Rules of Lying

Chapter 1

When you grow up and get married, I hope you have a little girl who is just like you."

I was only four years old the first time my mother said those words to me, but even then I knew she wasn’t paying me a compliment. It was easy to figure out since she’d said it with a smirk.

Well, I showed her. I didn’t have any children, let alone a little girl just like me, I didn’t get married, and I’m not even sure I grew up. Emotionally, anyway.

My biggest fear is that while I was making life decisions based on my determination to thwart Mom’s hope for my dismal future, I gave her exactly what she wanted. What she really wanted. Not me grown up and married with a little girl just like me, but me alone, afraid to love or trust anyone. Me unhappy.

Was she really that sly, or could I finally be losing my mind, just as she’d predicted when I was fifteen? It was all so confusing, and sometimes I thought I’d already lost it. Like when I mentioned Mom’s smirk to four of my five sisters and received blank stares in response. They insisted they’d never seen it, though Katherine might have been lying. There was the tiniest widening of her eyes just before her pupils constricted to pinpoints and her gaze slinked away from mine. As for Charlene, the absent sister, I figured she’d seen it plenty. It was probably the reason she married at eighteen and moved across the country, never to return.

Charlene was the smart one, smarter than me, anyway, because although I moved out at sixteen and started building my self-esteem toward some semblance of normalcy, here I was back home again. Everyone was fourteen years older and Dad was no longer with us, but the family dynamic was the same. And Mom, who complained about me every chance she got, was secretly delighted I had returned.

I could tell by the smirk.

Which made the whole situation I found myself in much more agonizing. That my life sucked was bad enough, but to know I was bringing joy to my mother because of it was more than any daughter should have to bear.

"HUSBAND WANTED: MUST DO YARD WORK!"

I stared at the sign I’d shoved into the ground two weeks earlier. Already it was showing signs of aging—though not as many as I was showing—and there hadn’t been a single nibble. Thank God for that. Because if there had been a nibble and the guy was halfway decent, I’d probably have to kill myself. Suicide might be a solution to my problem, but it wasn’t one that would make me happy. My mother, on the other hand, would jump for joy. Such a pitiful ending to my life would only prove that everything she’d said was true. All the more reason for me not to do it.

At this point I’d like to say I have no idea how I ended up here—but I’d be lying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Not if you come from my family. My family has the lying thing down pat. As long as you follow the rules, lying is completely okay. In fact, it’s expected, and if you are any kind of decent person at all, you will certainly do it and do it so well that no one will dare suggest that what you are saying isn’t the honest-to-God truth. And as long as we’re talking about God, let me also say when it comes to my family, God is all for the lying thing. He must be since it was my mother, good Christian that she is, who taught us the rules of lying—through her actions, of course, not her words. Heaven forbid she actually admit to being a liar.

Of course there was no rule that would cover my lying about advertising for a husband. I could try using rule number one, that I was lying for someone’s own good, but I’d be lying for my own good, which isn’t allowed. That particular rule only covers lying for someone else’s own good. It doesn’t matter whose. We could even say it’s for the dog’s own good. At least my sister Katherine could say it and pull it off, I’m quite sure, since it’s often said by everyone (especially Katherine) that she hasn’t a selfish bone in her body.

But let’s forget about the rules of lying for now; they’re only important when defending deceitful behavior to family, which isn’t necessary if you never, ever admit to your lies. And that was exactly where I was sitting, and yes, I was a hypocrite. I’d condemned my sisters for lying, but here I was doing the same thing. In fact, it was a series of lies that landed me here, though not all were mine.

There were the lies told by my boyfriend Pete, the discovery of which sent me thundering from Los Angeles back to my high school hometown of Palmeroy, Florida, where I was met by my mother and sisters with open arms—and daily advice on how to fix my life.

Then there were the lies told by my sisters regarding Granny and the assisted living facility that resulted in screaming fits (mine) and outraged denials (theirs), reminding me of the reasons I’d left home to begin with. Coming so close on the heels of Pete’s deceit, which had made me feel like a fool, their lies had enraged me, and I’d hacked up the tenuous ties that bound me to my sisters. Since there is no such thing as eating crow in our family—one must admit to wrongdoing in order to eat the proverbial crow—I would rather starve than go crawling to my sisters for help.

Finally, there was the lie I’d told in a childish attempt to shock my family into silence. Not that it worked. Nothing can be so horrifying to my relations that it precludes all future advice or criticism, though my lie that I was advertising for a husband to help me out of my jam came damned close.

