Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

  I pile her arms with casseroles and cakes and send her to the red Bronco she drove to fetch me. For the next few minutes, I focus on loading the automobile. I unlock the door between the doctor’s quarters and the clinic and fetch a bag of things I need for Declan.

  I feel nearly ill with remorse for not returning to him last night. Absolutely wretched as I buckle myself into the passenger’s seat.

  Dot turns the Bronco toward Gammy’s and smiles over at me. “Would it hurt so terribly to indulge me? You’ve never been one to go seeking out a sweetheart, but do think of the rest of us. Think of me! I’m not the scholarly sort, as you well know. I’ll never go away to university. I’ll have to settle for Mike Green, and isn’t that a bit creepy?”

  “Terribly so, Dorothy. He’s still a child!”

  “Homer Carnegie is so gorgeous. All I want to know is what he talks of. How he smells. Could you smell his body there, inside the cave?”

  I cover my face because it’s unbearably hot, and Dot squeals with laughter. “Forgive me.”

  “Always with the pin-ups…and the bath tub faucet.”

  “Shut up, cow! That’s secret!” Her hand slaps my shoulder, and I curl myself up more tightly. “I’ve the least options of anyone, being born at the worst time.”

  I can’t argue that. Everyone within five years of Dot is female—just a stroke of poor fortune.

  Fog rolls over the windshield. Through the haze, the amber lights adorning each stoop still shine brightly in the misty semi-darkness. As autumn marches on, the days grow even rainier. I get a deep, quiet breath and move my hands off my face. Must behave like normal.

  “I don’t know, Doro. He’s…like a man. He’s actually quite kind. He worked tirelessly to dig us out.” It’s not untrue. He was frantic to free us before the dawning of the werewolf hour, as I’ve come to think of it.

  “After the first day, we assumed you likely were together, seeing neither of you surface.”

  “What sort of talk was there?”

  “Only a few talked.”

  “The usuals, I suppose.”

  “But most felt he’d protect you. Baseball players, they’re an honorable sort, after all. I think no one worried for your virtue.”

  I nod, staring at the glove box in front of me.

  “Tell me, though—was it simply glorious to be so near to him? I’d never tell a soul, but even so, who wouldn’t understand if you admit it was?”

  I shut my eyes so I can’t see the lovelorn look on her face. “It wasn’t glorious, Dot. We were trapped there.”

  She sighs, and guilt moves through me. Guilt and a twisting sort of sensation, like my insides being tied into a knot.

  “I’m glad you made it back in one piece,” Dot says finally. “If you’d seen us when the two of you were missing…” She smiles faintly. “I’m not sure what was worse: the desolation over losing you or the horror at losing a Carnegie.”

  We both have a good cackle at that.

  “Old Tom was going wild, raving about you ruining the island, were he to perish. Quite the fury he was in.”

  “Miserable old clod.”

  By the time Dot parks the Bronco at Gammy’s, we’re wiping laughter tears from our eyes. Dot hugs me, and I cling to her. I shut my eyes and tell myself nothing’s amiss. No matter what’s said to him, he’ll be discreet about what went on between us. It wasn’t purely lustful. It was comfort and…companionship. The sort of incident that occurs at times that are difficult and fear-filled.

  I banish the topic from my mind because my belly feels as if it’s dropped into my thighs. I can’t breathe properly as Dot knocks on the door, bearing a covered pound cake in one hand and a basket of jams in the other. Her back is straight, her chin held high as misty wind tousles her updo. When he doesn’t answer, she knocks twice more.

  Then I realize— “The Land Rover isn’t here.”

  She whirls around. “Where is it?”

  We turn toward the village as horror falls through me. I’ve this primal fear he sailed away while I was resting last night—or somehow passed.

  Dot steps off the porch, and I squint through the misting rain.

  “I see! I can see that green of his Land Rover at the café,” Dot says.

  “The café?”

  “Oh I’m sure Miss Alice has done breakfast. No surprise there really. Someone—likely many someones—came and dragged him out of bed.”

  “Contrary to the doctor’s advice!”

  She snickers. “Quite an awful lot, these scoundrel breakfast-makers.”

