Sinister Secrets

by Colleen Gleason

  In a distorted way, perhaps one could consider it a blessing that she hadn’t carried Ella to full term. Looking back, Leslie wondered how she could have gone on with her life, holding the secret from Eric that he was a father.

  Had it been her punishment—that the baby had been taken from her? Was that why things had worked out that way? Her eyes stung and her throat burned.

  “Ms. Nakano? Are you all right?”

  Leslie realized she’d been sitting at a four-way stop far longer than necessary, especially since there weren’t any other cars in the vicinity. “Oh, yes, goodness. I was just distracted for a minute looking at—I thought I saw a hawk up there. I love hawks,” she said lamely.

  But Stephanie didn’t seem to notice the oddness of her excuse—fortunately, for how many hawks would be flying in a downpour anyway?—and once Leslie asked about it, the teen kept up a monologue about the Homecoming Dance for the rest of the short drive to her house.

  “It looks like Dad’s still working. I’d better let him know I’m home and the Deltons will be here soon. He’s probably lost track of time by now, knowing him. You should check out his workshop. He’s been working on your railing a lot lately. Come on.” She muscled the cat carrier onto the passenger seat, then shut the door.

  Leslie should have declined, but after all, she was paying for the ironwork and had a perfectly legitimate reason to check in and see how things were going. And there was that chance he might even be shirtless and sweaty.

  The two of them dashed through the pelting rain, Leslie holding an umbrella and following Stephanie, who not only didn’t have a jacket but ignored the umbrella.

  The workshop was a separate outbuilding about the size of a garage. Even over the sounds of pelting rain, she could hear music blaring from inside—Ben Folds Five. As Ben demanded the return of his black t-shirt, she recognized “Song for the Dumped” and nodded to herself. Yep. I can relate.

  Stephanie opened the door and they burst into a room smelling of burning coal and melting metal. Unusual smells, both, and the heat was pretty intense, but Leslie didn’t really take much notice of either once she saw Declan.

  Holy crap.

  It was like her romantic fantasy come to life, but in a little more modern setting. No, he wasn’t shirtless, but he didn’t need to be for Leslie’s mouth to go dry and her stomach to flutter. To think I had that body all plastered up against me the other night.

  He had a pink bandanna tied around his forehead, and his face and throat were damp with sweat that ran in rivulets down into the opening of his shirt. His dark auburn hair, now wet, appeared almost black, and it stuck up and curled around the bandanna like wild little fingers. He wasn’t actually hammering on anything at the moment; in fact, it looked as if he were cleaning up for the day, for he wasn’t wearing any sort of smock or apron, and she saw a pair of long, heavy leather gloves resting on the counter next to him.

  The shirt he wore was little more than a second skin, wet and clinging to every smooth muscle: from broad shoulder to round, bulging bicep to smooth, scarred, and freckled forearm. So he might just as well have had it off, really.

  “My friends ogle him like that too,” Stephanie said, laughing. “But he’s my dad, so, well, you know, I don’t really notice it.”

  Leslie’s face rushed to hot, and she said, “Well, I don’t want to disturb him, so—”

  But Stephanie wasn’t listening. “Hey, Dad, the Deltons are going to be here any minute now,” she shouted over the blasting music.

  He looked up in surprise, his eyes bypassing his daughter and going immediately to Leslie. He snatched up a towel and wiped off his face as he walked over to turn down the music.

  “I didn’t want Stephanie to bike home in the pouring rain,” Leslie said, absolutely refusing to feel awkward. “Sorry to disturb you—I thought I’d just see how things were going while I was here. Not that I expected you’d be working on my project; I know you have other things on your schedule.” Okay, now shut up. You’re on the verge of babbling, and Leslie Nakano doesn’t babble.

  “Right,” he said. The expression on his face was inscrutable, and that made her edge toward the awkward end of the scale, despite her determination not to. “I actually was working on a piece of it today. Here, you can see what I’ve been doing; it’s had a chance to cool down.”

