Frantic, Annabelle glanced around the courtyard, ran to the far side, where a children’s playground had been set up next to an ancient graveyard—an anomaly that seemed sacrilegious: a plastic play set alongside the worn stones of the dead founders of the church and town.
The young woman’s ponytail fell over the back of the stone bench where she sat facing away from Annabelle. The playground and graveyard were in front of the bench, and Annabelle could not see what the woman was staring at until she got closer, walked around the bench and saw that Sofie was gazing at her hands. Annabelle’s feet made a crunching noise in the gravel, and Sofie looked up, offered a single nod.
Annabelle sat on the bench, turned to this familiar stranger. “Are you Sofie Parker? You look so much like—”
“Yes,” Sofie said, quiet and trembling in her voice and body. “But it’s Sofie Milstead. . . .”
“I thought I recognized you. . . . Do you know who I am?” Annabelle whispered as one would to a child one wished not to scare away.
“Mrs. Murphy,” Sofie said.
“This is the oddest coincidence,” Annabelle said, rubbed her temples. “How long have you lived here?”
“It’s not so much of a coincidence,” Sofie said. “Not really.”
Annabelle straightened up. “What do you mean?”
Sofie turned now and looked directly at Annabelle. “My mother and I lived here for a long time, and your husband visited frequently, so I figured you’d show up eventually.”
“My husband . . .” Annabelle’s pulse knocked against her wrists in an erratic beat.
“Mr. Murphy. Knox. He helped a lot of people around here,” Sofie said.
Annabelle smiled; she would pretend she knew what Sofie was talking about. Her real world at home in Marsh Cove began to fade into sepia shades as this world in Newboro became too bright, too crisp with the image of Knox living in it.
“So,” Annabelle said, “you do know he . . . passed away two years ago.”
“The plane crash,” Sofie said. “Yes, I do.”
“Do you know his plane was recently found and that a woman was traveling with him?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I saw it on the news.” Sofie looked across the playground. “This is my second-favorite place in Newboro. Isn’t it beautiful? The old stones that have been here for hundreds of years, the old souls that lie beneath this land, the children—when they’re here—defying death with their laughter.”
Annabelle took a deep breath. “Is that your father in the church?”
Sofie’s gaze flashed back to Annabelle; her mouth attempted to move into a smile. “No, that’s my boyfriend.”
Annabelle nodded. “Oh, sorry. How is your sweet mom?” But even as she asked the question, something moved toward her from the corner of her eye: a knowing as wispy as smoke.
“She . . . left,” Sofie said.
“Oh,” Annabelle said. She wanted to chat longer, ask personal questions that would draw information out of this fragile young woman, but the only question she could voice was “So you must know who else was on the plane?”
Sofie nodded. “Yes, he was helping a woman. . . . She was in some kind of trouble, and he was taking her to Colorado.”
“What kind of trouble?” Annabelle asked.
Sofie stood now. “I always knew I’d see you again, but I thought . . .”
“What?” Annabelle looked up at Sofie, the sun backlighting her, blacking out her face and leaving only an impression of a woman, without substance. “There’s more, isn’t there?” Annabelle whispered.
“There’s not more that I can tell you,” Sofie said.
“Yes, I’m sure . . . I’m sure there is.” Annabelle stood, wanted to grab Sofie, shake the information out of her. “This doesn’t make sense.” Annabelle brushed the hair out of her eyes, felt her flesh grow hot and then cold as confusion overcame her.
“His flight was a mission trip of sorts,” Sofie said. “Mrs. Murphy, I really can’t tell you more.”
Annabelle’s body shook as though it was October and a gale wind blew through the harbor to the courtyard. Sofie glanced around the yard, and then took quick, small steps back to the church. “Sofie . . . please,” Annabelle called after her, but Sofie opened the wide wooden doors and disappeared into the sanctuary.