  “No one rang me,” I say with mock indignation.

  “You’re not a Carnegie, are you?”

  My throat aches as I force a smile. “I suppose not.”

  I steel myself as Dot parks the Bronco in front of the café, where everyone and their lamb has gathered.

  Lamb! Baby! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I realize Mrs. White has Baby. When I got back to the clinic quarters yesterday, I didn’t even think to call her. Oh, how awful of me. Perhaps she’s here now. How is poor, wee Baby? Guilt drags at me. I blink to find Dot’s hand waving in front of my face.

  “What on earth?” she asks.

  “I realized Mrs. White has Baby.”

  “Indeed she does. She’s done a fine job, as you’d assume. Come now, you can worry over that later.”

  Dot and I leave the food there in the Bronco and make our way through the mud to the porch, where I get shoulder pats and one-armed hugs.

  “So delighted to see that face,” crows Mrs. Burns, my old piano instructor.

  I smell cheese and eggs, perhaps cinnamon milk toast, as Dot escorts me through the café’s doorway. We step inside and someone pats my shoulder—Mr. Braun, my dear diabetic patient.

  “Glad to see you, lady.”

  We chat for a few moments. As we do, he shifts his weight, moving slightly rightward. The café’s rear corner comes into view over his shoulder, and my eyes snap to him: Declan.

  Oh, but he looks radiant. He’s seated at round table, surrounded by adoring fans. His dark hair is neat—a wee bit wavy—and his handsome face clean-shaven. He’s clad in a pale blue Polo shirt, one thick arm resting atop the table as he nods attentively at Dot’s Mike Green.

  As for me, I’m ensnared in greeting after greeting, but it’s all a dull buzz.

  Between answering questions—it’s the same few on repeat—I catalog the motley crew seated around him: Holly, bottle Mac, Mike Green, Baby’s Mrs. White, Horris Ballard, and Father Russo. Declan moves and speaks as if he’s quite accustomed to the spotlight. I see his smile more in my periphery than perhaps I ever have. His low laughter makes my belly curl. My legs feel like a colt’s.

  Dot and I move through the room together. Her eyes press at me in sidelong glances that I don’t return. She takes my hand and moves me toward the kitchen, where Miss Alice throws her arms around me like a mum.

  “My dear girl…” My cheek presses against her mighty bosom as she squeezes me. “Rubbed the color off my beads.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She steps back, her warm hands cupping my shoulders. “Don’t be. Apologizing for what’s not your fault is a disservice to yourself.” A fond smile crinkles her face. “You look well enough. So does that young man. I’ll suppose it’s you who kept him safe and not the reverse.” She winks, and heat suffuses my cheeks.

  “Thank you for your faith, Miss Alice.”

  She moves in for another hug and whispers, “You know I worry for you. And I love you.”

  “I love you more.”

  My eyes are welling as I step away, and my mind races. Now I’ve got to go into the dining hall and speak to him. What has he heard in my absence? What will he think of me? The more he hears…

  I’m distracted from my worry by Rachel and Maura, who step into the kitchen through the back door, bearing a large pot of stew. Rachel is a year younger than Dot, and Maura two. Dot is closer to them than I am, so when she sees them, she rushes over. I think
of the questions Dot just asked me and cringe. If I stay, there’ll be more of that, so I head off into the dining hall.

  Mrs. Dillon appears out of nowhere, looking a bit like a fat bird in a mauve dress and feather-adorned pillbox hat. Her perfume is overwhelming. My head aches as she hugs me. “Oh you poor, unlucky dearie!”

  Over her shoulder, I see Declan standing by his table. Old Mr. Button has him by the arm.

  “We searched for days,” Mrs. Dillon murmurs. “Days and days.”

  As she releases me, I hear my name called. I turn to find Rachel coming out the kitchen’s swinging doorway. Her blonde hair’s done up in dozens of tiny braids. As she throws herself at me, I smell something sweet—perhaps her lotion.

  “So delighted,” she cries.

  Mrs. Dillon pats me on the shoulder, taking her leave, as Rachel smooths her hand over my hair. “You look a bit thinner but essentially the same! Not at all as if you’ve been trapped underground.” She squeals, hugging me again. “How are you feeling?”

