House Of Secrets

by Tracie Peterson

  “I’m sorry, Mark, my mind. . . . Well, I really need to go. I’ll talk to you more about this later. I promise—”

  “Bailee, wait.”

  “Bye for now,” I said and quickly clicked off. It was a good thing too. Someone was pounding on my door as if the building were on fire. Probably Mrs. Nelson from the condo around the corner. She used a nightstick instead of the usual knock. She carried the stick for protection, although I had a hard time imagining the seventy-something woman successfully wielding it against some nineteen-year-old punk. Mrs. Nelson noted, though, that many of her friends were half deaf.

  I opened the door a few inches, to the limit of the security chain, only to find Mark grinning like he was delivering a contest winner’s million dollar check. “What are you doing here?” My heart skipped a beat. Okay, it actually skipped three, which frightened me more than I wanted to admit. I needed to get control of myself—and in a hurry.

  “I’m here to see you.”

  “How did you get in the building?” We had very strict doormen and concierges who guarded the high-rise like it was home to royalty and celebrities. So far as I knew, however, neither lived here.

  “I’ve gotten to know Gunther,” Mark said. “He’s interested in writing a book about his experiences in East Berlin before the wall came down.” He flashed me that smile again. “Doesn’t that sound like a winner?” When I didn’t respond, he said, “So . . . might I come in? Please?”

  My resolve quickly dwindled. I lifted the chain and opened the door wider. “I still don’t understand why you’re here. It’s a long way—”

  “I explained it on the telephone,” he said, losing the smile. “I want to do my best to persuade you to join Masters and Delahunt on a full-time basis. In a world where most publishers are eliminating in-house jobs, this is an opportunity few will ever get.”

  I motioned him inside and closed the door. “Have a seat,” I said, waving him to a chair in the living room, “and I’ll try to clarify why I’m not ready to give you an answer just yet.” I told myself that I wasn’t furthering the relationship angle—only offering an explanation related to my professional career.

  “Nice what you’ve done here,” Mark said, looking around. “Minimalist in white.”

  I frowned and followed him into my modest apartment. The main living area was designed in a great room fashion. The kitchen flowed into the dining room which flowed into the living room. My office was tucked into the little alcove to the side. Okay, so I hadn’t done much in the way of decorating. I’d only been in this condo for what . . . two years? With my schedule I could hardly be expected to paint walls, hang pictures, and worry about accessorizing to make color pop against my white sofa and overstuffed chair.

  I shrugged. “I laid a blue towel over the white ottoman. Think it adds a nice touch of color?”

  Mark laughed. “It’s probably just as well. I mean, if you’re going to be moving, this place will already be set—a clean slate for someone else to decorate.”

  “Yeah, if I were going to move.”

  He sank down on the edge of the chair, fingers steepled in front of him, and leaned forward. “Haven’t I convinced you yet?”

  “Even if I did take the job, it doesn’t necessarily mean moving. I could commute.”

  “But that would waste a lot of hours in the day. Even by the fast train, it would be three and a half hours one way. You’d spend more time on the rails than at home.”

  “I could spend that time reviewing projects.”

  He gave me a patient smile. “A complete waste of your time—others can do that for you. Besides, like I told you—the company has an apartment ready for you to sublet.”

  All my life I’d battled with the need to confide in a friend, yet fearing that once I did, they would immediately terminate the friendship and run screaming in the opposite direction. That’s why I found it so hard to make a commitment. Well, one of the reasons, according to my therapist. Dinah said I needed to face the past, and that in doing so it would somehow lift the burden of guilt or fear or humiliation or whatever else I was hiding.

  “Bailee, this isn’t just about the job.” I could see his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed. “I care about you.”

  Okay, there it was. And something in me wanted to level with him. Mark was a good man, and he’d been great to work for. If I could ever bring myself to believe in love and romance—which for me meant commitment and marriage—I would want a man just like Mark. I’d even told the psychologist that very thing last week. But telling a counselor sworn to secrecy and confessing my feelings to Mark himself were two entirely different things.

