Count My Lies

Chapter 16

16

It’s a few weeks after our day on the boat, and I’m sprawled on the couch at Violet’s house. Outside, the early July humidity is like a thick and oppressive blanket. The air conditioner is on high, but the heat still lingers in our limbs.

I’m officially full-time as Harper’s nanny, at their house five days a week and an occasional Saturday or Sunday, sometimes both. It feels like I’m more than a nanny, though. It feels like I’m part of their family, interwoven into their days, their lives, like I belong here, in this house, laying opposite Violet, my head on one arm of the sofa, hers on the other, fanning ourselves with magazines. As the pages flap, Taylor Swift’s lyrics pop into my head. It feels exactly like the title of her song, like karma, honey-sweet.

Harper is asleep upstairs. Instead of going to the park, we made a pillow bed on the floor of her room, took turns reading aloud, her little body wedged between us. When my book was done, Harper begged me to read another, so I did. Storytime had been my favorite at the preschool, with all the kids gathered around me in a circle, their small chins in their hands as they sat cross-legged on the rug. I’d change my voice for each character, facing the book toward them so they could see the pictures. As I read, Harper had tucked under my arm, snuggled in close. By the time the book was over, Harper had her eyes closed.

We tiptoed out, and Violet eased the door shut behind us. We didn’t talk as we padded quietly down the stairs. In the living room, Violet sank into one end of the couch, and I plopped onto the other.

Now, she leans her head back, her eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve a child that still naps at this age, but it must have been saintly,” she says.

“Mother Teresa, for sure,” I agree.

“Or Joan of Arc?” She lifts her head, opens her eyes.

“Maybe Eleanor Roosevelt. She was instrumental in the women’s rights movement, among other things. Not a looker, poor dear, but that didn’t stop her. Huge legacy in her wake.”

Violet laughs. “Well, maybe someone a little less honorable, like—”

She’s interrupted by her phone. It vibrates loudly on the coffee table. We both turn toward it.

“Sorry,” she says, picking it up and frowning at the screen. When she looks up, she sighs. “Jay forgot a flash drive he needs for a client presentation. He wants me to bring it to his office.”

She looks at her phone again, then back at me. “Do you mind if I run out? I won’t be gone long. Thirty minutes, forty-five at the most. Unless I die of heatstroke on the way back.”

“Of course,” I say, shrugging. “That’s why I’m here!”

Violet beams at me. “You’re the best! I’ll be back in a heartbeat.”

Quickly, she runs up the stairs. A few minutes later, she returns, holding up a small stick. The flash drive. “I’ll be back soon,” she says. “Call me if you need anything!”

Then she shuts the door behind her. There’s a click, a turning of the lock. The house is quiet, refrigerator humming in the next room. I glance around the living room, taking stock. Then I get up.

It’s rare that I’m here alone, without Harper coloring in the corner or sitting at the kitchen counter with a snack. It feels different, being here like this, like I have the house to myself.

I wander aimlessly through the living room, first to the little side table by the window, picking up the stacked magazines one by one, then to the bookshelf, running my fingers across the spines of the books. Popular thrillers, pulp mysteries. There are a few classics: Pride and Prejudice, The Sun Also Rises, East of Eden , and— The Great Gatsby . I smile and pull it from the bookshelf. The spine is stiff when I open it, as if it hasn’t been cracked in a long time. It has that old book smell, like dust and mothballs, and I put my face to it and inhale deeply. Then, I flip to the title page.

In black ink, large looping letters: To my Gatsby. You make my heart sing. To many, many more. xx.

It was a gift to Jay from Violet.

I imagine her giving it to him, paper-wrapped, tied with twine, for his birthday, an anniversary gift, maybe, in bed one morning, unearthing it from beneath her pillow. I picture them both in their pajamas, her in one of his T-shirts, swimming in it, him in just boxers. He’d have smiled when he opened it, glancing up at her as she watched with eager eyes, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

Then they’d have lain in bed, reading passages aloud, his head on her stomach as she ran her fingers through his hair. Maybe they never got out of bed that day, except to make coffee, open the door for the delivery boy, eating a pizza in bed, ice cream from the carton.

Carefully, I shut the book. The empty slot where it was is gaping, like a missing tooth. It leaves me a little unsettled, ill at ease. But it’s not the space on the shelf that’s bothering me, not really.