  Rachel means well. This I know. So I oblige her, answering her questions while attempting to behave politely. I’m prattling on about our luck finding a stream in the cave when I feel something behind me.

  Then his hand is on my shoulder. I know it’s him without turning my head. I know because the blood drains from my cheeks and my poor heart throbs sickly.

  I turn to him slowly, aware that Rachel’s eyes are on us both.

  Oh, but he’s a sight up close; he looks so clean and strong and handsome. I tell myself I’ve got to behave casually, and so of course my eyes well. I stare at the stubble on his jaw before I feel mellowed enough to meet his gaze. So blue. In the dark, I couldn’t tell how blue his eyes are.

  His mouth twitches. “Finley.”

  I feel like I’m in a film as I say, “Hi there.” I shift my gaze to Rachel. “Have you met Declan?”

  She beams, buoyant as a schoolgirl. She holds her hand out. “Not exactly.” Declan takes it, and I can see he’s not sure what to do with it. He gives it a slight shake before Rachel tucks her arms around herself.

  “We’re all so elated that you made it back safely! How are you feeling?” she asks.

  He looks tired about the eyes, but he says, “Good.” His voice is low and warm. It sounds sincere.

  Rachel smiles, glad as you please. “I’m delighted to hear it. Now that you’re above ground, nothing but the very best. Would you like tea or coffee? Finley, you as well. What can I get the two of you?” Her cheeks blush, much as mine do.

  “I’m satisfied as I am. Thank you.”

  “I’m good too. Just had some cinnamon…” He frowns, as if he’s forgotten the name.

  “Milk toast.” Rachel laughs. “I can’t believe they served him milk toast.” She makes a face at me. Behind her hand, she tells him, “We’ve much better.”

  He smiles. “It was just fine.”

  “You’re unfailingly polite.”

  “Nah. Just hard-up for anything that’s not an Atkins bar.”

  I watch as Rachel’s face transforms in understanding. “That’s what you had in your pack?” she asks me. “Those horrid bars for Mr. McGillin?” She laughs, looking beautiful as her lips curve. Youthful and unencumbered…

  I watch Declan’s eyes. That’s how I find they’re not on her.

  “Get yourself some French toast,” she’s telling Declan. “Or Miss Alice’s berry muffins. They’re the absolute best.” She waves as she turns to go.

  I feel as if I’m caught inside a dream as she walks off and I look up at Declan. At least his gaze still feels familiar even as the rest of him looks like a polished stranger.

  “You look…clean,” I manage.

  His eyes search my face. When he fails to find whatever he’s seeking, his dark brows notch. “Let’s step outside.”

  Even his soft voice sends sunlight rolling through me. It’s soft and husky, and it’s Declan. Odd and disorienting what a premium my poor heart seems to place on that alone: his mere Declanness. The blood in my veins glows as I follow him toward the door, barely aware of the room swirling around us.

  Outside, we move past a group of school-aged kids kicking a bean sack on the porch. They whistle and clap as if we’re celebrities—well, as if we both are. I can feel their eyes on my back as I follow Declan through a patch of grass into the muddy lane. He leads me around about the side of the café, away from eager eyes.

  When we’re there, his keen gaze sweeps me. I fixate on his lips, and then a bruise along his cheekbone.

  “Are you okay?” He’s frowning.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you, though?”

  “I am. Why do you ask?” My heart pounds so hard, I worry a bit for myself.

  “You look like a ghost, Finley. When I touched your shoulder in there, your whole body tensed up. You won’t look at me.”

  And I didn’t return to him last night.

  I look into his eyes and find them cool, his prince’s face unreadable.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’m trying to keep…proper.”

  “Where’d you go last night?”

  I can see the hurt in his hard features. It’s there in the tightness of his jaw. He looks down at his shoes, and my gaze follows. They’re boots, made of brown leather, and they look quite fine. I watch as a breath moves through his thick shoulders.

