Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  "Are you honestly telling me there's a part of you that wonders, truly wonders, if I did something with her? Or are you just angry about the situation, and about .

  . ." When he pauses, she sneaks a look at him but quickly looks away again. ". . .

  Jenny."

  Nothing.

  "Claire, please look at me." She finally does, but reluctantly. "Look me in the eye and tell me if you believe me, no doubts.

  None whatsoever." She blinks slowly, as if it's an effort to keep her eyes open. "I need to know."

  Her response comes slowly, and when it finally does, she's so quiet he strains to hear her. "I can't give you an answer."

  His stomach churns. He swallows to quell the bile rising in his throat. He stands, causing her to lean back slightly, nervous about what he'll do. He starts for the door, but suddenly stops and pulls the folded envelope from his pocket. He tosses it onto the bed next to her. She glances at it and then looks up at him as if waiting for explanation.

  He breathes in, ready to tell her what her father has done, but then changes his mind—let her read it herself—and says something else entirely.

  "I think you just did."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WHEN JENNY OPENS the door, a

  different Jack Hilliard stands before her.

  In the glare of the parking lot floodlights, his face is pale. Despite the blowing snow and the frigid temperature, his cheeks lack the usual hint of pink that gives him a perpetual look of having just come out of the cold. The beginning of a beard shadows the lower half of his face. He hasn't been sleeping well, she sees that.

  His normally bright eyes are bloodshot; the periwinkle blue of his irises has darkened to steel. If he's combed his hair at all recently, it's been with his fingers.

  Under his coat the collar of his starched white shirt is open, the necktie loosened and hanging limply.

  Except for his obvious exhaustion, she decides she prefers this scruffier look. She thinks it better suits the side of him he usually keeps hidden. She only wishes something else had caused it.

  It’s eight thirty on Christmas Eve.

  "I'll get my coat," she says.

  He grabs her wrist, and his hand is so cold she winces. Their eyes meet and the despair on his face makes her want to embrace him. She doesn't. She knows what he's about to say and she hears the voice inside her head screaming, No, no, no.

  "I'll come in this time."

  She backs up and he steps into the warm motel room. He glances at the unused bed where her suitcase is open as if waiting for inspection.

  "You want to take off your coat?"

  He wriggles out of it. While she hangs it from the chrome rack near the sink, he sits next to the suitcase. The bed creaks from his weight.

  "Sorry," she says when she returns, quickly zipping the lid shut and placing it against the wall. She sits on the bed opposite him, an expectant look on her face.

  "It wasn't in my way."

  "Why are you here, Jack?" she asks, ignoring his comment about the suitcase.

  "It's Christmas Eve."

  "I know."

  "Perhaps I'm asking the obvious, but don't you think you should be home?"

  "Yeah, you'd think so, huh?" The bitterness in his voice surprises him. "Did you turn on your TV today?"

  "You're talking about the release of the evidence?"

  He nods. He waits for the same

  questions Claire asked, about the scratch on his arm, his hair in Celeste's bra, but instead she asks, "Who do you think leaked everything?"

  "I don't think. I know. Claire's father was behind it."

  She gasps. "Wow," she whispers.

  Wow is right, Jack thinks.

  "Did Claire know?"

  The question takes an instant to

  register because it never even entered his mind. "No." He has to believe no. "She'd strangle him before she'd let him do that." Wouldn't she?

  Suddenly restless, he stands and goes to the window. He pulls the drapes aside to look outside and make sure he wasn't followed.

  "Jack?"

  He turns.

  "Claire doesn't know you're here, does she?"

  Jenny states the question as a

  conclusion, gently, and without the sarcasm she's probably entitled to, given his smug insistence the other day that he promised to tell Claire everything.

  "No." He returns to the bed. "But I didn't mention I was going to Mark's house, either. I didn't know where I was going when I first left home."

  "I don't understand."

  Neither do I, he wants to say. Although that's not entirely true. On one level he understands; he simply doesn't want to put words to it. He doesn't want to be that cliché Claire accused him of being, when she first learned what he'd done and he tried to make excuses for it. He knows what she thought, what everyone thought: just another middle aged man who feared the better part of his life was behind him and sought to forestall the inevitable in the arms of a mistress. He didn't believe it then, he doesn't believe it now. But by making these denials, does he make it so?

  "We fought. She didn't know about some of the evidence. Not specifically.

  We were going back and forth, what I'd told her and what I hadn't, and it dawned on me . . . She really thinks I could have done it. I asked her point blank if she believed me, and she wouldn't answer me.

  She said she couldn't answer me. I was angry, so I left the house and ended up at Mark's."

  "And then you came here."

  "Yes. And then I came here."

  Jenny looks away, and he realizes he shouldn't have shared all this with her. It wasn't the point of his visit. He has become that cliché, sharing his marital problems with another woman.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't come here to—"

  "It must really hurt," she says, meeting his eye, "not being believed by the one person you desperately need to believe you."

  He opens his mouth but no words

  come. She holds his gaze, waiting, forcing a response. Softly, he says, "You're right.

  It does."

