Page 7 of Count My Lies

“Hi,” the woman calls out as she nears. Her voice is loud and clear, like a bell. She’s smiling, her teeth an iridescent white. “I’m Violet.” She stops in front of me, extending her right hand. “Jay and Harper told me all about how you helped them with her bee sting. You’re Caitlin, right? The nurse?” She glances at my scrubs.

I nod slowly. Right. Caitlin, the nurse. I slip my hand into hers. Her palm is soft, cool, fingers slender, but her handshake is firm. I notice her nails are well manicured, recently painted. I wonder where she gets them done, if she’s ever been into Rose & Honey. I decide that she hasn’t; I’d remember her.

“You’re Harper’s mom,” I say. “Jay’s wife.” Of course she is. She’s gorgeous, just as I knew she would be, but in a more interesting way than I’d imagined. Her nose is strong, brows thick under glossy bangs. She reminds me of a marble statue, handsomely angled features, smooth, hand-polished skin.Venus de Miloat the Louvre, a throng of people crowded in front of her, staring. How I imagine I look when I’m daydreaming, the lights dim.

Violet nods, still smiling. “I was hoping we’d see you here,” she says warmly. “So I could say thanks for the other day.”

I give her a small, modest shrug, looking down bashfully. It was nothing, my shoulders say. Really, though, it wasnothing.

“Can you tell Caitlin ‘thank you,’ Harper?”

“Thank you,” Harper parrots. She’s wrapped herself around Violet’s legs, peering at me from behind her waist.

“You’re welcome,” I say. “I was happy to help.”

There’s a pause, then Violet asks, “What were you listening to?”

“Oh.” I glance down at my phone, caught off guard. “Taylor Swift,” I say, hesitating, just slightly. I considered making something up—a podcast might have made me sound more interesting—but the album cover fills my screen; she probably already saw it. “Midnights.”

I silently hope that she’s not one of those people who finds pop music cliché—listening instead to underground indie bands or one-named folk artists who record songs in cliff-side studios on the rain-drenched coasts of Ireland—but luckily, her eyes light up.

“So good,” she says appreciatively. “It’s one of my favorites.”

I grin and nod. “Mine, too.”

We stand there, smiling at each other, sort of shyly, a comfortable silence between us. I do a quick appraisal, glancing her over. She’s the same height as I am, but thinner, legs long. Her eyes, like Harper’s, like mine, are a dark brown, wide and long-lashed.

She wears a sleeveless white button-up and a pair of beige linen shorts, cinched with a linen belt around her waist, a pair of nude wedges. The top button of her shirt is undone, and when she bends over to talk to Harper, I can see the lace of her bra, her full breasts. The hat she wears is a camel-colored wool fedora, the brim tipped up. It makes her look cool, like one of the girls I always longed to sit with at lunch in high school.

Under the hat, her hair is a mahogany brown, almost reddish, and I wonder if it’s natural. It brushes the top of her shoulders in loose, shiny waves. Just then, she takes off her hat and rakes a hand through her hair, then smooths her bangs, brushing them from hereyes. They’re just a millimeter too long, dusting her lashes. It suits her, though, the way they frame her face, and I find myself imagining how I’d look with the same cut. I haven’t had bangs since fifth grade, when I took scissors to them myself.

As if she reads my mind, her hand goes to her forehead. Her left hand. There’s a perfectly round, pebble-sized diamond on her ring finger. It glints in the sun, as do the matching studs in her ears. “I know, they’re too long,” she says. “I need a trim. It’s at the top of my to-do list, but, well, you know.” She motions to her daughter, then waves her hand in a sweeping motion, likeand everything else, laughing. “That must sound incredibly sad—that trimming my bangs is at the top of my to-do list.”

“If you thinkthat’ssad, you should see my to-do list,” I say. “?‘Sad’ doesn’t evenbeginto describe it. We’re talking tragic.Sophie’s Choicetragic. Bambi-losing-his-mom tragic.Titanic,‘I’ll never let go, Jack’ tragic.”

Violet laughs, an open-mouthed, throaty chuckle. “You’re funny,” she says, when she stops, smile still on her lips. “What’s on your to-do list that makes it so tragic? Now I’m curious.”

“Well, nothing, actually. I don’t evenhavea to-do list. That’s what makes it so sad.” It’s not totally true—there’s a stack of unpaid bills on our kitchen table, the bag of recycling on our back stoop that I have to take out, and a dentist appointment I need to make—but I don’t want to bore her. No one wants to hear about someone else’s oral hygiene needs.

She laughs again. “Not having a to-do list sounds like the opposite of tragic. It sounds glorious. Kate-Winslet-ascending-the-stairs-at-the-end-of-Titanicglorious, if we’re keeping with the theme.”

This makes me smile. She’s funny, too.

She puts her hand on Harper’s shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Well, we won’t keep you. I just wanted to say how much I appreciate—”

“Will you push me?” Harper interrupts, looking up at me with her chocolate eyes. Her dark brown hair is in the same neat braid today, secured with a pink ribbon.

“Push you?” I frown.

“On the swings.” She points toward the playground with her tiny finger.

I look toward Violet, who smiles apologetically at me. “Only if you want to,” she says, shrugging. “I completely understand if you have better things to do.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say hurriedly. “I’d be happy to. No to-do list, remember? Let’s go!” I’ll be late getting back to the spa, but I decide it’s worth it. My next appointment isn’t until three; as long as I leave by a quarter to, I’ll be fine.

Harper puts her hand in mine and pulls me toward the swing set. I lurch forward, surprised by her strength, then regain my footing and fall into step behind her.

We wade through the little bodies darting across the playground, the three of us in a trailing line. When we reach the structure, Harper happily climbs onto the swing, wiggling her legs in anticipation. I put my hands on the small of her back and push. She’s light as a feather. Once she gains momentum, I take a step back, toward Violet.

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