Amy Bourret - Mothers and Other Liars

During the long journey from blank page to published book, I have incurred debts of gratitude rivaling a small countrys deficit. Mere words are never enough, but: to the Dunstons Gang for critique and camaraderie and for never letting me rest on my metaphors. Shoutouts to Paul Coggins for advice on Rubys legal matters (though any mistake or use of creative license is mine); to David Norman for loving this story enough to take it to Hollywood and for several choice morsels; to Harry Hunsicker for a few well-timed kicks in the butt; and to Will Clarke for easing my way down the road. A special thank-you to Alison Hunsicker, ex-officio member and an early reader who provided spot-on feedback.

To the other critique groups I have had the privilege to be a part of along the way: special thanks to Colleen Rae, who helped me find Rubys voice, and to the Aspen Writers Foundation and Catherine OConnell, who keeps their group going so that a writers world is a less lonely place.

To JSP for early encouragement and eleventh-hour advice.

To the fabulous Jenny Bent, who talked me down from a couple of ledges with grace and humor. Thank you for getting me.

To Jen Weis and the team at St. Martins for bringing Rubys story to print with care and enthusiasm.

To the teachers who nurtured my creative spark and hammered on the grammar: Mrs. Bush, Mrs. Krueger, and Mrs. Kessler, and all of you overworked and underpaid teachers out there, know that you do make a difference.

Finally, to my friends and family, who encouraged, cajoled, and supported me through all these many days, and who rescued me when I was spending too much time in my head. I dont know how I would do this writing stuff without you. A special thank-you to Susan Virginia Metcalfe Shores for never letting me forget my long-ago promise to put her name in print, and for never wavering in her belief that I would. And for, well, everything else, my mom, who lies only every now and again.

Thank you, all of you,
always,
amy

Ruby Leanders third life ends with the flip of a page. The photograph catches her eye first. Then the words shriek at her, in stark black and white. Lines of type shift on the page, curl into a tight ball, somersault, gathering sentences, whole paragraphs, gaining momentum. And just like that, on an otherwise ordinary Thursday, this life is over.

She slams the weekly tabloid shut, sandwiching the article between weight-loss ads and pictures of celebrities misbehaving. As her client, Antoinette, approaches, Ruby tosses the magazine aside.

Antoinette bustles up to the nail station, oversized tote bag banging against her curvy hip. Thursday is Rubys late day, to accommodate the working women. Antoinette has a standing appointment in the last slot. Margarets partner, Molly, baby sits Larkthough nine-year-old Lark would cringe at that word. And Antoinette and Ruby go to dinner. This is their routine.

Sorry. Sorry. Shakespeare had it right. I want to kill all the lawyers. Antoinette plops down on the seat across the narrow table. Her thick hair is tamed into a demure bun, her white blouse closed a button higher than before her recent promotion from the court clerks office to judges secretary. She pauses, looks at Ruby. You okay?

No, Ruby is not okay. The photograph, the words, are burned into her brain. From a serendipitous thirst, a wrong turn, and a chance meetingand a big lieshe built this Santa Fe life for herself and her daughter, Lark. This is no sand-castle life that could wash away in the evening tide; this is a mountain life, strong and tall and solid. Yet even mountains erode, and this one is crumbling at her feet. She is definitely not okay.

Yes. Im fine.

Without a doubt, that photograph is of Lark; a similar shot sits in a frame in their living room. This life is over, but what she does about the article will define what the next life will befor her and for Lark.

You sure youre okay? Antoinettes voice sounds tinny, as if traveling from a soup can and string, what with having to penetrate that photo before reaching a piece of Rubys brain. Its not

Im fine. Really. Ruby tries to ignore the worry creasing Antoinettes brow and avoid meeting Margarets eyes in the mirrored wall that lines the hair stations. Margaret doesnt miss much in her salon.

You know you can tell me anything. Antoinettes voice is soft with concern.

The kindness soaks into Rubys skin, rises to a lump in her throat. I know.

As Antoinette turns to the rack on the wall to choose her polish, Ruby picks up the tabloid from the floor beside her chair, fans through to the page. She rips out the article, folds it into a tidy square, then gestures to the sudsy manicure dish. Soak a minute. Ill be right back.