  “Mark, I’ve told you my family needs me here. I have to consider them first.”

  “You also told me that one of your sisters is finishing law school in the fall, and your youngest just graduated with a degree in business management or some such thing.”

  I nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I can just take off. Besides, it’s less expensive to live here.”

  “Not with the sublet this job offers,” he replied.

  I turned away to stare at the open window. Fact of the matter, I was terrified of moving. New York represented a real change, and I didn’t know if I was ready for that. It had been hard enough to leave our family home in the suburb of Newton and take this condo in the Back Bay area of Boston.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. Truthfully, it hadn’t been that hard. Dad purchased the elegant condo as an investment and then enticed me to live in it. He figured in time I’d move on and pass it along to Geena and Piper. Just like always, Dad thought he could show his affection and fatherhood by buying us something.

  “Look, I know you’re concerned about what it all will mean, but we can just take it one step at a time.” Mark’s voice reminded me of a warm cappuccino—smooth and rich. “We already know we get along well, and if it doesn’t work out, I promise you it won’t affect your job.” His tone was heavy, weighted by the layers of meaning in his words.

  “That’s good. The last thing M&D Publishing needs is a sexual harassment suit,” I said, attempting to balance my emotional seesaw with sarcasm and casual wit. I decided to give him just a hint of truth. “I have a lot of baggage . . . too much for a relationship, Mark. It’s just that simple.”

  “Everybody’s life has a lot of baggage.”

  He wasn’t making this easy. “I need to eliminate some of the past before I even think about looking to the future.”

  “But maybe we could work on that together. I believe things happen for a reason, and our friendship and the connection we share didn’t just happen by chance.”

  Now he’d done it. He was going to tell me that God had a hand in this. I turned away and shook my head. “I’m not religious, Mark. You know that.”

  “I’m not religious either.”

  “Yes you are. Don’t give me that. Call it what you will, but you are totally into the Bible and God’s love and walking hand-in-hand with Jesus and living happily ever after.”

  He grinned. “What’s wrong with happily ever after?”

  “It isn’t real. That’s what’s wrong.” I sighed and finally took a seat on the far end of the sofa. I folded my hands and tried to think of how best to explain. In the fewest number of words. “Mark, without getting into the details of my past—”

  “I’d love to get into the details of your past,” he interrupted, now leaning back in his own corner like he was going to stay awhile. He was so good-looking. I loved the way his brown hair held just a hint of curl. But it was his blue eyes that completely set my heart aflutter. He could give me a look that . . . well . . . let’s just say I’d never felt that way when anyone else looked at me.

  I frowned. I was losing track of my argument. “Be that as it may, I have to tell you that God and I haven’t been on good terms for most of my life. At a time when I needed to count on a higher power—a heavenly Father, a gentle Savior, whatever—He wasn’t there.”


  “Of course He was,” Mark answered matter-of-factly. “Maybe He didn’t look like you expected.”

  I thought of all the times I’d prayed as a child—the times I’d gone to church hoping for some sort of proof that God was real. After Mom died, I gave up all thoughts of God, trading them in for cynicism and anger. Now, all these years later, I found the edges of my grief had worn down and the pain had faded some. But in its place, fear had very nearly paralyzed me. I was like a child staring at a roller coaster, wanting to climb on, but backing out at the last minute because I just couldn’t get up the nerve to take that ride.

  I caught sight of Mark’s caring expression and shrugged. “Well, despite whether God was in disguise or not, I don’t feel about Him like you do. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I have to believe that such an attitude would be deadly to any relationship we might have.”

  He nodded. “I agree. If we were to get serious about each other, we would need to be on the same page.”

  I leaned further back and relaxed a bit. Perhaps honesty had been the best choice. “See, there you have it. I’m not on the same page with you. In fact, I’m not even reading the same book.” I was kind of proud of my clever quip—you know, “book,” Bible.

