Gingerbread Man

how I would now be able to watch Misty’s soccer games, and Christy’s cheerleading routines, and omygod the school play was next month. It was hard to tune them out so I could gaze out the windows at the scenery, but I managed.
    We took the Whitney Point exit, left at the light and straight through the village, and I was taking it all in. The river, really wide and shallow, and pretty, the mix of nice and junky-looking businesses, the big brick school building that had probably been there for a century or so, minus the various additions. We took a right at the Mobil-slash-McDonald’s, and drove until the pavement ended and became the unpaved track that twined around the lake-sized reservoir. I lived beyond the backside of the dam, surrounded by state forest and the reservoir itself. I realized as Sandra drove just how far I had retreated from the world.
    Made sense, I guess. I was in the public eye in my work. I liked to hide my private life away. I mean, I wasn’t paparazzi-bait famous, but still, I
was
a total fraud. Privacy was important when you were running a scam as big as mine.
    When we rolled up to the gated driveway I sat there gaping. My house was like a fairy-tale cottage on crack. Steep peaks, curved clay shingles, some sections cobblestone, others rich maple wood. The windows were tall with red-stained shutters, and the front door was a like a slice from a giant redwood tree. My curving walkway was bordered in thick beds of mums…yellow, brown, red, orange. I got out of the minivan and stood there staring at them like a jackass until Sandra put her hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"
    "Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?" I looked past her at the tall, lean, pair of blonde cover models who were my twin nieces. My mental camera had totally malfunctioned on those two. I’d been picturing a pair of chubby twelve-year-olds with their mother’s dimples, I guess, even though I knew they were sixteen. Everyone looked way too serious and sappy-eyed. So I grinned, going for the kind I’d heard called
shit-eating
and said, "This is
really
fuckin’ cool."
    They laughed. Great. Sappiness averted. We all went inside.
    Family party that first night. Amy, who I considered family, Sandra, the twins—still no Mott. And, of course, no Tommy. Sandra and the kids avoided mentioning his name, and when I did, the subject was gently, firmly changed. Sandra had been in touch with the police again. Still no news.
Let’s focus on celebrating tonight. Tommy would want us to
. End of subject.
    Eventually everyone went home. Well, everyone but Amy, who hung back, offering to help with the dishes. But I knew that wasn’t what she really wanted.
    So I washed, and she dried, and while I was thinking this china pattern really didn’t suit me at all and imagining how much fun I would have picking out something new, she finally got to the point.
    "So there are a couple of things…."
    I pulled the plug on the sink. "I could tell. What’s wrong, Amy? You never keep quiet for this long. You afraid I won’t need an assistant anymore now that I can see, because honestly—"
    "Pshhhhh. Are you kidding? You couldn’t get along without me if you had four sets of 20/20 eyes."
    "Oh, you think so, do you?" I looked her up and down for effect. She wore short black boots with killer heels and silver buckles, a pair of black leggings under a skintight miniskirt, an off-the-shoulder top that looked like it had been caught in the gears of the washer and torn up a little, with a white cami underneath, and a silver necklace with a giant skull. "Your job is safe, kid, unless I find out you’ve been dressing
me
like that, in which case, you are
so
fired."
    She smiled so big I got distracted by her teeth. Straight and white except for the incisors, which stuck out in front of the rest a little bit.
    "You could not even hope to pull this off," she said with a look at her own getup.
    "Why would I want to?"
    She rolled her eyes.
    "So, if you’re not worried about your job, then what’s up?"
    Her demeanor changed. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I stopped looking and started feeling again. Her body had shifted away from mine a little, and I sensed her shrinking into herself, not quite as open as before.
She’s hiding something. Or wishing she could. But she knows she has to tell me, whatever it is.
    "Come on, Amy. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m dying to be alone in my house for a while. Just spill it, so you can leave