Michael nodded. “Art is always personal. If you like it, then it’s beautiful.”
Annabelle leaned over the hall table, lifted the painting from the hook. The frame slipped in her hand and slid to the left. Michael grabbed the corner. “Whoa . . . what are you doing?”
“Taking it off my wall. Out of my house.”
They shimmied sideways together and set the painting on the hardwood floor. A rectangle remained on the wall where the picture had hung, the rose-and-urn-design wallpaper like brand-new where it had been protected by the art.
Michael bent down to study the painting, turned it over and ran his hand along the back of the canvas. On the bottom right-hand corner was a scrawled signature. He knelt on the floor; Annabelle squatted and leaned over his shoulder to stare at it with him.
“This is the same writing as the Ariadne signature. See the way ‘A’ and ‘E’ loop across the letter next to them in this Liddy Parker signature—same way as the ‘A’ and ‘E’ in Ariadne.” He touched the letters.
Annabelle squinted, unsure how he could read what looked like scratches of paint to her. “What does it say above her name?”
Michael fell silent, stood up. “Here’s more proof that they were the same person. I still don’t know why she would hide her name.” He shrugged. “Can’t ask her now, can I?”
“A lot of us have theories,” Annabelle said. “And no proof. What does it say above her name?” she repeated, although this time the question came in a whisper.
Michael looked away.
“Tell me,” she insisted.
“It says, ‘I love you always. . . .’ ” He looked away from Annabelle as he answered.
The familiar hallway, the center of her home, swayed before her, moved beneath her feet. Anger filled her heart to the edges, overflowed inside her body and consumed her with a need to scream, rant the emotion she had fought against all this time. Grief was allowed; sorrow was permissible—anger seemed a betrayal. Until now. Now she let it take over her mind and body. Simultaneously she understood that she must hide this feeling from Keeley and Jake; this rage was hers alone.
“Michael, I have to go. . . . You can take the painting.” Annabelle backed up to the front door.
She walked carefully down the porch steps, her flip-flops making rhythmic slaps. Michael’s voice called after her, but Annabelle made it to her car, and then to the beach before the ocean’s waves overcame the pounding of her heart, and she fell to the sand, curled into a ball at the edge of a sand dune. She wept.
She couldn’t stop weeping any more than she could stop the waves pounding one after the other on the shoreline. A seagull swooped down and past her while a wind rose and lifted the scent of ocean and sea life, rattled the sea oats in a sound like beating wings.
Eventually her tears subsided, and Annabelle curled onto her side with a sea grass mound as a pillow, the cushioned sand a mattress. She wanted to leave the anger here in the warm sun, leave the knowledge of Liddy Parker here. When the FAA had come to her the first time, informed her that Knox’s plane had crashed and there was no hope, she had thought, There is nothing worse than this. Now she knew she’d been wrong—there was worse than that. First death, then disillusionment—a combined burden she wasn’t sure she could carry.
She heard her name being called; Shawn was shouting for her. When his voice came louder and fuller, she lifted her head to realize it was not part of a half-dream, but originated a few feet away.
“Here,” she said in a whisper.
His footsteps made the sand dune vibrate, and then he was kneeling next to her. “What are you doing, Belle?”
He sat next to her, pulled her close and laid her head on his chest, ran his hand through her hair. His breathing came fast, and then steadied as she leaned against him. She murmured into his chest, “How did you find me?”
“I know you. I knew where you’d run—or I hoped I did. Then I saw your car.”
“Why did you . . . come looking for me?”
“Keeley called me, said you’d left and she didn’t know where you went. Some guy—that art historian, I think—was there and she didn’t know what was going on.”
“She loved him.”
“Who, Annabelle?”
“Liddy. She loved Knox.”
“How can you know this? You can’t go off into your imagination . . . making things up, making them worse.”
“She wrote it on the back of the painting she gave him all those years ago. Knox is the man she loved all that time.”
“Oh.” Shawn sank all the way onto the sand with her.
“He must have loved her. . . . He kept that painting and those words . . . in our house for decades. All during our marriage. How could he have allowed it to hang in the hall, in the entrance to our home?”
Shawn was silent and yet she heard his breathing louder than any words he could have said. “Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked.
“What do you want me to say, Annabelle? That he didn’t love her? That he didn’t have an affair with her? That he was always the ever-loving and perfect Knox?”
Annabelle pulled away from him. “Yes, that’s what I want you to say.”
He shrugged. “Okay, then. He never would have cheated on you or your family. He was perfect. Now do you feel better?”
“No,” she said, pushed at him. “Nobody is perfect.”
“Exactly. Do I think he cheated on you? Had an affair? No, I don’t. Do I think he was perfect? No, on that count also.”
“How can you know for sure?”
Shawn laughed and took her hands in his. “How can I know he wasn’t perfect? He dropped the pop-up at third base that would have won us the state championship. He threw his clubs once when he made a bad shot in golf. He accidentally released the largest marlin we’d ever caught, after we spent four hours reeling it in. He caused a fender bender with my car in college and blamed it on the other driver. You need more?”
“I meant, how can you be sure he didn’t have an affair? I never said he was perfect. Not once.”
