Once A Liar. A.F. Brady

me sympathetic. Genial. Honest. Katherine revels in the attention, playing the part of mourning mother to perfection. I feed off this, and it helps me fall into the performance we put on in public.

      Swarms of funeral-goers enter the palatial apartment, marching through the required rounds, commiserating with Juliette’s family and close friends. Although we’ve been divorced for a decade, Juliette never remarried, so the crowd treats me as a grieving widower, and they all lavish me with hollow gestures of comfort. I delight in the attention from their frivolous posturing, wondering if all the kindness could lead me to have real feelings about Juliette’s death.

      Claire is keeping to herself near the bar, plucking bobby pins from her hair and arranging them in patterns on a mother-of-pearl coaster. Surprised by my approach, she stammers to attention, yanking the last pin from her hair, causing it to cascade down her shoulders.

      “Have you seen Harrison?” I ask, not quite looking at her.

      “He walked in a few minutes ago with Ethan and Elizabeth. I think he’s still talking to Katherine.” Claire is affectionately stroking my forearm, looking for some trace of loss or bereavement in my face.

      “Charlie wasn’t with them?” I muse hopefully.

      “No, I didn’t see Charlotte,” Claire responds with disappointment. “It would be pretty inappropriate for her to be at Juliette’s wake, don’t you think?”

      “Hmm.” I swallow hard, momentarily picturing Charlotte in a lacy black bra. I shake the image out of my head and move toward Harrison, leaving Claire alone with her champagne and stack of bobby pins.

      Harrison’s fat, ruddy face lights up when I approach him, and he promptly puts down his cocktail, freeing his hands to pull me in for an awkward embrace. I hate it when he does this.

      “Peter! How the hell are ya? So sorry to see you under these circumstances. Juliette was such a lovely girl. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Shame. Shame to see her go so young.” Harrison keeps a sweaty palm on my shoulder and shakes his head. I shrug off his hand and crack the bones of my neck. I stand nearly six foot two, and Harrison is the only man in the room taller than I am.

      “Thank you, Harry. And thank you for coming,” I say, not caring at all. “I see you brought Elizabeth and Ethan. Charlie’s not here?”

      “No.” Harrison shakes his head. “My daughter is in Phoenix doing some charity thing with kids over there. Something noble and important, as usual.”

      “Right, out there doing God’s work, like Juliette used to do.” I’m not listening to Harrison. Instead I’m looking at Claire and Jamie and watching how their interaction seems a little too familiar, a little too comfortable.

      “Seriously, now, you all right?” He seems to be attempting genuine sympathy. “Everything working out with the custody stuff?”

      “Custody shouldn’t hit any snags. There are details to work out with Juliette’s estate but all that is tied up in trusts...” I begin moving away from him, terminating the conversation. I approach Claire and Jamie to investigate whatever’s going on with them.

      I watch several times as Claire stops herself from leaning over to pet Jamie’s hair like a mother would. Jamie has Juliette’s narrow angular features positioned on my strong-chinned, high-cheekboned face. Like his hair, his eyes are mine, a striking hazel-green, with emerald rings rimming the iris and gold flecks scattered inside. Good genes.

      “Hey, kiddo,” I say, mimicking the family sitcoms I feel I should emulate in this situation, “how’s it going?”

      “It’s fine,” Jamie responds, dropping his head to his chest. “I’m okay.”

      “You need any help getting ready to move into my place?” But I’m not listening to Jamie’s response. And I’m not listening when Claire tells me to stop touching her ass in public. I would like to listen and attend to my family, but I just can’t bring myself to care.

       THEN

      We met while I was working for a prestigious law firm. I had graduated first in my class from Columbia Law and was offered ludicrous starting salaries and promises of professional distinction at many firms across the city. I was quickly bored with the work; the courtroom wins came easily to me, and I didn’t feel the clientele was bringing me the sort of challenge or notoriety I was looking for.

      I was working toward a better future for myself and was open to exploring all avenues, so I accepted an invitation to a talk and reception given by Eileen Cutler, one of the foremost environmental lawyers in New York. As it turned out, Juliette had wrangled a ticket to the event, having spent years following Eileen’s work as she fought against dirty corporations.

      The reception was held at the Lotos Club, and as soon as I caught my first glimpse of Juliette, I was drawn to her. She listened intently to Eileen regaling us with stories of fighting the establishment, and I could plainly see that Juliette was passionate about just the sorts of things I cared nothing about. She was an environmentalist, a humanitarian, a woman obsessed with saving.

      I was singularly focused on getting away from my upbringing, making a name for myself and never again feeling the way I felt growing up. I wasn’t getting any of that from the law firm I worked at, and I had come to the event that night to see if I could find some people who could help me achieve my dreams of getting to the top. I was seeking wealth, respect, and above all else, I wanted to be unforgettable. Juliette seemed clearly on her way to just such a destiny, and I wanted her beside me.

      “You seem enthralled,” I said, startling her with my approach as I sidled up behind her.

      “Oh. Yes, I’ve been a big fan of Eileen’s for years. Such important work. Are you a fan, as well?” She was bold and shy at the same time.

      “Becoming a fan. This is my first time hearing her speak. I’m not very familiar with her work.” I stretched out my hand to her. “Peter Caine,” I introduced myself, trying to create a more personal nature for the conversation.

      “Juliette.” She smiled and shook my hand. She didn’t tell me her last name. I couldn’t have known who her father would turn out to be.

      As luck would have it, she didn’t have plans after the talk, so I offered to take her out for something to eat. Still high from the encounter with her idol, she agreed, and we wandered east toward a hole-in-the-wall dumpling place she suggested. We sat side by side at the tiny bar, and she ordered for both of us.

      “So, you’re a defense attorney, you’re twenty-eight years old and you’re not from New York.” She summarized our discussion, smiled and delicately popped a dumpling in her mouth.

      “What makes you think I’m not from New York?” I asked.

      “You stopped at every light and didn’t jaywalk once. New Yorkers don’t stop at lights.”

      “It’s that obvious, huh? No, I’m not from New York.” I had been developing the story of my past since before I started college, spending much of my time testing out details about my family before I settled on a suitable series of fabrications. “I’m kind of from all over the place,” I told her.

      “Army brat?” she asked, seeming genuinely interested.

      “Not quite, no.” I never went for the military-upbringing story. I feared it had too much of a blue-collar bent and it could alienate me from the influential people I was trying to fall in with. “My father was an art dealer, and we spent most of my childhood living in different countries in Europe.”

      “Oh, wow. That sounds interesting.”

      “It was.” I tried to conjure up images of old European cities in my head. “What about you? Did you grow up in New York?” I steered the conversation back to her.

      “Yes, born and raised