One Secret Too Many

by Vanessa Grant

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Sam, his voice very low. ‘I’ll talk to him, but we can’t make things too easy for Neil. He’s got to work for his own breaks, to realise he’s the one who controls his future.’

  And from what Alex could see, Sam certainly made sure that Neil worked hard. The doctor was away, as he had predicted, for long hours. He often went out in the evening to the hospital, and sometimes she heard the door at night, followed by the muted roar of the Corvette’s engine. Each day, whether he was present or not, he made sure that Neil had plenty to do. First Neil washed down the walls in the upstairs bedrooms, then painted them with fresh, bright paint. Alex was worried about the boy working with only one arm, but Sam ignored the arm and Neil seemed determined to do his work.

  Once Alex’s belongings were moved into her rooms, Sam left her mostly alone. They shared a kitchen. She heard him coming and going, heard his car, but she saw little of him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he had said that first night. ‘I know you want to be independent. I understand that, and I’m not going to be under your feet.’

  She had felt irrationally irritated by this pronouncement, but after all she had asked for it, had told him that her independence was important. She explored her part of the house, including the back hallway that led to the kitchen they shared. Sam hadn’t mentioned a dividing wall again since that first evening, and she hoped he would forget the idea entirely. She went down to Safeway and bought a few groceries, then to the telephone store to arrange to have a phone put in. The girl who took her request at the telephone store was brightly curious. She recognised the minister’s daughter.

  She asked to have the telephone listed under the name Alex Houseman. It felt like a final step, revoking her old identity as Mary. As she wrote out the cheque for the deposit on the telephone, she realised that the money was going quicker than she had expected. Soon her advance for the book would arrive, but until then she would have to be very careful of her few hundred dollars of savings. It was just as well that she had not argued Sam out of his determination to defer payment of her rent. Her mother must be convinced that she was living off Sam, totally dependent on him. Everyone would believe that.

  Two Sundays passed. For the first time Alex could remember, she did not go to church. She admitted to herself that she was afraid. Of Emily. Of her mother. She withdrew into her rooms, content to spend her time making them hers. The room that must once have been a children’s playroom now held a bed and bureau from one of the upstairs bedrooms.

  The second night of her occupancy, Sam brought her an antique desk just the right size for the bay window. ‘There’s tons of stuff in those upstairs bedrooms, Alex. Go through them and see what you want down here. Neil and I have all we need in those two bedrooms we’re using. Anything you want from the others, tell me or Neil and we’ll bring it down.’

  She shouldn’t. Sam was doing too much already. She concentrated on organising her things, but she badly needed a bookcase for her books. She told herself that she could not start writing until she had the bookcase, but the truth was that she did not feel like writing yet. Soon. One day she would sit down, stare out over the harbour and finish her second book.

  The old study became her living room, outfitted with a sofa and easy chair from a small sitting room on the other side of the house. ‘How many chesterfields can I use?’ complained Sam when he moved it in for her. ‘You may as well have this one.’

  He was strong, used to moving heavy things. She took pleasure in the glimpses she had of him. Sometimes sleek and formal in his suit, dressed for his role of doctor. Sometimes rough and virile, dressed more for a construction site than an office. When he brought the sofa he was wearing an old T-shirt and paint-stained blue jeans, his muscles so hard and prominent through the thin cotton that she had to clench her hand to keep from reaching out, touching, caressing.

  Her dreams of him were spreading, moving into the daylight hours. Perhaps it was the new hormones in her bloodstream. Did pregnancy make a woman more sensual?

  She enjoyed making her breakfasts in the big old kitchen, taking a small tray with her and sitting in the big chair in her living room, looking out with the window open. Soon she would start working. She felt as if she had her own world here, as if no one could intrude from outside.

  Finally the day came when she wanted to work. She would go upstairs and look for a bookcase, then she would do some work whether she found a place for her books or not. She could hear Neil upstairs, and she found him in an empty bedroom, with furniture pushed out into the hallway. He was standing on a chair painting the walls with a roller.