Shawn shrugged. “Really. I could’ve sworn you did.”
Annabelle sat up. “He’s been gone for over two years now. Isn’t that weird? We talk about him like he’s at home, waiting for us to confront him about Liddy. He’s gone.”
Shawn reached for her, ran his right thumb across her cheek. “Sand.”
She placed her hand over his and leaned forward, and when he lowered his head to kiss her, she allowed it. His lips fit onto hers the way she remembered, but thought she’d forgotten. She slid easily into his arms and let herself stop the wondering, the doubting, the never-ending spiral of what-if that had consumed her for weeks, even in her solitude when she thought she had been nurturing her faith in Knox.
All of that faded away, and she was only aware of that particular moment, of the way Shawn’s hands slid up her back, the way her heart skipped into another rhythm: one she’d never felt before.
They fell backward, slow and steady onto the sand. She forgot why she’d gone to the beach, to this secluded spot. His kiss caused her to dissolve into the sand as though they were part of it. Then he pulled back, sat up.
She looked up at him, reached for him. He touched her face, and wiped away a tear she hadn’t realized was there. “Oh, Belle.”
He stood now and she stared at him in disbelief. “What . . . Where are you going?”
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, although she felt as if her legs would not hold her up. Shawn held her against his chest, ran his hand through her hair. “As much as I want you, as much as I want this—it can’t be this way. Not while you weep over Knox. Not while you wonder if he was all you thought he was. Not this way.”
Their kiss had been her only sweet release in weeks. “No, I wasn’t crying about him . . . not that. I didn’t even know I was crying. Don’t leave.” She wished for darkness or at least twilight so the sun wouldn’t beat down on them.
“You’ve bee
n crying for him for two years.” He touched her face again. “I’m not telling you that’s wrong. He was and is and always will be the one for you. You can’t kiss me like this when you don’t mean it for me.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything before . . . tell me how you felt?”
“When we were sixteen years old and you chose Knox, I made a decision never to say anything about how I felt. You chose Knox and I loved you and I loved Knox, and that ended the questions and what-ifs of us. He was the best friend I ever had. When he came to me and told me that you and he were dating, that he thought he might be in love with you—I let you go. Or at least I thought I let you go. But you’ve been a part of me ever since. I can’t make you feel the same way; I couldn’t do it then and I can’t do it now. I won’t be second-best either. I won’t be the comfort and backup plan.”
“But I didn’t know then. . . . Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Would it have mattered? I saw how much you wanted him—how great you two were together. My proclamations wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, except to ruin two friendships.”
His words burst the haze that had come over her while his hand was in her hair, his lips on her neck. She attempted to deny the truth, but only a small cry came from her throat.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home. Keeley is worried about you.”
Annabelle followed Shawn through the dunes, tripping over plants and driftwood. When they reached the end of the sand, when the road hit her bare feet, she grabbed his arm. He turned to her and she grasped either side of his button-down shirt, yanked him toward her and kissed him as he had her. The wanting seemed more important to her, in that moment, than knowing the truth. She wanted and needed more than anything she had in months, or even years, for him to want her.
He kissed her back, and she felt more than heard the groan in the back of his throat, in his chest. He pulled away, kept his hand on her shoulder. “Belle, you’ll regret this and I won’t, and it will ruin everything. Please . . .”
She stared at him, sand on her face, in her hair, tears on her face. Afternoon sunlight fell onto them with harsh reality. His eyes were moist, and Annabelle wanted to know if it was from tears or desire, but his set face and hard hand on her shoulder stopped her words.
“Listen to me. I don’t want you to choose this because I’m kind, or your friend, or happen to be here at the right time. Get in the car . . . ,” he said, walked her to the driver’s side.
“Why do you want me to choose this?”
“Out of longing,” he said.
“Oh, Shawn.” She dropped her head onto his chest. He lifted her face, stepped back and opened her car door. She yanked the car keys out of her pocket. “I’ll just . . . drive home now.”
“I’ll follow you,” he said, and climbed into his own car.
After Annabelle pulled into her driveway, she sat in the car to catch her breath. Shawn appeared at the door, opened it for her. Together they walked up the front porch steps, into the front hallway, where the picture was still propped against the wall, the apothecary jar full of shells on the table. Annabelle walked over, balled her hand into a fist and knocked the glass jar to the floor; shells skittered in wind-chime music across the hard wood.
Annabelle had picked up her foot to squash a starfish, crush it beneath her foot, when Keeley came into the hall. “Mom,” she whispered.
Annabelle knelt on the floor, began a frantic attempt to gather the shells, hide the evidence of her lost faith.
“Stop it,” Keeley said. “I’ll get them.”
Annabelle looked up at her. “I knocked the jar over.”
Keeley nodded and took a shell in her hand, rolled it upside down and handed it to Shawn. “Thanks,” she said to him. “I knew you’d find her.”
He glanced between them, then hugged Keeley. “I have to go. . . . Do you need anything else?”
In unison, Keeley and Annabelle said, “Stay.”
“I can’t.”
Keeley looked at her mother, then Shawn. “Please?” she said, quiet and still.