  Suddenly, Jenny stands as if she has an urgent task across the room. "Did you have dinner?" she asks, apropos of nothing.

  "Mark fed me." He grabs her wrist.

  "Jenny, don't walk away."

  "I need to go outside a minute. I need some air." She tugs, but when he doesn't let go, she reluctantly turns to him again.

  In the dim light, her eyes shine like black onyx and the look she gives him is just as hard.

  "I believe you," he says. When she only blinks, he adds, "I would have led them straight to your door if I didn't believe you. Don't you realize that? I've risked everything because I believe you."

  Despite his protests that it's too cold, she steps outside onto the small walkway without a coat or shoes. She sucks in the fresh air. The wind has died down and the snowfall has settled into a silent shower.

  It can't be much past nine, but it feels like midnight. She can't see the road. The only sign of life is a snowplow she hears in the distance. The small banker's lamp in the motel office is on, but no one sits at the desk. The three cars in the parking lot wear a blanket of snow and any tire or foot tracks from earlier have disappeared.

  None of the cars belong to Jack. Or his brother, for that matter. Did he park far away and walk? Is that why his hand was so cold?

  She leans against the doorjamb and closes her eyes. It's so cold on her back, it almost burns, but she doesn't move away.

  She tries to gather her thoughts. If she's ever going to tell him the full truth, now would be the time. He's vulnerable, feeling alone, and therefore more likely to understand the actions she took when she found herself in a similar situation. Yet how can she? Her confession might be the burden that finally breaks him.

  She hears him switch on the television.

  He's torturing himself, she knows, watching the media recast his life until it becomes unrecognizable. She did the same thing, back then. She wishes s
he could tell him what it took her a few years to learn: if he's not careful, he'll start to believe he's the man they say he is.

  When she can no longer bear the cold, she steps back into the room. He's lying on top of the bedspread with his right hand on his stomach, the remote under his hand. He propped two pillows behind his shoulders. The television is still on, but his head is tilted slightly to the side and his eyes are closed. He's not snoring, but his breathing is so deep and regular that she knows he's sound asleep.

  His phone rings several times while he sleeps. The first time, she retrieves it from the breast pocket of his overcoat and turns down the volume. She sees that it's Claire trying to reach him. She wants so badly to answer and say, "He's with me."

  But of course she doesn't. She doesn't hate Claire, although sometimes she thinks she should.

  She studies his face in the blue glow of television light. She wonders if Claire still watches him sleep, if she's still fascinated with the shape of his eyebrows, the curve of his upper lip, or the scar on his chin.

  Or is that something a couple stops doing after they've been together as long as Jack and Claire?

  He rolls onto his right side and rests his left hand on the edge of the bed closest to her. His wedding ring, a simple gold band, circles his ring finger. Her eyes well. She remembers how it felt when he touched her with that hand, how her resistance dissolved when he first slipped it under her blouse and placed his palm against her spine. And then later, when both hands traveled her body as if they owned it. Does he realize they do?

  They're strong hands, with the veins and tendons visible on the back, and she craves their touch on her bare skin again.

  She returns her gaze to his face. His eyes move slightly under his lids as if he's dreaming. She suspects the only time he ever fully relaxes is during deep sleep.

  She stared at his face like this only once before. Then, he forced her to look at him. Even when her body began to

  respond without any conscious direction from her brain, he held her head and insisted she keep her eyes open, insisted she meet his stare.

  But that time was different. His

  expression had been all man, and the intensity of it scared her. Now, during his brief respite from the world, it's all boy.

  It still scares her, but this time she intends to fight the fear.

  Around eleven she tries to wake him. She speaks his name, and when he fails to respond, she says it louder, sharper.

  Nothing. If she didn't see the slow rise and fall of his chest, she'd think he'd died.

  She decides it would be cruel to force him awake. Instead, she gently pulls off his shoes and then covers him with the spare blanket. Before she climbs into her own bed, she flips on the bathroom light and leaves the door slightly ajar so he'll be able to see if he wakes later.

  In the middle of the night she wakes, startled by another presence in the room with her. And then she remembers. Jack.

  Jack showed up at her door last night.

  She closes her eyes and falls back asleep to the even rhythm of his breathing.

  She emerges from her own dreams near nine the next morning. The bright light of a snowy day peeks through the slit in the drapes. His phone rings again, but he's still sleeping. She's not sure what to do.

  Should she wake him? She crosses to his bed, gently sits on the edge. She whispers his name at his ear but he doesn't respond. She yearns to touch his face. She settles for his arm.

  "Jack," she says, trying again. He stirs, then nothing. She dares more than a touch this time and rubs the smooth underside of his forearm. "Jack," she whispers louder.

  He opens his eyes and looks at her, but she's not sure he sees her or knows where he is. He gives her a tiny smile, then, and slips his hand behind her head, through her hair, and pulls her closer. A short whimper escapes her throat—she told herself she wouldn't let this happen—but he surprises her when his lips touch her forehead instead of her mouth. He holds her briefly and then releases her. When she leans away, his eyes are closed again.

