Lies I Told by Michelle Zink Page A

seeing in California.
    â€œWow . . .” Parker looked out the window. “This must have cost a fortune.”
    â€œWarren and Leslie bought it in the early nineties,” my dad explained, pulling through the open gate. “Don’t get me wrong; it was still one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Southern California. But the market was a bit lower then.”
    My mom laughed as we headed up the long, winding driveway. “So it was ten million instead of the twenty million it would be now?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    We parked behind a row of other cars and headed for the front door. My stomach was fluttering, although I couldn’t tell if it was because this was our first chance to check out the job site or because I’d get to see Logan again.
    The walkway was paved with stone, heavily shaded from the trees overhead. I heard a squawk and looked up, catching a flash of brilliant red and blue through the foliage.
    I pointed. “I think I just saw a parrot!”
    Parker gazed upward, peering through the trees. “I don’t see anything.”
    My dad rang the bell. It echoed through the house on the other side of the door. A minute later, it was opened by a voluptuous brunette, her hair graying at the temples.
    â€œRenee! How nice to see you.” Her face was transformed by a generous smile. She opened the door wider. “Please, come in!” Her gaze found my dad. “You must be Cormac. Warren has told me so much about you. Seems he’s met his match on the back nine.”
    â€œI don’t know about that,” my dad said, laughing and stepping into the foyer. “Warren’s been keeping me on my toes.”
    My mom introduced us, and then we were following Leslie down a long tiled hallway toward the sound of music and conversation. I tried to put my finger on why I was so surprised. Was it because Leslie, clearly not a devotee of the treadmill, was rounder and softer than my mom? Because she wore a loose, caftan-type garment instead of the fashionable, semirevealing clothes that were a uniform for the other mothers in Playa Hermosa? Or because she seemed unconcerned with the silver threading her hair, in no hurry to get to the salon to cover it?
    Whatever it was, I liked Leslie Fairchild immediately.
    The unmistakable sound of a party in full swing grew louder as we crossed through the kitchen. A few seconds later we stepped outside. I had to stop myself from gasping at the view.
    The lot was huge. A graduated stone terrace stepped down to a lush lawn stretching toward the cliffs, the oceanshimmering in the distance. The property was private, with no neighbors on either side and mature trees reaching into the sky, flowering bushes and vines growing a little haphazardly all around them. I glimpsed the top of a peaked roof at the back of the property and wondered if it was the carriage house I’d seen on the plans of the Fairchild estate.
    We stepped into the crowd, and I turned my attention to the party. People stood around in clusters, talking and laughing. Across the lawn, Rachel played badminton with Olivia and Raj.
    â€œWell!” Leslie clapped her hands, leading us to an outdoor bar. “Let’s get you something to drink and then we’ll make the rounds.”
    She poured my parents a glass of wine each and told Parker and me to help ourselves to a cooler of sodas. Then she started the procession, leading us around the lawn and introducing us to everyone.
    We met Rachel’s parents first. Her mother was attractive and slender, her hair a familiar shade of copper. When it came time to shake the hand of Rachel’s father, Harrison, I heard an echo of Harper’s confession at the beach: Rachel’s dad has a way with the Playa Hermosa housewives.
    I could see it. Harrison Mercer was no balding, overweight dad. Instead his trim figure, dark hair, and bold smile gave him a George Clooney–esque charm that was probably