A Secret Life

by Barbara Dunlop

  Anthony didn’t have a quick answer for that one. There was an answer, he just didn’t have it at his fingertips.

  Heather sniffed, putting her nose in the air and reaching for Joan’s hands. “Go pack a few things. The jet’s on the airstrip in St. Martinville.”

  “I’m not going to Europe,” said Joan. “I’m going to deliver my tea invitations.”

  Anthony let out a long-suffering sigh. “Why do we have to keep having the same conversation?”

  Joan gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Because you keep getting it wrong.”

  He shifted closer still, capturing her green eyes in order to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. “There could be reporters out there, lurking behind the cypress trees, waiting to pounce.”

  “You have delusions of grandeur,” she said, staring right back.

  “Your story was a section headline in The New York Times. I am not exaggerating the potential for publicity.”

  After a moment’s silence, Heather spoke up. “I have to go with Anthony on this one.”

  Anthony glanced sideways at her and blinked. “Really?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m still taking her to Europe.”

  “I’m standing right here,” said Joan. “And nobody is taking me anywhere.”

  “That a girl,” said Anthony. This was a moment in a million for an author. Joan needed to stay in the U.S., where she could capitalize on it.

  “And I’m giving a tea.” She turned to Heather. “You want to stay and make your crab puffs?”

  “Joanie, we can be in Paris for breakfast.”

  “I’ll deliver the damn invitations for you,” said Anthony, whisking them out of Joan’s hands. He could only fight on so many fronts at once, and Heather’s Europe plan needed to be neutralized.

  Once those invitations were out, he was willing to bet that Joan would stay put and host the party. He’d rather get her to New York, but Indigo was a lot better than Paris.

  JOAN AND HEATHER watched Anthony’s rented black sports car back down the dirt driveway and pull onto Amelie Lane.

  “So, are you sleeping with him?” asked Heather as she let the cotton print curtains fall back into place.

  “No, I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “Really?” Heather gave Joan the arched-brow, skeptical look that she’d perfected when they were growing up.

  Joan felt a shiver of guilt, even though absolutely nothing was going on between her and Anthony. “He lives in New York. I hardly ever see him.”

  Heather shrugged beneath her Anne Klein blazer and tucked her bobbed hair behind one ear. “Too bad. If you ignore the attitude, he’s pretty hot.”

  Joan wasn’t about to disagree with that. Anthony was definitely hot. He also had an attitude.

  “So, what did Mom and Dad say?” she asked, changing the subject to something only slightly more comfortable than her feelings for Anthony.

  “That they were sure this was all some kind of a mistake.”

  Joan moved back from the window and into the cluttered, brightly colored living room. “I’m sure they thought it was.”

  Heather took a cushioned rattan chair and crossed one toned leg over the other. The seat was Joan’s favorite. Positioned beside a bank of windows, it overlooked the lawn, the cypress trees and the little pier that jutted out into Bayou Teche.

  “What happened, Joanie? Last I heard you were writing history books.”

  Joan sat down on the floral print love seat opposite. “Brian died,” she said softly, referring to her late husband.

  Heather gave her a quizzical look.

  “He was partway through a mystery novel,” Joan said. “And then he died. I finished it in his memory.” She smiled to herself. “And it was fun.”

  “So you made up a pen name.”

  “And I kept writing.” Joan spread her hands. “And now this.”

  “What if you just denied it?”

  “I’d be lying.”

  Her sister lifted a brow again as if to question the relevance of that statement. “Yeah?”

  “Aside from the ethics of the situation, I’m pretty sure I’d get caught.”

  “Which makes me wonder…how did you keep it a secret this long?”

  “A numbered company through Zurich.”

  Heather’s dark red lips pursed in admiration. “Not bad.”

  “It was Anthony’s idea.”

  “I bet Daddy could hide your tracks.”

  Oh, yeah, that was the answer. Engage her father in a conspiracy. “You thirsty?”

  “Got a cosmopolitan?”

  Joan stood. “Let me check.” She drank more wine than martinis, but lime juice was a staple in Indigo, and she entertained often enough to keep a stocked bar.

  Heather rose gracefully from her chair and followed. “I don’t get what happened, Joanie.”

  Joan pulled the cranberry juice and lime out of the refrigerator, setting it on the breakfast bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “Mysteries are a lot more fun than history books.”

  “Did you want to be famous or something?”

  “Of course not. I just wanted to have fun writing them. I figured, what’s the harm? And I did hide it for ten years.”

  “See, that part blows me away. Ten years.”

  Joan scooped some ice from the freezer and dumped it into the martini shaker. “Something like that.”

  “So this wasn’t your first book?”

  “Bayou was my twelfth. And there’s one more in line-editing.”

  Heather blinked at her in silence.

  “What?” Joan asked.

  “Daddy’s going to freak.”

  Joan reached for the Absolut. “There was a chance he wouldn’t freak over one book?”

  “No. But now he’ll freak even more.”

  Freak was probably the right word. Joan’s stomach lurched again and, after a split-second hesitation, she poured some extra vodka into the shaker. “You want a double?”