In my defense, I was just minding my own business when the whole thing began. Okay, so maybe if I’d done a better job of tending to business, the situation wouldn’t have arisen, but how was I to know? Who reads every word of everything they sign? Not me. Or at least I hadn’t. That could change.

I swatted at the mosquito circling my ear, one of the few places I hadn’t doused with bug spray. I looked around and for a moment I could see it all. The butterfly garden in the courtyard, trellises thick with coral honeysuckle vines. Hummingbirds would visit daily. Mockingbirds would nest in the woody stems. Butterflies would flit from leaf to leaf, laying their eggs. I’d have walkways and seating areas, maybe even a pergola covered by bleeding hearts where I could sit every day and smile, albeit ruefully, at the irony of the name of the flower that covered my sanctuary.

A bead of sweat trickled from my forehead down the side of my face, teasing the corner of my eye as it passed. I blinked it away and found myself staring at an abundance of weeds and straggly shrubs where the pergola had moments before stood so clearly in my mind. A feeling of despair tried to find a crack in the armor of optimism I’d sworn to keep myself wrapped in, but I wouldn’t let it. Something was about to break. I could feel it.

The thud of a heavy door shutting across the street was followed by the leisurely clacking of high-heeled sandals on the drive. Not exactly the break I was anticipating. I cringed, awaiting the commentary that was sure to begin.

You know why you haven’t gotten any offers, don’t cha?

I shaded my eyes from the ever-brightening sun to see my twice-divorced and thrice-married bleached-blond neighbor, Sheila, sauntering toward me, her margarita a perfect match to her greenish shorts and halter top. Ten a.m. and half drunk. This would be good.

"You don’t mention the word ssssexxx." She slurred the word, holding it on her tongue as though it were a savored morsel. And it undoubtedly was, for those lucky enough to have a taste.

Another trickle of sweat took off for its life, running straight down to my jaw. I shook my head impatiently and the drop went flying, although it didn’t land, as I was hoping, on Sheila’s perfectly manicured, still-wet-with-polish toenails. Too bad. Sweat-plopped toes would have sent her scurrying back to her house, thus ending the how-to-catch-a-man advice I’d been forced to listen to ever since I moved in without one.

"The word husband implies it, I said. Married people generally have sex, don’t they?"

I regretted asking the question the instant it was out of my mouth. I didn’t want to talk about sex, probably because the only sex I’d had in the past two years was with a man who turned out to be a colossal jerk and the experience wasn’t one I wished to recall. Still, Sheila’s philosophy that men would do anything for the promise of sex and nothing without it rang a distinct bell. Wasn’t that what I’d been brought up to believe?

Honey, sex is never implied, Sheila said, rolling her eyes at my naiveté. It’s either there or it isn’t, you know what I mean?

Unfortunately, I knew exactly what she meant, and as I watched her return to her house shaking her head, the little voice in my head told me she had a point. Not that it mattered since I wasn’t looking for a husband.

I tapped my hammer against the side of the sign, expecting it to topple over since I’d only haphazardly shoved it into the ground to begin with, but it remained exactly where it was. This was the story of my life. If I’d wanted the sign to remain upright, it would have blown over with the slightest breeze, but since I’d decided to remove it, there would have to be a fight. I thought about taking all my frustration out on the sign, pounding it into the ground and then stomping on it, but I preferred to store up my anger until it exploded. Besides, fighting my way through the humidity each time I raised the hammer would tucker me out.

Sweat started down the side of my breast but was soaked up by my thin cotton tank top. The thought of an ice cold beer almost made me faint with longing, and I promised I’d have one the minute I replaced this sign with the new one that I’d decided in the last five seconds would read, Husband Wanted: Must Work for SEX. That should make my sisters swoon.

With a burst of irritation, I hit the sign full force. It not only came up, but broke away from the stake and went flying. I settled back on my heels and watched it land face down in my driveway.

Y’all found a taker, I presume? drawled a deep southern voice that rumbled with humor.

My stare began at his slightly worn but expensive leather boots and continued up a boot-cut style pair of jeans hugging very long, leanly muscled thighs.

A long, tall drink of water. Wasn’t that a Texan saying? Because if Texas was half as hot as Florida, I could see how that particular phrase could say it all. I was suddenly very, very thirsty, and my gaze was still glued to his thighs, or, rather, to something in that vicinity, something that was being hugged just as snugly as his thighs, something that was also long but not so leanly muscled. Another Texan saying was trying to work its way into my head, but for some reason I was finding it hard to concentrate.

I dragged my gaze up to his face. His mouth curved into a grin.

I had the grace to blush. No, not grace. I seldom had grace these days, though I remember having plenty of it before my break-up with Pete. That is what lies and deceit do to you.

