Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

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 clearly insane, but that was puzzle-makers for you. She was still annoyed with this yahoo for spelling “toffee” with a y. And that “heavily built birds” clue that turned out to be “rough-legged hawks” was just-

“Grandma?”

Gwen looked up from her book. Nadine stood there, looking solemn with Ethan behind her.

“I thought you went to paint the mural with Tilda,” Gwen said.

“I did,” Nadine said. “Yesterday. We painted the under-painting. It was boring so I’m not going to be a muralist.”

“Probably a good idea,” Gwen said. “So now what?”

Nadine looked at Ethan. “Well, Ethan and I were concerned about Mr. Brown.”

“Why?” Gwen said.

“Because Aunt Tilda said he had a fake name,” Nadine said.

“She was kidding,” Gwen said, going back to her Double-Crostic.

“I don’t think so,” Nadine said. “Ethan and I bugged his phone.”

Gwen jerked her head up. “Nadine.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Goodnight,” Ethan said. “We didn’t hurt the phone.”

“It was really easy,” Nadine said. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll be a detective.”

“I’m thinking you’ll go to jail,” Gwen said. “That’s illegal. You stop it right now.”

“We’re not the ones going to jail,” Nadine said, and Ethan nodded. “Not after what we heard.”

“What?” Gwen said, not really wanting to know. She liked those little umbrellas. And the piña coladas were good, too.

“Mr. Brown is a hit man.”

“Oh, hell,” Gwen said, and closed her Double-Crostic book.

“OKAY, EXPLAIN THIS to me again,” Tilda said later that afternoon when she got home after underpainting too damn many water lilies. “Ford Brown is a contract killer?”

“Nadine bugged the phone in his apartment but didn’t put a tape recorder on it,” Gwen said, holding an ice pack to her forehead with her right hand and a drink with a purple umbrella in it in her left. “She swears she heard him talking to Clea Lewis about Davy and that it sounded like they were talking about killing him.”

Tilda sat down next to her on the couch. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. She took his money and she knows he’s coming back for it. And I think it’s a lot of money. But isn’t there some horrible penalty for killing an FBI agent?”

“Oh, God,” Gwen said. “And I rented a room to him.” She looked at the drink, sighed, and drank a slug of it. “Hard to believe that a week ago, I thought any change would be good.”

“You know, it just doesn’t seem probable,” Tilda said. “Of course, neither does the FBI thing. What did Davy say?”

“He’s been gone all day,” Gwen said. “I don’t know where…” She straightened. “You don’t suppose he’s already-”

“No,” Tilda said. “I don’t think he’s that easy to kill. I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”

Gwen put the compress down. “Exactly what is going on with the two of you?”

“Exactly nothing,” Tilda said. “We’re helping each other recover lost property. Then he leaves for Australia and I go to Cleveland to paint a Starry Night in a bedroom.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said and offered her the compress, but not the drink.

“Don’t be,” Tilda said. “This is exactly the way I want it. Men screw everything up.”

“Yeah,” Gwen said, looking at the umbrella in her drink. “I know that. I just wasn’t expecting a killer doughnut.”

“Well,” Tilda said. “There’s always Mason. I know he’s with Clea, but that’s not going to work out, he’s too sweet.”

“Mason wants the gallery, not me,” Gwen said. “I’ll stick with Double-Crostics. They’re annoying, but they don’t court you for real estate or try to kill your tenants.”

“Good point,” Tilda said and watched her mother drift back out to the gallery.

BY TEN that night, even Tilda had begun to fret, so she was relieved when Davy came in the bedroom door, carrying two big plastic bags.

“Pillows,” he said, emptying the bags on the bed. “Four of the best that money can buy.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That was thoughtful. Is it possible that somebody might have hired someone to kill you?”

“That’s the rumor.” Davy stripped off his shirt. “Hell of a day.”

“Nadine already talked to you?”

“Nadine?”

