The Art of Deception

violently. With an effort, she drew a steadying breath. “I’ve said all I want to say to Adam. I need time and some solitude, that’s all.”
    “Running away, Kirby?”
    “As fast as I can. Papa, Rick proposed to me again before he left.”
    “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” he demanded. “He always proposes to you before he leaves.”
    “I nearly said yes.” She lifted her hands to his, willing him to understand. “I nearly said yes because it seemed an easy way out. I’d have ruined his life.”
    “What about yours?”
    “I have to glue the pieces back together. Papa, I’ll be fine. It’s Harriet who needs you now.”
    He thought of his friend, his oldest and closest friend. He thought of the grief. “Melanie’s going to Europe when she’s fully recovered.”
    “I know.” Kirby tried not to remember the gun, or the hate. “Harriet told me. She’ll need both of us when Melly’s gone. If I can’t help myself, how can I help Harriet?”
    “Melanie won’t see Harriet. The girl’s destroying herself with hate.” He looked at his own daughter, his pride, his treasure. “The sooner Melanie’s out of the hospital and thousands of miles away, the better it’ll be for everyone.”

    She knew what he’d done, how he’d fought against his feelings about Melanie to keep from causing either her or Harriet more grief. He’d comforted them both without releasing his own fury. She held him tightly a moment, saying nothing. Needing to say nothing.
    “We all need some time,” she murmured. When she drew away, she was smiling. She wouldn’t leave him with tears in her eyes. “I’ll cloister myself in the wilderness and sculpt while you pound on your hawk.”
    “Such a wicked tongue in such a pretty face.”
    “Papa…” Absently she checked the contents of her purse. “Whatever painting you do will be done under your own name?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up, narrowing her eyes. “Papa?”
    “All my paintings will be Fairchilds. Haven’t I given you my word?” He sniffed and looked injured. Kirby began to feel alarmed.
    “This obsession with sculpting,” she began, eyeing him carefully. “You don’t have it in your head to attempt an emulation of a Rodin or Cellini?”
    “You ask too many questions,” he complained as he nudged her toward the door. “The day’s wasting away, better get started. Don’t forget to write.”
    Kirby paused on the porch and turned back to him. “It’ll take you years,” she decided. “If you ever acquire the talent. Go ahead and play with your hawk.” She kissed his forehead. “I love you, Papa.”
    He watched her dart down the steps and into her car. “One should never interfere in the life of one’s child,” he murmured. Smiling broadly, he waved goodbye. When she was out of sight, he went directly to the phone.
     
    The forest had always appealed to her. In mid-autumn, it shouted with life. The burst of colors were a last swirling fling before the trees went into the final cycle. It was an order Kirby accepted—birth, growth, decay, rebirth. Still, after three days alone, she hadn’t found her serenity.
    The stream she walked past rushed and hissed. The air was brisk and tangy. She was miserable.
    She’d nearly come to terms with her feelings about Melanie. Her childhood friend was ill, had been ill for a long, long time and might never fully recover. It hadn’t been a betrayal any more than cancer was a betrayal. But it was a malignancy Kirby knew she had to cut out of her life. She’d nearly accepted it, for Melanie’s sake and her own.
    She could come to terms with Melanie, but she had yet to deal with Adam. He’d had no illness, nor a lifetime of resentments to feed it. He’d simply had a job to do. And that was too cold for her to accept.
    With her hands in her pockets, she sat down on a log and scowled into the water. Her life, she admitted, was a mess. She was a mess. And she was damn sick of it.
    She tried to tell herself she’d put Adam out of her life. She hadn’t. Yes, she’d refused to listen to him. She’d made no attempt to contact him. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, Kirby decided, because it left things unfinished. Now she’d never know if he’d had any real feelings for her. She’d never know if, even briefly, he’d belonged to her.
    Perhaps it was best that way.
    Standing, she began to walk again, scuffing the leaves that danced around her feet. She was tired of