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  I wish fewer people compared us to each other, though. They always describe me in past tense when they do: Taylor is just as tall and skinny as you used to be. Taylor loves exercise and the outdoors, just like you did. Taylor always gets the prettiest girls, just like you used to. But I can’t blame him for being like me in better days, even if the comparisons make me wince.

  Taylor is my right-hand man. I wish I could claim that all my other forays into nepotism have paid off equally well, but I’d be lying and I hate to lie. The two truthful things I can say about everyone on my growing payroll are: one, they’re all very nice people, and two, they need bread on their tables. In this economy where getting ahead means swimming upstream and over rapids—with no guarantee of better prospects even if you manage to get to the top—I find myself hiring out jobs that would be a whole lot easier to leave undone.

  I realize I should be used to too much responsibility; it has defined my life, after all. But now that I have a more acute sense of my own mortality, I’m torn. On one hand, I wish fewer folks depended on me for their livelihoods. On the other, I rack my brain trying to think of more things to hire out so that I can write checks. The sad truth is that this recession has knocked too many good people on their asses, and I know it’s important for a person to work for his living, important to the heart and self-respect. I remind everyone to be aware of their options, though, and to keep looking out for something better. “After all, I could get hit by a truck tomorrow,” I say. No one really likes that joke.

  Taylor gives me a knowing glance. Sometimes I still think of him as a kid, but then he’ll shoot me a look like this that reminds me he’s all grown up. He’s no longer the only Walker boy who cried in front of people when he got hurt, or sang to his mom every time she asked to hear him, or even the skinny electrical engineering grad who couldn’t find a job close to home and therefore came to me, hat in hand, two years ago.

  I remember wanting out of town so badly when I younger; I couldn’t quite believe that Taylor didn’t seize the chance to run. I had to stay because my dad died young, and our family was so poor I had no choice but to work to support my mom and four younger brothers. I attended college on an academic scholarship and still graduated on time, thanks to understanding professors, a flexible boss, and my own work ethic. Taylor was the crying, singing baby of the family, who has somehow become a man. I only offered him work on the condition that he keep searching for a job in his field, but he shows every intention of staying right here. When I complain that he should move on already, he says it’s my fault because I pay him more than his friends who landed engineering jobs and got the hell out of Michigan.

  “What’s on your mind, Taylor?” I ask.

  His look says I should know. My replying look says that I don’t know, and he should get on with telling me before I lose my patience.

  “I’ll be back here at ten-thirty so we can make it to the 404 building by eleven. Meanwhile, you might be interested in today’s newspaper,” he says.

  Our eleven o’clock meeting is a big one. Commercial real estate in Michigan isn’t exactly what you’d call a hot field at the moment, and by “moment” I mean the past several years and likely the next several. If we get the contracts signed today, we’ll have made our biggest deal in the past two years, and it will carry my growing payroll for a good little while. As business has slowed, I haven’t been all that worried about myself. Personally, I’ve not only been careful, but I’ve also been lucky with my investments and holdings. I worry more about the people who look to me for their bread. Taylor is out the door before I can ask him a few more questions about the big meeting. I know we’re ready, though, so I pick up the newspaper.

  “What’s the matter, Smith?” Jessie calls in alarm from the outer office. She’s the mousiest and most hovering secretary I can even imagine. While I value Taylor and would be lost without him, I think I might throw a party if Jessie quits. She is married to my cousin Jack, who has never held a job, in good times or in bad. I hired Jessie when my mom told me how poor they were and asked if I could find something for one of them. I figured dealing with Jessie was better than Jack, and I hate to say no to my mom.

  “Why, Jessie?” I ask, very slowly. I always speak to her slowly because her brain operates like a stick shift being driven by a teenage girl. I have to give Jessie time to lurch and fall back a few times before she catches on.

  “You made a sound like you were surprised.”

  “Well, I was!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Jessie. I’m okay,” I say, closing the conversation.

  I caught my breath when I looked at the paper, and apparently I can’t catch my breath without Jessie thinking I’m going to keel over dead. It wasn’t the face in the photo that surprised me; I know that face better than I know my own, even if I don’t see it in the paper every day. It was the below-the-fold headline: LOCAL STAR IN SCANDAL.

  I’m only halfway through reading the article when Shirley the cleaner comes in. She drops her supply bucket, puts her hands on her hips, and demands, “What are you doing here, Smith Walker? I always clean this place on Friday mornings!”

  “Just go ahead and skip my office,” I tell her. I’m annoyed at being interrupted, and at her tone. Typically I’m not here on Friday mornings because I’m at the hospital seeing Irene, but I had to switch out today for the big meeting.

  Shirley barrels in and empties my trash as if I hadn’t said a word. She points to the paper. “That woman ought to be ashamed of herself.”

  “Skip my office,” I tell Shirley again, firmly enough this time so that she picks up her bucket and waddles out in a huff.

  “Please close the damn door,” I call. She slams it.

  I look at Gwen’s photograph again, though I don’t need it to prompt my memory. I can remember the exact hue of her hazel eyes when kissed by the sun, her long wavy hair that holds as many colors as the pebbles along the riverbank where we sometimes walked together, her wide, full mouth that meant happiness and possibilities to me when she smiled, and utter desolation when she frowned.