  He picked up an iron rod that had been about fifteen feet long until he started to force it into a spiral near the top. Now it was only about eleven feet long.

  On a roomy worktable, Leslie saw a large piece of heavy paper with a drawing on it. When she and Declan moved closer—him on one side, she on the other—she saw that it was a life-sized drawing of the main design of her railing.

  He laid the iron rod down over the drawing, matching it to one of the sketched rods that ended in a swirl near the top, and as she watched with interest, he eyed it, checking to be sure the curve was exactly right. “Needs a little more smoothing right there,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “It’s looking really good,” Leslie said, unable to keep her eyes from his strong, deft hands and forearms, freckled and solid with muscle and tendon. They were powerful arms, talented hands, marred with burns and fresh cuts. And they had been all over her butt.

  It was really quite warm in the workshop, she realized suddenly. Uncomfortably warm. She glanced around and realized Stephanie was gone.

  A large fire roared in a brick oven, and she saw a few rods sitting half inside. There was a massive machine that rose several feet above Declan’s head, and had a steel cylinder the circumference of a salad plate that appeared to be a sort of piston.

  “That’s an air hammer,” he said, noticing her looking at it. “It’s an easier, more automated way to hammer on a larger piece that doesn’t need as much finesse as something like this.” He gestured with the curved rod. “I use it more for breaking up rods, or forging shorter ones together.”

  “Forging them together? How does that work?”

  “You put two fired ends on top of each other, stacking them right where they’re red and glowing, and the hammer sort of beats the shit out of them until they merge together. It can be done by hand, of course, but when I’m working with two rods at a time, I have to clamp one of them, and the other I can hold while the hammer does its work.” He paused, glanced at her as if he were about to say something, then turned aside to shove the spiral rod into a long metal canister.

  “You do amazing work,” Leslie said, for she’d turned to see photos and other partial pieces of decorative iron all over one wall of the workshop. “It’s hard to believe something as strong as iron can be forced into such delicate, smooth shapes.”

  “Thanks.” There was a pause, and then he said, “So, no more break-ins?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sure it was a couple of teenagers, like Captain Longbow said.”

  “Right. Probably. Look, I—”

  They both turned toward the door at the sound of voices. It was Stephanie, doing her job as tour guide and bringing her friend and Emily Delton out to see her father’s workshop.

  Skimming even further along the awkward scale, Leslie smiled at Declan and said, “Just let me know if you need anything else. It looks like it’s coming along great.”

  “Right. All right, yes, I’ll see you soon,” he said vaguely.

  Leslie wasn’t certain who was more uncomfortable: herself or Declan. One thing was sure, she thought as she passed by the newcomers—Emily Delton wasn’t uncomfortable at all. She was determined…and satisfied.

  Like the cat who’d got into the cream.

  If Declan hadn’t been driving, he probably would have actually hesitated before turning up the driveway to Shenstone House. But that was a little more difficult to do when in a car on a street with other vehicles behind you.

  After all, it was Wednesday, October 15. The day with the heart on Leslie’s calendar. And the letter E next to it.

  But as he was only a lowly contractor, a worker bee,
a handyman, he wouldn’t know any different—right? It was a weekday at four o’clock—still during business hours (not that contractors like him really had business hours), and he really did need to take a measurement of that railing before he went any further on the project.

  It was a legitimate reason to be here. He knew that, and he sold himself on it really well as his truck rumbled up the drive.

  If he happened to be aware that Leslie Nakano had cancelled having Stephanie work that day, he could still discount that fact because he had a job to do, and he had no reason to think anything was strange because his daughter didn’t have to work. Leslie had contractors coming in and out of the house all the time.

  Still, when he pulled up into the parking area of the massive house, he got a sense of…something. Something quiet and sad and gloomy. There were only a few lights on; he recognized them as coming from Leslie’s bedroom/office suite. There was also one in the kitchen.

