“Besides,” he added. “We both know there’s no way for that to happen.”
Leslie swiveled her barstool around to face him, green eyes bright with suppressed excitement. “What if I told you I could help you?”
“Help me?” Jay fixed her with a look of astonishment. “Leslie, your plate is full. Your father’s sick. You’ve got a winery to open in ten weeks. You don’t have time to save me from debtor’s prison.”
“I can promise you, the last thing on my mind is saving you from anything. This is about finding answers to a bunch of eighty-year-old questions. And I don’t believe it’s as impossible as you think it is. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve already found the man who can help us.”
Jay stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What man? What are you talking about?”
“His name is Landis Porter. He was one of the boys the police picked up the night of the fire.”
“Who, if memory serves, they wound up letting go. Leslie, if he couldn’t tell the police anything that night, what makes you think he’ll be of any help now?”
“Because I saw his face when I told him why I had tracked him down. He knows something, Jay. I’m sure of it. He just won’t say what it is. He all but threw me off his porch.”
“And this is the man you think is going to answer all your questions?”
“Maybe, if you went back with me. We could—”
Jay held up a hand, cutting her off. “I’m not getting dragged into this.”
“But you are in it! You’ve got three-quarters of a novel written. All you need to know is how it ends. Instead of leaving, you should stay and find out.”
“Leslie, I don’t know how to make this any clearer. I don’t want to know how it ends. I don’t care.”
She drew a deep breath and let it out forcefully. “Fine. Then stay to help me open the winery. I’m not helpless, but it would sure be easier to do this with a partner.”
“A partner,” he repeated tightly. “And where does that leave us?”
She was hiding behind her hair again, hands knotted tightly between her knees. “I haven’t changed my mind about us; I can’t. But I don’t think that should matter. We’re adults. We can work together without it having to be messy. There was no us when I agreed to stay, and we did all right. It was only when we got…silly, that things went wrong. It doesn’t have to be about us. It can just be about the wine.”
Silly.
The word landed in his belly like a fist, brutal and without pity. Was that what she thought, that they were just being silly? Jesus, he’d been a fool; the worst kind of fool, in fact, since this was hardly his first time getting punched in the gut. Still, Maggie would want him to see his commitment through. It was the least he could do after all she’d done for him.
“Six months,” he said finally. “That gets the doors open. At the end of that time you sign the quitclaim deed and we go our separate ways—clean break, no arguments.”
The proposal seemed to satisfy, though some small part of him had held out hope that she might protest the leaving part. Instead, after a curt nod, she gathered her hammer and nails and slid off her stool, leaving him to watch her retreat.
Chapter 43
Leslie
Angie set a mug of hot chocolate in front of Leslie, then slid into her own chair. “Okay, out with it,” she said, after venturing a cautious first sip.
“Out with what?”
“With whatever’s going on. You pop over here in the middle of the day, but you’re a million miles away. Something’s up, so let’s have it.”
Leslie stared into her mug, watching her marshmallows dissolve into a slick of pale froth. “I talked to Jay yesterday,” she said, without looking up. “He promised to stay six months, to get us through the opening.”
Angie nodded. “He told me this morning. He also told me your father was back and that he’s pretty sick.”
Her head came up then, her hands squeezed tight around her mug. “He’s been paying for Jimmy’s treatment all this time. Did he tell you that? With the money he got for the manuscript.”
Angie’s mug came down abruptly. “He sold the book?”
Leslie made a face. “Not exactly. He took the advance but never finished the book.”
Two weeks ago, in a moment of weakness, Leslie had finally broken down and told Angie about the manuscript. She’d wanted only to be left alone to lick her wounds in private, and hoped spilling the whole ordeal would put an end to all the sidelong glances and not-so-subtle questions. Instead, Angie had doubled down on her attempts at reconciliation.
Angie looked alarmed now. “But he’s going to finish it, right?”
“No. But the money’s gone and he can’t pay it back.”
Angie scowled as she reached into the nearby bag of marshmallows and dropped a few more in her mug. “That doesn’t sound like Jay. Why doesn’t he just finish it?”
“That’s what I keep saying, but it isn’t that simple. Adele—that’s the woman buried up on the ridge—has been dead almost eighty years. We think—or at least I do—that she died in a fire, but we don’t know how or why.”
“But you don’t think it was an accident.”
“No, I don’t. And I don’t think Jay does either. There was some kind of secret, something Maggie wanted to tell him before she died, only she never got around to it. He thinks it had to do with Adele’s death.”
“Has he said what he thinks it might have been?”
Leslie shook her head as she took another sip of cocoa. “He won’t talk about it. It’s like he gets squeamish every time I bring it up. He cuts me off or changes the subject. I just don’t understand it.”
“Maybe he’s frustrated. Maybe he wants to finish the book but can’t.”
“But he could. I managed to track down a man I think could help us, but he won’t talk to me. When I asked Jay if he’d go back with me to try again, he turned me down flat.”
Angie was quiet for a time, running the ball of her thumb around the rim of her mug. “It sounds like Jay might not be the only one frustrated about this book not getting finished. That’s a pretty big change of heart for you.”