  The black and white newsprint picture is slightly blurred. Luckily her lips aren’t where her forehead should be, or her eyes smudged so they look like she’s been beaten, or any of the other grotesque print run errors we sometimes see in The Riveredge Daily. Gwen’s face is only soft-focused and a bit faded, like a favorite book that’s been read too many times, or a trusted pair of jeans that have grown threadbare in the knees.

  The article says that Gwen’s husband was photographed kissing a man outside a nightclub in the early morning hours. That’s certainly surprising, but there’s nothing in here warranting Shirley’s remark. It’s mostly background on the hometown girl we’re all proud to call our own, and her catalog and So Perfect franchise. I turn to my computer to see if I can find out what Shirley meant.

  GWENDOLYN GOLDEN SEEKS REFUGE IN RIVEREDGE headlines the online version of the paper, updated ten minutes ago. It says Gwen was never married to her partner. That doesn’t seem criminal, and she always had a bit of a hippy streak. It also says Gwen is coming home. I can’t help but wonder where she is at this very moment—if she’s getting closer.

  Last summer I watched a segment of Gwen working in her attic studio in that old North Carolina mansion. It must have been a hot day because she stripped off her smock and pulled her hair into an impromptu ponytail halfway through the segment. Her face was open and smiling when she answered a question, then lined in concentration when she turned back to her work. It was wonderful to watch her paint again, even if it was just on television. I admit that I not only watched the segment, I taped it too. But whether I’ve watched it back one time or a thousand is really no one’s business.

  The most prized possession I own is a sketch Gwen made of the two of us together, beside a gnarled old oak tree in Riveredge Park. She gave it to me before she went away to school a decade ago. Though I’ve only seen Gwen in p
erson once during the intervening years, I admire that picture every single day.

  “I’m bringing the car around to the side door to save you some steps.” Taylor pokes his boyish blonde head into my office only long enough to say this. I want to yell out a protest, but what am I going to say? Steps are steps and we all know it.

  “Can I help you?” Jessie asks from the doorway. I wonder where she gets her old-fashioned tweed suits that are as dusty as her hair color. I don’t know why she annoys me so much, but she does.

  “No thanks.” I start to get up but she comes toward me anyway, like Shirley did, as if she knows better and is determined to help me whether I want help or not.

  “Remind me Jessie, do you have to hold my dick when I take a piss?”

  This is the only surefire line I have ever found to get the mosquito off me. As such, I have used it several times. I’m not proud of that fact; I would prefer that No thanks worked just as well. The unfortunate truth is that anything less than the dick line results in Jessie descending on me like a bad rash.

  We close the deal that was months in the making. The first thing Taylor and I do when we get back is lock ourselves in my office and figure out appropriate bonuses for everyone. Taylor cautions me to be conservative. He always does. He’s no hypocrite, though; he complains that he’s getting too much, not just that everyone else is.

  “Are you going to buy an engagement ring with your bonus money?” I ask.

  Taylor’s grin reminds me so much of the old me that it nearly brings tears to my eyes. He is optimism personified. He looks like he has his whole life ahead of him.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do!”

  I reach over and pat his shoulder. “Congratulations! It’s about damn time. Now what are you waiting for?”

  “How about we go have a drink first to celebrate?” he asks, but I know he’d rather rush off to Carmen. Who wouldn’t?

  “Maybe I’ve got plans.” I meant it as a joke but he smiles sadly before I catch him at it and shame him with a look that says, I’m not only your big brother but your boss. Feeling sorry for me is not something I’m going to put up with.

  “Alright then, I’ll see you at Siler’s tomorrow night.” Taylor is halfway out the door when he turns back. “Did you get a chance to look at that paper, by the way?”

  “Go!” I tell him, pointing to the door.

  I pick up the newspaper again and study the photo. It has been four years since I actually stood next to Gwen it person. In some ways it feels like yesterday, and in other ways it seems like it must have been another lifetime.

  Gwen had been out of touch since she left for college. She had called when she came home a few times during freshman year, but I’d been working long hours, and between her schedule and mine we hadn’t connected. I wrote her a letter sophomore year, but her address at school had changed and it was returned. I didn’t really exist to her family, and Gwen and I never had mutual friends, so I couldn’t think of anyone to ask for her contact information. I figured she’d call again while visiting, but she never did.

  Six years since I had last seen her, she called out of the blue one day and asked if she could buy me lunch. Circumstances being what they were, I probably should have said no. But I said yes and we planned to meet in Riveredge Park. I saw her sitting on a bench when I pulled in. She had all the potential promise—or heartbreak—of a mirage.

  I parked in the lot nearest her, but she hadn’t noticed me yet. Her wavy hair spilled over the weathered slats of the wooden bench, and she sat with one long leg carelessly curled under her while she sketched intently.

  I expected Gwen to vanish with every step I took, like she’d done in too many dreams. But she was there; she was real. A little closer and I could see the sketchpad in her lap, where she was drawing a magnificent oak tree near the river. Even though I recognized her style and knew it was her, I still half expected a different woman to look up when I said her name. It was Gwen, though, the same as ever. I almost fell over when she smiled at me.

