The Secrets She Carried

by Davis, Barbara

“Peak,” she finally answered more tersely than she intended. “And yes, we still call it that.”

  Avis remained quiet a long time, still gazing out at the lake and the sinking sun. When Leslie couldn’t stand another moment of silence, she gave her a prod. “Well, will it sell? What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Avis repeated as she turned and met Leslie’s gaze squarely. “I think anyone lucky enough to inherit a place like this but wants to get rid of it has to be nutty as an outhouse rat.”

  Leslie forced a smile. “Maybe, but that’s my plan. My life isn’t here. It’s in New York.”

  “Hard to imagine a life better than this right here, honey.”

  Leslie fought a sigh of frustration. “I’m in a bit of a crunch, Avis…if you know what I mean.”

  Avis’s expression softened. “I think I do, honey. It’s just a shame. If you’d come to me two years ago—back when things were booming—I could have gotten you a fortune. And I could have done it quick.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I couldn’t move it for half of what it’s worth.”

  “Then you don’t want the listing?”

  Avis waved a jewel-covered hand. “Well, don’t be ridiculous, honey. Of course I want the listing! Things won’t be in the dumps forever. But you’re going to have to be patient. What you’ve got here is an investment property, a bed-and-breakfast just waiting to happen. But there’s no market for that kind of thing right now. No bank’s going to touch this place until things turn around.”

  “How long?”

  “A year. Maybe longer.”

  Leslie felt what was left of her hopes plummet. There were other Realtors in town—two, to be precise. But her gut told her Avis knew what she was talking about.

  “If it were you, what would you do?”

  Avis blinked at her a moment with her heavily made-up eyes, then let go another of her smoky laughs. “If it were me? That’s easy. I’d quit moping and find a way to make a little lemonade out of this lemon.” She swept her arm, encompassing the lake and hills and sky. “Take a look around, honey. You’ve inherited paradise.”

  Chapter 9

  Leslie rocked slowly on the back porch, watching anvil-shaped clouds pile up over the lake, the promise of rain in their flat lavender bellies. Nothing about the day had gone according to plan. In fact, she’d accomplished exactly none of the things on her to-do list. She hadn’t purged a single item from a single room, hadn’t made it into town for groceries, hadn’t filed a forwarding order with the post office. And she hadn’t put Peak on the market.

  The day’s heat was finally beginning to ease, the afternoon sliding lazily toward evening. The breeze rose, sharp and moist, fragrant with green things. Leslie closed her eyes and tipped her face to it.

  Paradise.

  Or at least Avis MacLean thought so. And she supposed, if she took this moment—just this and nothing else—she could see it too, all sprawling lawns and antebellum charm. But she couldn’t take just this moment; she had to take it all. All the questions she’d never asked because she was afraid to hear the answers. All the behind-the-hand whispers about what really happened the day her mother died. Hardly the stuff of paradise.

  But Avis didn’t know about those things. She promised to call in a few days, after she had done a little legwork and talked to a few folks. In the meantime she wanted Leslie to carefully consider her options before committing to something she might regret later.

  Would she regret it?

  Staying had certainly never been part of the plan, but then so many things lately hadn’t been part of the plan. Could she actually make a life here? Turn her back on a career it had taken her more than a decade to build, and embrace the legacy of a woman she had barely known? It seemed ridiculous, and yet—

  Even before she knew where she was going, Leslie was on her feet, marching down the porch steps and out across the lawn, past a cluster of weathered curing sheds, then the main barn with its ash-colored boards and rusty tin roof. It had housed a pair of tractors when she was a girl, and for one winter, a calico cat and her seven kittens. It had never occurred to her back then that it might belong to her one day. In fact, she could hardly believe it now.

  Beyond the barn and a small copse of hardwoods, she could just make out the roof of the Little House, the plain two-story farmhouse where she had lived with her parents as a child. She’d been back three full days but had avoided going anywhere near the place, not ready to face the memories that awaited her in those empty rooms. Now, somehow, it was time. There were decisions to make, her future hanging in the balance. It was time to stop dithering and time to stop hiding.

