, back off.”

  “Right,” Davy said. “I’m backing. Off. Go throw yourself away on a worthless male.”

  “Yeah. Goodnight women do that a lot,” she said, and went to rescue Steve, who was being baby-talked to by a woman holding a giraffe side chair.

  “I am not worthless,” he called after her, and did not look over at his father, who was undoubtedly leaving Dorcas shortly.

  Clearly Fate had brought him to the Goodnights to make him see that he really was Michael and, in so doing, ruin his life. And he’d fallen for it. He should have walked away when Tilda said, “Steal it for me,” in the closet; he’d known that when she’d asked him. He should not have rented the apartment; he’d known that when he’d seen the sign in the window. He should—

  “What’s wrong with you?” Michael said from behind him. “You look like the last grave over by the willow.”

  Davy shook his head. “I should have listened when you said, if it’s too good to be true, get out.”

  “Sometimes,” Michael said, “it’s better to stay and get taken.”

  He nodded across the room, and Davy followed his gaze to Tilda, laughing with the customer over Steve, showing Nadine and everybody else in the room how to charm anybody.

  “She’s something,” Michael told Davy. “She really is.”

  Tilda turned to see them, her curls rumpled and her smile crooked and her eyes ...

  “Yes,” Davy said to her.

  “Are you sure she’s not bent?” Michael said. “Because if she was, she really would be too good—”

  “Forget it, Dad,” Davy said, and crossed the room to buy whatever she was selling.

  GWEN’S EVENING was a little rockier. It was clear to her that the show was a success; people weren’t exactly clawing their way through the door, but there was a nice crowd, thanks in no small part to the article in the Dispatch. People dropped by to meet Steve and stayed to have a good time, buying at a fast enough clip that Simon and Ethan spent the evening bringing up pieces to replace the things they’d sold. At ten, Ford came in and helped, and shortly after that, he brought her a dog-covered end table and said, “That’s it. You’ll have to start on the furniture in my room next,” and she’d said, “We’ll wait until you leave for Aruba for that.” He nodded, and she felt disappointed, and then some woman bought the end table —it had paws and a face that looked just like her Pete, she said, and Gwen had wondered if Pete was a dog or a husband— and she’d gone back to smiling until her face ached.

  Shortly after that, Thomas came up to her and put his hand on her arm again. “Mrs. Goodnight?”

  Oh, hell, Gwen thought, it’s the FBI. “Yes?”

  “I was cleaning up the office,” he said, a fake smile pasted on his face, “and I found an interesting painting. A forest.”

  “A forest,” Gwen said and thought, Damn it, Homer, why weren‘t you in the basement with Scarlet?

  “It’s a painting by an artist named Homer Hodge,” Thomas said. “And it was part of Cyril Lewis’s collection that burned in the warehouse fire.”

  “Oh.” Gwen sat down on her counter stool. That explained why Mason had it even though he’d given his Homer collection away. So how had he gotten it?

  “Did you get that from Clea Lewis?” Thomas said, sounding stern in his white jacket.

  “I don’t know what painting you’re talking about,” Gwen said. “It’s, in the office? We don’t store paintings in the office.”

  “It was stuck behind the desk,” Thomas said.

  “What were you doing behind the desk?” Gwen said.

  “What are you doing with this painting?” Thomas said.

  “Is there a problem?” Mason said, and they both jerked their heads around to see him standing on the other side of the counter. “Thomas,” he said severely, “you shouldn’t be annoying Mrs. Goodnight with catering details. Just handle whatever it is.”

  Clea drifted up, her face grim, as she linked her arm through Mason’s. “You know, every time I go looking for you,” she told him, smiling tightly, “I find you over here.”

  Mason disentangled his arm from hers, and Thomas, his face pale under his bruises, said to Gwen, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I need to talk to you later,” Mason said to Gwen as Thomas turned away. “In the office. Privately.”

  Clea’s face went stormy, and Gwen said brightly, “Oh, good. I’ll look forward to that Now if you could move, there’s a lady with an armadillo footstool behind you.”

  By the end of the evening, Gwen had a raging headache, due in equal parts to Mason revolving by every fifteen minutes to pat her arm, Clea sending her death looks every five, Michael selling Finsters with outrageous promises (“Is she really going to be the next Wyeth?” one woman whispered to Gwen, and Gwen thought, Oh, hell, Michael, and smiled), and Ford looking bored and temporary as he hauled furniture out to waiting cars. Always on your way out the door, she thought as she watched him carry a ferret chair. Which is good because you’re a doughnut. Not to mention the hit man thing. Across the room, Louise, back early from the Double Take, looked at Simon as though he was the answer to her prayers, which was very Eve-like of her, and over by the butterfly chairs with the big sold tag, Davy kissed Tilda’s cheek and made her blush. No good, Gwen thought, neither one of these guys is going to stay. Why can’t my daughters see that? Doughnuts. They’re all doughnuts. By the time Thomas went AWOL around ten-thirty, she really didn’t care.

  “Do you know where Thomas is?” Jeff said. “We’re out of potstickers. I asked Mason, and he said the last he saw of him, he was talking to Clea Lewis, and now she’s gone, too.”

  “Maybe they’re having sex in the basement,” Gwen said, watching Tilda lean into Davy. “That’s popular lately.” Then she shook her head. Enough whining and negativity. Her family had been amazing all night, especially Nadine, back in full form fro