  “You bet.” Heather perched herself on one of the high swivel chairs at the breakfast bar. She tapped her long, red fingernails against the Arborite. “I don’t get why you had to publish them.”

  “Because that’s what you do with novels.”

  “But why sell them at all? You don’t need the money.”

  Not a bad question. Joan supposed she could have kept the manuscripts to herself. But it wouldn’t have been the same. As much as she protected her privacy and solitude, she loved reading the reviews, and she got a big kick out of the reader comments that were sent to the unofficial Jules Burrell Web site. There was something satisfying in knowing a story she’d created spoke to people in so many different corners of the world.

  “Joan?”

  “It wouldn’t have been the same,” said Joan, capping the lid on the shaker.

  “You bet it wouldn’t have been the same.” Heather gave a hollow laugh. “Hundreds of Daddy’s friends and associates wouldn’t have read your sweaty little saga and second-guessed his parenting skills.”

  Joan flinched. She hadn’t meant to hurt her family. She knew the Batemans ranked popular fiction writing right up there with mud wrestling.

  “Do you think he read it?” she asked, shaking the martinis.

  Heather shook her head. “No.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “When would I have read it? I called the jet right after reading the article this morning.”

  Joan poured the cosmopolitans into long-stemmed glasses, wondering if her family might be pleasantly surprised if they read her work. She realized that a big part of her was proud of her stories. “I could give you a copy. Are you curious at all?”

  Heather stared contemplatively at her drink. “Quite frankly, I’m scared to death.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of finding out that it’s even worse than I thought.”

  Ouch.

  “I’m at the Heidelberg Strings Friday night,” Heather continued, o
blivious to the fact that her insult had hit home. “With Jeffrey Plant. I don’t want to have to explain your book to him and his mother.”

  Okay. Now that one definitely hurt. Joan contemplated her own drink for a long moment. “Yeah? Well, there’s a bondage scene on page two-twenty-one. You might want to point that out to them.”

  Heather froze, glass halfway to her lips. “That’s not even funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.” Joan took a healthy swig. “Say hi to Monica Plant for me, will you?”

  Heather’s face blanched. A violinist herself, Heather considered her connections in the music community to be vitally important. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Joan shrugged. She probably had. Her parents were going to kill her. And it wasn’t as though she couldn’t see their point.

  Bayou Betrayal was a heart-pounding, action-packed, titillating read, aimed squarely at the mass market. It had little redeeming social value. It was simply a fun write and, hopefully, a fun read.

  As Heather downed half of her own martini, there was a knock on the door.

  Heather grabbed Joan’s hand across the countertop. “You think we should hide?” she stage-whispered.

  “It’s probably Anthony,” Joan whispered back.

  “Would he knock?”

  Joan put down her glass. “Of course he would knock. I told you, we meet maybe once or twice a year.” She headed for the door.

  “I think you should be careful.” Heather pattered behind her. “You’ve got enough problems without a news crew sticking a camera in your face.”

  Joan flashed her sister a look of disbelief. “News crew? You’re starting to sound like Anthony.” Still, she peeked through the beveled window before opening the door.

  Not Anthony.

  And not a news crew.

  It was Samuel Kane, and Joan’s stomach did a slow-motion slide to her toes. Samuel should have been the first person she thought of when her name went public.

  In the past, she’d always been careful not to base her stories on real people or on real events. They all took place in Cajun country. And yes, the small town was similar to Indigo. But the stories themselves were pure fiction.

  Until this one.

  The murder-suicide of Samuel Kane’s parents had formed the germ of her idea for Bayou Betrayal.

  “Who is it?” Heather hissed from behind her.

  Joan took a bracing breath and opened the door.

  “Ms. Bateman?” Samuel Kane nodded, his tone low and melodious. He was a big, burly man with cropped black hair, deep-set eyes and a wide nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. His skin was the color of burnished copper both from his hours in the sun as a carpenter and from his mixed heritage.

  Joan sometimes saw him at church, and they’d certainly met around town, but they’d never engaged one another in conversation. There was only one reason for him to show up at her door today—he’d already read Bayou Betrayal, and she hadn’t been nearly as vague as she’d hoped.

  “Mr. Kane,” she acknowledged, swallowing against a tight, dry throat.

  “Who is it?” Heather demanded.

  “I think you know why I’m here,” he said.

  Heather shouldered her way between Joan and the doorjamb. “Well, I don’t know why you’re here.”

  “Heather,” Joan warned, stepping back, opening the door wider. “Please come in.”

  “You’re letting him in?” Heather squeaked, glancing from one to the other.

  “She’s letting me in,” said Samuel.

  Heather looked him up and down. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  Samuel perused Heather from head to toe. “You afraid I’ll steal the silver?”

  Heather crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin. “I’m afraid you’re a stringer for a tabloid.”

  Samuel’s lip curled, and he gave Heather an insolent look few men would have dared. When she didn’t flinch, he turned his attention to Joan. “I need to know if it’s true.”

  “Please come in,” Joan repeated.

  “Joanie.”

  “Back off, Heather.”

