Read Online The Truth About Mallory Bain by Clare Hexom - Free Book Online Page A

had been my friend the longest. Lissome bronze arms folded gently against her chest. One delicate finger slid a lock of silken black hair off her shoulder. Her head bent toward the plastic cup secured within her hands. She glanced up. Her eyes moved between Dana and Ben. Just once her head turned and she gazed across the room. She was looking at Chad.
    Jack Grant, whom we often called Grant to avoid confusion because we had a pair of Jacks in our group, stood between Ronnie and Dana. He habitually pushed up his glasses and shifted from one foot to the other whenever he started to speak. He averted his look from Ben once he noticed Jack and me watching.
    I was certain Harwood had not intended his strange advice entirely for me. Yet, not one of those people in that group of friends he was critically observing would ever hurt him or me.
    Although Harwood was not as openly miserable as Chad was that evening, he was troubled. Clearly anyone who knew him well could tell. I believed he had been hurt, yet despite the cause, he remained silent, too reticent to ask our help. Ben and I were his closest friends. We’d always be there for Jack whenever he needed us.

    The morning after the party, Ben insisted we invite Jack and Dana for dinner. I suggested inviting others but Ben disagreed. He pointed out that Jack was more likely to open up with only the four of us.
    No matter, because Grant declined. He had offered to drive Ronnie back to Madison after her short visit home by bus the middle of the week. Chad griped about his goddamn hangover and all the packing left to do. His refusal relieved Ben. Erik Fowler, on the other hand, surprised us when he never called back.
    Ordinarily everyone enjoyed visiting my parents’ home. People seldom decline an invitation. The veranda and backyard are perfect for outdoor parties. During my call to Mom, who was in Duluth for the weekend, she agreed a cookout might give Jack a more relaxed environment for airing his troubles.
    Since I had woken up ill, Ben coaxed me into a morning walk along Lake of the Isles. The lake is a peaceful body of water tucked beneath the backdrop of the Minneapolis skyline rising in the near distance of the Kenwood neighborhood. The lake’s shoreline is peppered with lofty, timeworn trees, and luxuriant homes built a century ago circle its perimeter. We returned refreshed, pleased at how the brightly shining, late-morning sun boded a pleasant afternoon.
    Ben worked outdoors, setting up the veranda and cleaning Dad’s grill. After putting a pot of red potatoes on the stove to boil, I tidied the rest of the downstairs rooms—folding newspapers into a neat pile in the basket beside Dad’s rocker near the foyer, and gathering up the dishes we’d left on the breakfast bar.
    I labeled the architecture of the Bain house “Tudoresque” during an early-twentieth-century study phase my sophomore year in college. My parents modernized the home, but the original structure my great-grandparents built remains a revival style. There are timber-framed, square-paned windows of various sizes and shapes. The house has a brown brick and gray stone exterior. A sizeable stone chimney rises above the sloping roof to the right of the medieval-style arched portico, and a pair of bronze lanterns with seedy glass are mounted either side of the heavy, wood door.
    Ronnie and I used to spread blankets on the front lawn to play dolls when we were girls. There beneath the cool shade of the silver maple, she spun tales of handsome princes and dashing knights emerging through our entryway. At least we imagined princes and knights until one or both of my brothers emerged instead.
    Ben strolled into the kitchen and over to the island sink where I was rinsing vegetables for the salad. He nuzzled his cheek beside my ear and locked his arms around me from behind.
    â€œYou look like you’re feeling better,” he said.
    â€œMuch better.” I turned to face him and