Faking It Read online

  “I would never hurt my daughter,” Michael said, and there was no con in his voice.

  “You never mean to,” Davy said. “But you always do. You can’t help it. You mean to go straight, but it’s in your blood.”

  “I never mean to go straight,” Michael said, confused.

  “Well, I did,” Davy said. “The point is, it doesn’t work. You’d have to take somebody just to keep your blood moving. You’ll ruin Sophie. With the best intentions in the world, you’ll ruin her.”

  “You’re overreacting,” Michael said. “Now I’m going back in there—”

  “How much are you going to hit her up for?” Davy said.

  And for the first time in his life, Davy saw his father flush.

  “Just a small loan, right?” Davy said.

  “Seed money,” Michael said. “A stake. Not much.”

  Davy took an envelope out of his back pocket and held it up. “There’s a hundred thousand in here,” he said, and Michael grew very still. “I was going to give it to you today to bribe you to leave. Now it’s yours if you promise to never come back here without me.”

  “My family’s here,” Michael said, outraged. “That’s my grandchild in there.”

  “Listen to me,” Davy said. “I’ve learned a lot in the last couple of days, among other things, that everything you said to me last week was right. If I don’t accept who I really am, I’m the mark. And what I am is your son.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Michael said. “I gave you an education no one else on earth could give you.”

  “I know,” Davy said. “I’m grateful. But Sophie comes first. She saved us after Mom died, she saved me, and I will do anything to keep her safe, even if it means drop-kicking you into the river with a brick around your neck.” He held up the envelope again. “This is for you if you go away and leave her in peace. You can count it if you want.”

  “No,” Michael said. “I trust you.”

  “There’s irony for you,” Davy said.

  “Honor among thieves,” Michael said.

  “Take the money,” Davy said. “But from now on, when you come to Ohio, you come directly to me. You do not try to come down here without me.”

  “You’re going to be here?” Michael said, his appalled expression saying everything anybody needed to know about Temptation.

  “I will be in Columbus.” Davy held the envelope toward Michael. “Take it. Maybe you can make a killing with it. If nothing else, it’ll give you a couple of good months.”

  Michael took the envelope. “I wasn’t going to stay,” he said, sounding tired. “I just wanted to see Sophie and Amy. And the kid. Dempsey.” He grinned ruefully at Davy. “I didn’t want to see the name die out.”

  “It’s not going to,” Davy said. “I’ve got that covered for you.”

  “Tilda.” Michael nodded. “Good for you.” He cocked his head at Davy. “Maybe I can come back for Christmas. Just to see how things turn out.”

  “Call first,” Davy said. “We may be busy.”

  “You’re a ruthless son of a bitch.” Michael put the envelope in his jacket pocket. “You get that from your mother’s side of the family. Ministers. They’ll save you even if it kills you.”

  “You and Dorcas can go back tonight,” Davy said.

  “Dorcas is heading back now,” Michael said. “She says it’s been fun but she wants to paint. She should be missing me again by about Christmas. But I have to stay here tonight.” He held up his hand as Davy leaned down on him. “No, I do. Amy’s having us to dinner tomorrow, she’s all excited about it. Dillie has a Softball game tomorrow afternoon I promised I’d go to. I won’t do anything, Davy.” He patted his breast pocket. “I don’t have to now. Give me today and tomorrow.”

  “If you so much as play Crazy Eights with Dillie—” Davy began.

  “You have my word,” Michael said, and Davy stopped, surprised.

  “Okay, then,” he said, just as Sophie came out on the back porch.

  “That bed is wonderful,” she said, and then she caught sight of Michael’s face. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Davy said, turning to smile at her. “I hear we’re going to a softball game tomorrow and then getting ptomaine at Amy’s.” Over her head, he saw Phin standing inside the screen door. “And then on Sunday, we’ve got to go,” he said, a little louder.

  “That’s not long enough,” Sophie said. But she was looking at him, not Michael. “So how’s your landlady?”

  “Her name’s Matilda,” Davy said. “Let me tell you all about her.”

  UP IN the attic, Tilda looked at her six Scarlet paintings, all lined up in a row. They were a motley lot. The first one had a horrible cheap frame on it, and while the second and third ones were in good shape, the other three needed to be cleaned.

  And the sixth one needed to be finished.

  She sat down on the floor in front of it and touched the smeared heads of the dancers. She remembered the hurt, but she didn’t feel the pain anymore. Andrew was a good man. She loved him. But he wasn’t Davy.

  You may be overreacting, she tried to tell herself. It wasn’t hard to convince yourself that you were in love with a guy who stole paintings for you, who resurrected your art gallery, who made you feel like a partner, who told you that you were magnificent and beautiful, who made love to you until you passed out, who told you he loved you with everything he had...

  No, she really was in love with him.

  She touched the painting again. Maybe it was time to do it right. Maybe it was time to be Scarlet again, only this time—

  “Here you are,” somebody said from behind her, and she jerked around to see Clea Lewis, looking impossibly lovely in the middle of the attic.

  “What are you doing here?” Tilda said, so shocked she forgot to be polite.

  “And there they are,” Clea said, looking past her to the Scarlets. “Davy got all six of them for you, didn’t he?”

  “Uh,” Tilda said, not sure how she was going to lie her way out of this one.

  “I knew he would,” Clea said, coming closer. “He always gets what he wants.” She smiled down at Tilda, not unfriendly. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  “Just for a day or so,” Tilda said, lifting her chin.

  “No,” Clea said. “When he goes, he’s gone. But he left you the paintings, that’s like him. He’s a very generous man.” She looked regretful for a moment. “It’s such a shame he’s not rich.”

  “He’s coming back,” Tilda said firmly. “Now what are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “I’ve come for the paintings, of course,” Clea said.

  “And I would give them to you because...?” Tilda said, amazed by her gall.

  “Because if you give them to me, I won’t tell the world you’re Scarlet,” Clea said. “And those people you conned out of the paintings, they won’t find out who you are. And you won’t go to jail. And since you’re pretty much supporting your entire family, they won’t starve. I think it’s a good trade.”

  She sounded perfectly friendly but there was ice in her eyes, and Tilda thought, She knows about Gwennie and Mason.

  “You think these paintings are going to get Mason back?” she said, and Clea’s face twisted.

  “I think it’s none of your damn business,” she snapped.

  Tilda nodded, trying to buy time to think it through. “They need to be cleaned. And I have to get the cheap frame off the first one. Mason would spit on that frame. And ...” She turned back to the last painting, the dancers she’d smeared with her brush and thrown at her father when he’d told her she was born to paint, not to love. “I have to finish this one. I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Clea said, clearly suspicious.

  “The paint will be dry by tomorrow,” Tilda said. “I’ll bring them to the house.” She looked up at Clea. “You can trust me.”

  “I can’t trust anybody,” Clea said. “But I guess I have to here. Tomor