  Heather’s delicate nostrils flared for a second, but she stepped out of the way.

  Samuel ambled through the doorway, ducking reflexively to accommodate his height.

  Joan closed the door behind him.

  “It’s true,” she admitted, bracing herself for his anger.

  For a split second, his expression went blank. Then he blinked and drew back. “You have proof?”

  “Proof?” What an odd question.

  “Of my father’s innocence.”

  Joan instantly understood, and her mouth formed a silent oh.

  In her novel, Samuel’s father didn’t murder his wife and then commit suicide. In her novel, his father was framed by criminals who were after hundreds of thousands of dollars concealed in the walls of his house.

  Samuel thought the entire book was true. And she’d unthinkingly given him false hope.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I’m afraid the story is fictional.”

  Samuel’s meaty hands slowly curled into fists.

  “I made it up,” she clarified, taking a step backward. Maybe Heather had been right about letting Samuel in.

  Just then the front door opened, and Anthony strode into the hall. He stopped short, his eyes darting from one person to another. “What’s going on here?”

  Samuel ignored his arrival, pointing a finger in Joan’s direction. “That book is about my parents.”

  “Whoa.” Anthony stepped between Joan and Samuel. “We are not commenting on an accusation like that.”

  “It’s true,” said Joan.

  “Joan,” Anthony warned.

  “The premise was based on his parents’ deaths,” she said, poking her head around Anthony’s broad shoulders.

  “Joan,” he rumbled between clenched teeth.

  “But the story is fictional,” she said.

  Anthony gave a sharp nod. “There you go. The story is fictional.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Joan said to Samuel, inching around to where she could see him again.

  She’d love to be able to give him some peace of mind. Throughout the inquiry, she knew he’d insisted on his father’s innocence. But nobody had listened to a teenager. And the evidence had been pretty compelling.

  It was still pretty compelling.

  She wished it wasn’t.

  “You didn’t go over the inquiry?” asked Samuel. “The transcripts? You didn’t piece together the police report and—”

  “It’s fiction,” Anthony repeated.

  Pain flashed through Samuel’s brown eyes, but he blinked quickly, as if to banish it. “I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” said Anthony.

  “Stop,” said Joan, putting a hand on Anthony’s arm.

  “He was innocent,” Samuel insisted.

  Joan didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say or do to help the big man. She was a fiction author, not a criminal investigator.

  Samuel glanced at all of them in turn, his voice dropping to a raw rasp. “He was innocent.”

  “Maybe so,” Joan lied softly.

  Samuel’s lips pursed and his eyes squinted down to slits of mistrust. He knew she was humoring him.

  Then he squared his shoulders, glared once at Anthony and turned to walk out the door.

  “Lawsuit,” breathed Anthony as the door clicked shut.

  “Tabloid,” said Heather, ditching her martini glass and marching for the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANTHONY WAS TOO GRATEFUL to finally have Joan alone to care what Heather might do or say to Samuel.

  “That man will sue us for royalties,” he said, pulling out his cell phone, searching his memory for the direct number of the Prism legal department.

  “Then he’ll win,” Joan returned, gliding her fingers through her thick, brown hair as she moved toward the
breakfast bar.

  “I don’t need you talking like that.” Anthony gave up on his memory and punched in the number of the main receptionist.

  Joan lifted her long-stemmed glass. “Talking like what?” She pivoted back toward him. “Oh, you mean telling the truth?”

  “You don’t get to decide the truth. A judge gets to decides the truth.”

  Joan scoffed at that and finished her martini. Then she promptly refilled it from the shaker.

  “Whoa.” Anthony snapped his phone shut and moved toward her. Though he could relate to the impulse, a drunk Joan would only make matters worse. “Slow it down there.”

  “It’s weak,” she said as he drew close. “The ice has melted.”

  “What is it?”

  “A cosmopolitan.”

  “There’s no such thing as a weak cosmopolitan.”

  She ignored him, draining a second drink. “You want one?”

  “No, I don’t want one.” Well, actually he did. But he was exercising restraint.

  She waved the empty glass in the air, walking around the end of the breakfast bar and into the kitchen.

  “You shouldn’t drink when you’re upset,” he pointed out.

  “Why would I be upset? Just because you’ve trashed my reputation, ruined my family and probably got me kicked out of Indigo?”

  “I’ve already told you I can fix it. If you’ll just listen—”

  “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” She popped the silver lid off the martini shaker.

  “I wasn’t the leak.”

  “Right.” Her voice turned sing-song. “It was some mysterious mole with the secret files.” She poured in a few ounces of vodka and reached for the cranberry juice.

  “The confidential files. Every business has to keep them.”

  “Whatever.” She capped the shaker and swished it from side to side.

  He rounded the breakfast bar and commandeered the shaker. “Getting drunk is not going to help.”

  “Who’s getting drunk?”

  He popped the lid with one thumb and dumped the martini mix down the sink.

  “Hey!”

  “Read my lips—”

  “No, you read mine.” She mouthed a pithy curse.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” Anthony had never imagined a word like that forming in Joan’s brain, never mind coming out her mouth.