  And her dark blue Mercedes was the only car in the lot. So if the mysterious E was there, either they were out somewhere in his car, or she’d picked him up and they were there, in the house.

  There were lights on in her private suite. He didn’t really like what that implied.

  Damn. Maybe he should just leave…

  He put the truck in reverse, getting ready to do just that, when he realized he really kind of did need to get that measurement. Sure, he could have called first. Sure, he could have come over yesterday…or even Monday. But he was here now, and it would be a waste of time not to follow through.

  She didn’t have to answer the door if she was freaking busy.

  Declan climbed out of the truck, his lips flattened grimly. Either way, he supposed they at least needed to have some sort of discussion about what had happened last Friday…and since. Sure, right, she’d come over to find Emily Delton at his house, but he’d already told her he wasn’t seeing her. Wasn’t that enough?

  For his part, Declan wanted to know whether the guy she’d been with on Saturday was anyone important or not. He figured he’d find out one way or another tonight.

  He approached the back door that led into the kitchen and looked through the window. No sign of life there. Just one light on over the granite island. A few dishes on the counter and in the sink…hmm. That was unusual. He’d never seen anything out of place in the room.

  He knocked on the door and waited. Looked around to see if the butterscotch cat was lurking. No sign of him; no sign of a can of tuna left out.

  Everything was eerily quiet. And being here, at the top of this small hill surrounded by woods, it felt as if he was miles away from civilization…even though just down the hill and over a few blocks were the lights from the town. In the distance was the hum of traffic. Less than a mile away was the downtown Wicks Hollow business district.

  He’d raised his hand to knock again when a figure appeared inside.

  She pulled open the door. “What are you doing here?”

  Her tone wasn’t unfriendly or angry…just curious. Surprised. Confused.

  “I—needed to get a measurement. Sorry to bother you. Am I bothering you?”

  He got a good look at her and saw, to his surprise, that she was in loose flannel pants and a hoodie. Her hair was in a ponytail that had seen better days, sagging, while random strands dusted her neck. Her toes were bare, and this time they had hot-pink polish on them. Her face was drawn and tight, with a sober expression that bordered on sad.

  This was a completely different Leslie Nakano than he’d ever seen.

  Maybe she was sick?

  She certainly didn’t look like she was entertaining a man, that was certain.

  “Come on in,” she said, opening the door to give him entrance.

  When he got inside, he saw a bowl of popcorn (it was obviously fresh, for it smelled heavenly) and a half-eaten pizza in a carryout box. All indicators were that she was alone, and not sick. People didn’t generally eat pizza or popcorn when they were sick.

  “Thanks,” he said, still feeling his way—figuratively and literally. “It’ll only take a second.”

  “No problem.” She leaned against the island, idly eating popcorn instead of following him to the front hall, which seemed odd too.

  “Leslie,” he said when he came back after taking the measurement. “Is everything all right? You seem…well, not yourself.”

  She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Did my aunt send you over?” She sounded a cross between annoyed and hopeful. “I told her not to worry about me. I’m fine.”

  “No, Cherry didn’t send me. I told you, I needed a measurement.”

  She gave him a look that was almost the old Leslie—one with wry disbelief. Yeah, it sounded lame to him too, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Well, I suppose we should probably talk anyway. About last Friday.”

  She shoved the bowl of popcorn toward him and he took a handful—partly because it smelled amazing, and partly because he figured it would give him time to figure out what to say next.

  “Oh my God,” he said when he tasted the popcorn. He’d forgotten lunch again. “This is really good.”

  A glimmer of a smile. “Old family recipe: lots of salt and more butter than you want to know. Popped in a hot air popper. The best cure for the blues.”

  “The blues?” he asked cautiously. Surely she wasn’t that upset about their aborted whatever it was, and seeing Emily Delton at his house. That was just silly.

  Though he kind of liked that idea, because he knew he could fix it.

