One Last Lie Read Online Free Page B

drink. “Let’s discuss this on the deck,” he interrupted, feeling the need to douse his discomfort with liquor before heading into the fat zone. “I want to get some fresh air before the mosquitoes start their dive bombing exercises.”
    As they walked through the living room on their way to the deck, Angela stopped, leaned against the baby grand and gazed at the ceiling as though she were wishing on stars. Jonathan was about to ask if she was okay, when she took a sip of her drink.
    “This cathedral ceiling is absolutely beautiful,” she half whispered, “and that crown molding is to die for. Not too ornate, not too simple. Just right.” She studied the room, stretching her neck to see past the Georgian-style pocket door leading into the formal dining room. “These colors fit you guys to a tee… mocha walls, maple and cherry, brown suede, everything… everything is just gorgeous. It’s like the perfect mix of casual chic and classic. I love it.” She took another sip of her drink and swallowed slowly. “This must be Jonathan’s doing.” She looked at Jonathan and raised her left eyebrow. “Philip was never into décor.”
    Jonathan lifted his glass to his lips, glad Angela liked his taste, but a bit uncomfortable about the compliment. “Thanks,” he half-whispered into his Double G and T before taking a huge gulp.
    “Hey, wait a minute!” Philip interjected, “I had some say in the décor!”
    Angela softly patted his cheek. “I’m sure you did.” she winked at Jonathan. “I remember your apartment at BU. Bare walls, a consistently unmade bed, two pairs of jeans hanging in the closet, and a dead plant sitting atop an upside down milk crate.”
    “Yeah,” Jonathan added, “that’s pretty much the way I found him.”
    Philip laughed. “You’re full of shit.” He turned to Angela. “And you’re full of it too. My apartment wasn’t that bad.” He took a sip of drink and pretended to be thinking of the past. “I remember having three pairs of jeans in the closet!”
    Philip wrapped his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the French doors that ran along the back wall of the living room. When he slid open the door leading to the two-tier deck, a wave of humidity drifted inside, carrying the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle.
    “It’s almost seven o’clock, I thought it would’ve cooled off by now,” Philip said, closing the door once they were all outside. “We’re way too used to air conditioning, Jonny. We definitely have to get out more.”
    The pinkish hue created by the setting sun filtered through the spaces between the leaves of the giant maples, casting a soft crimson haze that hovered inches above the thick expanse of manicured grass. The three of them walked to the deck railing and looked out over the burgeoning backyard flora.
    A thicket of forsythia rimmed the edges of the acre lot, their bright yellow flowers clinging to the branches that stood almost six feet high. Billowy andromeda overlapped the forsythia with spidery, ecru-colored tendrils hanging motionless in the heavy air. This hedgerow, along with the maple and ash trees, ornamental grasses, and other precisely ordered plants and flowers, helped create a natural boundary from the rest of the world. Along with the stitching of copper-lantern-shaped garden lights threading through the boundary, the back yard resembled a mini-village.
    Angela stood between the two men, the three of them silent, absorbing the stillness of the approaching dusk. Jonathan felt an intense hush pervade his being — an air of understanding that somehow pulled them together in a way that would remain forever. Strange to feel this way about someone I don’t even know , he thought .
    At that moment, Angela broke the silence. “This is a like a photograph, guys, it’s just surreal back here. But where’s the dog?”
    “What dog?” asked Philip.
    “You must have a dog. I mean, two gorgeous men, a beautiful house in Westport, the