It’s true, he said. Everything does grow bigger in Texas.

No point denying where my eyes had been; best to just move on. Why would I assume you’re from Texas? A pair of cowboy boots does not a Texan make.

Maybe, but my drawl must have clued you in, he said chuckling.

He shifted slightly, blocking the sun with his shoulders, and I got a good look at him. My first thought was he sure knows how to dress. His snug white T-shirt showed off his tan, not to mention his chest and abs. But anything would have looked great on him. He was as fit as any man I’d ever seen—tall enough and with muscles that were definitely there but not too bulging.

My second thought was darn. He had a closely cropped beard, and I’d never cared for beards, but maybe I could talk him into shaving it off once we were married.

Married? What was wrong with me? I reminded myself that I didn’t want to get married and besides, he hadn’t applied for the job. Surely, though, that was why he, a perfect stranger, was remarking on my sign.

Those thoughts—and more that I won’t mention here—were running through my mind while I took stock of the rest of him. He had a firm, angular jaw discernible beneath the beard, broad cheekbones, a somewhat crooked though attractive nose, and very kissable lips.

Huh? I snapped myself out of my lust daze, but not before it struck me that a husband might not be such a bad thing to have around. For some activities anyway.

I was still thinking up a retort when I saw that his muscles could bulge because the biceps in his arm was bulging now, now that he was lifting his arm to grandly sweep off his cowboy hat.

Good grief. He was bald.

Okay, so he was a near perfect stranger.

I’m Hank Tyler, he said with a friendly grin. I’m rentin’ the house down the street. Wanted to introduce myself to my neighbors.

I scrambled to my feet. Hank Tyler? He sounded like a character in a romance novel, and I should know since I’d written a few. Except none of my characters were Hanks. Hank didn’t go with the Duke of anything, and my heroes were always dukes. That thought was followed by the realization that I’d misread the situation. He wasn’t applying for the job that didn’t exist. Dang.

But how did he know about my situation? He asked if I’d found a taker. I glanced at the sign where it lay face down.

I read about you in the paper, he said. You’re Jane Dough, right?

My jaw dropped, and the latest dribble of sweat that had been running down the side of my face ran right into my mouth, the sight of which would surely make me irresistible to any Texas hunk. But I could hardly worry about such inanities now. What the heck was he talking about?

He shifted from one booted foot to the other, still completely at ease with himself, while I struggled to put together a coherent string of words. But in spite of my shock over his statement, the only thought that came to mind was a disappointed he isn’t applying for the job. I gave myself a mental slap. There wasn’t a job to apply for.

The article was pretty good, he said, his chocolate-brown eyes brightened by his smile. You’re an author?

Ga-ah . . .  I was in the throes of brain freeze, thanks to the flare of panic that took temporary possession of my mind. I forced myself to breath in and out until my neurons started firing again. Five seconds later I jerked myself back to reality. I had been an author—a USA TODAY best-selling author—until I got my heart stomped on and decided men were scum. Since then I hadn’t been able to write a romance my agent could sell. It’s one thing to tell the world you are an author when you’re actively selling books. It’s quite another when you aren’t. I’d been keeping my past a secret until I got my next book contract. Or so I’d thought.

You look surprised, he said. "Don’t tell me you didn’t know Palmeroy Times did a story on you? Jane Dough, all American girl, returns from fame and fortune in the big city to discover there’s no place like home."

Right. No place like home, and I was so broke I might lose it.

No one had interviewed me for an article, because if they had, there wouldn’t have been one. Since returning to Florida with no book contract in hand, I’d learned how to stop an article dead in its tracks. It had to do with acting like an idiot, contradicting myself and everyone else, insinuating there were libel suits underway and, in general, behaving like a horse’s ass. Nobody wanted to spend time with an ass, especially for local community news.

Uh-oh. Now that I thought about it, I had gotten some voicemail messages from the newspaper, but I’d erased them as soon as I heard the words, "This is Palmeroy Times." I’d assumed they were selling subscriptions and since I didn’t read the paper and didn’t have any money, pushing that delete button had been a no-brainer.

Evidently the reporter had gotten confirmation from someone else because the story had been printed. There was only one person in the world who enjoyed talking about me to reporters. My mother. My heart sank. God only knew what she might have said. Well, God and the rest of the county.

I shot a quick glance at Hank in time to see his sunny expression dim. A shadow of something I hadn’t seen in a while flitted across his face. It might have been compassion; I wasn’t sure.

He shrugged, a little less comfortable with himself. I’m sorry I ruined your day. If it helps, I finished the article thinkin’ you were somethin’ special. I suspect most people did.

