The Secrets She Carried

by Davis, Barbara

  He’s still at my side when the sun comes up.

  He has watched over me through the night, while I have watched over him. I have never put much stock in the idea of messages from the beyond, but now I find myself praying that there was at least some tiny shred of truth in all the charlatans back home, with their candles and their crystal balls. In the only way I know how, I beg him, and the angels, too, to watch over my boy, to keep him safe from whoever bolted that shed and struck the match, to please, please, send him to Mama.

  Chapter 39

  Bad news always did travel fast in Gavin.

  There’s an article in the paper the next morning, but I am not mentioned. No one knows I was inside, and Henry does not tell. I am glad he doesn’t. No good can come from the questions that would arise. I am gone, and nothing will change it.

  Hollis Snipes has already seen the paper when Henry walks into his hardware store to buy a load of pine. Hollis guesses he means to put up a new shed, and Henry doesn’t tell him any different as they load the boards into the back of the old truck. He waits ’til the sun is down and the hands have all gone home for the day before locking himself in with me again and setting to work.

  He measures and saws and hammers all night, sanding and fussing over the join work like he’s building a bed instead of a box to bury me in. His hands are bandaged now, but he seems not to feel his burns as he works. When he’s finished, he lines the inside with the quilt from our bed and shuts me up inside.

  He sleeps for an hour or two then, until the sun comes up, his backside on a stack of old wood crates, his head on the lid of my box. It’s the first sleep he’s had in two days. He looks awful when he finally wakes up. His face is ashen, his eyes red rimmed with smoke and sorrow, smudged with the blue-gray shadows only grief leaves behind. At the cottage he changes clothes and downs a cup of coffee. Maggie doesn’t ask any questions, just gulps noisily and blinks two big fat tears when he asks her to look after Jemmy a while longer. She knows all too well what has happened and what her father has been about.

  He drives me to the top of the ridge then—to our place. It takes every ounce of strength he has left to dig that hole and get me in it. He’s on his third shovelful of dirt when he begins to sob in earnest, the reality of the deed striking full force as the top of the box begins to vanish into the earth. It’s a terrible sound, like a wounded animal, or a very young child, and I’d give anything then to touch his face once more, to say I’m sorry for leaving him.

  He stays there on his knees until he’s all cried out and his lips are blue with cold, one hand clutching his book of poems, the other resting on the fresh mound of earth that covers me. I can feel the warmth of his fingers leeching through the soil, way down into my bones, but I want him to go now. He needs warmth and food and sleep. There’s nothing more to be done for me.

  Chapter 40

  Leslie

  Leslie flipped over the last page and closed her eyes, her throat scorched with unshed tears. She had no idea what time it was; she hadn’t been out of the house in two days, unable to step away from the pages Jay had left on her doorstep.

  She saw now why he’d earned the moniker Master of Heartbreak. He had done an amazing thing, capturing both the joy and the sorrow of Henry and Adele’s love, page after page of emotions so raw they stung, spun out in a voice that felt like memory. She had devoured it all greedily: the grief of a girl longing for home, the awakening of a young woman’s heart, the joy and shame of a love that should not be, and finally, a life cut tragically short.

  Leslie shivered as she recalled the fire chapter. A young mother deliberately murdered, and in such a hideous way—it was inconceivable. But fires didn’t start out of nowhere, and doors didn’t bolt themselves. Her mind and stomach were churning again. In her mind she could feel the splinters wedging beneath her own nails, taste the smoke at the back of her throat.

  And yet he’d never so much as hinted that he thought Adele’s death might have been anything other than an accident. In fact, he’d gone to great lengths to dissuade her from that notion. When had he changed his mind? He’d mentioned once that Maggie had a secret that tormented her in her last days. He also said he was glad she’d never told him what it was. She had asked him why but hadn’t given his response much thought. Now, suddenly, it made her uneasy.

  Sometimes when you love a person there are things you’d rather not know.

  Like it or not, she needed to put her personal feelings aside and talk to Jay, tell him about her visit with Porter and try to enlist his help. If they went back together maybe Jay could persuade him to talk, or maybe he could just turn one of his charming smiles on Annie Mae, like he’d done in Charleston with Emilie Fornier.

  Leslie was halfway across the lawn when she realized what she must look like—her baggiest sweats, zero makeup, hair scraped up in a messy bun—but then it really didn’t matter anymore what he thought of her looks.

  She was glad to see the cottage lights on as she broke free of the trees. She knocked briskly, then, on a whim, pulled the pins from her hair and shook it loose. Her belly clenched when she heard the deadbolt unlatch.

  “It’s me,” she said ridiculously when he opened the door.

  There was a long pause, then finally, “What can I do for you, Leslie?”

  She swallowed hard, struck by the chill in his tone. “What you wrote—it’s good.”

  There was a stretch of quiet, the harsh silence of things not said. Finally he pulled the door open and turned back to the parlor, leaving her to follow.

  “In fact, it’s wonderful. But I need to know more.”

  “There isn’t any more.”

  “Of course there is. Fires don’t start by themselves.”