  I figured this would end the matter and free me from further pressure for an entanglement I didn’t want or need. But that wasn’t honest either. I was drawn to Mark, but I’d barely allowed myself the luxury of indulging in thoughts of “us” and a future together.

  “But you could be,” he replied softly.

  I was not at all sure I’d heard correctly. “I don’t even own a Bible.”

  “That can be rectified.”

  I was growing more frustrated by the moment. “I don’t want to own a Bible. God let me down. I don’t need Him now. End of story.”

  For a few minutes Mark said nothing. I was beginning to get hopeful again that he had come to terms with our differences. Instead, he surprised me once more. “How about dinner together? I won’t mention God, and you can talk about anything you like. A deal?”

  My cell phone startled me, the ringtone was the one I had assigned to my father. “I need to take this,” I told Mark. I crossed the room to my tiny office alcove, keeping my back turned. “Hello, Dad?”

  “I’m glad I got ahold of you instead of your voicemail,” my father said. “I have some great news. We’re all going to the summer house.”

  I felt like I’d just been elbowed hard in the side. The wind went out of me and my stomach knotted. “In Washington?”

  “Do we have another summer house that I’m unaware of?” he said good-naturedly. “Of course the one in Washington. Look, I’ve already arranged the tickets for you and your sisters. You’ll fly out tomorrow. I’ll join you in a couple of days. Plan to stay several weeks. It’ll be great fun, and I have a very important announcement to make.” His in-charge mentality never gave him pause to consider the possibility that any one of us—or all of us—might not want to go.

  “But, Dad . . . I mean. . . .” I went silent. How could I explain to him all I was feeling? We hadn’t been back to the summer house since Mom died. Fifteen years ago. In fact, no one had even suggested such a trip. Why now? Why was Dad suddenly instigating a reunion there? “I thought you had the place rented out to summer visitors.” Stalling tactic.

  “No, I took it off the listing for this year. You could stay the entire summer if you’d like.”

  “What about your job? What about—?”

  “Look, just be at Logan tomorrow evening for your flight on Alaska Airlines. You’ll leave at six twenty and get in to Seattle around nine thirty. I’ll email you the details. When you get to Seattle, rent a car and take the ferry over to Bremerton. You should be able to catch the last one. Oh, and be sure you get a GPS so you can find your way to the house. It’s a little tricky, and I know you won’t remember the way.”

  “But, Dad . . .”

  “I have to finish up the plans. Geena and Piper will meet you at the airport. Love you, babe.”

  And he was gone. Just like that. No further explanation. No other comment. After fifteen years of avoiding anything that referenced our mother and the place where she’d died, our father was suddenly plunging us back into the nightmare. This wasn’t at all like him. In fact, his entire demeanor was different. Could he be on drugs?

  I must have been as pale as I felt, because when I turned to face Mark, he was up and across the room in a matter of seconds.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I put the cell phone down on the desk and shook my head. “My father . . . he . . . well. It’s hard to explain. He’s called a family meeting of sorts. I’m supposed to fly to Seattle tomorrow.”

  “Seattle?”

  For reasons beyond me, I found myself spilling out more information than I’d ever intended. “We . . . Dad has a summer house in Bremerton. We haven’t been back there—well, since I was twelve. Dad said he had something important to tell us.” I couldn’t imagine what it might be, but the very thought of it left me trembling. Was he sick? Getting married?

  “Are you all right?” Mark put his hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just surprised, is all. My father isn’t really the type to pull these secret get-togethers. It has me somewhat concerned.”

  “Did he sound like something was wrong?”

  I shook my head. “No, in fact, he sounded . . . what can I say? Happy, excited?”

  Mark smiled. “Then don’t borrow trouble. Maybe it’s something really good.”

  I looked at him oddly, eyebrows raised. Something good? In the Cooper family? “I’m sorry, Mark, but I think you’d better go. I’ll need to pack, and I still have to finish this edit tonight. I’ll send it in before I go. If you have another project ready for me, please just email it. I promise to keep up with the work no matter what happens in Washington or how long I’m gone.”

