Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Are you Greta Randolph, by any chance?”
The old woman nodded. Well, that was that.
“Would you like to come in?” the woman asked. She
looked a little suspicious.
“Yes, thank you. I would.”
Bridget followed her over white wall-to-wall carpet,
amazed by the smell of the house. It was distinctive in
some unidentifiable way . . . or maybe it was familiar. It
stopped her breath for a moment.
The woman invited her to sit on the plaid couch in the
living room. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea?”
“No, not just now. Thank you.”
The woman nodded and sat in the wing chair across
from Bridget.
Bridget wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but this
wasn’t it. The woman was overweight, and the fat was
distributed clumsily around her upper body. Her hair
was gray and short and permed looking. Her teeth were
yellow. Her clothes looked straight from Wal-Mart.
“What can I do for you?” the woman asked, looking at
Bridget carefully, probably to make sure she didn’t swipe
any of the crystal doodads on the bookcase.
“I heard from your neighbors you might need a little
help around the house—you know, odd jobs. I’m looking
for work,” Bridget explained. The lie came effortlessly.
The woman looked confused. “Which neighbor?”
Bridget arbitrarily pointed to the right. Lying was easier
than most people thought, she decided. This was key,
because liars preyed on the general truthfulness of every­