Our Little Secret

by Roz Nay

  “How long did HP stay over there?”

  I pause. This is just pretense. Novak flicks through his file with his head down.

  “Oh, here it is. Yes, okay, okay. So.” He looks up. “Did HP call you about his plans to wed?”

  The mention of it still makes my mouth turn sour, yet Novak’s build to this moment is nothing less than thespian genius. I have to give him credit for that: My mother would be proud of him. What he already knows is that HP wrote me early in the new year, a few months after he landed in Sydney. Novak knows this because he would have found the letter by now, which I have always kept in its airmail envelope against the mirror on my dresser, every line of which is also seared into my brain. It wasn’t a well-written letter, mostly about the flora and fauna of Australia, as if HP was dreading writing the final paragraph.

  Things have happened and plans have changed, he wrote in scrawly slanted lettering that looked like it was trying to dig its heels in on the page. Life throws curveballs and the best you can do is swing at them. Who knows? Maybe I’ll hit this one out of the park. I’ve asked Sask to be my wife. I don’t think she saw it coming, but she’s excited. We’ll have a ceremony on the beach, nothing too fancy, you know me. Sask has a dress but she won’t let me see it—says it’s bad luck. Her mom’s telling everyone we’ve set a date and there’s a buzz around town, people keep shaking my hand. I hope you’re okay. I miss you. Everything’s changing but not that.

  A month later he and Saskia were married.

  Novak tosses a curly-edged photograph onto the table. HP and Saskia sitting on surfboards, the ocean shapeless behind them. They’re wearing leis and above their heads on fingers clasped together is the new glint of wedding rings.

  “I’ve seen that photo before.”

  “You didn’t attend the wedding?”

  “I wasn’t invited. Nobody was. It was in fucking Sydney.”

  “Ezra wasn’t best man?”

  “Saskia’s brother. He was, like, twelve.”

  Novak rests his hands in his lap. “Would you have gone if you had been invited? Would you have looked happy in the photographs?”

  He’s definitely getting to know me.

  “Did you get them a gift at least?”

  “I framed a photo of HP, me, and Ezra from our graduation party and sent it in the mail. It cost me a lot to send. I never heard if it got to them.”

  “They decided to move back here and had a party in Cove when they returned.” It’s not a question. Novak’s putting it all together for me. How kind. “You went to the party with your old pal Freddy Montgomery. And this was…” He’s flipping pages again. “… six years ago?”

  I chew my thumbnail, hoping he won’t ask me the next question, but it’s inevitable. “So at the party when they moved back, she must have been—”

  “Pregnant.”

  “With their daughter.” He looks up. “With HP’s child.”

  It’s the detail he’s been waiting for, and he watches my face. Every muscle in my being tightens so that no emotion escapes me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It’s dark outside now. Once in a while, the sweep of a car’s headlights crosses the far wall as new visitors pull into the police station parking lot. The clock hand jars past eleven.

  Novak’s been gone for hours. He just upped and left with Freddy’s private letters. For a guy who’s got me for only a limited time, he’s letting a lot of the night slip away. At around ten, a policeman with thick ears and a ruddy face brought me a plate of macaroni, which he deposited wordlessly onto the table, clattering me a fork. The macaroni had congealed on the plate. I didn’t touch it.

  I’m desperate to sleep, but there’s nowhere to lie down. Once in a while, I rest the side of my head on the table, the cool surface smooth against my ear; but my lower back curves awkwardly and soon enough I have to sit up again.

  Has the whole department gathered by the coffee machine to talk about me? If I stay here much longer I’ll need a lawyer, because Novak is missing the point. If he spent more time actually listening, he’d be able to see the truth. Everything would become clear. It wouldn’t hurt, either, if he tried to be a little nicer. The only gesture of kindness was that cup of coffee and that never turned out to be real.