Shawn picked up a handful of shells and placed them on the table, tilted the jar, which hadn’t broken, and set it upright. “You two can be awfully convincing. I’ll go get us all some pizza . . . and be right back. Okay?”
Keeley smiled at him, then at her mother. “Perfect.” Annabelle stood, whispered, “Thank you.”
Shawn peered around the hall. “Did that guy leave?”
“Yes. He said he would call you later, Mom.”
Annabelle nodded, pointed at the painting. “Shawn, would you mind taking that with you while you run for pizza?”
He picked up the canvas, tucked it under his arm. “Be right back.” He opened the front door with his free hand, and bumped into Jake, who came through the door as he came into life: full-blast.
“Hey, man,” he said to Shawn, gave a light punch to his shoulder. “What’s up?”
Shawn laughed at Jake. “Off to feed your family. Be right back.”
The screen door snapped shut, and they all three turned to watch Shawn walk across the porch, and then down the front steps.
Jake looked over at Keeley and Annabelle, then at the floor. “Oh, what happened?” A shell crunched beneath his flip-flops.
“Mom knocked over the jar.” Keeley dropped in a handful of shells.
Jake bent down and picked up a broken one by his foot, dropped it in also. “Yeah, Mom. Keeley told me about this collection—very cool. I even added a few of my own.”
Annabelle looked at her son. “You did?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna have to get another jar soon. It’s weird how when you start to remember on purpose, more and more stuff comes up. You know?”
“I know,” Keeley said, stepped toward her brother.
Annabelle attempted a smile for her children. “Okay, I’m going to shower and we’ll have pizza in a few. Okay?” They both stared at her without speaking. She repeated herself. “Okay?”
“Mom, are you all right?” Jake squinted at her.
“Sure,” she said.
“Why’d you give Shawn that painting?” Keeley pointed at the rectangle of clean wallpaper.
Annabelle shrugged. “I never really liked it.”
“It was a piece by Liddy Parker, wasn’t it?” Jake asked.
“Yes, it was.”
Keeley and Jake looked at each other. Annabelle lifted her chin and took large but careful steps down the hall toward her bedroom. She needed to carry her doubt gingerly so as not to pass her disbelief about their father onto her children.
Annabelle stood beneath the scalding water, let it pound her back, her thighs, her hair. She scrubbed the sand from her face and scalp. Could Knox have wanted Liddy in the same way she had just wanted Shawn, if only for a moment? Could he have loved his wife and wanted Liddy at the same time? On the sand dune, she had both desired Shawn and loved Knox. Was this only possible when someone was dead and gone? These were questions without answers, and Annabelle let them flow over her just as the shower did, let the unanswerables twist down the drain with the sand and sweat.
When she came into the kitchen in a pair of jeans and an oversized cotton button-down shirt, her wet hair dripping down her back, her face scrubbed clean, Shawn, Keeley and Jake were lifting the top of the pizza box. Hunger rose like a sleeping force, and Annabelle accepted a slice with sun-dried tomatoes, feta and sausage—her favorite. She took a bite, closed her eyes. “Yummm,” she said.
Jake laughed. “Hungry, Mom?” He held four plates in his hand.
She glanced at each of them, one by one. “I love you guys,” she said. “Really, I do.”
Keeley groaned. “Geez, Mom. Just eat.”
Shawn turned away, pulled four glasses from the cupboard and set them next to a pitcher of ice water.
“You knew my favorite pizza,” Annabelle said.
“Of course,” he answered, poured a glass of water and handed it to her.
“Long day,” Jake said.
Annabelle seated herself on the bar stool. “Tell me.”
Jake took a stool across from her. “You’re not gonna like this.”
Annabelle shrugged. “Go ahead anyway.” A drop of water from her hair plopped onto the floor.
“Sofie is coming to visit.”
“Oh.” Annabelle looked down at the wet drops from her hair.
Shawn came around the island bar, put his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “She’s coming to see you?”
“Yeah.”
Annabelle looked up now, faked a smile. “Isn’t that nice?”
“No,” Keeley said. “Not so much. Why in the hell is she coming to see you?” She walked toward her brother. “Please don’t tell me you have something going on with her. That is way gross.”
Jake shook his head. “We’re friends.”
Keeley rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s what Joe told me right before he started dating Jessica. Friends, ha!”
“Keeley,” Annabelle said, “it’s okay. Really.” She looked at Jake. “When is she coming?”
He scrunched up his face. “Tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m not sure how I feel about this. . . .”
“Geez, Mom.” Keeley slammed her slice onto the plate. “You sound like you’re on drugs.”
Annabelle leaned onto the counter to stare at Jake. “Why is she coming? The truth, Jake.”
He took in a long breath. “She said she wants to tell us her story.”
“What does that mean?” Keeley asked. “Her story? Like we care one minute about her story. How weird is she?”
Jake looked at Keeley. “She is not weird.”
“Whatever.” Keeley threw her half-eaten slice into the garbage, and then bounded up the back stairs. Jake, Annabelle and Shawn looked at one another in silence until the echo of her slammed door reached the kitchen.
“I think she’s lost it.” Jake picked up the last piece of pizza.
The Art of Keeping Secrets Page 25