That night at J-Bar, after Steve finished telling Claudine that story, he had a good laugh over his tall tale. It had worked. The oilman couldn’t sign the papers fast enough. A specific place like the Roaring Fork River. A particular number like nine. A distinct item like the little satchel of salt. The details were what mattered. People wanted to believe. The details were what allowed them to.

But Steve wanted to believe too. He wanted to believe he was attractive. That Claudine desired him. He wasn’t immune to deception. Or maybe he was. Maybe he knew what Claudine was doing but thought it was a fair trade-off. Whether he was unwitting or not, Claudine didn’t much care. By the time they walked out of the bar and he started to kiss her, she had convinced herself that going down this path would eventually be good for both her and Henry. If enduring a few clumsy encounters lasting less than ten minutes was going to leapfrog years of navigating proper channels and complaining about the daily grind, it was worth it. She was a quick study. Which was why she knew not to let it go further than a kiss that night. She knew the value of what she had. It was a seller’s market.

Henry

It was almost one in the morning.

Lying on the couch, Henry repositioned, tucking the blanket tighter around his legs, finding a better spot on the pillow for his head. The TV was on but he was only occasionally watching. Then sleeping. Sleeping. Then drinking. The fabric wet with drool. He flipped it over.

Where the hell was she?

Three hours late.

The champagne long gone, the inverted bottle bobbed in the silver bucket. He killed it quickly after the first hour. He didn’t even like champagne, but it went down fast and smooth and at first made waiting a little easier. At this point he still thought she was only late but coming. After all, the celebration was for her. Who missed their own party? Even if it was just the two of them. She worked too much to have any real friends, something he was sure would change at some point. Around the second hour, he pulled down the bottle of Scotch from the back of the liquor cabinet. It was from the smallest distillery in Scotland. He opened it. She didn’t really care for Scotch anyway, complained that it tasted like fire and dirt. That’s exactly what he felt like: dirt.

He called the office. No answer. Of course not, it was so late… Why hadn’t she called?