Page 36 of Count My Lies

“It’s like mine,” I say tentatively. “Like my grandma’s.”

“Thank you, Caitlin,” she says quietly, looking up at me. The wind has ruffled her hair. It’s wild and loose, framing her face. “I love it.”

I smile broadly, relieved. She likes it—but I realize she isn’t putting it on. I feel a tinge of disappointment, but then see that she has turned around, rooting through a large canvas tote. When she turns back toward me, she’s holding a small gift bag stuffed with gold tissue paper. “Great minds,” she says, winking as she hands it to me.

“For me?” I say, even though I know it is. I’m beside myself. Violet nods.

Delighted, I reach into the gift, my fingers brushing against a small packet, a folded square of tissue paper. I take it out and unfold the paper. Inside is a gold pendant hanging from a thin gold chain. The pendant is a nickel-sized square, a starburst etched into the metal. It has an antique feel, a vintage relic of the past, but I’ve seen it before. Around Violet’s neck.

“I have one, too.” She smiles and reaches into her sweater, pulling the chain out for me to see. “Gemini twins.” My heart swells.

“Want me to put it on?” she asks, and I nod, unable to speak. Shetakes the necklace from me and scoots closer. I can feel her breath on the back of my neck as she hooks the clasp together, light and feathery.

“Let’s see,” she says and leans back.

Proudly, I lift my chin, put my shoulders back. “Beautiful,” Violet pronounces, and both Harper and Jay nod.

“Now time for cake!” Violet announces. She reaches into another bag and pulls out a miniature cake with a plastic lid. She uncovers it and gently places two candles into the icing. She lights the wicks and Jay and Harper begin to sing to us, loudly and off-key.

Looking around at Violet, Jay, and Harper, everyone windblown and rosy-cheeked, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I close my eyes and blow out my candle.

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 myvoice 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 ofthe 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.

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