Leslie nodded sheepishly. Somewhere along the way she had simply stopped being angry, somewhere around chapter three, she guessed.
“You’d understand if you’d ever read those pages.”
Angie popped a trio of tiny marshmallows in her mouth and stood to gather the mugs. “I don’t have to. I was a fan long before I ever met him.”
“I guess I’m a late bloomer.”
“Do you love him?”
Leslie closed her eyes, shook her head. Why was everyone asking her that? “I can’t.”
Angie threw her head back and laughed, a throaty peal somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “You’re not one of them, are you?”
Leslie felt vaguely annoyed. “One of who?”
“One of those women who think if they talk fast enough and long enough, they’ll eventually drown out what their heart’s telling them. You can’t, honey. The heart wants what it wants. If you’re in love with Jay Davenport, you may as well just look in the mirror and say so.”
“And then what?”
“And then you make damn sure he stays.”
Jay stood cool and expressionless on the back porch when Leslie opened the mudroom door a few hours later. He was holding what appeared to be a heavy carton of books.
“I’m bringing these back,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “I found them mixed in with mine.”
Leslie stared at the neatly packed carton, wondering why he was bringing it now. There was something final in the way he set it down just inside the door, a sense of loose ends being wrapped up, that made her look up at him questioningly.
“I also need to ask a favor,” he said gruffly.
Leslie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“I’ve got some boxes over at the cottage that I brought down from the crawl space. It’s junk, mostly, but I w
as hoping you’d come over and see if there’s anything you want to keep before I haul it away.”
A hot lump formed in her throat. She tried to swallow it, but it remained. “Been doing a little early spring cleaning?”
“Something like that. Can you come? I’d really like to get rid of them.” He surprised her by smiling. “I’ll feed you, if that sweetens the deal.”
Leslie tried to ignore the little giddyup in her belly, warning herself just how fickle that smile could be. “Um…sure. Let me check on Jimmy and grab my coat, and I’ll be over.”
He was standing in the doorway when she reached the cottage, waiting for Belle to finish investigating a pile of soggy brown leaves. “Watch yourself,” he warned as she stepped past him. “The place is a disaster.”
She felt a sickening pang of dread as she looked around the tiny parlor. Everything the man owned seemed to have been yanked from its closet, shelf, or drawer: battered textbooks, laceless shoes, and other household wreckage, all ready for packing into the large empty cartons stacked by the front door.
“You’ve been busy,” she said stiffly. “I thought you said you were staying.”
“For six months, yes.” He kept his back to her while he spoke, rummaging through a carton of old sweaters. “I figured it might be a good time to sort through some of this stuff while I’ve got a little downtime. Come spring there’ll be lots to do for the opening, and then plenty of loose ends to tie up. The boxes I told you about are in that corner.”
Leslie hurled a scowl at his back. She had hoped he’d have second thoughts about leaving. Instead, it seemed he was counting the days. She thought of Angie’s advice—make damn sure he stays—and wondered how she was supposed to do that when he clearly already had one foot out the door. Wishing now that she hadn’t come, she eyed the trio of boxes Jay had indicated, bulging with an assortment of lampshades, cookware, vases, and shoe trees. It was hard to imagine finding anything worth keeping in the tangle of castoffs. Still, she rolled up her sleeves and bent to the task, leaving Jay to his own boxes.
An hour and a half later she had finally neared the bottom of the last box. She lifted out the last two items, a dented teakettle and a small, flattish box. The teakettle she cast aside, only slightly more interested in the box. Its weight told her it wasn’t empty, but years of heat and grit had glued the lid fast. Using the heel of her hand, she wiped away layers of dust until the words LA PALINA DE LUX appeared.
“Hey, is this yours?” she asked over her shoulder, giving the box a rattle.
Jay left a stack of old magazines to join her in the corner. “What’ve you got?” He took the box, wiping a bit more dust from the lid. “It’s an old cigar box. And no, it isn’t mine.” Prying the lid loose, he peered inside. “Looks like an old sewing box.”
After a brief, disinterested pick through its contents, he handed it back. Leslie poked at a tangle of spools, a cloth doll riddled with tarnished straight pins, a measuring tape and thimble.
“It isn’t just a sewing box,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on its contents. “It’s her sewing box.”
Jay heaved an impatient sigh, then turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen.
Leslie trailed after him with the box. “But this could be something.”
“It is. It’s a sewing box.”
Leslie groaned. “You know what I mean.”
She waited while he foraged for a Milk-Bone and tossed it to Belle, then waited again while he washed his hands, and tried again.
“I don’t understand you at all. The day I found the manuscript you told me you were so haunted by Adele’s story that the only way to get it out of your head was to write it all down. Now you don’t give a damn about how it ends? That doesn’t make sense.”
“You think the answer’s in that box?” he shot back, the familiar pulse ticking angrily at his jaw.
“I never said that. But every time I come anywhere near the subject, you bite my head off, walk away, or both, and I don’t know why. I care about how Adele’s story ends because of what you wrote. How can you not care at all?”
