Serena Mckee's Back In Town

by Marie Ferrarella

  His declaration slashed at her heart. She wanted to be free to be his, to love him the way he deserved, but she couldn’t, not yet. She’d given her word. And honor meant a great deal to her. “It’s not that simple, Cameron.”

  He bracketed her with his arms, pinning her to the wall, with his body blocking the way out.

  “It is just that simple. This is life, Serena. People betray other people’s trust sometimes. But not everyone. I didn’t,” he insisted, though even as he did, he knew that it was futile. “You thought I did, but I didn’t. And I won’t, but I’m sick of trying to prove that to you.”

  Cameron dropped his arms to his sides, stepping away. “I’m sick of wondering, if I turn around, will I still find you there?” Realizing that he was shouting, he lowered his voice. “I need to have some faith and trust, too, Serena.” It was as close as he would allow himself to come to begging.

  She didn’t know what to say, how to make him understand. It was all getting so jumbled in her head. She needed to clear this away first, before she could live, before she could feel free. He had to know that. Didn’t he?

  But all she could manage was to tell him, “I’m sorry.”

  He looked at her, stunned. She wasn’t even going to try to change.

  Suddenly, he felt hollow, as if what he was feeling had been burned away by an acetylene torch, leaving only a shell to mark the space where feelings and a man’s heart had once been.

  “Well, so am I.”

  Cameron turned and walked away.

  Serena stared at the place he’d been standing long after he left the room. She wanted to run after him, to beg him to understand, to beg him to stay, but she couldn’t.

  She remained, unable to move, unable to call out to him, a prisoner of something that had happened long ago. She wouldn’t be free, couldn’t escape, until she saw this through.

  The front door slammed. She felt the echo in her chest. Tears formed, slipping down her face. With an unsteady hand, Serena wiped them away and went back to her search.

  She’d never felt so weary, so numb, not even the morning after the tragedy. It was as if there were nothing left inside her. Everything was operating on automatic pilot.

  Hour after hour, Serena pushed on, searching one room, then another, finding nothing but remnants of old memories, few of them good. Her mother’s room had been the hardest for her to go through, and even there, Serena had found nothing.

  Amid the myriad of trinkets, expensive and not, there was nothing to substantiate what Miss Judith had believed so strongly. What she herself wanted so much to believe. That there had been someone else in her mother’s life. Someone else to blame for all this.

  Frustrated, at her wit’s end and almost inconsolable because she’d lost Cameron, Serena shoved aside her mother’s jewelry box. Hitting it with the back of her hand, she sent it flying. It arced in the air, its lid snapping open. Turning upside down, the jewelry box crashed on the floor.

  Nothing fell out. The morning they left, Aunt Helen had taken her mother’s jewelry for her. She’d placed it all in a safe-deposit box in a bank in Dallas. Serena had never touched any of it. She wanted nothing that belonged to her mother.

  Weary beyond words, Serena picked up the broken box. Maybe, she thought suddenly, hope climbing on the shoulders of despair, there was something in the safe-deposit box. A cuff link, a tie tack, anything that might help her identify this mysterious lover, if he did actually exist...

  She saw the ribbon first, and then the key attached to it. It was lying on the rug, dislodged in the fall. The key looked much too small to fit any of the locks in the house. Snatching it up, Serena tried to fit it in the broken jewelry box. It almost disappeared into the keyhole.

  Her mother wouldn’t have kept a key if it didn’t mean something to her. But what?

  Holding it in the palm of her hand, Serena turned the key over to examine it. Did it fit somewhere, hide some secret? There was nothing in her mother’s room that would warrant a key this size. Nothing in the rest of the house, either.

  Serena tried to think. The only room she hadn’t gone into yet was her mother’s studio, on the other side of the house. She’d never been allowed in there. Neither had her father. It had been where Carolyn McKee liked to lock herself away and sculpt small figures in clay. She’d claimed creation was violated if anyone entered.

  So they had kept out. Even the servants had stayed away. As far as Serena knew, no one had ever entered her mother’s domain except Carolyn McKee. During her parents’ separation, her mother had hardly gone there herself. She’d been too busy.

  Blood rushing with renewed energy, Serena hurried to the rear of the house and into the garden. Built onto the back of the house as a separate entity, the studio had its own entrance, accessed by a wooden staircase that had been faithfully treated and polished three times a year.

  Weather and nature had since eaten away at the staircase’s veneer, and then the wood itself. Serena’s foot went through one step that had been hollowed out by termites. Holding on to the banister for support, she made her way up the rest of the stairs.

  Why hadn’t she thought of this before? It seemed so obvious to her now that she should have looked here, in her mother’s lair, first.

  Maybe she hadn’t, she thought suddenly, because Cameron was right. Maybe, subconsciously, she was afraid to come to the end of this search, because one way or another it would mean the end.

  Serena couldn’t let herself think about that now. She’d come so far, risked everything, and she had to find the lock that went with this key. Had to know if she was right.

  The studio door was locked. Over and over, she tried to force it open. It wouldn’t budge. Kicking at it only hurt her foot.

