The Good Liar. Laura Caldwell
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the hangar, as other unit members landed, Michael clapped them on the back and accepted their congratulations. They were all giddy and high. Michael marveled at the capacity of his mind to move from sheer fear to exuberant joy. It was a lesson he was grateful to learn.
The team leader walked up, and the unit automatically went silent.
“We have a special guest,” the team leader said. “Colonel Coleman Kingsley.”
He and the rest of his unit snapped to attention in full salute.
An arresting figure stepped through the doors of the hangar and paused. The sunlight flooded behind him so that Michael couldn’t see his face.
“At ease,” the colonel said, stepping closer. His voice was deep and calm, so different from the terse barks of Michael’s commanding officer.
Michael felt a thrill race through him. He’d never met someone of such high rank. And then there was the man’s imposing presence—the way he stood with a calm confidence that spoke of battle, and the way his eyes, the color of an exotic sea, assessed the unit with an all-knowing gaze.
“Gentlemen,” Colonel Kingsley said, “congratulations on your first jump. There will be others, I assure you, and there will be more training. Training that will test every fiber of your body, every cell of your mind. You will succeed in this training. You will do so because we have selected you carefully. When you complete this, you will join me.”
Colonel Kingsley paused then, his blue, blue eyes landing for a moment on Michael. And in that moment, Michael wanted to make the man proud. He wanted to succeed for him, in a way he’d never wanted to for his father. Michael raised his chin at the colonel, hoping the gesture would show he’d do anything, anything, he was asked to do.
4
Oakbrook, Illinois
T he goal of babymaking had sapped all my energy and focus for the last few years. It had taken all of Scott and me. And since he left, my goal had been to get some peace in my life, less focus, less intensity, more freedom. No more hormone shots. No more doctor visits or blood tests. And I got that peace, I suppose. It had been very peaceful in the house that Scott built. But I was ready for some excitement. So when Michael left a message five days after my talk with Liza, I didn’t play coy and count the prescribed, recommended amount of days to reply. I called him immediately. I was geared up for something new, some craziness perhaps, maybe just a touch of chaos.
“How did Liza convince you to call me?” I asked him.
“Liza is very persuasive.”
“That’s the truth.”
We both chuckled.
We launched into a long get-to-know-you discussion. The next night, he called again. And again a few days after that. They were easy conversations, filled with stories that required a new audience to be fresh and entertaining, stories my old friends had heard way too often.
Michael was charming and interesting. He talked of jazz and art and restaurants all over the world. His conversations were filled with anecdotes from the numerous jobs he’d held throughout his life—a photographer in Washington, D.C., a pharmaceuticals salesman in Boston, a winery owner in Napa.
“How did you get from taking pictures all the way to stomping grapes?” I asked.
“Well, let’s see. The winery thing happened because I was having a midlife crisis, and I wanted a legitimate reason to drink a lot.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Hey, it was a rough time. My thinking wasn’t entirely clear.”
I laughed and listened to Michael talk about going from photographing senators to selling vaccinations to testing soil. He could be serious as well, mentioning the tough years in Vietnam, and his marriage afterward to a woman named Honey.
“Her name was Honey?” I said, a wry tone to my voice.
Michael wouldn’t take the bait. “She was Southern. And a lovely woman.”
I was silent for a moment. I liked how he wouldn’t engage in the usual divorcé pastime of ex-bashing.
“What about you?” he asked.
“His name was Scott. It’s still pretty raw.”
“Want to talk about it?” Michael had a smooth, melodic voice, and now there was a kindness in his tone that touched me.
I told him I wasn’t quite ready. Not yet anyway. But I had a strange inkling that Michael might soon be someone I could talk to about anything.
When he asked me out, a week and a half after our first conversation, I said, “Took you long enough.”
“Yes, well. I’m not as good at this as I used to be. So, what do you say? I’m in town on Friday. I’d love to take you to dinner.”
“Great.” My voice went a little high despite myself. “That would be wonderful.”
He called a few days later to say he was on his way. It was a moment I’d been thinking about all week, and I was nervous. There were the usual first date jitters, but they were multiplied exponentially because I hadn’t dated since I ran into Scott at our high-school reunion five years ago. Also, I was anxious about the age difference. I had forgotten about it during our conversations, but soon he would be on my doorstep—a fifty-five-year-old man. I was drawn to him on the phone, but what about when I saw him? Could I be attracted to someone so much older?
I flitted around the house, trying to apply lip gloss while straightening the crap that had accumulated during my self-imposed seclusion. I scooped up stacks of newspapers and shoved them in the recycle bin. I pitched old iced-tea bottles and rinsed a couple of crusty plates sitting in the sink. I wished I’d had the sense to get a Christmas tree this week, or at the very least a wreath, something to cheer up the place. But maybe it was just me who saw the house as gloomy, a mere receptacle of what-could-have-been.
I darted into my bedroom, and stood still a moment, gazing at the bay window with its padded silk bench and olive-colored pillows, and at the corner bookshelf filled with mementos. Finally, I let my eyes move to the bed. I hadn’t made up the linens before work this morning, and I debated whether to do so now. Wasn’t making the bed akin to wearing brand-new, skimpy underwear on a date? Weren’t you jinxing yourself? I reminded myself that I didn’t actually want to sleep with Michael. The thought of having sex with someone new was mortifying. Yet I did want the date to go well. Was there some kind of bad karma in making the bed?
I decided I was being ridiculous and quickly pulled the sheets straight, yanked the comforter up and plumped the pillows. I hurried back to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Merlot. It was a good bottle that Scott and I had splurged on last year when we were trying to get over the third miscarriage. We never did drink the wine. We never did get over it.
As I took glasses from the cabinet, the doorbell rang. I froze for a second. No one—save the UPS man—had come to my door in a very long time. I glanced down at myself. Presentable enough—slim black pants, a cream silk blouse, ridiculously high heels. And I’d gotten my hair cut and highlighted. But what was I doing going on a date? My divorce wasn’t even final for three more weeks. I thought of the rumors around town that Scott was dating a twenty-five-year-old law student, someone young and fresh, someone who could probably give him the children he wanted. The thought put my feet into motion.
When I opened the door, I saw a slim man nearly six feet tall, wearing a camel-hair sport coat. He smiled, showing white teeth. A light snow had started, dropping flakes on his brown hair, which had only a few shots of gray at the temples. In his hands, he held a small copper pot covered in cellophane. Inside was a white and purple orchid.
“Kate,” he said, his voice stirring something inside me to life. “This is for you.”
He handed the orchid to me, then leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. His skin smelled