  Prior to that day, the last time I had spoken to Gwen was one of the worst days of my life, when I’d had to tell her that instead of going to the same college in North Carolina as her I was staying in Riveredge. The truth was that even with a full scholarship, I couldn’t afford to go away after my dad collapsed at work earlier that summer. By the time he died, our family was in significant debt. The Riveredge Academy counselor helped me secure a local scholarship that meant I could attend college while I worked to help support my mom and brothers. I didn’t explain the reasons to Gwen then. I didn’t really get the chance.

  “Hi stranger,” she had said in Riveredge Park when she looked up from her bench. She dropped her sketchbook to the side and stood on her sleeping leg. It was an old habit of hers I had almost forgotten, sitting in a jumble and getting so immersed in her work she’d forget to change positions. She laughed as she held her arms out to me. I stood still for a moment, trying to fix the image in my mind.

  “How are you?” she asked, looking at me with her penetrating hazel gaze, her arm still casually draped around my shoulder as she stamped her foot on the ground.

  I can’t remember how the conversation so quickly led to the fact that I was engaged, but sadly, it did. I remember Gwen taking her hand away and me wanting her to put it back.

  I don’t think Gwen ever realized how much I loved her. Maybe I didn’t really fathom it either, not totally, until I saw her again. It made me realize that I couldn’t marry Nancy. Though I loved her, I didn’t feel about Nancy the way I felt about Gwen. I couldn’t just pretend I did once I knew the difference.

  Gwen said she had an announcement, too, and told me about the job she’d just landed painting designs for a new company called So Perfect. She looked up at me with her expressive eyes as our conversation waned.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I can’t do lunch after all.”

  We walked along the river path for old times’ sake. I hugged her goodbye near my car. I was still young enough to want to show her I’d made it, that I’d put myself through school and had worked so hard that I already owned my own company, and was doing well enough to have a nice sports car to boot. It certainly feels like more than four years ago when I remember those emotions, which seem so innocently juvenile to me now.

  I wanted to kiss Gwen when she said goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I had always loved her. But first I had to break things off with Nancy, and by the time that was settled, Gwen’s catalog had launched and I learned she was married.

  “Irene called to reschedule your appointment. She said she didn’t want to wait a whole week in between sessions, so you need to call her to find a time,” Jessie says, coming into my office without knocking first, saying her piece before I was ready to listen.

  I look at her very reluctantly.

  “She said you can’t avoid her that easily,” Jessie reads infuriatingly slowly from the message she wrote on a sticky note. She hands it to me.

  I wait for her to turn and leave. Finally she does.

  I look at the note, which includes Irene’s office and cell phone numbers. I picture Irene’s pretty, cheerful face. Even when she’s torturing me, she smiles. She has asked me out several times over the past few years, since we’ve been spending part of our Friday mornings together. Of course she feels sorry for me and asks out of pity. I think we both know, we all know, that my dating days are over.

  I sigh as I pick up the newspaper again.

  Chapter Four

  Gwendolyn

  “No comment,” I repeat from behind my dark sunglasses. I’ve said it over and over, from North Carolina to Michigan. Some of the questions thrown my way were hurled by housewives who glared at me like I was Hester Prynne, a few by business travelers who seemed insultingly amused. The only person I wanted to answer didn’t even voice a coherent question; a little girl simply stared open-mouthed and pointed at me. I wanted t
o say, I know! I’m as surprised and disappointed as you are by this whole mess. I really am.

  A few people smiled encouragingly and said words that were meant to bolster me. One woman said, “I know they’re just telling lies about you.” A man said, “Keep your chin up! The truth will out.” I only thanked them nervously, not mentioning the fact that the truth already did out.

  “No comment,” I say again, but Megan steps on my foot with her full weight.

  “If you say that to me one more time little sister, I guarantee you will regret it.”

  I pull my foot away and decide not to kick her with it. I need to stay on her good side. Now that our mother is gone, Megan is Dad’s gatekeeper. If I want to see him, I have to get past her first. That’s much easier said than done because my sister hates me. Megan is everything I’m not. She’s petite and compact in a coiled kind of way, like she’s ready to pounce, while I’m tall and lanky and more likely to saunter than make any sudden movements. She’s an unmitigated entrepreneurial success, heading her own software company. She’s a good daughter.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me so I don’t have to read it in the paper?”

  I hang my head and remove my sunglasses. I’m anxious to see my dad and try to pay the damn toll quickly. “I think you already know the gist. I don’t write the blogs, or make up the recipes, or do the decorating. All I do is paint, and some of my paintings are used for the things we sell—like napkins, and cups, and linens.”

  “So you’re no more or less of a fraud than they’re saying?”

  “You knew I was a fraud. Don’t act so shocked!” I stop when Megan points sternly to Dad’s closed door, like I stabbed him by raising my voice from ten feet away.

  “You knew I wasn’t married. You knew most of it wasn’t true,” I whisper.

  Megan shakes her head without looking at me. This is far worse than yelling. She has her Mother face on. She’s disappointed.