  Frustrated, she pulled off her T-shirt and wrapped it securely around her hand. Satisfied that it was protected, she swung her hand full force into the windowpane, shattering it. She gingerly picked out the glass that remained, and then lowered herself inside the studio.

  The large room was just as she imagined her mother had left it. A half-finished bust stood to one side on the lone table. Her mother’s last work.

  No sense of nostalgia filled her as she crossed to look at it. Only intense curiosity. It appeared to be the head of a man, but the features hadn’t been refined enough for Serena to tell if it was someone she knew, or just someone her mother had created in her mind. A lover of clay, rather than of flesh and blood.

  A perfect lover, malleable, without question, to her every whim.

  Sighing, Serena looked around. The key was still clutched in her hand. There were no cupboards to open, no tiny keyholes to unlock. The studio was almost Spartan in comparison to the rest of the house. It was hard to believe that her mother had been happy in here. Stark and utilitarian, it only had a worktable, a stool and a brick-lined kiln besides the daybed propped up against the wall.

  She began there. Serena stripped the daybed, searching between the covers, beneath the bed, separating the mattress from the springs. She found what she’d been finding since the beginning. Nothing.

  Giving up, she sank down on the mattress on the floor, her head held between her hands. The ribbon rubbed against her skin as she stared straight ahead at the dormant kiln.

  Maybe the key was a clue in itself. Maybe...

  Maybe this was all for nothing, she thought with a sigh of disgust, getting up.

  Her eyes strayed to the kiln again.

  She might as well make a clean sweep of it, she decided, walking over to the kiln. Summoning her courage, Serena thrust her hand into the mouth, bracing herself to encounter dirt and ashes at the very least. Maybe a few crawling things, as well.

  When her fingers touched something cold, she yanked back her hand. The shriek broke free involuntarily. What had she touched? It felt hard, almost smooth. A piece of sculpture that had broken off?

  Holding her breath, she put her hand in again and forced herself to feel around. She came into contact with the object a
gain. It didn’t move when she pressed against it lightly.

  Playing her fingers along the surface, she realized what she was touching. It was a box.

  Excitement began to race through her again. Taking a firm hold, Serena pulled the box out, then turned it slowly around. Small, possibly white enamel at one time, the box was no larger than eight inches square.

  And it was locked.

  Serena thrust in the key and turned it. The metallic click of the tumbler echoed in the room. She pulled at the lid, but it didn’t give immediately, sealed by time and grit. She punched the side of the box urgently. The lid gave on the second try.

  Pushing it back, Serena opened the box and saw the letters. A neat, thick pile of letters tied with a red ribbon, wider than the one on the key. She took them out and pulled the ribbon off. Serena didn’t realize she’d dropped the box until she heard the sound of the thud against the wooden floor.

  She sank down, rather than sat, pulling her legs under her on the mattress. Hands trembling, she began to read the letters.

  They were love letters. Serena blinked back her tears. She’d been right.

  There were no dates on the actual letters, but some of the postmarks on the envelopes were clear enough to read. The letters were eleven years old. Canceled in town, so there was no way they had come from her father. The tone, the words, the intimate details, all belonged to another man.

  Her mother had belonged to another man. And together they had violated her father’s trust.

  The thought ate away at Serena’s soul as she continued reading, looking for a clue to the other man’s identity.

  There was a name at the end of the letter. Sam. The name meant nothing to her.

  Serena bit back her frustration as she went on reading, hoping against hope that there was some other clue, some slip, in one of them. She knew in her heart that the letters had to have been written by the man who had killed her mother. The man who had destroyed her father and indirectly ruined her life for so long.

  And you took care of the rest of it, didn’t you? The silent words mocked her as she thought of Cameron. Yes, she had, she thought. But maybe, once this was over, he’d give her a chance to try again.

  She forced herself to continue reading.

  The letters were passionate, recounting stolen moments, talking of failed attempts to resist the inevitable. It was like reading about someone’s fall from grace. The writer swore he hadn’t wanted any of this to happen, that somehow she had gotten under his skin. Into his blood. And that now he couldn’t face the thought of a day without her. She was a madness he had come to crave, and he looked forward to spending the rest of his life with her.

  Serena almost felt sorry for the man, for having fallen into her mother’s web. Just as she’d felt sorry for her father, she realized.

  And then the tone of the letters changed. A desperation seeped into them. Reading between the lines, Serena realized that her mother must have attempted to end the affair.

  Miss Judith’s words came back to her. Her mother had always grown bored with what was clearly hers for the taking. Her lover pleaded with simple eloquence for her to change her mind, swearing that he would do anything she wanted. Go anywhere she chose, as long as they could go there together.

  The last letter ended with his begging her not to do this to him, not to go back to her husband. Not to do something she might end up regretting. This time, there was no signature, only an empty space where his signature should have been.

  Serena slowly put the letters down. “‘Don’t do anything you might end up regretting.’” It was a simple phrase. She was sure she’d heard it, read it, worded exactly that way, somewhere before.

  But where?

  Cameron. Cameron might know. Even if he didn’t, she had to tell him about this. Tell him she hadn’t been wrong. There had to be prints on the letters, besides her mother’s. Maybe they matched some on file.