  As she picked her way through the trees, she envisioned empty, neglected rooms, a leaky roof, and rotting floorboards, but as the distance closed she saw that the house was in better shape than she expected—much better, in fact. The porch was freshly painted, the windows open and billowing with sheer white curtains, and along the front walk a border of pink petunias nodded in the shade. But the bigger surprise, by far, came when a little strawberry blonde burst from the screen door, tore down the front porch steps, and disappeared around the side of the house.

  Astonished, Leslie could only follow. She stopped short when she reached the open gate and spotted the clothesline fluttering with pale blue sheets. There was a moment of confusion, a dizzying sense of time rewinding, smells and sounds dragging her back against her will—lemon and bleach and fresh-cut grass, the sharp snap of wet sheets on the breeze. And a dark-haired girl of about six, just home from school, playing peekaboo while her mother hung out the wash. She barely remembered that girl.

  The image evaporated abruptly as Leslie noticed a woman with a halo of sun-streaked curls step from behind the sheets. She was pretty and petite, dressed in a knotted T-shirt and very skinny jeans.

  “I’m Angie Shively,” she said, smiling as she reached the gate. “You must be Leslie. Young Buck said you’d come.”

  “Young Buck?”

  “That’s my daddy.” The girl from the front porch was beside her mother now, Jay’s dog, Belle, at her side. “He’s off with Uncle Jay at a meeting.”

  Leslie’s attention shifted from daughter to mother. “Uncle…Jay?

  Angie narrowed an eye on the girl. “All right, motormouth, can I talk now?” She turned back to Leslie with an apologetic roll of the eyes. “Sorry about that. He and Young Buck drove over to Wilkesboro to look at some equipment this afternoon, but really I think they just wanted a break from messing with that damn tractor.”

  The girl’s head snapped up, and her pout suddenly vanished. “You said a swear! You owe me a quarter!”

  Angie gave her daughter’s left braid a playful tug. “Nice try, you little chiseler. You still owe me for that ain’t in the grocery store yesterday, so the way I see it, we’re even. Now, let’s say hello properly. Sammi Lee, this is Daddy’s new boss. Her name is Miss Nichols.”

  Sammi Lee cocked her head thoughtfully. “I thought Uncle Jay was Daddy’s boss.”

  “He is, baby, and Miss Leslie is his partner. She’s here to help him with the vineyard. Miss Maggie was her grandmother.”

  Leslie opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t here to help with the vineyard, and she wasn’t anyone’s boss.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Leslie,” Sammi Lee said politely. “You sure don’t look like a farmer.”

  Leslie laughed in spite of herself. “That’s because I’m not a farmer.”

  “Then how’re you supposed to help Uncle Jay?”

  Angie chose that moment to step in. “All right, Miss Priss, just you stop being so nosy. It’s almost six, and past Belle’s dinnertime. What would Uncle Jay say if he knew you were late?” The words were barely out of her mouth when Sammi Lee turned and tore for the house. “Only three scoops,” Angie called after her. “And no more Milk-Bones!”

  She was shaking her head when she turned back to Leslie. “Sorry about the third degree. She wear
s me out.”

  Leslie waved off the apology. “I’m sorry about sneaking up on you. I didn’t know anyone lived here.” She scanned the yard now—the deck that ran the length of the house, the picnic table and swing set—and realized how little it actually resembled the backyard of her childhood. “I used to live here.”

  “Maggie told me.”

  “You knew my grandmother?”

  “I did. The woman was a force of nature.” A gust of wind kicked up. Angie glanced at the sky, then her half-full basket. “Rain’s coming. Do you mind? If I hurry I can get the rest up and dry before it starts to come down.”

  Intrigued, Leslie trailed after her to the line, plucking a handful of clothespins from the bag and feeding them to her one at a time. “I’m sorry, but did you call my eighty-year-old grandmother a force of nature?”

  “No one would have guessed the Old Broad was in her eighties, at least not until right near the end.” She paused, smiling sadly. “Old Broad—that’s what Jay called her. She used to fuss like anything whenever he said it, but we all knew she loved it. They were a pair, those two.” When the basket was empty Angie turned toward the house. “I was about to have a beer. Have one with me?”

