The Lies That Bind by Kate Carlisle

contradiction that many male artists who did finely detailed work had such large hands. I’d once seen an exhibit of exquisite miniature portraits done in the Regency style, and when I met the artist, I stared dumbly at his large hands. A woman standing near me had winked and slyly confirmed that the man’s other parts matched in size.
    In Gunther’s case, the theory appeared to be true, as well. He towered over Layla and looked to be made of solid muscle.
    Meanwhile, Layla was still talking, explaining to the crowd how the silent auction would benefit the nonprofit Book Arts Center and also allow several scholarships to be given to underprivileged high school students who showed artistic promise.
    She listed a few of the items that had been donated to the silent auction by both wealthy contributors and vendors who supplied paper and materials to BABA. Then she returned to the subject of Gunther Schnaubel.
    “I don’t mean to gush , but if you could all see how beautiful Gunther’s . . . mm, lithographs are . . .” She cast another lascivious glance at his well-toned body. “Well, all I can say is . . . cha-ching!”
    Over the roar of the delighted crowd, I could hear Doris make a tsk sound as she shook her head. I had to agree this was a “ tsk -able” moment.
    But Layla was on a roll. “And we’re doubly—no, triply honored that Gunther has agreed to conduct three short hands-on demonstrations of his patented lithographic technique, and attendees will walk away with your own piece of artwork. And I do mean ‘hands-on,’ ladies.”
    The ladies and a few men tittered excitedly.
    I checked my watch, then touched Doris’s arm. “I’d better try to get through the crowd. I have to teach a class tonight.”
    “Good luck, dear,” she said, looking around at the wall of people. “This reminds me of the time we crossed the Serengeti. I believe I’d rather take my chances with the wildebeests.”
    I laughed and promised to call her next week to discuss her books. As I inched my way through the crowd, Layla continued speaking, describing the highlights of the week, especially the closing night celebration. She named a celebrity chef who would prepare the menu, an award-winning winery owner who would select the wines, and the many spectacular items available to bid on at the silent auction that night.
    “For instance,” Layla said, “just to whet your appetites, we have a first edition, 1922 quarto of James Joyce’s Ulysses; some lovely, rare Hemingway ephemera contributed by our own Zachariah Mason; and of course, the jewel in the crown and the raison d’etre of our Twisted festival, an exquisitely bound, extremely rare, 1838 first edition of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist .”
    I stopped in my tracks, wincing at her announcement. Even though I’d made her think I would play along with whatever lie she wanted to put out there, it was grating to hear her actually announce the lie to a crowd of this size. For a moment, I had the worst urge to walk right up and call her bluff. Of course, I would be kissing my job good-bye, but it was more than my job at stake. If I defied Layla, I could kiss my reputation good-bye, as well.
    I hated her for that.
    There was another round of applause; then Layla held up her finger and the noise died down quickly. “And I know some of you will be enchanted by a naughty little 1887 British photography journal that contains scandalous nude photographs of members of Parliament cavorting with the ladies of Queen Victoria’s court. That’s right. We’re not calling our festival Twisted for nothing, and I expect you all to be extremely generous with your bidding.”
    The crowd’s laughs and whistles seemed to energize her and she licked her lips. More cheers and hoots rang out. Everyone seemed excited and happy.
    Well, almost everyone. I happened to catch Naomi and Karalee rolling their eyes at each other in obvious distaste. I couldn’t blame them, but they probably needed a