Annabelle sat back down on the bench and felt herself free floating, as though someone had just loosened her tethers to the earth, letting her rise above her body and the stone bench, taking her to an unknown land where her husband flew to Newboro, North Carolina, and picked up a woman for a mission trip of some sort.
The realization that Knox was “doing good” spread relief over her like warm water: her dear husband was helping someone; he died while doing a good deed. Her tight fists unclenched; the muscles around her mouth relaxed, and she was able to take a deeper breath.
She exhaled in a loud huff, dropped her head into her hands. The dread she had voiced to Mrs. Thurgood—What if nothing I believed about my life was true?—was now answered. Her beliefs were true. Knox was true. Their marriage was true. Questions remained, prodded at Annabelle’s heart, but she rested in one sure thing: Knox had come here to help someone.
The hotel air conditioner coughed and sputtered through its coils cold air that smelled of mildew and salt water. Annabelle sat on the nautical-print bedspread and allowed the chill to cool her off. She called her mother to check on Keeley, but heard only the monotonous recording of her own voice saying to leave a message. Annabelle told her mother and Keeley she loved them and what hotel she had checked into, and then she fell backward onto the bed.
For days, memories of Knox had arrived unbidden and without warning. Annabelle remembered when he’d taken the family to Colorado for spring break to ski the great Aspen Mountains. Jake was almost fourteen and about to enter high school, and Knox wanted a great family trip before their older child began navigating the tumultuous world of adolescence. They’d gone together to the nearest outlet malls and purchased ski apparel for the entire family. In their matching goofy white-and-silver ensembles, they had looked like an ad for one brand of ski wear.
Annabelle closed her eyes and saw the hot tub, the kids laughing at dinner; Keeley making a new friend from California (which seemed like another planet to her) whom she still kept in touch with; Jake sneaking out one night to meet a girl at the bottom of the slopes. Annabelle and Knox had lain in bed and laughed because Jake thought he was pulling one over on them when they knew exactly what he was doing.
They had made love, talked about how lucky they were to have this family, this life. The next day with patience and good humor Knox had taught her to snowboard. She’d given up and gone back to the lodge to drink peppermint schnapps and wait for her family to join her next to the fire.
No matter what situation Annabelle remembered or where she placed Knox on the time line of their life together, she could not find a single moment to sift doubt into the sieve of her memory. She would find out who this woman was and how Knox had been helping her, but her essential faith in him was restored.
She curled fully dressed beneath the bedcovers. After driving most of the night and then seeing Sofie in some bizarre time-warp experience, she had hit her limit. Sleep came quick and dreamless.
Jake’s voice called her over and over. Annabelle opened her eyes, attempted to focus in the evening light of the strange hotel room. She must have dreamed about him, of his needing her. She rolled over, rubbed her face and heard his voice again.
“Mom? Are you in there? Are you okay?”
Her mind took a while to catch up with her body. For a moment she listened to her son call her name and wondered if she was in some alternate world. Then he called again; Annabelle bolted from the bed, ran across the room and opened the door to face Jake. He stood in the green-carpeted hallway with the fluorescent light shining down on his concerned face. He wore a pair of wrinkled khaki shorts and a frayed golf shirt that had once been his father’s. Annabelle threw
her arms around him. “Why in the world are you here?”
“Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine . . . fine.” Annabelle stepped aside to let him into the room. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” A welling up of love flowed through her body at the sight of Jake’s face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom. The big question is, are you okay? You pretty much have everyone in a total panic. You ran off in the middle of the freaking night. Who does that?”
“Not me, usually.” She smiled at him. “I called everyone, got Gamma to come for Keeley. No one should be worried. I’m fine.” She glanced around the room. “How did you know my room number?”
Jake shrugged. “I told the cute girl at the front desk that I was your son—I did show ID. She told me your room number—but I didn’t have enough charm to get a key out of her. Shawn . . . Mr. Lewis wanted to drive up here, but I told him I could take care of my own mother. Luckily you told Gamma what hotel you’d be in or I’d be wandering the streets.”
