Page 62 of Count My Lies

I don’t take it from her. “Actually, why don’t you keep it,” I say. “In case you need to buy anything else for Harper while you’re here.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

I nod. “It’s easier that way. You never know when you’ll need to treat this monkey to ice cream.” I reach over and pinch Harper’s cheeks. She swats me away.

Sloane smiles, shrugs. “Okay.”

“Lunch is on you, then, I guess.” I wink at her.

“Well, my pleasure.” She puts the card in the leather check presenter and holds it up, signaling the server. She hands him the book, then, as she turns back to us, she freezes, staring at something across the street. Her eyes widen, breathing slows.

I follow her gaze. Sloane is watching a woman on the opposite sidewalk coming out of the children’s store we were just in, her arms full of shopping bags. The woman is in an expensive-looking dress that shows off her heavy chest, and strappy gold sandals, with big, coiffed blonde hair. She looks to be in her midfifties or early sixties, draped in jewelry. She hardly looks out of place—the island is filled with richwomen on weekend shopping excursions—but Sloane doesn’t take her eyes off her.

Sloane visibly tenses as the woman steps off the curb and begins to cross the street in our direction. When the woman reaches our side of the street, she scans the restaurant patio, then smiles broadly when she sees Sloane. I think she might come to our table, but she just lifts a hand in a wave and continues down the street.

“Who was that?” I ask, looking to Sloane. What are the odds Sloane knows someone who vacations here? It’s not exactly the social circle she runs in. But it would be a problem if she did. The whole plan hinges on her anonymity, on mine.

“No one,” Sloane says quickly. “Just a woman we chatted with while shopping. She was looking for a gift for her granddaughter and asked Harper’s opinion.”

I study her. It sounds like another lie. I look for her tells, the twitch of her mouth, if she’s touching her neck, but her hands are in her lap, a tight smile on her face. Is she telling the truth? If she didn’t know that woman, why had she looked so alarmed?

I decide to let it go. She probably lied to the woman in the store about something, was worried I’d find out about it. I smile back at her, then look to Harper.

“Should we get that ice cream I promised you?” I ask.

While we wander around the downtown with our cones, I keep an eye out for the woman, but I don’t see her. Sloane seems to have forgotten about it, happily trading licks of ice cream with Harper, a relaxed expression on her face. I feel a twinge, sorry that for Sloane, this vacation is almost over.

27

When we get back to the house, I ask Sloane to take Harper upstairs for a nap, then get her ready for dinner.

“I’m wiped,” I say, plopping down onto the couch. “I’m going to lie down for a bit, too, if that’s okay.” I close my eyes, hoping to appear exhausted. “The dress for you is in my closet, Cait. Shoes, too, if you need some.”

“Of course,” Sloane says, taking Harper by the hand. “Let’s go, Harp.”

I hear their footsteps on the stairs, then above me in the hall, Harper’s bedroom door closing. An hour later, it opens again. They scuttle around upstairs, in and out of the bathroom, my room, Sloane’s room. There’s the sound of the shower running, a blow-dryer.

Finally, I hear giggling at the top of the stairs. “We’re ready!” Sloane calls out.

They descend, hand in hand, Harper in her new tulle-skirted dress, a perfect French braid down her back, Sloane in the dress I bought last week, red, hip-hugging, neckline low. Her hair is blow-dried and shiny, skin golden from the sun, cheeks flushed. They both look beautiful.

Harper lets go of Sloane’s hand and leaps onto the couch, flinging her arms around my neck. I squeeze her, then pull back to touch her braid, her hair like silk. “I love your hair, baby. And your dress!” Then I look up at Sloane. “That dress is amazing on you!” More importantly, Jay will think so, too. The dog might try to finger her under the dinner table.

Sloane smiles, then frowns, seeing that I’m not dressed. “Oh, are you—?”

“I’m actually not feeling great,” I say, drawing my knees closer to my chest, my arm encircling my stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Sloane looks concerned. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, no.” I roll my eyes, muster a smile. “I’m fine. It’s that time of month,” I say. “I get pretty bad cramps that come on out of nowhere. I just need some ibuprofen and a heating pad. No lobster for me.” I arrange my face into a disappointed expression.

Sloane’s face falls, too. “Well, we’ll go to dinner when you’re feeling better.”

“No, no, you guys go,” I say, moving into a sitting position on the couch. “They’re hard reservations to get. You should still go.”

“It’s okay, we can—” Sloane starts, but I cut her off.

“No, really.” I smile. “Harper would be so disappointed if we canceled. Is it okay if Caitlin and Daddy take you to dinner, Harpie?”

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