Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

“Keep your hands off my husband.”

“Honey, it’s not my hands you have to worry about.”

“I know what you’re doing, and it stops now.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really,” she said, then lowered her voice to add, “Or you’ll be sorry.”

“Oh, threats?” The woman laughed and I realized it was Layla. Her voice dripped with cynical delight.

“Yeah. Hands off, or you’re a dead woman.”

The door was thrown open and I pressed myself back against the wall. It was my ridiculous attempt to hide in plain sight, but it didn’t matter because Cynthia Hardesty never looked my way. Layla followed a moment later, twirling a loose strand of hair around her fingers as she strolled leisurely back to the party.

As I walked into my classroom, I considered the scene I’d just overheard. I couldn’t let Cynthia know I’d witnessed the argument, but I had the strongest urge to console her. I could feel her pain, having just experienced a meltdown over the possibility of Layla and Derek together.

I took a moment and mentally shoved Derek Stone into a box so I could conduct the class without going bonkers.

Within the first half hour, the party sounds from Layla’s happy hour bash dwindled. Eventually all was quiet and my students were able to concentrate on practicing the kettle stitch they’d learned the night before.

This was only the second evening of class but the group was already beginning to meld nicely. As everyone worked, the personalities of some of the students rose to the fore. I’d like to think we were all getting used to each other’s quirks and foibles, but some were more easy to acclimate to than others.

Cynthia and Tom, for instance, tended to bicker quietly over almost anything. The subject matter could be as trivial as the choice of covers for the books they were making. But I’d heard that argument with Layla and there was nothing trivial about it. Tom would have been wise to pay closer attention to his wife.

Gina and Whitney liked to talk, too, but at least they were entertaining. Both were pop-culture fanatics and proud of it. They told me what they’d seen on TMZ the previous night; then Gina showed everyone the GoFug-Yourself. com app on her phone. Kylie and Marianne both begged to see the latest red-carpet disasters.

Mitchell was a jovial man, cheerful and interested in the others’ lives. Dale, Bobby, and Jennifer, on the other hand, worked quietly and kept to themselves.

When Alice wasn’t texting her boyfriend, Stuart, or rushing off to the bathroom, she would absently rub her stomach while she worked. Fortunately, she was blessed with a self-deprecating sense of humor, so most of the students found her charming, despite her health issues.

When she walked back in from her latest bathroom run, I approached her and asked if she was okay.

She sighed and whispered, “Sometimes I think I was born without intestines. Food and liquid seem to travel directly from my stomach right down to my… well, you probably don’t need the specifics.”

“Ya think?” Gina whispered loudly, and everyone nearby laughed, including Alice.

“Maybe it’s your diet,” Whitney suggested gently. “My cousin is gluten-intolerant and he had to change his whole way of eating. But now he’s fine.”

“Oh, I’m getting tested for celiac disease tomorrow,” Alice said. “Stuart read about it and insisted I see my doctor.”

“Good idea,” Gina said.

Alice sighed. “Sorry to disrupt the class.”

I glanced around the room. Most everyone seemed to be concentrating on gluing their books properly. “I don’t think you’re disrupting anyone.”

“Yeah, Alice, don’t worry about it,” Whitney said, waving away her concern. “We just want you to be healthy.”

Alice blinked, clearly surprised. “You guys are so nice.”

Just then, I caught Tom Hardesty casting a disgruntled frown at Alice. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him make that face, but I only now realized it was directed at Alice. Since he was a board member, there was no way I could tell him to knock it off. But I didn’t like students being disrespectful of each other. I wondered if maybe Tom disliked Alice because she was such good friends with Layla.

It occurred to me that Cynthia Hardesty left the room almost as frequently as Alice did, in order to make and return phone calls. “Bidness,” she’d whisper loudly, and walk out.

Tom never glared contemptuously at his wife when she slipped out. Probably because he was scared to death that Cynthia would catch him and spank him. And that was a visual I never wanted to conjure up again.

It was almost ten thirty by the time everyone was finished for the night. Following Officer Ortiz’s orders, I put Mitchell in charge of making sure nobody left alone. As the students packed up their stuff, he went around assigning a buddy for everyone.

Then he turned to me. “What about you?”

I thought of Derek’s promise that he’d meet me after class. “I have to clean up a bit, and I’ve got someone waiting for me. I won’t leave alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. My friend should be here any minute, if he’s not already waiting in the gallery.”

“Well, we’re not leaving until he shows himself.”

“Fine, let’s go.” I grabbed my bag and locked the door, then followed Mitchell, Sylvia, Kylie, and Alice into the gallery. I glanced around for Derek, but he wasn’t there. My first thought was that he was in Layla’s office. I hoped not.

“Give me thirty seconds,” I told them, and ran down the hall to check. Layla’s office was empty, but Naomi was still working. She looked up when I knocked.

“Have you seen Derek Stone?” I asked.

“No,” she said irritably.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Yes,” she said pointedly.

“Okay, thanks. Good night.”

She muttered something I couldn’t hear and I wondered what had put her in such a foul mood. Then I remembered she worked for Layla and let it go.

Walking back to the gallery, I refused to show that I was hurt by the fact that Derek was nowhere to be found.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Change of plans?” Mitchell asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and left it at that.

Maybe Derek and Layla had gone out for a quick drink. Or maybe he’d run off to guard Gunther. Yeah, Gunther. I preferred that scenario.

But I was still hurt. Again. I really needed to stop caring about that man.

Outside, the cold, foggy air hit me hard. I hunched my shoulders and huddled inside my down jacket as we all walked briskly to our cars. Alice’s was parked almost directly in front of BABA and we teased her for snatching the primo spot. The rest of us had all parked farther away because of the party.

As we hiked down the street, the heavy fog made it impossible to see Potrero Hill, but I knew it was there. I considered swinging over to Goat Hill Pizza to drown my sorrows in takeout and my mouth began to water at the thought of the goat cheese and pesto combo. Last year, before settling on my SOMA loft, I’d looked at houses on the Hill. Some parts were still in transition, as real estate agents liked to say when working-class areas were gentrifying. But I still loved the cozy neighborhood feel of the area, with its Victorian homes perched on the sloping hills and the cool shops and parks. Best of all, besides superlative pizza, the Hill was the home of Christopher’s Books, one of my favorite little bookstores in the city.

Another two blocks farther, we turned the corner. The street was dark and shrouded in fog that seemed to cling stubbornly to us as we walked through it. It was so thick, I didn’t notice the man standing in the shadows next to my car until I was almost in front of him.