“Oh, Jake, I don’t need to be taken care of.” Annabelle stretched. “But I am so glad to see your face. What time is it anyway?”
“Six o’clock.”
She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m starving. Give me a second to freshen up, and we’ll go grab something to eat.”
Jake sat in the sole chair in the room, dropped his arms over the sides of the starfish-design upholstery. “Mom, what are you doing here?”
“Jake, I need some food in my stomach before I try to answer that. Okay?”
“Does it have anything to do with Dad?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how yet.” Annabelle walked toward her son, who was now taller than Knox had been. His dark curls fell below his ears, and dark stubble covered his chin. The remnants of adolescent acne were long gone.
She was selfish for believing that this dilemma was affecting only her, not everyone else in the family. She walked into the bathroom, hoping to wash the fatigue and stress off her face. When that was unsuccessful, she dabbed on some blush and lipstick, ran a brush through her hair, then leaned close to the mirror. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get tonight.”
In the past two years she’d often found herself wondering if Knox could see her, could watch the family from heaven. At times she’d wished this were true, but right now she hoped it wasn’t. The last thing she wanted him to see was her, bedraggled, panicked, running around like an insane woman trying to find out about “the woman.” She looked up at the water-stained ceiling. “Oh, Knox, I do love you, but what were you doing here?”
She came out of the bathroom. “Let’s go. I’m starving,” she said to Jake.
He followed her outside without a word. Communication between her and Jake was often like this. Annabelle understood he was angry, yet trying to control it enough to discover what this trip had to do with him, with his dad.
She led him down a side street to a restaurant she’d noticed after leaving the church. She wound her arm through his as they entered a packed room that smelled of fried food and warm salt air. They were told there would be at least a half-hour wait. Annabelle leaned against the wall and let out a long breath.
Jake pulled on her arm. “Come on, Mom. I’ll buy you a drink.”
She lifted her eyebrows at him. “You aren’t legal to buy me a drink.” She poked at his side.
“Two more months and I will be.”
“How did that happen?” Annabelle spread her hands apart. “How did I come to have an almost-twenty-one-year-old son?”
He shrugged, blushed, then walked toward the bar. Annabelle listened to him order her a Chardonnay and a Coke for himself, his gestures and tone of voice so like his father’s. Her heart hurt as though it were breaking all over again as she watched him take money from his wallet, smile at the waitress.
She accepted the glass of wine he handed her, took a long swallow and then sat on a bar stool. “Thanks, Jake.”
“No problem. Tell me what is going on. Please.”
Annabelle leaned her elbow on the counter, pushed a stray hair off her son’s forehead. “I remembered that your dad stopped to refuel here. I thought I’d come and ask some questions. But it didn’t take very long. . . . You’re not going to believe who I saw in the first couple hours I was here.”
Jake shrugged.
“Sofie Parker. Remember her?”
He stared off at the wall, paused and smiled, turned back to her. “The little girl who used to live above the art gallery with her mother. The lady whose painting is in our foyer . . . right?”
Annabelle took a sharp breath—the painting in the foyer. She had forgotten Liddy Parker had painted it. Annabelle felt her eyes squint, her brow furrow.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head. “No, I just haven’t eaten.”
Jake rose and walked toward the maître d’, then returned. “Come on. We have a table now.”
Annabelle laughed. “What’d you do, bribe him?”
Once they sat down, the room around them faded like the blurry background in an old photo. Annabelle spoke in quiet tones. “Anyway, she knew your dad’s plane was found—she heard it on the news—but when I asked if she knew who was on the plane with him, she was very skittish, scared almost. She told me your dad was helping some woman—a mission trip. She wouldn’t tell me the woman’s name, but in a small town like this, that shouldn’t be hard to find out . . . I guess.” Annabelle leaned back in her chair and marveled how some sleep and reassurring news could completely change her outlook on life.
