Seven Minutes to Noon

don’t know about you,” she said lightly, “but I’m pretty round.”
    “Ha ha ha.” His tone was sarcastic, but his smile was pure love.
    “I’ll try not to worry so much,” she said.
    He nodded. “We should concentrate on finding a house.”
    “Right.”
    “Getting out of here.”
    “Right.”
    “The police will find Lauren,” he said. “That’s their job.” He got up and resumed his place in front of the stove. Relit the flame, knocked the glob off the spoon, gently stirred.
    After a minute, Alice asked, “Do you think a person can be too nice?”
    “You mean Tim?”
    “I was thinking of Frannie. Did I make a mistake going over there this morning?”
    “No. Definitely not. It’s always better to be honest.”
    “Frannie said it wasn’t me who lied.”
    Mike smiled. “That was nice of her!”
    “It made me feel better, you know, less guilty. Because Maggie was the one who spoke the words, told the lie, not me.”
    “Lies of omission,” Mike said, “are probably just as bad.”
    “Anyway, Maggie thinks Frannie’s much too nice.”
    “Maggie would.” Mike twisted around to look at her, the spoon now stilled in the risotto. “If a person’s really nice, there’s not enough margin of error to mess with their head later.”
    Alice believed Mike basically liked Maggie but had grown to distrust her since she walked out on Simon for his alleged unfaithfulness. That was why he taunted her whenever he got a chance; if he spoke his real mind, it would be too painful.
    “Then why does she like me ? I’m nice.”
    The habitual glint in Mike’s eyes snapped into tight focus. “You’re not that nice, sweetheart.”
    “Asshole.”
    “See?”
    For the rest of the night Alice’s thoughts wandered through the mirrored corridors of what niceness really meant. She considered the merits of intention versus deed, unable to decide on the value of plain honesty, no matter what the fallout. She, for one, chafed under the yoke of dishonesty; lies made her deeply uncomfortable. She didn’t know whether she should tell Maggie about the betrayal to the police of her well-intentioned lie about Ivy, but Alice decided she had to. The proverbial chips of friendship would have to land... wherever.
    On Monday morning, when Alice pushed open the door to Blue Shoes, the tinkle of the welcome bell didn’t register over The Blind Boys of Alabama playing on the stereo. She had expected a quiet morning, alone at the store, figuring out how to confess yesterday’s visit to the precinct. She had given Ivy up, against Maggie’s judgment, delivering the sisters’ secret to the world. If Lauren came back — no, when she came back — it would be Maggie who had kept strong and true, and Alice who had buckled.
    “What are you doing here?” she called through thenoise to Maggie, who was perched behind the counter at the back of the store, rifling through a shoe box of receipts.
    When Maggie raised her eyes, Alice saw they were badly bloodshot; so Maggie hadn’t slept well either. For Alice, a second night in a row of insomnia, drifting between half sleep and worry, had propelled her out of bed again to work on Lauren’s Web site. Now, faced with a new day and business that would never be as-usual again, she was feeling mildly delirious.
    Maggie reached below the counter to switch off the music, creating a sudden, welcome quiet. “We have Martin at noon for our quarterly taxes. Did you forget too?”
    “Shoot!” Alice had forgotten. “Can’t we put it off?”
    “We’ve already rescheduled twice. I sensed he was annoyed last time, and we don’t want to lose him. He’s a good accountant.”
    “But—”
    “Shh. Darling. We must go forward.”
    Maybe Maggie was right. Lauren had been missing three days now, three endless days and nights of waiting and hoping. But hope, it seemed, had a diminishing return, its potency devoured by the passage of time. They had to move forward, over the quicksand, grabbing on to the simple, necessary guideposts of their routines.
    “I don’t suppose you want me to go alone to Martin’s?” Maggie asked. It was a ridiculous suggestion given her dysfunctional relationship with numbers, hard facts beyond dispute.
    “Definitely not,” Alice said. “I’ll go.” She pulled the shoe box of receipts across the counter. “We’ll split it in half and get it all categorized before I have to leave.”
    They sat together behind the counter, building neat piles of receipts in