  Then those piercing eyes are holding mine. He blinks, biting his cheek on the inside. There’s something like the shadow of a smile, as if he’d like to but he can’t. And he says, “It’s okay.” I can tell he means it, which is sort of awful.

  “No it’s not. I’m sorry.” I’m looking at my own shoes now—worn Mary Janes. “I went to the clinic, and the visitors were there late. Then I worried you were sleeping.” I swallow hard and force myself to look up at him. “How are you feeling? Did you rest?”

  He rubs a hand back through his hair, revealing scabbed gashes across his knuckles. “I’m okay.”

  I can hear the tightness in his voice. His face, though, is flawlessly impassive.

  “I need to give you a check-over. Particularly your blood pressure, and I’d like a look at that shoulder. Could you come to the clinic in a bit, perhaps? Or I could come to you if you’d prefer.”

  It’s there for a mere instant: the tiniest chink in his armor. His brows crease and his mouth tightens before he locks it all away. He nods once, jaw hard.

  “Yeah, sure,” he says in forced tones. “I’ll come by.”

  “To the clinic? Will that be all right? I’ve got to make a house call. Afterward, I’ll be there all day.”

  “Not a problem.” His jaw remains hard as his gaze laps at me. “You feel okay, Siren? You sure?”

  I nod, as I can’t seem to speak.

  “Good.”

  I can feel how much he wants to touch me as he starts to turn away. How much it hurts him as he walks around the café. His body moves with easy grace, but I just know. He rounds the café’s front, and I hear voices rise in greeting.

  Fog kisses my face. I take a few steps back, pressing my shoulder blades against the café’s white-washed brick wall. For the longest time, I stand there alone.

  Soon, he’ll understand. But I can’t tell him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Declan

  After I talk to Finley, I kind of lose my grip on things. It’s like walking on a wire from one high-rise to the other. I can’t look down. I don’t have good balance.

  If I’m not paying attention, my teeth chatter. My hands always shake, so I have to keep them fisted or shoved in a pocket. Someone wants to shake one, and I have to squeeze them hard enough so they can’t tell. The space behind my forehead feels empty, and there’s a heaviness behind my eyes that reminds me a little bit of being drunk. It’s hard to keep them open sometimes, nearly impossible to act normal.

  Following a conversation makes my chest go tight just from the effort of it. I try to smile and laugh at the right times, but time’s no
t steady for me. Sometimes it rushes by, a breaking wave that kind of startles me with its fast passage. Other times, it feels as thick as honey. I know it’s just detox—this shit’s always like a bad trip—but that doesn’t keep my mouth from going dry, my palms from sweating. Doesn’t make it any easier to thank the cook and try to keep track of who to say bye to before I walk out on my plastic legs.

  I’ve gotta drive back to the cottage. I make it past the village before pulling over to get sick. My palms are wet around the steering wheel. Inside the house, I walk past a box of fruits and veggies someone brought this morning and sit on the couch’s edge to take my shoes off. When my fingers shake too much to do the laces, I lie back with them still on, stare at the ceiling.

  Now’s one of those moments where everything feels big and forceful. I feel kind of untethered. Need to sleep, but I don’t think I can. I lie on my side. My mind races, all bad stuff and nonsense. My shoe connecting with Laurent’s ribs, and his blood sinking into that rug. Walking into my shared bathroom. The haunted feeling stalks me across time.

  I can’t help but think of Finley. She looked like a painting come to life wearing that beige blouse with her hair down. I cover my face with both hands.

  Don’t.

  I can’t hang onto anything else, though. I get a pillow, hold it to my chest, and close my eyes.

  “Try to relax, darling.”

  I think of her hands in mine, and it works like a pill.

  I’m extra grateful for the little bit of sleep when I wake up mid-afternoon and can’t stop shaking. My joints hurt so much, I can barely move. Somehow I make it to the tub and sink into the hot water. I stay there for hours, running more hot water when it cools.

  When I awaken to a dark room and a quiet cottage, I pull some clothes on and step onto the back porch. A crescent moon hangs over the cliffs. A long way below, waves break against the rock. I pull my boots off and walk over the scrubby grass with my bare feet. I fold my arms and press my lips together till the tightness in my throat abates a little.