  Jay glanced up, then looked away, saying nothing.

  “You have to finish it, Jay.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it is finished.”

  “Then why put me through this? Why give it to me if you mean to just leave it hanging?”

  “Because Adele Laveau is part of your family’s history. Her story belongs to you.”

  “But I’ve only got part of it.”

  Jay shoved his fists into his pockets, his face unreadable. “I gave you what I had, Leslie, everything I know. I’m not inventing an ending so you can feel better.”

  Leslie fiddled with her jacket zipper, wondering just how far she was willing to take the conversation. “In your note you said you were starting to wonder if Maggie hadn’t meant for you to write Adele’s story all along. If that’s true, don’t you think she’d want you to finish what you started?”

  A tick appeared along his jaw, his eyes suddenly hard. “If she wanted me to finish, she would have told me the rest. She didn’t, so there’s an end to it.”

  “No, it isn’t. Adele was murdered. We both know it, and until now I didn’t think we’d ever know—”

  Before she could bring up Landis Porter, he was heading for the kitchen. Again, she followed, watching with folded arms as he poured himself a mug of coffee. He didn’t offer her one.

  “I guess I’m confused, Leslie. Is this about me, Maggie, or Adele?”

  “Why can’t it be about all three?”

  “Because a few weeks ago you stood here and made me into some kind of bastard for writing it. Now you want me to finish it? Forgive me for being surprised that you now want to give me your blessing—or to suppose that I’d need it.”

  “I need to know how it ends.”

  “You know how it ends. She died. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I have to know who would do such a hideous thing and why.”

  Jay set down his untouched mug. “I can’t help you.”

  “But you can. I found Landis Porter. He’s one of the boys who—”

  “Leslie, I’m leaving Peak.”

  Leslie felt the air go out of her as the words penetrated. “Leaving?”

  “It’s time for me to move on.”

  “What about the winery?” she blurte
d, fighting an annoying sting of tears. “We were supposed to open in the spring.”

  “I’ve had a change of plans.”

  Leslie’s fists curled at her sides; anger was safer than tears. “What happened to all the sermons about Maggie and her dreams for Peak? Was it all just bullshit?”

  “Leslie, let’s not do this.”

  A thought suddenly struck her. “You said you had taken an advance on the book, but you gave the manuscript to me. I assume that means you’re running out on that too?”

  “That’s my problem.” Moving past her, he opened the back door, a clear invitation for her to leave, then scooped an envelope off the table and handed it to her. “This is for you.”

  Leslie’s stomach went queasy when she saw the logo for Goddard and Goddard. Tearing back the flap, she shook out several carefully folded pages marked with tiny Post-it flags. She scanned them, frowning at the words Grantor…Grantee…free and clear.

  Finally, she looked up. “What is this?”

  “What should have been yours from the beginning. Good-bye, Leslie.”

  Chapter 41

  Leslie was too dazed to know what she was feeling as she marched back from the cottage, dry brown leaves crunching noisily underfoot, Jay’s quitclaim deed half-folded, half-crumpled in her hand. How could he just leave, turn his back on everything they’d accomplished, and just move on, as he put it? He was the one who’d done the betraying, not her, and instead of trying to figure out how to get past all that and find a way to make what was left work, he was running.

  But it was her fault really.

  She had known from the beginning that giving in to her feelings for Jay meant risking more than her heart. She just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him about Landis Porter, she realized, as the lights from the house became visible through the trees. It didn’t matter now, she supposed. He’d made up his mind.

  The wind kicked up as she reached the back porch, sharp and icy, whistling through the bare branches. She eyed the sky, low and flat and pewter gray, hinting at the possibility of an early snow.

  Fabulous.

  “Leslie…”

  For a moment she didn’t recognize him, hovered blue lipped and shivering against one of the porch columns. Then, when she did, she was too stunned to move. From the time she was old enough to remember, Jimmy Nichols had been a bull of a man, square built and as hard as nails. Now he seemed little more than a scarecrow, his skin the color of putty, his thick head of near-black hair grizzled and threadbare, his clothes hanging on him like rags.

  “I thought I told you not to come back.” She could feel the old panic creeping in, her pulse thundering in her ears and at her temples. “I also told you there isn’t any money. That hasn’t changed.”

  “That ain’t why I’m here, Baby Girl.”

  Leslie raised both hands as if to shield herself. “Stop calling me that!”

  Jimmy blinked at her uncomprehendingly. “I’ve always called you that.”

  “And I have always hated it.”

  Their gazes locked then, old wounds oozing open. It was Jimmy who looked away first. He swayed slightly, grabbing tighter to the porch post.

  Leslie stepped closer, testing the air for bourbon fumes. “How much have you had?”

  His head swung heavily from side to side. “None…I…haven’t had any.”

  She studied him through lowered lashes, noting for the first time his sunken cheeks and deeply shadowed eyes, his bone-white knuckles wrapped for dear life around the porch column. My God, how had she not seen it before? He wasn’t drunk; he was sick.

  “Do you think you can make it into the house?”