  Leslie nodded. She hated beer, but she had more questions. On the deck, she waited awkwardly in a white plastic chair until Angie emerged with an ice-filled bucket and four Bud Lights.

  “Thank God that dog’s a good sport,” she said as she dropped into the chair beside Leslie. “I just found her dressed in half my daughter’s back-to-school clothes.” Twisting the cap off a beer, she handed it to Leslie, then grabbed one for herself. “So how is it being back? It must seem weird as hell after all these years.” She bit her lip and threw a glance over her shoulder. “Lord, I hope Sammi Lee didn’t hear that.”

  Leslie sipped her beer, fighting a shudder as it fizzed down her throat. “I’m guessing you two have a little game going?”

  “I pay her a quarter every time she catches me swearing. She pays me every time I catch her saying ain’t. I’m trying to teach her you can be from the country without sounding country.”

  “How’s it working?”

  Angie grinned. “She’s putting me in the poorhouse. So…how does it feel to be home?”

  Leslie winced at the word home but let it pass. “There’s so much to do I don’t know where to start. In fact, I haven’t started at all. I’ve made a lot of lists, though.”

  “At least the place wasn’t a wreck after all those months sitting empty.”

  She hadn’t thought of it before, but now that she did she realized there hadn’t been a speck of dust on anything. “Have I got you to thank for that?”

  Angie chuckled. “I can barely keep up with my own house. It was Jay.”

  “Jay…Davenport?”

  “He started when Maggie got sick. He’d dust or take care of the laundry, whatever needed doing. When she died he just kept on, every Monday whether it needed it or not.” Tipping back her bottle, she took a long pull, then swatted at something buzzing around her head. “I guess there’s still a lot to do, but at least you’re finally home.”

  Leslie squirmed uncomfortably. Sooner or later she was going to have to say something about being back. “To tell you the truth, it doesn’t feel like home at all. Everything’s familiar. In fact, almost nothing has changed. It just doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, or like I belong to it.”

  “Oh, that’ll pass,” Angie said, waving the remark away. “I’ve got a friend who moved here from Boston. She thought she’d never adjust to small-town life. Now, after less than a year, she feels like she’s been here her whole life. The same thing will happen to you.” Standing, she smoothed down the knees of her jeans and grabbed the bucket. “I’ve got to go in and start dinner. Nothing fancy, just pork chops and greens. We’d love for you to stay.”

  “Are you sure there’s enough?”

  “At this house, there’s always enough. Once you meet Young Buck you’ll know why. Come on, you can give me a hand.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook. I do set a mean table, though.”

  “Great, you’re hired.”

  Leslie followed reluctantly. It felt strange being in the same kitchen where her mother had baked muffins and helped her with her math, mostly because it bore almost no resemblance to that kitchen of her youth. Gone were the green appliances and gold-flecked Formica, replaced with clean white tile and glass-front cabinets.

  “Want the nickel tour, for old times’ sake?”

  Leslie shook her head. “Maybe later.”

  For the next half hour, Angie flitted about the kitchen, seasoning and stirring and popping things into the oven, chattering about townspeople Leslie had never heard of and would probably never meet. When she poked her head around the corner and hollered for Sammi Lee to come set the table, Leslie bounced out of her chair, glad to finally be able to contribute.

  Angie was bringing the last of the food to the table when Sammi Lee finally made her entrance, skidding sideways into the kitchen in a pair of fuzzy yellow socks, erupting in a fit of giggles as Belle piled into the back of her. When her mother threw her an exasperated look, she swallowed her amusement and took her place at the table. Leslie slid in beside her, holding her breath as Sammi Lee grappled with the iced tea pitcher and actually managed to fill three glasses without mishap.

  Leslie had lifted her glass halfway to her lips when she felt Sammi Lee’s gentle tug on her sleeve. “Grace, Miss Leslie,” she whispered softly. “We gotta say grace.”

