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Portrait of Deceit

By Jayme H. Mansfield

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CHAPTER ONE
Olivia ~ Forged & Forever Friendship

We were an odd couple—Olivia and May—best friends since childhood and raised in the forested hills of Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. Mouse, we called her— shy and quiet, petite and quick—given the nickname by my father when she scurried through the cluster of trees and thick undergrowth between our homes when she needed to escape her mother’s temper or fill her hollow belly.
I was a different animal—long and lanky. It served me well as a teenager and into adulthood. Long torso, slender legs and arms, the kind of body that makes swimsuit shopping enjoyable and attracts looks that should be discreet. May, the skittish and sneaky mouse. Me, the cat. Agile, curious, and wildly independent. Cat and Mouse. Logic would have it that we’d be enemies. But fate had another plan for two little girls, who many years ago found each other in the midst of despair.
*****


April 2017. Last month, May and I turned thirty-eight years old only days apart. I once thought it was fun to share March birthdays. Spring chickens, my father called us. But today neither of us felt spry and renewed. I was burying my biological father and May was saying goodbye to the only father she ever knew—no birthright necessary.
Only the two of us were in attendance. After all, not many attend the funeral of a recluse, especially since my father’s best friends of late were his paints, brushes, and Jack Daniel. Now, the shoveled earth danced on top of his pine casket like rain in springtime, a grand symphony for a life that evaporated after Mother took her life when I was twelve.
If I were counting, the hunched groundskeeper made three, and the pastor from the nearby Presbyterian church rounded our party up to an even number. But the religious man had excused himself once formalities were spoken and the erratic spring wind lifted his stiff, combed-over hair. I didn’t expect more. It must be hard to talk about someone’s life when you don’t know where a man’s soul is headed. The church man didn’t have much to offer me either—the absentee daughter, returned home only in time to watch her father buried.
Stray hair fell around my face and stuck to tears that fell too easily since May called me in the city last week. She found my father slumped in his recliner, positioned on the front porch so he could watch the cherry blossoms bloom. Heart attack. Most likely fast. Probably didn’t suffer much, much, much . . . the word skipped across my mind like a stone cast on the silky surface of the pond behind my house. May and I swam in the sticky summers and ice skated when it was cold, pretending to smoke cigarettes when we breathed out tiny clouds.
The groundskeeper lifted another shovelful and moaned. I understood his agony. Not physical. But like his gnarled fingers, resembling willow twigs twisted around the wooden handle, my heart felt stiff and numb in a different way from when Mother died twenty-six years ago. Then, everything was confusing, and I locked my thoughts and heart in the pages of my diary. But time has a way of sneaking in and teasing out hidden memories—slipping around success, image, and perceived happiness—revealing that things aren’t always what they seem.
Above us, branches from a 100-plus-year-old maple swayed, saying its own goodbye to the man who’d walked alone in the forests of southern Pennsylvania. It somehow knew Thomas Danford would never again rest against the sturdy trunk, catch spinning whirligigs in late summer, and breathe in the crisp autumn air. Instead, while my father’s brushes lay still and his palette hardened with time, other artists would be beckoned by the same innate passion as his . . . to capture the area’s beauty in art.
“May.” Though no others were present to hear, I lowered my voice to nearly inaudible. “Do you remember your last conversation with my father? Did he say any final words?”
May seemed lost in thoughts and her silence voided any message, if any, my father had meant for me. I stood still, trying to recall his raspy baritone heard during my occasional calls or infrequent visits home. The memory seemed already faded, muffled by the earth now covering his grave.
May squeezed my forearm. “It’s best we let this old guy finish so we don’t get charged overtime. The rate he’s moving, we probably will anyway.” She forced a smile. “Don’t worry. He’ll take good care of Thomas.”
“He’s dead, May.” I stared into the eyes of my longtime friend, remembering when our stuffed animals were real, and we thought Barbie’s hair would grow back after we gave her a bob.


May cast her eyes down, the same way she had years ago when her mother slurred her words and told her she was rotten.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” I reached for her hand, but she slipped it into her overcoat pocket.
“It’s okay. I know you’re hurting.” When she squinted, a deep crease I’d never noticed ran from her widow’s peak hairline to the bridge of her nose. “We both are.”
I wrapped my arms around my friend, the person who faithfully cared for my father while I went away to college to study business while she took art classes at the community college. It was never my intent to have May assume what should have been my role as daughter. It’s just that she made it easy for things to go that way as I spun off toward my destiny.
May’s shoulders heaved, followed by a muffled sob. “I didn’t think I would miss him so much. Especially since he could be such a pain in the—”
“Ass.” I smiled. “And for that, you deserve a medal.”
“Ha.” She fumbled in her pocket. “I’ve been wanting to quit, but what I really need is a smoke.”
“Fair enough . . . and give me a moment.” I kneeled at the side of the grave and stared at the simple bouquet of yellow tulips I’d bought at the grocery store before meeting May at the cemetery. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall my father’s favorite flower. But Mother’s I knew . . . yellow tulips bursting each spring from the garden my father planted outside her cottage window, cut and displayed in cobalt vases strategically set on the kitchen table, next to her writing desk, and on my bedroom dresser. Darlings, there’s never a shortage of sunshine in life.
Surprise attack! I hunched my back and sobbed until I felt May’s hand rub my neck. “Liv, it’s time to go.” I laid the tulips on my father’s grave, blew him a final kiss, and walked across the lawn, arm in arm with my childhood friend.
I was indebted to May. And now that my father was laid to rest, I would return to Washington, D.C. and an overflowing schedule of work at Axiom. My art forgery research and forensics company, strategically based in the heart of Georgetown, was my baby. I’d worked diligently to cultivate a unique, niche career—so much that I had to often pinch myself to realize its tremendous success. Sure, other things in life had been waylaid—pursuing a serious relationship, marriage, a family—tucked away for later, perhaps never. I was busy living my high-definition, surround-sound, Technicolor dream. But May Meriwether—she was still chasing hers.

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