  The rhythmic breathing resumes.

  Like a bear in hibernation, he continues to sleep. His phone continues to ring.

  Sometimes it's Claire, sometimes it's Mark. Once it's Earl. As the sun reaches its zenith, she decides when Mark calls next, she’ll risk answering. She hopes it's really him and not Claire using Mark's phone.

  Only a few moments pass before it chimes again. In the bathroom, she answers but doesn't speak. At the silence, Mark says, "Jack?"

  "Mark, it's me. Jenny."

  He sighs, as if his worst fears were just confirmed.

  "He's sleeping. He showed up around eight thirty last night. We were just talking. I stepped outside for a moment for some fresh air. When I came back in, he was sleeping. He's been sleeping ever since. It's going on sixteen, seventeen hours."

  "You're joking."

  "What do you want me to do? I've tried to wake him, but unless I set off a bomb, it's not happening."

  "Claire's looking for him. He came to my house yesterday afternoon. I didn't realize he'd left until she called for him late last night and I found the guest room empty. He must have taken a cab because his car is still in my garage."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  The line is silent. Finally, he says, "Let him sleep. He needs that more than anything right now."

  Later, she notices his tie twisted and is straining against his neck. Sitting at the edge of the bed again, she loosens the knot and slowly slips it off. Sensing movement, he rolls over. His hand brushes her back, and whether by habit or instinct, he tries to pull her closer. For an instant she hesitates, poised in a space between her selfish need to lie next to him and the knowledge that he thinks she's Claire.

  She swallows a sob and carefully pulls away before he discovers his mistake.

  When Jack opens his eyes, it takes a minute to get his bearings, to remember where he is and why he's here. He's lying on his side, facing Jenny's bed. He watches her. She's propped up against her headboard reading a book with a small book light. She wears long pajama bottoms and a white tank top. He

  assumes this is what she sleeps in, or at least what she sleeps in with him in the room. Her long legs are bent and the book rests on her thighs. Something she reads makes her sigh, and she sets the book face down on her chest and turns to look at him. She smiles slightly when she sees he's awake.

  "I'd say 'good morning' but noon has come and gone. I guess I can still say Merry Christmas."

  Merry Christmas? He throws the cover off and springs to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Fuck," he says when the date on his watch comes into focus.

  He's in his stocking feet but otherwise still fully dressed.

  "You've been asleep about nineteen hours. I tried to wake you."

  How can that be? Nineteen hours? How can that be?

  "Wonderful. I've made it worse for myself now."

  He makes an urgent trip to the john.

  He's starting to smell ripe, but he's not about to ask to use her shower, too.

  When he comes out, he goes to the window and peeks outside. He squints from the brightness. It's Christmas, a white one, just like Beverly predicted.

  He's holed up in the motel room of the last woman on Earth he should be with today. He should have stayed home, or at least at his brother's house. No matter how badly things have deteriorated with Claire, this will only make it worse. He thought he would come out for a few hours, talk to Jenny, maybe question her more about the letters—anything to take his mind off things—and then catch a cab back to Mark's for the night and drive home in the morning before anyone woke. Instead, he slept right through most of Christmas, and in Jenny's motel room, of all places. He thinks of Jamie, who won't understand why his dad

  missed the biggest holiday of the year.

  "Claire's probably got an APB out on me." He's not sure why he said it. Claire wouldn't need an APB; she probably knows exactly where he is, at least in the
ory. He's never given her the exact location of the motel, or its name. Oddly, she's never asked. "I'm sorry I showed up here last night. I couldn't sleep at Mark's.

  I didn't mean to crash here, though."

  But I did anyway. I slept like a baby. He suddenly understands how much of a refuge his visits with her have become, how much of a refuge she has become. He swallows, but his throat feels permanently closed.

  "I talked to him." She must read the confusion on his face. "Claire, and then Mark, kept calling your phone. I finally answered one of Mark's calls" —she shrugs— "so at least they'd know you were alive. He said to let you sleep."

  Jack wonders if Mark finally admitted to Claire that he knew about Jenny's return.

  Jenny surprises him by laughing a little.

  "What is it?"

  "Maybe you need to go back to Newman. You slept there easily enough, too." Her tone is teasing.

  "What do you—?"

  "You don't remember? The first time we met?"

  Almost fourteen years ago now. The second worst night of my life, she called it the night they slept together. When he asked her to explain, she refused. Instead she deflected his attention by telling him about the first worst night of her life: the night of her family's murders.

  "I remember. What about it?"

  "I was new to Newman, remember? I'd just come back to St. Louis after my year practicing in Manhattan. You were just starting your second year. When I passed your office door one rainy evening, I peeked in and saw you sleeping. Your feet were propped on the desk and your arms were crossed over your chest. You might have even been snoring a little."

  "I don't snore."

  "You're right. I made that part up."

  She laughs again. "But you were sleeping, no doubt about it. I woke you up. Do you remember how?"

  He stares at her, unable to answer. Not wanting to think about it. He remembers everything. Sometimes he wishes he could forget. Other times, against his better judgment, he's glad he doesn't.