The Secrets She Carried

by Davis, Barbara

  “Yes, I did. Aside from Tanner’s work, there isn’t another piece of art in the house of any consequence, and I can’t imagine a tobacco farmer traveling in the same circles as an art dealer.”

  “It’s my understanding that Mr. Gavin made the initial contact. It wasn’t until things started coming apart that my grandfather finally agreed to the sale. When he lost most of his money, he had little choice. He liquidated nearly all of his personal collection, keeping only the things he couldn’t bear to part with. Everything else went to keeping the gallery afloat.”

  “It had to be terrible parting with so many beautiful things, losing everything he’d worked for and loved.”

  “Come with me, Ms. Nichols. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Leslie followed, jerking her head for Jay to come along. They stepped across the hall to the closed door opposite Emilie’s office. The room was dark and masculine, not so very different from Henry’s study with its requisite desk, leather chairs, and massive fireplace. An enormous portrait filled the space above the mantel.

  Leslie’s mouth sagged open.

  “It’s called Eve and the Serpent,” Emilie said without fanfare. “Tanner’s sixth and last known work.”

  It was magnificent, a life-size depiction of Claude Fornier’s obsession, nude but for the snake writhing sinuously about the model’s torso, poised to strike one ripe breast. Her dark head was thrown back, lips parted, as ripe as the fruit she had just plucked from the Tree of Knowledge.

  “He kept one,” Leslie breathed.

  “Yes,” Emilie said. “To my grandmother’s everlasting shame.”

  “I take it she didn’t approve?” Jay asked, craning his neck.

  “According to family legend, the day my grandfather bought it, my grandmother threatened to move out of their bedroom. When he refused to sell it with the others, she finally did. ’Til the day she died, she refused to enter this room.”

  Jay had yet to look away from the painting. “Do we know the model’s name?”

  “It was Vivienne. I can’t give you a last name. She usually went by Tanner, though they were never married. At one time my grandmother was convinced my grandfather had hired someone to find her when he learned she was back in the States.”

  Leslie dragged her eyes from the portrait. “Did he?”

  Emilie shrugged. “I have no idea. For all the damage she did, he may as well have kept her in an apartment across town.”

  Jay finally dropped his eyes to Emilie. “I can’t help wondering why, with such negative associations, you keep it. Why not sell it, or at least take it down?”

  Emilie actually grinned. “Was that an offer?”

  “No, I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant. I was teasing. The truth is, I can’t. Nothing in this house actually belongs to me. It’s mine to enjoy as long as I live, but I can’t sell it or move a single stick of furniture. When I die everything goes to the Charleston Historical Society. I’m an only child and never married, so there’s no one left. And now, before I air any more family laundry, let’s go fetch your painting from my office and get you two back on the road. It’s a long drive back to North Carolina.”

  Chapter 34

  Jay

  Jay said nothing on the short drive to the restaurant. Leslie seemed not to notice, too busy, he suspected, trying to forge some kind of link between Tanner’s paintings and Adele Laveau to bother with small talk. Not that they’d heard anything that tied back to Adele. Maybe, when she realized she couldn’t make it fit, she’d finally leave the whole subject alone.

  Maybe.

  Not that he was off the hook. Back at the Battery, before his cell phone had saved him, he’d been about to spill the whole thing, everything he knew or thought he knew—the journal full of notes, the fledgling manuscript in his desk, his meddling in her father’s health issues—but by the time he hung up, there hadn’t been time. Now he wasn’t sure he had the nerve.

  High Cotton sat at the corner of East Bay and Faber, its green canvas awning fluttering gently in the balmy breeze. Jay held the door, then followed Leslie into the dimly lit foyer. It was early, quiet except for a jazz trio tuning up in the lounge. Maybe they should start there, have a drink to take the edge off. But that would just prolong the inevitable. The hostess arrived, showing them to a cozy corner table, which she proudly informed them had been dubbed the most romantic table in Charleston by Southern Living magazine. Jay eyed the framed article mounted to the windowsill as he took his seat. Under other circumstances, perhaps, but he had the distinct feeling that tonight was going to end up being about as romantic as the siege on Fort Sumter.