I didn’t know what to say since I hadn’t read the article. On the other hand, I hadn’t been brought up to be rude, and not only was he nice looking, he was just plain nice. So I forgot about me for a minute, as difficult as that was with my present situation, and concentrated on him. No sense in his day being ruined too.

I offered a smile. Thanks. It always helps to know someone’s on my side. And it did. When you come from a family where you’re always the odd one out, having someone on your side makes all the difference.

Well, he said as he set his cowboy hat back on his head, I really am your neighbor. At the end of the street on the other side. If you need help with anything, just holler.

He took off down the sidewalk at an easy stroll. I was still watching him when a white Honda CR-V careened around the corner and headed straight for him.

Chapter 2

The CR-V was being driven by my friend Sue. Sue and I had met on the beach the summer before tenth grade, one week after my family had moved here. We quickly became friends after learning we shared the exact same interests: dating surfers with long hair, partying on psychedelic mushrooms, and rebelling against whatever our parents wanted us to do. We’d outgrown the first two, but we were still rebellious when it came to the status quo.

When I moved back from Los Angeles, Sue was the first person to show up at my door, having just divorced her husband of six years after finding him in bed with a bimbo who would have been jailbait if she hadn’t been married. We spent our reunion denigrating the two louts who had lied to us, creating another bond. Sue was quickly making up for lost time in the man department. I was living vicariously through her.

A collision between the CR-V and the six-foot tall Texan seemed inevitable but at the last minute, the car lurched back onto the street. In spite of almost being run over, Hank tipped his hat and smiled at Sue. When she cornered into my driveway, her mouth was still hanging open.

Who’s the hunk? Her long, thick, honey-blond hair was caught up in a ponytail that swished back and forth as she walked. She was wearing cut-off white jean shorts that would have made me look fat, a black T-shirt that would have made me look dead, and flip-flops that would have made me look short. It all looked good on Sue, though, because she was five feet eight inches tall, weighed one hundred twenty pounds, and had the body of an athlete. That was quite a feat considering she’d never done an athletic thing in her life. Unless you counted sex.

New neighbor, I said.

Are you shittin’ me? Man, I may have to move into this neighborhood.

Like that would ever happen. I could see Sue living here back in the day, thirty years earlier when the houses were first built with their wooded lots, expansive floor plans, and enough individuality of design to entice the vice presidents of the area’s burgeoning technology firms. Gated, with wide streets and sidewalks, large oaks and maples, and architecture that ranged from traditional to Spanish to country, the neighborhood had probably radiated a comfortable elegance, quite different from the cookie-cutter Florida-style homes that were popping up en masse during those years.

Now the gate was gone. Most, if not all, of the wealthy original owners had moved on to richer pastures, selling their homes to middle-income families who managed to maintain but not renovate. The result was well-built but outdated houses that weathered a bit more each year.

Sue’s parents would have moved the instant the first weathering began as they weren’t the type to deal with inconveniences of any kind. Neither was Sue. Her condo came with everything: a laundry service, a grocery shopping service, and a car washing service. If you could pay, you could play. And Sue, who made a good living as a mortgage broker, did play. I couldn’t see her moving into a house that required maintenance by the owner, no matter what neighborhood it was in.

Sue’s gaze was glued to the end of the street, and mine joined it. We watched Hank amble up his driveway. He turned in our direction and held up a hand. We both waved back.

Sue fanned herself. I guess you met him, huh?

He introduced himself. I picked up the sign and its stake from the driveway and started toward the garage.

And?

Sue was so close behind me that I expected her to trip on my heels.

And what?

Who is he? Where’d he move from? What’s he do?

Hmmm. I didn’t find out anything about him; we were too busy talking about me. I relayed our conversation to Sue, including the part about the article in the paper.

"Wow, I’m impressed. I didn’t see the article—just the Husband Wanted ad this morning."

I stopped in mid-stride and Sue smacked into me. I turned my head and gave her a panicked eye.

"What do you mean you saw the Husband Wanted ad?"

You know, in the classifieds. I was surprised; I didn’t think you were serious about that. What’s wrong? You look like someone punched you in the stomach.

Someone had punched me in the stomach. Problem was, I had no idea who had thrown the punch.

I didn’t run an ad. Getting the words out of my mouth was an achievement considering I‘d gone into a catatonic state. The little voice in my head was saying this is what you get for lying. It seemed so unfair since everyone else in my family lied and nothing bad ever happened to them.

You didn’t? But then who . . . ?

I shook my head in an effort to rattle some sense into it. Who indeed?