  At least it was something..

  And it would give her something to say to him, to cut through the awkwardness of an apology. Quickly putting the letters back in the box, she hurried to the house to make the call.

  She counted the rings until the dispatcher picked up. “Detective Reed, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but he isn’t—”

  “This is Serena McKee. I really need to speak to him. Please put me through.”

  Tina, the dispatcher, sighed. “Tell him he really needs to conduct his love life on a private line, Ms. McKee. Hold on.” She put Serena through to the mobile phone.

  It rang inside an empty car.

  Serena let it ring twenty times before she finally hung up and called the police station again. She began talking as soon as she heard the pickup.

  “This is Serena McKee again. Detective Reed’s not answering. Can you give him a message for me? Tell him I found something. Tell him that I found letters from my mother’s lover and to call me as soon as he can. I’ll be waiting at the house for him. Oh, and one more thing...”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell him I’m sorry, and to hurry. Please.”

  “That’s two more things,” Tina cracked, then sobered at the silence that greeted her. “Don’t worry, I’ll let him know.”

  Serena hung up. Part of her wanted to throw the letters into her car and drive down to the police station herself. Uncle Dan could handle this for her as well as Cameron could.

  But she owed this to Cameron. And maybe, just maybe, if he saw that she’d been right, he’d forgive her. He owed that to her.

  With nothing else to do but wait, Serena went to her room and put on another T-shirt, then took the box of letters and returned to the living room. She sat down on the sofa and began to read them all over again from the beginning, hoping to find something she had missed.

  Chapter 15

  Why wasn’t he calling?

  Serena looked at the telephone on the stand near the fireplace, willing it to ring.

  The silence was deafening.

  She’d been looking at the telephone every few minutes, each time she finished another letter. And each time, it had sat there, mocking her with its silence, with its distance.

  Cameron wasn’t calling her.

  She’d called the station more than an hour ago. He had to have gotten the message by now.

  Getting up, Serena circled the telephone stand, checking to see if the modular cord was attached. It was. And the phone worked. The dial tone buzzed in her ear when she picked up the receiver. There were no malfunctions to blame the silence on.

  Only Cameron.

  It was hot, but she ran her hands along her bare arms, chilled by what she’d been reading. Chilled by what had gone on in this house long ago.

  And, most of all, she felt cold because Cameron wasn’t here. And perhaps might never be here again. Because she’d let him walk away without a word.

  Serena dropped her head back, letting out a shaky breath. She couldn’t think like that. He’d call. Cameron would call. And he would come. He had to. He wouldn’t abandon her like this.

  Why not?

  Hadn’t she abandoned him?

  By throwing herself so completely into the search these past twenty-four hours—and even before that—hadn’t she abandoned him? Abandoned what was beginning to be “them”?

  She looked accusingly at the telephone. He wasn’t calling because he thought her message was a hoax, a pretext to get him to call, and he was angry at her. She’d never seen him look that way before, the way he had when he left. Too angry to approach. Too angry to listen.

  Not that she had really tried to make him understand, she reminded herself painfully.

  Hand on the receiver, Serena struggled with the impulse to call the station one more time. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. There was no use in bothering the dispatcher again. The woman was competent enough. If Cameron wasn’t returning her call, it wasn’t because the dispatcher hadn’t given him the message, it was because he’d chosen to ignore the message.<
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  And her.

  Fear slivered on pointed heels along her spine. No, he wouldn’t do that. Cameron wouldn’t do that to her. He’d call. She just had to be patient. And when she was through, when she’d read all the letters, Cameron would call.

  Like a person moving in slow motion, Serena set the letter down on top of the pile in the box. That was the last of them. The last of the love letters. She’d read through them all again, and Cameron still hadn’t called back.

  His message to her was loud and clear. He wanted no part of this, no part of her, any longer.

  Taking a deep breath, Serena squared her shoulders. All right, if that was the way it was going to be, that was the way it was going to be. Who was she to argue? She certainly wasn’t going to beg him to come back to her.

  Besides, she already had a life, a good one, waiting for her in Dallas. She was a teacher, a respected professor of English literature at Dallas University. She had that, a home—and Alan, if she wanted him. She knew the chairman of the English department was more than willing to marry her; all she had to do was say the word. It was she who had kept him at arm’s length all this time. Serena shook her head. That seemed only to encourage him.

  Some men seemed to enjoy being toyed with, although she wasn’t guilty of that. It had never been her intention to toy with him. Alan Pierce just interpreted things his own way. He viewed her polite reserve as some kind of bizarre foreplay.

  Alan. What was she thinking? She didn’t want Alan, had never wanted Alan. She wasn’t about to get involved with a man just because someone else had broken her heart. That was insane. If Alan Pierce had set his sights on her, he was doomed to remain a bachelor forever, like Uncle Dan.

  Uncle Dan.

  Even as she thought of the police chief, something distant, formless, stirred in her mind, unsettling her. Nagging at her. She was still forgetting something. What the hell was it?

  Serena shrugged it off. Maybe she only thought she was forgetting something, because Dan Olson was such an integral part of all this.