  Later, when the dishes were washed and put away and Sammi Lee had stomped off to take her bath, Leslie and Angie adjourned to the deck. Leslie let her head drop back against her chair, lulled by the glow of citronella candles and whatever Angie had used to lace their coffee. Night was coming fast, the air heavy with the promise of rain. In the distance, mushroomy blooms of blue-white light chased from cloud to cloud.

  Beside her, Angie flipped open a box of Marlboros, slid one from the pack, and lit it. She released the first cloud of smoke on a long, ecstatic sigh, then offered the pack to Leslie.

  Leslie shook her head. “I didn’t picture you as a smoker.”

  “I’m not really,” she said, setting the pack on the railing and taking another pull. “I sneak four, maybe five a day. Buck pretends not to know.”

  “Your husband pretends not to know you smoke?”

  “Sweet, huh? I’m careful around Sammi Lee, though. I wait until she’s in school or in bed.” She flicked an ash over the railing. “They teach them about smoking in school now. They teach them about everything. I can’t believe how much she’s grown since we moved here.”

  Leslie saw an opening and pounced on it. “How long have you been at Peak?”

  Another plume of smoke lifted into the air. “I guess it’s almost five years now. We were in dire straits after the bank in Yadkin took our vineyard. If Jay hadn’t turned up and made us this offer, I don’t know where we’d be.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Drought,” Angie answered flatly. “We were still in the early stages, operating on a shoestring. We couldn’t afford a fancy irrigation system. Two years of no rain and we were out of business. When the bank stepped in, Buck took a job as a hand in a neighboring vineyard just to keep a roof over our heads. It was a pretty bad time.”

  “Until Uncle Jay rode to the rescue?”

  “He’s not really anyone’s uncle. He turned up when we ran an ad to sell off our equipment.”

  “Well, that was certainly convenient.”

  Angie either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. She flicked her Marlboro over the railing, into a nearby hedge. “He had a million questions. Didn’t know the first thing about running a vineyard, but he had a dream—a great big dream—and for Buck that made him some kind of soul mate. I couldn’t peel the two of them apart. Next thing I know we’re hauling everything we own to someplace I’ve never heard of. He couldn’t pr
omise any steady money, just a roof over our heads and a piece of the action.”

  “He sounds like quite a salesman.”

  “The man’s got a way with words; I’ll give him that. But then you’d expect him to, I guess. Anyway, it worked. Three weeks later, here we were.” Angie lit another cigarette, took a deep pull, and stared at the glowing tip. “Actually, moving here was Maggie’s idea. She was smart enough to see they needed somebody with experience. And thank God, too. I don’t know how much longer I could have stood Buck.”

  “I’m sorry about your vineyard.”

  Angie shrugged. “Things happen for a reason. This must be where we’re supposed to be right now. And maybe when Peak starts producing we can save up enough to start over. By then, Jay won’t need Buck. I’ve gotta give it to him. For someone who didn’t know what he was doing, he’s certainly brought the place a long way. It’s sad Maggie couldn’t live to see it. She used to talk about how Peak was a real tobacco dynasty back in the day.”

  “It was. Then my grandfather died of lung cancer.”

  Angie stubbed out the freshly lit Marlboro. “Well, I guess that explains her nagging. Do you remember him?”

  “Not much. I was four, maybe five when he died. But I remember his funeral. Half of Gavin was there. After the cemetery, everybody came back to the house. But Maggie wouldn’t come inside. Instead, she marched out to the fields and yanked up the first tobacco plant she came to. Then she yanked up the next one, and the next—just grabbed them and ripped them out by the roots. I could see her from the window in her good black dress, all covered in dirt. She stayed out there until it got dark, until someone went and got her. The next day she paid old man Snipes to plow it all under. She swore Peak would never grow another leaf of tobacco, and it didn’t.”

  Angie reached for the Marlboros, then checked herself, pinning her hands between her knees instead. “She never told me that story, but it sounds like her. She loved this place so much. It was like, I don’t know, the way she left her mark on the world, I guess. I think that’s why Jay works so hard. He promised Maggie he’d keep it going. She’d be glad you’re back home.”