It’s the question Jay asked me in the kitchen a few weeks ago. Has she said anything to you about us? Is their marriage in trouble? It seems so unlikely, but what else could it be? Have they been fighting? I hate thinking that there’s a secret between us, that there might be something Violet’s not telling me. I’ve wanted to ask her, but it felt private, between me and Jay, like it would be a breach if I said something. It leaves me stuck between her and him, both yanking on an arm. I want to cut myself in two, give half my body to each of them.

I put the book back on the shelf and head into the kitchen. I grab a can of seltzer from the fridge and open the tab, the crack of the lid sharp against the silence. I take a sip, glance around. The clock on the microwave reads two fifteen. Violet’s only been gone five minutes. I go back into the living room. I should sit back down, I know I should, but I don’t.

I resist the temptation for as long as I can. Then I set the seltzer on the coffee table and slowly walk to the staircase. At the bottom, I slip out of my sneakers, arrange them side by side on the first step. I put a hand on the railing, ever so gently, like it’s made of glass.

I breathe out, then I pad up the carpeted stairs, my footsteps silent. At the top of the staircase, I pause. To my left is a closed door. Harper’s bedroom. I take a step toward it. There’s a muffled whirring that gets louder as I near. Her sound machine cranked up. Violet turned it on just before we walked out. Waves, I think, or the sound of a heartbeat, soothing and steady. Halfway down the hall is another door that’s closed, and at the other end of the hallway a third door, this one cracked open. I walk toward it. As I approach, I see the foot of a bed: Violet and Jay’s bedroom. Carefully, I push the door open.

The floor creaks when I walk in, the caramel-colored floorboards moving under my weight. The bedroom is bright and airy with two large windows overlooking the street. There’s a Peloton bike in the corner, a pair of shorts draped over the screen. The midcentury bed frame is wooden, but everything else is white. The billowing curtains, the linen sheets, the duvet cover, the throw pillows. I run my hand across the soft bed cover and inhale deeply. It smells like Violet in here, like a bloom of gardenias, lilacs in the springtime.

The bed is flanked by two nightstands, a gold lamp on each. On one side, a few hardcover books, a box of Kleenex. On the other, a small jewelry dish, hand cream. I go over to Violet’s side of the bed, closest to the window, and sit down, the mattress giving beneath me. Gingerly, I lie back, my head sinking into her pillow as I swing my legs onto the bed. The sheets smell like they’ve been recently laundered, like detergent and fabric softener. I close my eyes briefly, breathing it all in.

I open my eyes and turn onto my side, facing Jay’s side of the bed. I stare at his pillow, trying to imagine him next to me, so close that I could touch him. I remember how his chest felt against my back on the boat. Broad, firm. I’ve only seen him a few times in passing since then, but I haven’t forgotten the way he teased me, his hands on mine, our legs brushing.

I sit back up and get off the bed, wander to the windows. I push aside the curtains and look out. A few kids are playing on the sidewalk across the street, two of them tossing a ball back and forth as the others sit on a stoop and watch. Through the glass, I can hear their muffled yells, whooping.

I could stare out this window for hours, watching the neighborhood unfurl beneath me, a tiny, beautiful vignette of the borough. It looks a little like a stage, the way the sun shines through the branches, lighting up the sidewalk like a spotlight.

It’s probably the first thing Violet does when she gets out of bed. She stretches, arms above her head, then walks to the window, opens the curtains to let in the morning light. Maybe Jay groans, pulling the comforter over his head.

What does she do next? Get dressed for the day? I scan the room. There are two doors on the wall opposite the bed, both closed. I cross the room and open the door closest to me, the one on the right.

It’s a small walk-in closet. On the left are Jay’s clothes; on the right, Violet’s. His side is organized by type—first pants, jeans and slacks, then shirts, then jackets—hers are by color. There are two sets of small drawers under the hangers. I pull the top drawer out, discover Violet’s underwear. Dozens of lacy thongs, matching bras and bralettes. I finger the stitching. Is this what Jay likes? I picture Violet in a black panty set. Of course it’s what he likes. I feel the sting of jealousy, then an immediate wave of guilt. I shut the drawer.