  “Really, Bailee, are you sure you wouldn’t just like some time off?”

  “No!”

  He almost flinched at the sound of my harsh reply. His left brow lifted slightly, and he narrowed his gaze, question marks filling his expression.

  “I’m sorry, Mark. I’m just trying to sort everything out in my mind. There’s so much to do to get ready. I need to talk to my sisters too.”

  He seemed reluctant to let the topic drop, but I was grateful when he didn’t ask anything further. “I guess I’ll see myself out. You’re sure you can’t take an hour out for dinner? You have to eat—”

  “I’m sure,” I said, moving toward the door. “I’m sorry, Mark. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He paused and studied me intently. “If you want to talk about this . . . I’ll be there for you.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, opening the door and practically pushing him through it. But I paused and our eyes locked for a long moment. “I’ll be in touch,” I said softly.

  I closed the door and rested my head against it, suddenly weary. I wanted to call Dad back and tell him that I wouldn’t be joining them. I wanted to tell him I could never go back to that place—to those memories. My therapist had been urging me to make just such a trip, but I hadn’t been able to convince myself. Now it seemed the decision had been taken out of my hands. Could I really refuse?

  I leaned hard against the door and slid to the floor. At last I was being drawn back to that house of secrets—to those hidden memories of loss and sorrow. For so long I had fooled myself into believing the past would never catch up with me. But now the moment of truth had come . . . and if there was a hell, I just knew that demons were dancing in delight.

  Chapter 2

  Yesterday I was arguing with Mark in Boston, and now I was waiting in a rental car to pull onto the ferry for Bremerton. A misty rain fell, putting a chill in the air and sending me back to a time I’d hoped to forget.

  “Momma, does it always rain here?” I’d asked my mother. In my mind’s eye I was standing at the window in the f
erry lounge. Water streaked the window and obscured my view.

  “I don’t know,” she told me. “Seems like every time we come here it rains. Maybe God is just as sad about it as I am.”

  I never knew why she was so sad about going to Bremerton. It seemed to me that the area, despite the rain, was beautiful and summers far nicer than some of the other places we’d lived. Momma didn’t like being what she called “displaced.” I never understood that either.

  “The ferry is docking,” Piper said as she opened the car door. She and Geena had gone for a little walk while I remained in the car.

  Geena climbed into the front seat while Piper got in back. “They said it will take an hour to get over to Bremerton. Couldn’t we have just driven it?”

  “With traffic and the distance it would have taken longer,” I told her. The cars began to disembark the ferry heading into Seattle. It would only be a few minutes before we’d be able to drive onto the Kitsap and head to Bremerton.

  “I always liked the ferry ride,” Piper said. “I used to pretend it was a great ship taking me far away.”

  The cars began to inch forward and in no time at all they had us loaded. The marine highway was extremely efficient, I had to give them that much.

  “Are you coming upstairs with me?” Geena asked. “I want to get something to drink.”

  I looked at her for a moment and shook my head. She looked nothing like a lawyer or professional of any sort. Instead, wearing black skinny jeans tucked into ankle boots, a mottled red-print tee, and blazer, Geena looked more fashion model than studious lawyer material. She wrapped a black scarf around her throat and turned to Piper.

  “How about you?”

  “Sure, I’ll come,” Piper said, opening the door with care. “If I can squeeze out. They sure park us in here tight.”

  “I’m just gonna sit here and doze,” I told them. “You can bring me some coffee.”

  I reclined the seat and settled back. Frankly, I had a twinge of guilt for not going with them. I’d always felt a strange need to protect them—to watch over them. Dad used to say it was because I was so sensitive, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something more. Why should a child feel it was her responsibility to take care of her siblings—of her family? I couldn’t remember ever being free from that thought. Now, as we headed ever so slowly from the harbor, the sensation of guilt coupled with duty left me feeling exhausted and wary. The days to come were ones I dreaded. But like a fatal attraction I was drawn to see them through.