  When HP left me and shacked up with Saskia, I lost any feeling of safety. Without him next to me, reality stopped being manageable: my brain wouldn’t flex anymore. HP took his happiness and spent it elsewhere, blanketed other people in it, while here I’ve been miserable for six years straight, not that anyone’s noticed. It’s a longer sentence than some people serve in jail. By day, it’s the boredom that gets me. Most people seem able to pad themselves with things they hope to learn or buy or achieve, but everything they’re aiming at is dull. Why bother to pretend that life’s not ultimately unsatisfying?

  I read once that in a game of cat and mouse, the only way for the mouse to win is to walk willingly into the cat’s mouth. I think about that a lot. Futility’s staring directly at us. We should just stop running.

  * * *

  The truth is I didn’t know Saskia was pregnant when I showed up to that garden party. When I told my mom they were having a wedding celebration, she closed her eyes and kept them shut for the best part of a minute. She was drinking coffee at the time, the steam from the cup curling around her chin. When she finally opened her eyes, they glistened with tears.

  “I can’t believe he’s going through with it. Are you all right, darling? Why on earth are you going to their party?”

  “Just to see HP.”

  “That poor lost boy. Well, don’t engage with the Australian. Petitjean women do not allow others the opportunity to gloat.”

  By the kitchen cupboard, Dad let out a wheeze of air that sounded like sarcasm. He was stirring sugar into a cup of tea.

  “Is there something I can help you with, David?” My mother’s fingers gripped her coffee mug so hard that her fingertips pressed white near the rim. “Or did you have something to add?”

  “Come on, Shelley. Can’t people marry who they want to marry?”

  “Yes, but sometimes they regret their decision later,” Mom snapped back.

  Dad paused by the back of the sofa before shuffling to his study, where he quietly shut the door.

  Ezra was absent also—he was trying out for a pro water polo team in North Carolina and I always thought the fact HP didn’t reschedule the party to accommodate Ez was surefire proof that the event was more Saskia’s than his. In the same vein, HP’s parents hosted the party in their front yard but you could tell it was Saskia’s planning because it was all fairy lights and butterfly-themed cupcakes. They’d even hired a string quartet to play theme tunes from Disney movies, for God’s sake.

  Yes, I went to the party with Freddy Montgomery. While HP had been doing his sun salutations in Sydney, the one positive development in my life had been Freddy moving to New York City. At least one weekend out of every four, he came to visit me. I was lonely in Cove: I started my online degree but didn’t have anyone to hang out with. Ezra was around, but he was either working weird shifts at the grocery store or training for his one shot at being a pro athlete. I welcomed the attention of Freddy. He showered me with gifts and I accepted them. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it wasn’t like anybody else’s spotlight was on me.

  When we walked into the garden party, I realized I hadn’t set foot on the Parkers’ property since before I left for Oxford, but the old birch tree was still there, stalwart and notched with secrets. It seemed a lifetime ago that HP and I had huddled against the bark.

  Freddy headed straight to the drinks table, which was old man Parker’s workbench set up to the right of the house with an embroidered sheet thrown across it. Freddy hesitated, his Rolex glinting on his outstretched wrist. Novak’s right about Freddy’s fast fortune: Whether or not his rise had been Machiavellian, money sat on every part of him now; it seeped from his very skin. He was more groomed than he’d been at Oxford, more sp
a-treated and fine-tailored. That day he was dressed in a pale gray suit with a pink collared shirt while everyone else wore ball caps and shorts. At the drinks table, Freddy turned to show me a silver angel that tinkled at the base of each wineglass’s stem.

  “What a glorious touch,” he said, meaning the opposite. “Where on earth have you brought me, Ms. Petitjean? The style palette’s verging on Ikea.”

  We hardly mingled. Freddy and I hung back by the tree, while Freddy pointed out all the ways in which party guests were wearing their clothes wrongly. Look at that tapered waist! Go up a size, love. There’s no shame in it.

  It was harmless enough, as afternoons go, until I returned from the bathroom inside the house to find that Saskia had discovered Freddy. He stood with one arm across his waist and the other one dangling a half-filled wineglass, which moved in rhythm with plot points of his anecdote. Saskia’s dress was a deep threat of red, and while Freddy told his story she gaped at him, the fingertips of her right hand on the upper arm of his suit sleeve.