“Nadine tapped Ford Brown’s phone and now she thinks Clea Lewis hired him to kill you.”

“The cowboy?” Davy said. “Huh. Could be.”

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, and Tilda thought about throwing something at him. She picked up a pillow and then decided it was too good to waste on him and went downstairs to find pillowcases instead. By the time she came back, he was in bed and Steve was under the covers again.

“Come here, Vilma,” he said, patting the sheets.

“I have a headache,” Tilda said. She tossed him two pillowcases and began to cover the two that were left.

“You know, I’ve never heard a woman actually say that until now,” Davy said, picking up a pillow.

“New experiences are good,” Tilda said, and covered the second pillow. Then she slid into bed and sank back. “Oh, these are really good.”

“So am I,” Davy said. “You want to tell me what’s wrong here? Because I could have sworn you made it Sunday night.” He flipped one covered pillow behind him and started on the next one.

“I did.” Tilda slipped a little farther under the covers. “Thank you. Good night.”

“Matilda,” Davy said. “Talk.”

Tilda frowned at him. “Me, talk? I tell you a guy two floors down is going to kill you and you don’t bat an eye. What is it again that you do for a living?”

“ ‘I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork,’” Davy said.

“Grosse Pointe Blank,” Tilda said. “This is not a movie.”

“I find it hard to believe that Ford Brown is trying to kill me.”

“And that’s because…?”

Davy shrugged. “What’s he waiting for?”

Tilda thought about it. “Instructions?”

“That must be it,” Davy said. “Since this may be my last night on earth, how about-”

“No,” Tilda said.

“You want to explain this to me?”

She tried to frown at him but the sheet was in the way. “Hey, I can not want to.”

“Yes, you can,” Davy said. “I just want to know why. Come on.” He smiled at her. “Talk to me.”

Tilda shook her head, her mouth under the covers. “I’m much too worried about Ford gunning you down. If I was under you, he’d get me, too.”

“He’s too efficient for that.” Davy leaned closer, his smile still in place. “Tell you what. Ten minutes. I’ll beat my own best time.”

“Really not in the mood.”

“Five minutes.”

“Davy.”

He sighed and pushed himself up in the bed until he was leaning against the wall, the new pillows bunched behind him, and he looked damn good shirtless in the moonlight. “Okay, then tell me why, so I don’t make whatever terrible mistake I made again.”

“You know you didn’t make a mistake.” Tilda slid deeper into the bed, and Davy pulled the sheet down so her face was uncovered.

“It’s hard to hear you under there. Come on up and talk.”

Tilda closed her eyes. “I have to paint tomorrow, and I need my sleep.”

“So tell me and get it over with. Where’d I screw up?”

Tilda thought, Tell him something so he’ll shut up, and shoved the covers down. “Okay, if I tell you, you have to promise not to get insulted or wounded or mad.”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Davy said, sounding unconcerned.

“Listen, there’s a reason people lie to each other,” Tilda said, feeling waspish. “It keeps them from killing each other.”

Davy pulled her pillows out from under her head.

“Hey!”

Then he piled up her pillows against the headboard and patted them. “Come on. My ego can take damn near anything.”

“Well, that’s true.” Tilda sat up and scooted back against the pillows. “Okay, but you asked for it. I tried to be polite. It’s embarrassing.”

“Well, spit it out and get it over with.”

“No, that’s it. That’s what’s wrong. You. Sex. The whole thing. It’s embarrassing. And dangerous.” She turned to find Davy looking at her with his “you’re insane” look. “I don’t know you very well, okay? I met you five days ago. I don’t know anything about you and all of a sudden there you are.”

“There I am,” Davy said, sounding mystified.

“You know.” Tilda pointed to the south. “There.”

“That’s where the good stuff is. You’re overthinking this.”

Tilda looked straight ahead. “I know what I feel.”

“Because,” Davy went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “if you think about it too much, you’ll never do it.”