  Leslie drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. “Today’s just a difficult day for me. It’s an anniversary, an unpleasant one—and it’s the first one. So I guess that makes it unusually difficult.” She gestured around the room. “So I just holed up with some snack food and decided to pamper myself and binge-watch Gilmore Girls. In between shedding a few tears.”

  “An anniversary?” He couldn’t seem to stop munching on the popcorn. It was like crack. “A breakup? Or…something else?” He forced himself to stop reaching into the bowl in order to give her his full attention.

  “A miscarriage. I lost a baby one year ago today. Her name would have been Ella.”

  A number of thoughts and questions shot through his mind, but they could—possibly—be addressed later. The most important thing was: “Oh, Leslie. I’m so sorry.” His words were heartfelt and honest, even though he couldn’t really relate to the situation.

  She nodded, reaching automatically for a handful of popcorn. “Thanks. I have my ups and downs. Today I expected would be a down day, so I just…cancelled everything. I figured I’ve been working so hard, I could use a day off. And I’d be—”

  “Leslie, you don’t need to justify yourself to me. Or to anyone. I mean, losing a baby…that’s got to be one of the worst things in the world.”

  She looked at him with large, shocked eyes. And then all at once, she burst into tears.

  Fourteen

  Leslie hardly realized what she was doing—but the next thing she knew, she’d thrown herself into Declan’s arms. It was as if she’d been waiting for it: waiting for someone to hold her, someone to listen, someone to comfort. And with that, the dam tumbled down.

  His arms came around her immediately—protective, supportive, comforting. And every bit of grief she’d controlled for weeks and months in her iron-fisted CEO mind came pouring out in deep, wrenching sobs as he held her close.

  “People…don’t…under…stand,” she bawled into his shoulder. “They think”—sniffle—“since the baby…was never born…it shouldn’t”—sob—“affect me…so much…”

  He patted her on the back, his fingers touching the ends of her messy hair, as he tucked her head beneath his chin. “Of course it would affect you,” he said quietly. “You carried that baby inside you. You lost part of yourself, and another person as well. Someone died. A little defenseless creature is gone.”

  That made her bawl even harder. How could he understand so well when even Aun
t Cherry couldn’t get it? She knew Leslie had been grieving, and she was kind and supportive…but she didn’t really seem to understand that a miscarriage was losing a baby…not just the hopes and dreams of a baby, but an actual child. Someone she’d spoken to, nurtured, planned for…felt. She’d felt Ella, held her deep inside, connected with her.

  “Shh…shhh,” he murmured, stroking her back in a long, easy slide. “I’m here, Leslie. I’m here.”

  “I was five months pregnant,” she said. “Well past the danger zone. I started to wear maternity clothes. I—I ordered a c-crib…”

  “I’m so sorry, darling. So, so sorry.”

  Leslie didn’t know how long she sobbed messily into his shirt, but when she pulled away, there was a huge wet spot that went from shoulder to halfway down the soft, brushed cotton.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a little hiccup and a short, pained laugh. She batted at the massive wet spot. “I ruined your sh-shirt. I hope you didn’t have plans tonight.”

  Now that she’d emerged from the storm of grief and anger, she felt as if she were coming back to herself—back to reality. Here in her kitchen, with a soft, comforting glow, the smell of popcorn and old pizza—and, most of all, the smell of Declan: fresh, clean, male, delicious.

  And in the very same position he’d been in the last time she was in his arms: up against the island, holding her close.

  “Plans? Well, I was sort of in the mood to watch Gilmore Girls,” he said, reaching casually for a big handful of popcorn.

  Leslie burst out with a short, surprised laugh and looked up at him. Good grief, he looked delicious. Just…good enough to eat: all tall and sturdy, with his dark green eyes settled on her, a glint of humor and warmth in them. And a big wet spot on his dark blue and green diamond-patterned shirt.

  “I’d have to make some more popcorn, at the rate you’re going there,” she said nonchalantly.

  “Okay.” He jumped on that immediately, a smile twitching his lips.

  “But you have to promise you won’t judge me when you see how much butter I put on it.”