  Their waiter arrived, delivering an impeccable recitation of the evening’s specials, then suggested they might like to start with a bottle of wine.

  Jay waved away the wine list. “The lady’s the expert. I’ll leave the choice to her.”

  Leslie shot him daggers as she accepted the heavy leather folder. After a moment she closed it and handed it back. “I don’t see Peak Cellars listed. I don’t suppose you have a bottle of their Chardonnay by any chance?”

  Jay stifled a laugh in his water glass.

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that label, ma’am.”

  Leslie feigned surprise, then cool disappointment. “That’s too bad. I thought it might pair nicely with the scallops. Well, if you don’t have Peak, the Sonoma-Cutrer will do.”

  “The Sonoma, then,” he said, nodding crisply. “A very nice choice.”

  Jay waited until he was sure the waiter was out of earshot, then leaned close. “That was laying it on a bit, don’t you think?”

  “Twenty bucks says he’s in the back right now, asking the wine steward if he’s ever heard of us.”

  Jay shook his head, chuckling. “I’ve created a monster.”

  The Chardonnay wasn’t long in coming. After placing their orders, they sipped their wine and nibbled warm bread, chatting easily about the weeks he’d spent in Charleston doing research. His thoughts never stopped churning, though. He never should have waited so long to come clean. He didn’t know where to begin or how to explain why keeping the truth from her had seemed like the right thing to do.

  “I can see why you like this place,” Leslie said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s charming, very Charleston. But then, you know Charleston. You and Conroy, that is.”

  She was taunting him with Emilie Fornier’s remarks and clearly enjoying herself in the process. “You can wipe that smirk off your face. Our hostess was merely expressing pride in her birthplace. They take it very seriously.”

  “She liked you.”

  “She liked my book.”

  “No, she called the book mushy. It was you she liked.” She tore off another hunk of bread and began to butter it. “So…does that smile come natural?”

  “What smile?”

  “The one you turned on Emilie at precisely the right moment. I was just wondering if you had to work to perfect it.”

  Jay did his best to look wounded. “I don’t think I like what I’ve just been accused of. Besides, what was I supposed to do? We were five minutes from getting tossed out on our ear. She really got under your skin.”

  “In the beginning,” Leslie admitted. “Then I saw what an act it all was, to keep people from seeing how unhappy she is. I get that. You think being prickly will keep you safe, but all it ends up doing is keeping you alone.”

  She set down her glass then and laid a hand on his sleeve. “I wasn’t very nice when I came back to Peak. I’m sorry for that, sorry for not seeing what Maggie meant to you, for suspecting you of—well, a lot of awful things. Growing up the way I did made me believe everyone had an angle, so you couldn’t just be this nice guy who cared about my grandmother.” She shrugged. “Life with Jimmy, I guess, but you didn’t deserve it.”

  Jay squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he could bolt from the table or at least ask Leslie to stop talking. Maybe he hadn’t come to Pe
ak with an angle, but he sure as hell couldn’t claim anything like innocence. Not when he was sitting on two hundred pages of unfinished Gavin family history and purposely keeping it from her. And now he’d added Jimmy to his list of transgressions.

  He’d rather not contemplate the fallout when she learned he’d been meddling in the man’s medical affairs, or that after six long years he’d picked up the phone and instructed his agent to pitch the manuscript so he could foot Jimmy’s medical bills, and all to help a man Leslie despised. In retrospect, it seemed like a pretty bad idea, and one Leslie wasn’t likely to forgive anytime soon. But it was too late for regrets, and much, much too late to examine his motives. The wheels were in motion. Maybe there was nothing to be done for the old bastard, but if there was, well then, he’d just have to let the pieces fall. It was time to face the music.

