Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,122

the way. She said nothing, but simply obeyed me by taking a seat.

I told her how much I missed spending time with her, and my fingers shook as I struggled with the string on the cardboard box. My heart pounded with the lie about missing her. How could I miss a woman who had almost certainly spread a rumor about Jesse and me to her husband?

She claimed to miss me, too, but I thought her smile, too, seemed insincere.

We chatted for a bit, but it was nothing like the early days of our friendship when she shared confidences and her deepest feelings. I thought we both knew we were now playing a game.

After eating a cookie and filling the air with a mundane recitation of the curtains she was now making for her living room windows, Pauline got to her feet and began strolling idly through the area of the warehouse where I work. Her belly protrudes somewhat. She is a couple of months ahead of me, I think. Looking at her, I wonder how long I’ll be able to mask my own pregnancy.

She asked me what it’s been like, painting in the warehouse.

It struck me as an odd question to ask after all these months and I guessed she was just making conversation. My heart pounded every time she neared the mural, but she seemed disinterested in it. Instead, she studied my paints table, peered into the metal bucket where I keep my straight-edge and tape measure and other tools, all the while asking me lackadaisical questions about the trials of working in isolation. I tried to determine what she was getting at. The only thing I could think of was Jesse. She was feeling me out to see if Jesse and I were now—or were still—more than friends. It began to irritate me, her idle chatter, and after a short time I got to my feet and told her I needed to get back to work.

She looked abashed and apologized for keeping me from my painting.

“No bother,” I said. I told her it had been a delight to have her visit. I added that I didn’t think I’d be in Edenton much longer, and she asked if I’d go back to New Jersey. I said I most likely would. How I wish I knew where I was going! I told her I’d have the supplies to install the mural within a couple of weeks, and then could have kicked myself for mentioning the mural, since her gaze darted toward it. I ushered her quickly to the door, thanked her for the cookies, and sent her on her way.

What an odd visit! Now, though, I feel bad about it. Maybe Pauline was lonely and I’d rushed her out, blathering on about inconsequential things, when she may have had a burning need to confide in a true friend. So now I feel guilty for treating her as less than that. Perhaps she was trying to make amends. I am ashamed that I didn’t let her.

Friday, May 24, 1940

I’m terrified as I write this.

No, Pauline was not looking for genuine friendship yesterday. Pauline was a damn spy! I thought she was behaving oddly, but it never occurred to me that she was doing her husband’s dirty work. How foolish of me for not guessing!

Jesse was at his easel this morning and I was working on my signature on the mural, when a knock came on the warehouse door. Jesse and I looked at each other. We hadn’t heard a car and I had no idea who it might be. I stood up from the crate where I’d been sitting to paint my name, walked to the door and pulled it open. There stood Karl Maguire in his police uniform. I peered around the door frame to see his car parked far down the road. He’d wanted to surprise me. Or surprise us, I suppose.

I’d told Jesse I planned to paint over the motorcycle this afternoon, but now I wondered if I was too late. I’d been too eager to paint my name, to see it glowing in the corner against the deep green of the Mill Village lawn. Now I was kicking myself for my narcissism.

Karl greeted both of us, touching the brim of his policeman’s hat. Then he looked past me and I saw that Jesse—my brilliant Jesse—had quickly moved his easel in front of the mural, blocking the motorcycle from Karl’s view. Instead of the motorcycle, all Karl would