  ‘Are you sure you should do that with your arm in a cast?’ she asked, worried, seeing more the young child he had been than this half-man.

  ‘Of course,’ he scoffed, grinning at her. ‘If it wasn’t OK, Sam wouldn’t ask me to do it. I’ve already done the next room.’

  She went and looked, then came back and told him, ‘It looks nice. You’re doing a good job.’ He glowed with the praise and she wondered how often anyone had taken time to give him a kind word, a moment of caring.

  ‘After this,’ he told her, ‘Sam wants me to clear out the basement. Then I’m to get to the yard. There’s a motor mower, but it’s not working and I’m supposed to fix it.’

  She frowned. ‘Do you know anything about mowers?’

  ‘I’ll figure it out.’ He was determined, and she thought that he would do anything Sam asked.

  She watched for a while, then asked, ‘There’s a small bookcase out in the hallway. Are you or Sam using it?’

  ‘Nope. You want it? I’ll bring it down for you after I finish this wall.’ He was working steadily, using his injured arm for balance. She hoped he would not fall from the chair.

  ‘I’ll carry it.’ She was probably fitter than he was.

  ‘No!’ He swung around sharply, teetering on the chair. ‘Sam says I’m not to let you lift anything!’ He glared at her a little nervously, then said tensely, ‘You gotta let me carry it! Sam would be mad if you did it.’

  Sam didn’t want her to lift things because of the baby. Neil didn’t know about the baby, or she thought he didn’t, but Sam had given instructions. The bookcase was small, but Neil was determined and Alex was shaken to realise that Sam was thinking of her even when he wasn’t around her. ‘All right,’ she agreed finally. Neil heaved a sigh of relief. How had Sam got such a hold on this boy?

  Neil brought the bookcase down, carrying it balanced with his one good arm and his shoulder. Luckily it was small, although she shuddered as she heard him coming down the stairs. It would be terrible if he fell and hurt the arm again because of her. He put it in place beside the desk, then stood looking around, saying, ‘This is pretty nice.’ He was tall and terribly thin, towering over her but looking as if a stiff wind would blow him over. ‘You should have some rugs, though. There are some upstairs. I’ll get them.’

  He was gone before she could protest, returning three times with braided scatter rugs that seemed to tie her furnishing together with the polished hardwood floors into a bright warmth.

  ‘Thanks, Neil. The colours are perfect.’ He was smiling, sweating slightly, his breath still coming rapidly from all the trips up and down stairs. She asked, ‘What do you do for lunch?’

  ‘Grab something.’ He shrugged. ‘Sandwich or something.’

  ‘Have lunch with me,’ she invited.

  It became a routine for them. In the weeks that passed, she saw more of Neil than she did of Sam. She worked on her book in the mornings, had lunch with Neil, then in the afternoon she took a walk by herself before working again at the computer.

  The new book was unfolding as if it had already been written somewhere in her subconscious. She was still doing her newspaper articles, too. She had gone down to the newspaper office and talked to the editor, with the result that she was now doing two articles a week instead of one. Two evenings a week for the articles. Her days for the book. She wrote a letter to her liter
ary agent to give her new address and the telephone number for the silent phone that had been installed.

  Neil started afternoon classes at the college. ‘Upgrading,’ he explained as he ate his omelette one noon hour. ‘Then I might be able to take the electronics technician course. The instructor says I don’t need much more to qualify for that. Mostly some maths. And I’m good at maths.’ To take the electronics course he would have to stay out of gaol, too. She didn’t say it, but Neil frowned and she thought he was thinking of his next court date.

  She learned little things about Sam from Neil, although Sam seemed so busy that even Neil saw little of him. Enough, though, to keep him busy. ‘He knows how to make a guy work!’ Neil complained one morning as he sanded the banister. His voice sounded proud, as if it were an honour to have the doctor as a slave-driver.

  In the nights she listened when Sam went out. He often did, returning an hour later, perhaps two. For the most part Sam was keeping his promise to leave her alone.