On the back of the closet door is a hook where two robes hang, one hers—lavender silk with hand-sewn flower buds on the trim—one his, a white waffle cotton. I take hers off the hook and slip it on over my T-shirt, tie the belt around my waist. The fabric is cool against my skin.

On Violet’s side of the closet, there’s a shelf above the clothes rack, lined with shoeboxes. I reach up, pulling one of the top boxes down, peek inside. It’s a pair of strappy nude stilettos, with TOM FORD written in big block letters on the sole. They likely cost as much as a month’s rent. I put the lid back on and slide it back onto the shelf, then reach for the next box. There’s a thunk as I tilt it toward me, something sliding from the back of the box to the front. Frowning, I lift the lid. Inside, next to a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps, is a phone.

It’s a small gray plastic flip phone. I stare down at it, puzzled. Then, in a flash, an image pops into my head. Violet in the living room talking on the phone, on the day I’d waited across the street from their brownstone, standing behind one of the tall elms, watching her through the window. Violet ending the call. Violet flipping the phone closed when she was done. Flipping it closed. It hadn’t been her iPhone. It had been this phone.

Gingerly, I pick it up, open it. The screen is dark. It’s off. I hesitate, but only for a second. I hold the power button down. The screen lights up, loading. Then—a lock screen pops up. Password protected. Harper’s birthday? Hers? I start to punch in the numbers then shake my head. No. I can’t. I shouldn’t. Then I do.

I type in Harper’s birthday, hold my breath. But no, that’s not it. I try Violet’s. Also, wrong. Jay’s? January fourth, right after the holidays. Violet had once mentioned how hard it was to think of something to get him so soon after Christmas. When she said it, I spent the rest of the day imagining what I would buy him if I were her: a watch, our initials engraved on the back, a fisherman’s sweater, one with wool to match his eyes, then imagined him opening the gift, wrapping his arms around me as he told me how much he loved it. Oh-one-oh-four, I type. My stomach is tight.

No, it’s not his birthday, either. I let out a breath. I’m going to put it away, I decide. I’m going to put it back in the box, back on the shelf. But as I move my finger to the power button on the side, the phone vibrates. My whole body tenses. It’s a new text alert. I flip open the phone.

I can only see a preview, just the first line of the message. It’s from a saved contact. Not a name, but initials: DS. It reads: I need to know which day you—

I frown at the phone, stare at it until the letters blur. Who is DS? Which day Violet what ? I try to click into the message, but it takes me back to the password screen. Shit.

Is the text from the same person I’d seen her talking to the other day? DS. DS. I mouth the letters, whisper them into the closet. DS. D for… Danny? Isn’t that the name of Violet’s childhood crush? The boy she said she’d been in love with her whole life? She’d said she’d lost touch with him, but maybe, recently, they’d reconnected and were planning to meet up. Were they having an affair?

Sloane, stop it! I tell myself. I shake my head. This is what you do: you make up stories, let your imagination run wild. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this—even though, right now, I can’t think of one. There are plenty of people with the first initial D , a million reasons someone is texting her that don’t have anything to do with a secret lover. Right?

I wait, hoping for another text. One minute goes by, then another. The phone stays silent. Finally, I power it off and put it back where I found it.

It doesn’t make sense. If she’s not having an affair, why does Violet have a burner phone hidden in a shoebox? I can’t exactly ask her. Oh, Vi, what’s with the phone I found while I was snooping through your things? I know I have secrets from her, but I hate that she has secrets from me. I leave the closet feeling uneasy.

Back in the bedroom, I listen for Harper. The house is still quiet. I’ll go downstairs in a minute, I tell myself. In just a minute. I shut the closet door and open the other one, thinking maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the answers I’m looking for. It leads to a large, en suite bathroom that looks like it’s been recently remodeled, with black-and-white geometric tiled floors, and white marbled countertops.

There are his-and-hers sinks, both with their own mirror, a single globular light above each one. To the left of the sinks, a toilet, and next to it, a walk-in shower, no tub.

The countertop is messier than I would have expected, more cluttered. The first thing my eyes land on is a box of hair dye, a deep brown color, the same shade as Violet’s hair. I pick it up. It’s unopened, unused. I’m surprised to discover that she dyes her hair herself. The woman on the box smiles brightly, her hair lustrous, gleaming. I hold the box up to my head, look in the mirror. Next to the model, my hair looks especially drab and straw-like—not quite blonde, not quite brown. It hasn’t always been this color, but it’s been a long time since I last dyed it.

