Page 16 of Count My Lies

She raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said he was away on business.”

“He is,” I say quickly. Right, Ihadsaid that. “But he’s coming home early. One of his meetings was canceled, so the trip was cut short.”

She stares at me for a long beat before giving me a wistful smile. “Where’s he taking you this time?”

I shrug. “I don’t know yet. He said he’d pick me up at seven.”

“You’re so lucky. The last time I was picked up for a date was”—she taps an acrylic nail against her front teeth—“right, it was never.”

She’s right. I am lucky. Lucky that I’ve met someone as nice as Violet. “I know,” I say, nodding. “I keep wanting to pinch myself.”

On my way home, I pass by the small shop where I bought that necklace, the one I told Natasha was a family heirloom. I slow, something catching my eye. In the window is a mannequin, dressed in a bohemian floral-print dress, puffy sleeves and a high neckline, a leather bag hanging from the crook of her stiff arm. But I’m not interested in the dress or the purse. I’m staring at the wide-brimmed felt hat on her head. Almost the exact same hat that Violet was wearing at the park yesterday. It even has the same thin leather tie around the head, looped in a small bow at the back.

After a minute, I walk into the store. There’s a mechanical bell sound as the door opens.Ding-dong!The woman behind the desk looks up, smiling at me as a greeting.

I smile back. I start to wander, then turn back to the salesgirl. “That hat, in the window—” I say.

“The fedora? It’s so cute, right?” she says. “We have it in a few other colors, too. Here, follow me.” She hops off her stool and motions me toward the back of the store to a table with a variety of hats in different shades: tans, beiges, grays, and blacks.

“I’m going on vacation next week,” I say, walking behind her. “To Europe. I’ve been looking for a hat to bring.”

“How fun!” she exclaims. “I’ve never been.” She clucks regretfully, then sighs and picks up a caramel-colored one, the same as in the window—the same as Violet’s—and hands it to me.

I take it and offer her a sympathetic smile as if I can relate to her longing—which of course I can. I’ve never been to Europe, either.

“Try it on,” she says encouragingly. “It’ll be perfect for your trip.”

I unwind my hair from the messy bun on top of my head and smooth it down. It’s long, almost midway down my back; I haven’t been to a hairdresser in eons. Then, gingerly, I place the hat on my head, tilt the brim up like Violet had worn hers. The salesgirl points behind me, to a mirror on the wall. “Check it out.” Then, “I’ll be up front if there’s anything else I can help you with,” she says, starting back to the counter. Then she smiles. “It looks great on you, by the way.”

I turn toward the mirror. To my surprise, it does look good. The hat hides my frizz and frames my face flatteringly. I look more put together, more chic. I smile at my reflection. It’s nice to see myself like this.

I haven’t always been such a schlub. Not that I’ve ever been as gorgeous as Violet, but there was a time when I made more of an effort. Before I lost my job, my hair was usually trimmed (and combed), my clothes unwrinkled, blouses instead of T-shirts, slacks instead of baggy jeans. Venus de Milo I was not, but it was better than how I look now. Maybe I could look like that again. Maybe I could look better than before. More like Violet. And this hat could help.

I take it off and turn it over, examining it. The price tag reads eighty-five dollars. Christ.

I should put it back. I shouldn’t be spending my money on things like this. Last night I told Violet the truth about one thing: I amplanning to get my own place. I have been for ages. In fact, I almost signed a lease. About eighteen months ago, now. It was a newly renovated studio in Brooklyn Heights on the third floor of a seven-story building, flooded with light. I had first and last months’ rent, the broker’s fee, but my application fell through. The management company wanted to call my employer. Had it been a month earlier, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but as luck would have it, I’d lost my job the Friday before my broker called to let me know they’d started my background check. I asked if I could just show my last two pay stubs, hoping it would be enough, but the answer was no. And even if it hadn’t been, without a job, there was no way I’d have been able to afford the rent. So poof, just like that, there it went.

I thought getting hired at Lena’s spa would put me back on track, but because so much of my income is in tips—an unreliable stream of revenue, according to my broker—I’m not the desirable applicant I once was. So I’m waiting, waiting and hoping, the deposit still in my savings. It’s why the idea of being a live-in nanny is so appealing: no background checks, no proof of income, just an invitation and an open door.

I run my thumb over the soft brim of the hat. I shouldn’t. But a moment later, I start toward the counter, the hat in my hand. I leave wearing it.

8

At a quarter to one the next afternoon, I tell Natasha that I need to run a quick errand and ask her to keep an eye on my station. Luckily, I finished my twelve o’clock appointment early, and my next one isn’t until two. Begrudgingly, Natasha agrees to get my two o’clock started if I’m not back, and I promise to make it up to her. I’ll bring her a coffee and her favorite Danish in the morning, an apricot strudel from a bakery around the corner. She’ll forgive me—I know she will.

Before I go, I put a loose sweater on over my scrub top, swap my scrub pants for a pair of leggings. I walk toward the park, a spring in my step. I’m wearing the hat I bought yesterday, too. Today, I feel slightly self-conscious about it, like I’m an imposter, playing dress-up. I’m not sure if it suits me, but I decide to leave it on, tipping up the brim like Violet had done.

Harper is already on the swings when I get to the park, Violet behind her, pushing. They both smile when they see me. Violet says something I can’t hear, and Harper leaps off the swing and sprints toward me. Violet follows, giving me a wave. She’s in a dress today,high-collared with tiny white polka dots, long-sleeved, that hits midcalf, and the same wedges she wore the first time we met.

Harper slows when she reaches me, smiling shyly at me. Violet joins us a moment later, placing her hand on Harper’s shoulder. “Hi,” Violet says. “Cute hat.”

“Thanks,” I say casually, but my chest swells with pride, thrilled I decided to wear it. Then I squat down to Harper’s level.

“Hi, Harper,” I say. “I love your shirt. Red, just like the shirt Winnie-the-Pooh wears!” Harper’s face lights up. “Do you like honey as much as he does?” I ask.

She nods. “My mom puts it on my strawberries. Sometimes,” she says, leaning closer to me, “I lick it off a spoon. If I’m really good, Mom buys me a honey stick from the market. But that’s our secret.”

I laugh. “Yum! That sounds delicious.”

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