  One day her mother telephoned. ‘There’s mail here for you,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ll leave it on the kitchen counter.’

  ‘Mother—’ But she had hung up, and when Alex went to the manse she found the house empty, a long envelope lying on the counter. She had been avoiding her mother, nervous of seeing her, but the empty manse wounded her, making her feel like a traitor. Had she done the unforgivable, by sharing a time of wonder and joy with Sam? What they had shared had been so complete, so beautiful, it was no wonder that a child had been created in those hours they had spent together. How could anything so beautiful be wrong?

  She took the envelope home. It was from her agent.

  ‘Here you are, Alex Diamond. Publisher’s advance on Holy Murder enclosed, less my agency commission. Publication date for hard-cover edition is February 1.’

  Her book would go to press just a couple of weeks before the baby was due. She wanted to tell someone, but Neil was at the college, and Sam of course was at the clinic. She paced, hugging her excitement to herself. She finally sat down at her desk, but she couldn’t think about work. The cheque in her bag was for something she had written. Her book was going to be in print, perhaps even sold in the downtown bookshop. Emily was a mystery buff. Perhaps she would be buying Alex Diamond’s book. Alex turned the computer off, having typed not a word. She had to tell someone about the cheque. She picked up the telephone and dialed Maggie’s number, but there was no answer.

  The person she really wanted to tell was Sam. She opened the telephone book and looked up the number of the medical clinic, but she hadn’t the nerve to dial and talk to the receptionist who might recognise her voice.

  She grabbed a light jacket and went outside. She decided to walk downtown rather than take her scooter. The bicycle had a flat tyre and she hadn’t got around to asking Neil to fix it. She had nothing to do all afternoon except put the cheque in the bank, and it was a beautifully sunny summer day, perfect for a walk.

  The teller at the bank was bright-eyed with curiosity when she handled Alex’s deposit, and she would have asked a question if her supervisor hadn’t been standing close by, watching.

  How long would it take her mother to hear that she had put a large sum of money into the bank? Alex went to the Safeway and bought three of the most expensive steaks she could find. Mushrooms. Tomatoes. She filled a basket with enough for a lovely steak and salad dinner for three. Neil had said that Sam loved pumpkin pie, so she stopped at the bakery and bought a pie. She had never been in a liquor store in her life, and she found herself very uncomfortable as she walked along the aisles and tried to decide what would be a nice wine for dinner. In the end she bought a half-case of beer, because she remembered Sam saying over a table in a Vancouver nightclub that he was more comfortable with a bottle of beer than a glass of wine. The assistant stared at her oddly when she asked for a bag for the beer, but she knew what kind of talk would be going around town if anyone saw her walking along the street with an armful of beer.

  She was paranoid, always thinking about what people were saying. She knew she should stop it, but it was too deeply ingrained, too much a part of her life.

  She found walking up the hill to be hard work on her way home. She was out of breath and far too warm by the time she let herself into the house. Usually she went directly to her own part of the house, avoiding intruding on Sam’s privacy. Today, for the first time, she succumbed to the temptation to walk through Sam’s side of the house to the back hallway.

  He kept his living room very tidy, although a few magazines scattered around showed that he spent time here. A medical journal. A computer magazine. A regional magazine from California. Sam was from the United States originally. Where? California? It seemed insane that she did not know.

  Beside his chair there was a book of poems by Rudyard Kipling and a science fiction novel that she had been meaning to read ever since she saw it on the stands a month ago. There was a very good stereo on an antique table. She remembered the table from her first visit here, but the stereo was new. Sam’s. There was little else she could see in these rooms that had not been there when he had bought the house.

  He had so few things of his own. It was as if he only spent money on the things that were very important to him, but then he spared no expense. The quality stereo. The car. The impossibly big house. Neil.

  And his unborn child.