  “You’re funny as!” she giggled, with that way she had of ruining the simile. “Come and meet my new rellies!”

  She dragged him over to HP’s mom and dad, both of whom stood quietly throughout the party holding hands. Mrs. Parker had on a dress, but nothing else about her shouted grand celebration. Were they surprised by the turn of events? I hadn’t had a chance to ask them. I dawdled a few steps behind, mainly because without Freddy alongside me, the whole afternoon took on a more difficult complexity.

  “Parko,” trilled Saskia to one or both of HP’s parents, “this is Freddy Montgomery.”

  “How do you do? What a pleasure it is.” Freddy bowed slightly to HP’s mother, who caught my eye as I stood a foot behind. “You must be terribly proud of your son.”

  Was Freddy being ironic? He’d yet to glance back at me.

  “We are, we are. Especially proud what with their news.”

  Mrs. Parker looked straight at me. She always had such gentle eyes, and at that moment, I saw her flinch.

  “News?” Freddy asked, as though he didn’t know. Saskia put a delicate hand to her belly. Shhhh, she mimed, with one straight finger against her lips. She took a breath to launch into her life’s most recent elation, but I backed away toward the house again, through the kitchen and into the cool leather of the armchair in the shadiest corner of the Parkers’ screened-in sunroom.

  Mrs. Parker had been knitting a sweater—it lay wrapped in a wicker basket at the base of the chair, ready to be woven on like a story. I held up the wool, wondering who it was for, just as Freddy wandered into the room.

  “How are you holding up?” He flopped down onto the sofa, which was less spongy than he’d anticipated. His wine spilled and he smudged it into the fabric of the cushion.

  I didn’t feel like responding. Freddy lounged across the sunroom from me, staring at the general layout.

  “Do you think he married her because she’s pregnant?”

  “Would there be any other reason?” He reached over and got rid of the wineglass, depositing it on a tall-legged coffee table. “I mean, aside from the years he can look forward to jogging or eating kale?”

  “Do you think he loves her?”

  “No. I think he loves you and got her.”

  I plucked at the stitching in the upholstery. “You talk like it’s food in a diner. But if the order’s wrong, why wouldn’t he send it back?”

  “Because some men are like that: they have to taste what’s in front of them, and before they know it they’ve eaten too much and have to pay for it.” Freddy sniffed the fabric of the sofa. “My jacket is going to need a dry clean. Are there cats in this house?” He clicked his fingers a few times, demanding my focus. “Angela, I want you to know that I would never get the order wrong in the diner. The obvious truth here, my darling, is that you are not diner fare.” He waited.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I pushed myself up from the chair. “This whole town, I mean.”

  “That’s the spirit.” We left the sunroom and when we moved through the kitchen, HP was there. Freddy walked straight past him through the living room. HP and I were alone.

  “Little John.” HP took two big steps toward me, playing with the gold ring on his hand. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak with you much while I was over in Oz … it kind of got … it’s been crazy hectic lately, I kind of feel like my head is spinning.”

  “Wait till the baby’s on the outside. I hear that gets busy.”

  He blinked. “It’s not a shotgun wedding, you know.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s only a month or so along. And I didn’t think we were telling people.” His collar looked tight as he picked at it. “It wasn’t planned, sure, but maybe it’s just about, you know, getting to a place faster than you’d meant to.”

  He was babbling.

  “You play the cards you’re dealt. Everyone does.” His voice was rising.

  “I thought there was always a chance to get a new hand,” I said.

  His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, LJ. Fuck, I know I’ve hurt you. I know that’s why you’re … being like this.” His eyes were deep and dark like nighttime. Like the skies we used to sleep under in the bed of his truck. “But honestly, my heart broke, too, somewhere along the way.”

  I felt my ribs contract. If I moved too quickly, I knew I’d sob. Meanwhile, HP looked like he was going to reach out and hug me.