  “Leslie, there are a few things—”

  Before he could get the rest of the words out, their waiter appeared with an armful of appetizers, and he was forced to bide his time until the food was served and the glasses topped off. By the time they were finally alone again, Leslie had begun nibbling at one of the crab cakes and was portioning out paper-thin slices of tuna.

  She paused, her fork halfway to his mouth. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you hungry?”

  Jay accepted the bite, chewing mechanically. The dining room was beginning to fill. Strains of jazz filtered in from the lounge, piano and bass mingling with the low hum of conversation. Outside, the day was slipping away, the streetlights winking on. He was in his favorite city, his favorite restaurant, and he was with Leslie. Surely what he had to say could wait until after dinner.

  “It’s a shame we have to hurry right back,” Leslie said, interrupting his thoughts. “It would be fun to do a little exploring. And after that meeting I could use a little fun.”

  Jay mustered a grin. “You don’t classify sparring with Emilie Fornier as a good time?”

  “No, I do not. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m disappointed. The only thing we know now that we didn’t know when we left home is that Emilie’s grandfather had a fetish for Tanner’s so-called wife. We knew there was a good chance Henry bought the paintings from him. We just didn’t know why. And we still don’t. I mean, why go all the way to Charleston for them? And then there’s the question of the money. It was 1941; the Depression was just ending. How would he have money to blow on art?”

  “That’s an easy one. Henry never trusted banks. Maggie said he would come home from the Smithfield market with his pockets full of cash. To her knowledge he never put a dime of it in the bank. It wasn’t unusual back then, especially in the South, and it would explain his remaining afloat when so many had lost everything.”

  “That might explain how he bought them, but not why.”

  “Does the why really matter?”

  Leslie pushed her plate back and folded her arms on the edge of the starched white tablecloth. “It’s one more thing that doesn’t fit, so yes—why does matter. I was really hoping Emilie would tell us something that tied those paintings to Adele.”

  “Such as?”

  Leslie shrugged. “I have no idea. Something about her life, maybe. How she died—and why. Instead, I’m back to square one.”

  Jay was more than relieved to see the waiter arriving with their meals. She’d have her answers soon enough. For now, though, he wanted to savor the evening a little before whatever had started between them came crashing down around his ears.

  “Do you realize,” he said, raising his wineglass, “that we’ve been talking about dead people all day? Here’s to changing the subject and to enjoying an outstanding meal together. By the way, they’re very strict about dessert here. That praline soufflé you ordered won’t leave the kitchen until you’ve cleaned your plate.”

  When dinner was over, the last vestiges of their shared soufflé scraped from its ramekin, they stepped out into the nighttime bustle of East Bay Street. Instead of heading back to the car, Jay took Leslie’s arm and steered her across the street, toward the pier at Waterfront Park, silently rehearsing the opening lines of his confession. He had decided at some point during dessert not to wait for the drive back. He wanted to be able to say he had looked her in the eye when he finally told her the truth. She deserved at least that much.

  He was conscious of the occasional brush of her body against his as they strolled to the end of the pier, their footsteps hollow on the weathered boards. As it was on most nights, the pavilion was filled with young lovers, huddled against the breeze around tables or in long slatted swings. The Gullah peddlers were about too, many of them children, selling woven sweetgrass roses to amorous tourists.

  He was glad to find the end of the pier empty, the long, low benches deserted. He loved it here, especially at night when the air was sharp and fresh, thick with the brackish perfume of the marsh. Closing his eyes, he breathed it in, listening to the languid wash of the tide moving through reeds and shells, a queer and beautiful music.

  When he opened his eyes again Leslie was at the railing beside him, face tipped toward the breeze, shivering visibly. “You’re cold. We should head back to the car.”

  “Oh, no, it’s beautiful here. Just get behind me and block the wind.”

  Jay stepped as close as he could without touching. He needed to keep a clear head.

  “Mmmm,” she murmured, nuzzling her head back against him. “That’s better.”