  She had to swallow the tears, and there was no reason for crying. Except that he was a man who should have a lot of love, and he had spent most of his life alone. She knew that he would never tell her all the details, but she was piecing them together from the things she knew, and the things she picked up from Neil. He had been dragged from one home to another all through his childhood, had been beaten and screamed at and everything but loved. It was a wonder that he had emerged from his rough upbringing still able to give. He had gone out on a limb for Neil, had offered Alex far more than she could accept on behalf of their child.

  Yet he asked for nothing. Neil was working hard for Sam, but Alex knew that Sam was not making him work for any reason other than the boy’s rehabilitation. He was doing the same thing with Alex. He had bought the house, given her this apartment, would give anything more if she asked—except himself. But the only thing he had accepted from her was the gift of her innocence, and that only because he had thought he would never see her again.

  She stood in the kitchen, staring at the steaks on the counter, realising that she would have to be the one to change that. Somehow, she must make him aware that he could reach out to her without danger. That wasn’t going to be easy, especially for someone as shy as she was. Shy? she questioned, impatient with herself. She was a coward, a raving, rabid coward!

  The first step was the telephone, terrifying though it was. She had the number memorised. She doubted if she would ever forget it.

  Mrs Bramley’s voice was brightly efficient. ‘I’d like to speak to Dr Dempsey, please.’ Alex was proud of the businesslike tones she managed.

  ‘The doctor’s with a patient. If you’d like to leave a name and number, he’ll get back to you later.’

  A name. Of course. You never called a doctor and got straight through. ‘Alex,’ she said, feeling panicked. ‘Just ask him to call Alex, please.’

  ‘Alex? Do—isn’t this Mary Houseman?’ Alex took a deep breath, wishing herself far away from this telephone and Mrs Bramley. She said stiffly, ‘I’m calling myself Alex now.’ And that sounded so insane that she added defensively, ‘It’s my second name.’

  ‘I thought I recognised your voice. All right, Mary, I’ll tell him. You did say Dr Dempsey? Not Dr Box? Did you want an appointment?’

  ‘No!’ Her heart was thundering and she had to escape this. She said hurriedly, ‘Thank you. I’ve got to go,’ and she got the telephone receiver back in its place. She shouldn’t have done it. He would be furious at her calling his office, disturbing his work. He’d said that he worked long hours, and that was just a polite way of telling her th
at he was not to be disturbed. He had made it sound as if she was the one who would not be disturbed, but he was the doctor and everyone knew you didn’t barge in on a doctor’s day unless you could show blood haemorrhaging, or a bone sticking out through the skin.

  You certainly didn’t call because you wanted him to come home to dinner. They would all be talking about it, and Sam would be angry because his staff would be gossiping and speculating behind his back. Did Mrs Bramley know where Alex was living now? Alex stared at the telephone for a long time, then managed to convince herself that she was a fool to wait for his call. She hadn’t left a telephone number and, although Sam was probably aware that she had a telephone installed, he had never asked for the number.

  She tried to get back to work on the book. Chapter six was finished, and she had the words ‘Chapter Seven’ staring at her from the monitor. In chapter seven the murderer was going to discover that the girl who lived in the barge alone was actually Mr Awley’s daughter, and she had all that in her notes. It seemed dry and dull. She couldn’t think of one interesting way to start the scene and it seemed to her that no one reading the book would care who the girl’s father was.

  Someone knocked on the door. The front door. Sam’s door. She was incapable of ignoring a knock, even if it was probably not for her. She left the computer turned on, went through her doorway and into Sam’s hallway. She hesitated, but the knock was repeated. She pulled the door open.

  He was wearing his cleric’s collar, but he looked uncomfortable in it. At first, he said nothing and she had no words either, except, ‘Daddy,’ as if she were still a small child.

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. ‘Mary, can I come in?’

  She stepped back, wordlessly. He followed and turned as if to go into Sam’s living room. ‘No,’ she said then. ‘This way.’ She opened the door and he followed her, his eyes taking it all in, but his lips silent. She led him to the easy chair by the window. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, shall I?’ He usually liked tea in the late afternoon.