  Jimmy managed to nod. Taking his arm, Leslie led him inside, through the mudroom and the kitchen. By the time they reached the parlor, his lips were an unpleasant shade of lavender. Leslie pulled off his coat and sat him down.

  “I can make you some tea,” she offered lamely.

  She took the weak nod of his head as a sign of agreement and disappeared into the kitchen, relieved to have a moment to collect her wits. While the water heated she opened two bags of Earl Grey with shaking hands and tried to remember how her father liked his tea. She honestly couldn’t say. She only remembered how he liked his bourbon.

  He was slumped forward when she returned, head resting in his hands. She set his tea before him and backed away, perching warily on the arm of a nearby chair.

  He glanced from her to the tea, then back again. “Thank you.”

  Leslie nodded and took a sip from her mug. “There’s honey in it. I didn’t know how you took it.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, making no move to lift the mug.

  “How did you wind up tracking me down, Jimmy?” she asked, when the silence became excruciating.

  “I always do, don’t I?”

  “Yes, and you always want something when you do.” It was a terrible thing to say, she knew, but their history was hard to deny.

  Jimmy’s mouth curled, half smile, half grimace. “If that wasn’t the truth, I’d be hurt. As it is, I don’t have a leg to stand on. I do want something from you.”

  Leslie barely digested the words, still shaken by the sight of him, his hollowed-out cheeks laboring like an old squeeze-box in an effort to fill his lungs, each spongy rasp sounding as if it were being squeezed through a straw.

  “You’re sick,” she said softly. “Is it…bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad?”

  “It’s that bad, Baby Girl.”

  Leslie let the nickname go. “Have you…seen someone?”

  Jimmy picked up his mug with shaking hands. “I’m taking…treatments.”

  “And your doctors are okay with you traipsing up and down the eastern seaboard?”

  “I’m a grown man. I don’t need permission to visit my daughter.”

  For an instant she caught a glimpse of the old Jimmy, sullen and spoiling for a fight with the world. It vanished as quickly as it came.

  “I’m sorry you’re sick,” she said, startled to realize it was true.

  “Don’t be. We all get what we earn in this life.”

  Leslie squirmed, trying not to contemplate what that might mean. “Drink your tea before it gets cold,” she said, to change the subject. God, he was so thin, his muscles wasted, his skin sallow and loose on his bones. “I could fix you something to eat—eggs and toast, maybe, or soup?”

  At the mention of food Jimmy grew visibly paler. “The treatments don’t leave me with much of an appetite.”

  “Do they know…?”

  “How long I’ve got? No. That’s still up for grabs. I go back for tests in six weeks.”

  “Back where?”

  “Connecticut. That’s where the doctors are.”

  “But how did you…”

  “One story at a time,” he answered wearily. “Right now we’re going to talk about something else.”

  “You said you wanted something from me. I’d like to know what it is.”

  Jimmy pulled himself up straight and met her eyes. “I want you to make up with Jay Davenport.”

  Leslie couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d asked her to jump off the roof. “What do you—? How do you know about Jay Davenport?”

  “What I know, and how I know it, isn’t important.”

  “Jimmy—”

  “I’m your father,” Jimmy barked suddenly. “Do you think maybe you could stop calling me Jimmy, like I’m the guy who walks your dog?”

  “I don’t have a dog,” Leslie fired back drily. “And why now, after all these years, do you give a damn what I call you?”

  “Because now is what I’ve got.” His voice lost its sharpness as he went on. “It’s amazing what you find yourself giving a damn about when it’s all you do have. Leslie, I’ve made enough mistakes in my life to know there are some things you can’t walk back, and walking away from that man is a mistake.”

  Leslie stiffened. She didn�
��t want to have this conversation with anyone, let alone Jimmy.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Can you tell me you’re happy? If you can look me in the eye and tell me you are, I’ll leave right now.”

  The question made her throat ache. Not just the words, but the way he said them. “Why are you saying this? What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to listen. There are things you don’t know.” He winced and briefly closed his eyes. “Who do you think arranged for me to have my own private team of doctors? Paid for me to stay up north all this time? Did you think I won the lottery, or put in a call to a couple buddies from prison? Think about it.”

  Leslie stood but dropped back into the chair when the room began to tilt. “Are you telling me that Jay—? Why would he do that?”

  “Well, he didn’t do it for me. That’s for damn sure.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “How did he know you were sick?”

  “The day after your shindig we had a little talk, with him doing most of the talking. He threatened to bury me out in the grape fields if I didn’t keep away from you. Then I told him I was sick, that I had come to make things right with you. He must have believed me because he offered me a deal.”

  Leslie’s eyes narrowed warily. “What kind of deal?”

  “If I promised to leave you alone for a while and clean up my act, he’d send me to a doctor friend of his daddy’s.”

  Leslie took a deep breath, then let it out in one long hiss. It simply wasn’t possible, and yet the pieces were beginning to fall together; the sudden need for cash and the decision to sell Adele’s story, the mysterious phone call from a friend of his father’s. Jay had told her there was a family issue. She’d just assumed he meant his family.