“I remember Sofie from elementary school, and her cool mom who ran the art studio. Sometimes when Dad picked me up from school, we’d drop Sofie off there, and Dad would look at the art, talk to her mom about it.”
“Well, that little girl must be twenty now. You two were the same age.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Neither do I, but it must’ve had something to do with his pro bono work.”
“Yeah . . . I guess.” Jake leaned back in the chair. A waiter came and took their order, placed a basket of hush puppies on the table. Annabelle ate two. “These are wonderful.” She pushed the basket toward Jake.
He popped a hush puppy into his mouth, chewed while he stared at the restaurant crowd. “Weird.”
“Yes.”
“Well, maybe I can talk to Sofie, find out something more.”
“You can try—she wouldn’t tell me anything else. I have no idea where she lives or works or anything.”
Jake scooted back to allow the waiter to place water glasses on the table. “What else did she say?”
“Listen, Jake, I don’t have anything else to tell you. That’s all I know right now. Let’s talk about you. How is school going?”
“I dropped out of the semester.”
Annabelle’s drink slipped in her hand; Jake grabbed it before the wine spilled.
“Sorry, Mom. That’s why I’ve been avoiding your phone calls. It’s why I bought you that drink.” He smiled at her and made a face. “Don’t lose your cool, okay?”
Oh, God, how she wanted Knox here. She wanted to look to him for the proper words to say, for how to respond to her precious son in a way that wouldn’t ruin this fragile moment.
“Jake, why?”
“Mom, I didn’t like the prelaw classes at all. I think I want to teach. Or write. History probably. I’m not really sure. But I know I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
It was as if the news about the woman in the plane had upset a precarious equilibrium, tipping out a mess of confused goals, beliefs and misunderstood motivations.
“Honey, you’ve wanted—”
“I know. But I don’t now.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about what you do want.”
“That’s the biggest problem. I’m not sure. I just know what I don’t want. I know this is crazy for you to hear, Mom. I know this isn’t the way your brain works. And I’ve practiced this
speech five hundred times, but it still isn’t coming out right. I know you can’t support me while I figure it out, so I promise I’ll get a job. If we’re supposed to do something with our lives that inspires us and others, then I want to teach history.” He held up his hand. “I know that doesn’t make much money. But I love it. I love everything about it.”
Annabelle looked across the table at her son in this strange town, in this foreign land where she had come to find out what her husband had been doing right before he died. “Jake, if you love history, then teach it, write about it. You do not need to choose a career to satisfy me or your father.”
She spoke about Knox in the present tense, as if he were still there looking over them, judging Jake’s decisions. A new freedom came over her, freedom mixed with a sense of betrayal; she didn’t need to think about what Knox would say or how he’d react—he wasn’t there. “Jake, you’ve loved history since you could read. While everyone else was reading the Hardy Boys, you read about the Crusades. While others did their school projects on the popular sports figures, you did yours on some Roman battle I don’t even remember. While others dressed up at Halloween as John Elway, you dressed up as a gladiator. Don’t try and please me with your choice of career or school.” She grinned at him. “I never want you to blame me for whatever misery you bring on yourself. You already have enough to blame me for.”
Jake looked toward the other side of the restaurant, but a mother knew the look on her son’s face when he was fighting back tears. She couldn’t tell what they were for—her mention of Knox or her release of his life—but she reached across the table and laid her hand on his forearm. “Hey, you okay?”
He looked back at her. “Mom, I have never blamed you for anything. Ever.”
She smiled. “That was meant to be a joke, but you know what? Keeley does blame me. She hates me now. Do all sixteen-year-olds hate their mothers?”
Jake nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard. Mom, I just think she is still really, really mad at Dad for leaving us.”
Annabelle sat back in her seat. “I guess I’ve seen it, but ignored it, hoping it would pass.”
The Art of Keeping Secrets Page 12