Before setting the box down, I make note of the color—Dark Chestnut Brown—and the brand—a generic drugstore name—then move on with my search.

I know I shouldn’t be here, I know it deep in my bones, but it’s like I’m five years old with a marshmallow on the table in front of me, and just before leaving the room, someone said, Don’t eat it . How can I not? I know how sweet it’ll be when I do.

I scan the countertop and see a tube of acne cream next to the sink, several bottles of lotion. I can’t picture Violet with pimples. Her skin is creamy and unblemished, like a polished stone. Maybe because she takes better care of it than I do mine. I study my reflection, the soft glow from the lighting fixtures more forgiving than in my own bathroom with its fluorescent bulbs, their yellow tint. Still, my complexion is uneven, dry in some patches, oily in others. I lean in closer to the mirror. A trail of red zits lines my chin, small but noticeable. I unscrew the tube of acne cream and squeeze, dabbing some onto my finger. I rub it into my skin, then recap the tube, set it back down on the counter.

Next to the lotion, to the right of her sink, is an unzipped makeup bag. I rifle through it, pulling out a tube of mascara, a blush brush, a powder compact. I think about using them, but decide against it, quickly loading them back into the bag before I change my mind.

The floor creaks again when I step back into the bedroom. There’s a small ray of sun lighting up a spot next to the window, and I move toward it, into the warm beam. I lean against the window frame, looking out for the kids I’d seen, the ones playing ball.

Then I suck in sharply. Instead of the kids, I see Violet, walking up the street, back toward the house. Shit. I glance around the room, looking to see if anything is out of place. There’s an indentation on her pillow from where I rested my head, creases on the duvet cover. I fluff the pillow, then run a hand over the covers.

When I’m sure everything is in its place, I exit their bedroom, jog down the hallway to the stairs, trying to keep my steps light. As my hand grabs the banister, I realize I’m still in Violet’s robe. My throat constricts. I turn, run back down the hall into their bedroom as I wriggle out of it. I throw the closet door open and try to hook the robe back where I found it, but it won’t catch.

I don’t have time to waste, so I drop it and dash out, sprint down the hallway and down the stairs, two at a time.

I’m on the bottom step when the front door swings open, Violet appearing. I take a deep breath, try to control my breathing. “Hi,” I say, forcing a smile on my face.

“Oh, hi,” she says, looking up at me. “Everything okay?”

I step down, nodding, then bending over to put my shoes back on. “I thought I heard Harper, so I went upstairs to listen. But she’s quiet. It must have been a noise from the street.”

“Thanks for checking,” Violet says, smiling. “And for staying. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I shrug nonchalantly.

“I’m going to grab a seltzer. I’m parched. Want one?” she asks. “We could put on a movie. Harper should be asleep until three, at least.”

I shake my head. “Actually, I forgot my mom has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Do you mind if I head out early today?” My heart is still pounding.

“Of course not,” she says.

Violet walks me to the door and waves goodbye from the stoop. I force myself to wave and smile back, fighting the urge to sprint down the sidewalk.

I keep my pace neutral, in case Violet is still watching, and by the end of the block, my breathing has returned to normal. It’s not a big deal , I tell myself. So I had a little look upstairs, a peek into her closet—what does it matter? We’re friends. I breathe out some of the tension I’ve been carrying, let my shoulders relax. No big deal , I repeat.

But I can’t help thinking about the phone in her closet, what she might be hiding. Who she might be hiding.

And the box of hair dye on the counter.

On my way home, I make a brief stop into Duane Reade, the one on the corner with the flashing twenty-four-hour sign out front.

At the checkout counter, the bored, glazed-eyed teenager barely looks up as I set the box of hair dye—Dark Chestnut Brown—in front of him, along with a tube of acne cream, concealer, a palette of blush. My purchases mean nothing to him, but everything to me. It’s a risk, but it’s different this time, I know it is.

On the way home, I wonder how I’ll look as a brunette. I tell myself that I haven’t decided whether or not I’ll go through with it, but it’s not true. I know that I will.

The sincerest form of flattery is imitation, right?