Page 15 of Once Upon a Lie

The doors begin to close, sealing the two of them inside, and a buzz of excitement takes flight in my stomach.

Operation Redline is a go.

4

Valentina

Friday, September 24

3:00 p.m.

Fridays are my favorite for three reasons—busy mornings with bagels, quiet afternoons with books, and then some special time in the early evening with my best pal, Alfred.

Alfred Sutter lives five blocks from the shop in what used to be a neighborhood and is now a postage stamp of a home—his home—wedged between skyscrapers. The skyline of modern offices and rich-bitch apartments leans over his house waiting for him to sell, but he never will. When I first met him at The Hole Story, the loss of his wife and his roots in this part of Nashville were the two most painfully obvious parts of him, and five years later, that hasn’t changed a bit.

Upon my arrival, the front porch is already dappled in late-afternoon light and shadows of looming buildings that block the arc of the sun. Pip, Alfred’s half pug, half chihuahua—a Chug—comes wobbling across the porch with a bark that sounds like a rusty hinge to greet me, and I crouch to scoop him up.

“Hi, Pip.” His tail wags aggressively as he tries to lick the bagel crumbs off my shirt. “You’re shameless.” His smashed face turns up toward me, showcasing an underbite so severe I wonder how he can even eat.

“Don’t talk about my son like that!” Alfred calls mysteriously from the backyard, making me chuckle. Tucking Pip under my arm, I carry him across the wraparound porch until we’re at the back of the house.

Standing in only a sliver of sunlight, swim trunk glory, and a faded Vanderbilt T-shirt, Alfred waters a row of tomato plants beside his tiny, kidney-shaped relic of a pool. With today’s red tape, he never would have gotten approval from the city, but since he and his wife, Avalyn, built it in the eighties, he has legacy status.

As for my endorsement—this place has it in spades. The concrete’s cracked, but the water’s crystal-clear clean, and a single inflatable flamingo drifts around like it’s on lifeguard duty. The amount of joy this place has brought me over the last five years is somewhere in the stratosphere.

I grin. “You guys swimming today?”

Most people close their pools after Labor Day, but Nashville trends warm well through October. And Pip and I are exuberant enough about enjoying it that Alfred keeps it open.

“Thinking about it.” He adjusts his glasses, the big kind that make his eyes look twice as curious.

“The sun’s warm, the tomatoes are thriving, and you’re here. Feels like a three-for-three kind of day, you know?”

I drop Pip onto the grass, kick off my shoes, and walk over to sit on the edge of the pool. The water’s cool against my calves and dances between my toes as I swirl them.

“I brought you a cinnamon raisin,” I say, nodding at the paper bag I set on the concrete next to me. “And a plain one for Pip.”

He takes it, smiling softly. “You know, Teeny Girl, if we keep spending so much time together, people are going to think I adopted you.”

“You basically did, Alfred,” I say. “Me, you, and Pip are the three amigos.”

Trusting someone this fully usually feels like stepping on thin ice, but Alfred has always been an exception to my rule. He oozes credibility from his pores.

“I think you need younger friends, dear,” he teases, and I laugh it off.

“Age is just a number, baby.”

His eyes turn soft as he tears off a small piece of the plain bagel to give to a now-drooling Pip. “You know, Avalyn used to always say that.”

“She did?”

He nods. “I was eight years older than her, remember?”

“Oh my gosh. That’s right!” I exclaim through a surprised laugh. “I almost forgot she preferred her men to be older and distinguished.”

“We went out on our first date when I was twenty-seven, dear. No man is ‘older and distinguished’ at twenty-seven,” he retorts through a wry grin. “Men don’t stop being little boys and start getting smart until they’re at least thirty.”

“Well, I think Avalyn was a smart lady. It’s hard for me to imagine that you weren’t just as kind and wonderful as you are now even at twenty-seven. All the stories you tell me about her, I always think the same thing—I wish I could’ve met her,” I say, and I mean it.