  Instinctively, his arms crept around her waist, cinching her close, until her hips were warm and firm against him. Her hair smelled like lilies and rain.

  “Thank you for today, Jay,” she said quietly. “You were the one who finally broke the ice with Emilie. Then that delicious dinner, and now this.”

  “Leslie…”

  “I know…,” she said softly. “We should be getting back.”

  But neither of them moved, and Jay couldn’t seem to make his tongue work. Everything was perfect, too perfect to ruin with talk of her father or of surreptitiously written manuscripts.

  He couldn’t say how much time passed before he realized they were swaying almost imperceptibly, moving to the ebb and swell of the water below. Leslie must have realized it too. Turning in his arms, she found his mouth, tentative at first, then surer, hungrier. Before he could check himself, he was leaning into her, savoring the slight, sweet strokes of her tongue, breaths mingled, swaying still, with the quiet insistence of the sea.

  Finally, through the rhythmic white noise, his senses returned. If he went through with this now, he’d be risking something he suddenly knew he wanted very badly, perhaps irrevocably. Sliding his hands to her shoulders, he pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length.

  “Leslie, we have to talk. There are things I need to tell you.”

  Her eyes were bright in the moonlight, heavy lidded and confused. She reached up to touch his face, her fingertips chilly against his cheek. “We’ve been talking all day. I don’t want to talk anymore. I know what I want. I think it’s what you want too. Let’s not go back tonight. Let’s stay.”

  When she tried to close the new distance between them, he kept his arm firm. “I don’t mean small talk, Leslie. There are things you need to know before we take this any further.”

  Taking his hand, she folded it in on itself, kissing each knuckle with deliberate slowness. “I know how I feel, and that’s enough. We’re here now, and it’s like a little piece of magic. Peak will still be there tomorrow. We can talk then. We’ll compare scars, if that’s what you want. You can tell me your secrets, and I’ll tell you mine. But none of it will change what I feel now…what I want now.”

  “Leslie—” But the rest of what he meant to say died on his tongue as he gazed down at her, his blood thundering in two places at once.

  “Please…,” she whispered against his neck. “Before the magic disappears, and it’s just real life again.”

  Jay didn’t know how to say no. She was so beautiful, her eyes luminous in the moonlight, an ir
resistible force. When she spoke again, the words came so softly they were lost on the breeze, but in the moonlight he could read her lips.

  “Let’s stay,” they said again.

  Chapter 35

  Leslie

  Leslie woke to sunlight knifing through unfamiliar blinds. There was a moment of disorientation, of trying to reconcile the deeply carved posts of an old plantation bed with the masculine leg pressed against her hip. And then last night began to flood back, the exquisite abandon of wills and limbs, breath to breath and skin to skin.

  Beside her, Jay was still asleep, sheets tangled high about his hips, exposing one leg and a smooth expanse of belly and chest. She reached out, tempted to trace a finger down his midline, then changed her mind. The clock on the nightstand read just shy of eight; plenty of time to let him sleep, and for her to pull herself together.

  In the bathroom she rummaged through the small satchel Jay had fished out of the trunk last night—an emergency bag he’d called it. She found a small tube of toothpaste, making do with her finger, then showered and scraped her wet hair into a ponytail with a scrunchie from the bottom of her purse.

  When she emerged, Jay was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, working his feet into his shoes.

  “Good morning,” Leslie said tentatively. “How did you sleep?” It was a trite question, she knew, but she was too anxious to be clever. Dropping the satchel to the floor, she sank onto the arm of a striped silk wingback. “I tried to let you sleep. Did I wake you banging around in the bathroom?”

  “Not at all,” Jay said, standing to pocket his change and keys. “I’m surprised I slept this late. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

  Leslie tried to ignore the alarms going off in her gut. “We’re hurrying right back, then?”

  Jay ignored the question. “There’s a sweatshirt in there. You’re welcome to it. It’s probably chilly, and the heat in the Mustang takes a while to kick in.”