The Art of Deception

a moment to absorb all he’d told her. It didn’t make any difference in how she felt. Furious. “Why, Papa? Why did you do this! It isn’t like all the others. It’s Harriet.”
    “Now, Kirby, don’t lose control. You’ve such a nasty temper.” He did his best to look small and helpless. “I’m much too old to cope with it. Remember my blood pressure.”
    “Blood pressure be hanged.” She glared up at him with fury surging into her eyes. “Don’t think you’re going to get around me with that. Old?” she tossed back. “You’re still your youngest child.”
    “I feel a spell coming on,” he said, inspired by Kirby’s own warning two days before. He pressed a trembling hand to his heart and staggered. “I’ll end up a useless heap of cold spaghetti. Ah, the paintings I might have done. The world’s losing a genius.”
    Clenching her fists, Kirby beat them on his worktable. Tools bounced and clattered while she let out a long wail. Protective, Fairchild placed his hands around his hawk and waited for the crisis to pass. At length, she slumped back in the chair, breathless.
    “You used to do better than that,” he observed. “I think you’re mellowing.”
    “Papa.” Kirby clamped her teeth to keep from grinding them. “I know I’ll be forced to beat you about the head and ears, then I’ll be arrested for patricide. You know I’ve a terror of closed-in places. I’d go mad in prison. Do you want that on your conscience?”
    “Kirby, have I ever given you cause for one moment’s worry?”
    “Don’t force me into a recital, Papa, it’s after midnight. What have you done with the Rembrandt?”
    “Done with it?” He frowned and fiddled with the cover of his hawk. “What do you mean, done with it?”
    “Where is it?” she asked, carefully spacing the words. “You can’t leave a painting like that lying around the house, particularly when you’ve chosen to have company.”
    “Company? Oh, you mean Adam. Fine boy. I’m fond of him already.” His eyebrows wiggled twice. “You seem to be finding him agreeable.”
    Kirby narrowed her eyes. “Leave Adam out of this.”
    “Dear, dear, dear.” Fairchild grinned lavishly. “And I thought you’d brought him up.”
    “Where is the Rembrandt?” All claim to patience disintegrated. Briefly, she considered banging her head on the table, but she’d given up that particular ploy at ten.
    “Safe and secure, my sweet.” Fairchild’s voice was calm and pleased. “Safe and secure.”
    “Here? In the house?”
    “Of course.” He gave her an astonished look. “You don’t think I’d keep it anywhere else?”
    “Where?”
    “You don’t need to know everything.” With a flourish, he whipped off his painting smock and tossed it over a chair. “Just content yourself that it’s safe, hidden with appropriate respect and affection.”

    “Papa.”
    “Kirby.” He smiled—a gentle father’s smile. “A child must trust her parent, must abide by the wisdom of his years. You do trust me, don’t you?”
    “Yes, of course, but—”
    He cut her off with the first bars of “Daddy’s Little Girl” in a wavering falsetto.
    Kirby moaned and lowered her head to the table. When would she learn? And how was she going to deal with him this time? He continued to sing until the giggles welled up and escaped. “You’re incorrigible.” She lifted her head and took a deep breath. “I have this terrible feeling that you’re leaving out a mountain of details and that I’m going to go along with you anyway.”
    “Details, Kirby.” His hand swept them aside. “The world’s too full of details, they clutter things up. Remember, art reflects life, and life’s an illusion. Come now, I’m tired.” He walked to her and held out his hand. “Walk your old papa to bed.”
    Defeated, she accepted his hand and stood. Never, never would she learn. And always, always would she adore him. Together they walked from the room.
    Adam watched as they started down the steps, arm in arm.
    “Papa…” Only feet away from Adam’s hiding place, Kirby stopped. “There is, of course, a logical reason for all this?”
    “Kirby.” Adam could see the mobile face move into calm, sober lines. “Have I ever done anything without a sensible, logical reason?”
    She started with a near-soundless chuckle. In moments, her laughter rang out, rich and musical. It echoed back, faint and ghostly, until she rested her head against her father’s shoulder. In the