  “I didn’t even think we were done, and then you’re suddenly overseas, and then getting married. And now … this. It’s just … a lot to take in.” We weren’t touching but in the gap between us, a hum of connection surged. I was sure he felt it, too.

  “Not to say anything bad about Saskia. I’m not—you know—speaking badly of her.” He sighed. “But you and me—if this had all been the other way around and you’d done this to me, I know for sure I’d have kicked that guy’s ass.”

  “Who’s to say I won’t kick hers?”

  We laughed, oh ha ha ha.

  “It’s good to talk to you, LJ. I want us to be in each other’s lives. We grew up together—it means something. And you’re my first love. That’s forever. That’s set in stone.”

  I looked down at the floor tiles. “You know, I don’t want you to call me LJ anymore, or Little John. I’m going with Angela from now on.”

  “Really?” He frowned. “I don’t think Angela’s you.”

  The front door swung open and Mrs. Parker walked into the house carrying two halves of a broken wineglass. Her index finger dripped blood.

  HP sprang forward and grabbed some paper towels from the roll on the counter.

  “So silly,” Mrs. Parker said, her head fluttering. “I was just picking up the pieces and one of them sliced me.” HP pressed the towel to her finger and guided her to the sink. “How are you?”

  It took me a second to understand she was speaking to me.

  “Oh, okay.” I cleared my throat. “It’s a nice party.”

  Mrs. Parker glanced at me, with meaning. “Well done for coming.”

  “I was just leaving, actually. But thank you. It’s always good to see you, Mrs. Parker.”

  She wrapped the towel around her finger and kissed her son’s cheek, then touched my face softly as well with her one good hand. “I’ll leave you to your chat.”

  The kitchen felt awkward once she’d left. Neither HP nor I could make eye contact.

  “I should go,” I said.

  HP turned and swept me into a hug with such force that it lifted me onto my tiptoes. His entire frame held me up, braced me: if I’d relaxed every muscle in my body, I wouldn’t have slumped an inch.

  And that’s what Novak’s not getting, what he doesn’t see. It’s not about the drinks HP didn’t buy me or the hours he spent on his own. It’s about who your soul mate is. Ask HP’s mom. Even she knows. Guys like HP hug like that to tell you something. Something that means forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN


  Novak’s returned with renewed vigor, as if he spent the hour between eleven and midnight downing cans of Red Bull. I wish he’d brought me the coffee he’d promised. With the exception of two bathroom breaks, I’ve been sitting in this room for almost sixteen hours now. I’m starting to see double.

  “We’ve just confirmed: Saskia Parker’s DNA is all over that elephant necklace.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?” I close my eyes. “I thought you already knew it was her necklace—you have it in a bag with her name on the label.”

  Novak balks. He looks like a kid who’s presented his best artwork and been told it’s not that special. He stands, pacing to the window. Outside, the sky has been engulfed by darkness.

  “Believe me, we’re getting somewhere. Fast. You should, too.”

  “Right. Sure, Novak. Let me get on that.”

  He sweeps his hair to the side and stares out the window.

  “Who else’s DNA is on the necklace?” I ask.

  “Why aren’t you asking where we found it?”

  “Well, wherever it was, I didn’t put it there.”

  He watches me for a moment. “We’re looking into Freddy. You know that, right? Tell me what you know. What’s relevant, I mean.”

  It’s absurd how lost Novak is. He’s seriously their homicide guy? I could find Saskia quicker myself.

  “Isn’t Freddy in one of your rooms down the corridor? Anything you want to know, you could probably ask him yourself.”

  He continues staring out the window. “What is his apartment like? You spent a lot of time there.”

  “You’re asking the wrong questions. You already have all your answers.”

  “I have some of them.” He turns his head slightly. “How much time did you spend with him in his New York apartment?”

  With his back to me, I can see that the line of skin below Novak’s hairline is startlingly white, as if it’s never before been exposed to sunlight.

  “Are you asking about Freddy because you think he’s madly in love with me? That he’d do anything I asked of him? My God, this is ridiculous.”