Your mother?

"She’d never cough up the money for an ad if she even knew how to place one, and besides, what would she say once I found out? That she was trying to help me? Huh!"

That got a chuckle from Sue because my mother has never helped any of her daughters with anything. She calls her lack of assistance tough love—she latched onto that expression the second she heard it on Oprah—but the truth was she just didn’t care. Besides, she always got Katherine to do her dirty work for her, and Katherine would never agree to run such an ad. She’d been begging me to pull up the sign, which I’d only shoved into the ground so my sisters couldn’t accuse me of lying about advertising for a husband. According to my younger sister, Marci, who thought the situation funny as hell, they’d literally been praying that no one would see it.

"But it is suspicious, I admitted, the ad and the article appearing the same day. A horrifying thought occurred to me. Do you think they mentioned the ad in the article? God, I wish I were dead."

Sue nodded. Guys are gonna start showing up, so—

Showing up! My address was in the paper?

Your address and phone number. The ad said to call first, but I’ll bet some of them don’t.

Now I was mad. Someone had gone too far, and I wanted to know who that someone was. There had to be a law about revealing a person’s address.

You know, Jane, I’ve been thinking . . . 

Sue was staring off down the street, and I looked in that direction too. Maybe Hank had come back outside, but no, nobody was there. I glanced back at Sue. She wore a dreamy-eyed expression.

What? I hated to ask.

Maybe this was meant to be. Maybe you’ll meet Mr. Right. You know, all your problems will be solved, everything will work out.

Earth to Sue, I said with a touch of sarcasm. Sue still believed in Prince Charming, so the idea that I’d be rescued wasn’t farfetched for her. I was about to present her with the hard facts of life and that I’d rather be dead than be rescued by a man, when Sheila’s garage door opened, and she backed out in her new BMW. Our heads swiveled in that direction.

I forgot about Sue and thought about Sheila. Maybe I shouldn’t knock Sheila’s advice. She seemed to be doing okay for herself. She didn’t work, had a nice car, a beautiful wardrobe, and jewelry to die for. She’d also confided that she’d socked away quite a bit from selling the other two houses awarded to her following her divorces. Evidently she had a pretty good divorce lawyer and he had an equally good detective on his payroll. At some point I expected her to be selling the house across the street too. Sheila’s advice was probably good. The only problem was that I didn’t want to catch a man any more than I wanted to catch a disease.

Sue dragged her gaze from Sheila’s driveway and settled it on me. Look, she said, I stopped by to offer you a loan one more time. Of course, that’s because I thought you must be desperate to run an ad, and it turns out you didn’t run an ad, but even so . . . Really think about it this time. A few thousand dollars and you won’t have to do anything except oversee a couple of day laborers who probably won’t do anything right. But at least you’ll be in charge and you won’t have to spend all your time sweating in the dirt. And your property will be cleaned up before your homeowners’ association can levy that fine. I’ve got extra money in my bank account; you can pay it back whenever you’re able.

I shook my head, knowing I was probably too stubborn for my own good. I didn’t know when I could pay the money back. If only I could sell a book . . . but so far, no good. With no prospects of extra money on the horizon and only a part-time job that barely covered my living expenses, I just couldn’t, in good conscience, borrow money and take the chance of ruining our friendship. Sue was the best friend I’d ever had, or at least she tied for that honor with Johnny Smith, my best friend from childhood. Though nothing alike in personality, their loyalty was unwavering, no matter what I did or said. Sue had even offered to help me clean up my lot, an offer that left us both breathless from hysterical laughter when five seconds after her offer, the dead shell of a cicada fell from the tree overhead to land on her toe and she ran screaming down the street. Sue is scared to death of critters, and Florida is chock full of them. Sue wouldn’t make it one minute working in my yard.

Okay, she said. If you change your mind or need anything tomorrow, I’m just a phone call away. But you should keep an open mind. Really. I know you don’t think so, but one of these guys could be a solution for you. If you already have your mind set on a negative outcome, you won’t give anyone a chance.

I arched my brows. I’m open-minded. I don’t have any expectations. I really didn’t. At least not when it came to men. After Pete, I’d pretty much decided it was better never to have loved than to have loved and lost, and I couldn’t see how a man who was so desperate for a wife that he would answer an ad involving manual labor could change my mind on that.

Oh, please, Jane. You may not have any expectations but you’re as far from open-minded as anyone I know.

Really? Is that how I come across? I couldn’t believe that was how I came across. I was a rebel, wasn’t I? Didn’t that mean I was open to anything?

"It’s how you are. Don’t get me wrong; I like you the way you are. But I