“You think I don’t?” His eyes flashed briefly before he turned away, hands fisted on the edge of the counter. “The difference is I’ve had time to think it all through, to think about where those questions might lead. I was here, Leslie. I saw Maggie’s face when she tried to talk about it.”
But Leslie was barely listening, her attention fixed on the contents of the box: an old cloth tape measure, a small tin of buttons, a packet of needles, a hopeless tangle of spools. Then, near the bottom, a square of calico tied with a faded grosgrain ribbon.
“Jay…look at this.”
His expression was dark when he turned, annoyed. She held up the neatly tied parcel, then laid it in her lap, setting to work on the ribbon with unsteady hands. When the knot finally gave way and the folds of cloth were peeled back, she stared down at a plain white envelope and a case of deep green velvet.
“What is it?” His voice had lost some of its edge as he came to stand beside her.
Leslie lifted the case, small enough to fit into her palm, fitted with a tiny metal hasp. Her heart thrummed as she flicked it open and lifted the lid.
“It’s a necklace,” she breathed, holding the pendant up, a tiny book of tarnished silver.
Jay took the necklace and laid it in his palm to examine it.
“It’s a book locket,” he said finally. “My grandmother had one. See that little notch? You just get your thumb in there, and pop.” The clasp released with a neat metallic snick. He handed it back, letting the chain puddle in her palm. “Open it.”
Her hands were clammy as she teased the wings of the locket apart. Her breath left her softly as a pair of faces appeared, the first a girl with dark hair and a mouth like a rosebud, the other a chubby-cheeked boy in a sailor suit, his head a mass of shiny-bright ringlets.
Leslie’s eyes met Jay’s, wide and full of questions. When it was clear he would say nothing, she teased the girl’s photo from its tiny frame. She was hoping for some sort of identification but found a lock of hair instead. It was darker than ink as it spilled into her palm, as soft and fine as silk. Behind the second photo was another scrap of hair, a single copper ringlet.
“Two babies,” she breathed, staring down at the mismatched locks of hair. “And we don’t know what happened to either one.”
Jay cleared his throat, a dry, uncomfortable rasp that got Leslie’s attention. He had opened the envelope and was reading the yellowed but carefully folded pages, his eyes moving rapidly from line to line. Finally, he looked up, his face an astonished blank.
“I think we know what happened to one of them,” Jay said, handing over the papers.
Leslie slumped against the back of the chair as she read the first line.
Contract to Secure Legal Adoption.
Horror took the place of confusion as she read on, her hands growing unsteady as she reached the document’s end. The signatures at the bottom swam dizzyingly, but there was no mistaking what the paper meant. Slowly, methodically, she folded the single sheet back along its creases and laid it in her lap. Her head came up, eyes wide as they met Jay’s.
“Maggie…was Adele’s,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“That was the secret, then, the thing Maggie never told you.”
Jay’s eyes shifted to the floor. “I don’t think so. It was something else, something…worse.”
“What’s worse than learning your mother isn’t really your mother, that the woman who gave birth to you gave you up to her rival?”
“The fire.”
Leslie could only gape at him, trying to make sense of his response, of the uncanny stillness in his body as he stood looking back at her. And then, suddenly, she understood.
“You think it was her,” she said quietly, rocked by the words even as they left her mouth. “All the times you wouldn’t talk about it, that’s what you were thinking, that Maggie set the fire, that
she killed Adele?”
“She was a child, Leslie. Her father had a new family. Jealous children sometimes do desperate things. I don’t want to believe it. God knows I’ve spent a year trying not to, but I saw her face, and I can’t forget it.”
Leslie stared at the locket, all apart now on the tiny kitchen table, and tried to imagine how Maggie must have felt about her father’s new family—a family that could never really include her since legally, she belonged to Susanne. She tried to envision an eight-year-old girl bolting the shed door and striking the match, but it was impossible. Wasn’t it? Or was it the story Landis Porter refused to tell?
“I guess I get why you didn’t want to know. And why you won’t finish the book.”
“I’m sorry.” Jay dropped his arms to his sides, then quickly recrossed them. “It’s also why I tried to steer you away from the whole thing and why I didn’t show you the manuscript. I hated the idea of you thinking what I did.”
Leslie stood abruptly. “I need to get home,” she said woodenly. She fumbled briefly with the locket, trying to get it back together, then backed away, leaving it where it was. “I need to feed Jimmy. And I need time to digest all this.”
Chapter 44
Adele
Henry is sending our boy away.
I am relieved, mostly, though I know full well the toll his leaving will take on poor Henry. He waited so long for a son and now must give him up. Still, it is the wise thing to do, and the safe thing.
The morning he is to leave, Henry brings Maggie to the cottage to say good-bye. She’s as pale as milk, and thinner than I remember, with a kind of frailty about her that is new and so very hard for me to see. Her lashes are wet with tears, clumped like dark stars about her smoky eyes as she stares up at her daddy, her mouth working in a soundless plea.
It breaks my heart to see her so tortured—even after all that has happened. She is too young to carry such grief, or such remorse, a child come face-to-face with passions she is too young to understand, but whose consequences she must now live with. I only hope and pray that one day she will learn to forgive.
The Secrets She Carried Page 30