The Secrets We Carried

by Mary McNear

  Quinn broke off a piece of cookie and nibbled on it.

  “Those are Pepperidge Farm,” Mrs. Lightman told her. “Raspberry Thumbprint. There’s more in the kitchen,” she added, though Quinn still had three of them left on a little plate beside her teacup and saucer. She smiled her thank-you, though, and Mrs. Lightman disappeared back into the kitchen, presumably to get some more. Quinn exhaled and looked around the living room as if she were seeing it for the first time. And, in a way, she was. She and Jake had seldom come in here. As she studied it, she realized it had an odd, almost . . . padded quality to it. The wall-to-wall carpeting was gingerbread thick, the curtains were heavy, and even the furniture seemed entombed in its own upholstery. Was that why it was so quiet in the room, she wondered, because everything in it absorbed sound? But it was more than the room’s silence that disturbed her. Because while it was clean—there were fresh vacuum lines on the carpet, and not a speck of dust on the cabinet that held Jake’s trophies—the room had an unused, airless feeling to it. Maybe Jake’s parents never came in here, either, she speculated, unless they had guests. Or maybe their whole house feels this way, as if the two people who still live here live here in such a way as to not disturb the past.

  “Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Lightman said, reappearing. She set another plate of cookies down on the coffee table, right next to the identical plate of cookies she’d already brought her, and Quinn, unsure of what else to do, popped a whole one into her mouth.

  Mrs. Lightman waited, as though she was used to waiting. She was still attractive, Quinn thought. Her auburn hair showed no trace of gray and was swept back, off her face, and then twisted in an elegant knot and held in a clasp at the back of her neck. She was wearing pale pink lipstick, and her outfit, a beige-edged white blouse with a beige wool cardigan and dark gray wool slacks, was no less chic for being so conservative. As Quinn swallowed her cookie, the dry crumbs catching in her throat, she had an image of Mrs. Lightman putting on her lipstick in front of her bedroom mirror every morning. She would do it without a feeling of anticipation or enjoyment. She would do it because, in her mind, it needed to be done. She would keep up appearances, though Quinn couldn’t help but wonder at the effort it must cost her to keep them up.

  Now Mr. Lightman came into the room and sat down on the edge of the sofa. He smiled at Quinn, and she tried, again, to start a conversation. “I thought the dedication was so moving,” she said to them both. But it was Jake’s mother who responded.

  “It was more of a warning than a dedication, wasn’t it?” she asked Quinn, a frown wrinkling her brow.

  “In what way?” Quinn asked, taken aback.

  “Oh, students, you know. They’re still talking about driving out on the ice at Shell Lake. Not in the winter. Not when it would be safer. But in the spring. When it starts to melt. You know, kind of like a dare.”

  Quinn must have looked astonished because Mr. Lightman chimed in. “No, it’s true. None of them remember Jake, of course. Not personally. But they all know the date he died. It’s become something of an urban legend, I suppose you’d say. Or, out here, a rural legend,” he added. “Anyway, last spring, when we were having an early thaw, some seniors were going to drive out there, to prove what, I don’t know, their own stupidity, I guess. But someone called the police and they got down there before they followed through. That’s when Mr. Mulvaney started talking about the dedication. He thought it would be a kind of deterrent. He never said as much, to us, but I think he hoped it would be one in the future.”

  Quinn nodded. So this was why he’d required the junior class to go to the ceremony. And she remembered the girl with too much eye shadow, standing next to Quinn and scrolling down her iPhone screen.

  “Well, obviously, I don’t want young people driving on the ice,” Mrs. Lightman said, as if someone had just accused her of wanting this. “I don’t want an accident like Jake’s to happen to anyone else. But the truth is, I’ll never go visit that stone. Before yesterday I hadn’t been to Shell Lake in ten years. When I want to pay my respects to Jake, I go to his grave.”

  “That makes sense,” Quinn said. And here she took the opportunity to tell the Lightmans about her own visit to his grave before she’d come here. They nodded politely. But when the conversation fell silent again, she said, “I spoke to Tanner at the ceremony. He looked well.”

  “We don’t see him that often,” Mrs. Lightman said, and she looked briefly down at her hands.

  “No?” Quinn said, surprised. Tanner had told her he came up here at least once a month. She looked at Mr. Lightman, as if he might clarify the situation, but he only nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll probably see him again,” Quinn said, trying to keep the conversation moving. “He told me he’s staying at Loon Bay this week, and I’m checking in there tonight.”

  Jake’s parents exchanged looks. Had she said something wrong? She remembered Tanner at the dedication saying he and his mom “didn’t get along,” though she had no idea what he’d meant by this. But she got the distinct feeling sitting here in the Lightmans’ living room that there was indeed some kind of conflict between them.

  Mr. Lightman started to say something, but Mrs. Lightman intervened.

  “I had no idea you were planning on visiting for this long, Quinn. Surely you’re very busy back home. There can’t be much for you to do in Butternut.”

  “Oh . . . well,” Quinn said, surprised, and a little confused, that Mrs. Lightman seemed to be discouraging her from staying longer. “I thought I’d spend a little more time in town. I’ve been away for so long,” she said, feeling this explanation was lame. But how could she explain to Mrs. Lightman her need to be in Butternut right now and how much of that need had to do with her son and the accident?

  “Well, of course, you should do what you want,” Mrs. Lightman said. “But why would you want to stay at Loon Bay?”

  “The price is right?” Quinn suggested, with a smile.

  “That may be so, dear,” Mrs. Lightman said, leaning forward. “But you can stay here with us, if you’d like. We’d love to have you. And you wouldn’t have to pay for a room.”

  “Oh,” Quinn said, feeling anxious at the thought. Mrs. Lightman wasn’t suggesting she stay in Jake’s old room, was she? “No, no, thank you,” she said. “That is so kind of you to offer, though. But I’m doing some writing while I’m here and I might be keeping odd hours. I don’t want to disturb you. And, um, I’m only going to be here for another couple of days.” She hurried on. “I wanted to spend some time with a friend of mine, Gabriel Shipp. He lives on Butternut Lake. I saw him yesterday.” And he is so changed, she almost said. But it felt wrong to be sharing her worry over Gabriel with someone whose own unhappiness was already boundless. And she remembered with a sting having explained to Theresa that the reason she hadn’t gone to the reception was so she could see him. There was a long pause while Mrs. Lightman considered Quinn’s excuse. Or maybe she was considering the imaginary crumb she was now brushing off her cardigan.

  “I see, dear. If you change your mind, though, there’s always a room for you here,” she said. She looked sad when she said this and then looked down at her hands folded in her lap. The days must be so long for Mrs. Lightman, Quinn thought. And she wanted to hug this frail but beautiful woman or take her away somewhere, anywhere but here. But of course it would make no difference. She’d take her grief with her wherever she went.

  “Maggie,” Mr. Lightman said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “are you getting tired?”

  “I am, Paul.” She turned to Quinn. “Sorry, dear. I need to rest every afternoon.” And Quinn saw her eyes drift, as though foreshadowing her retreat.

  “Of course,” Quinn said, standing up. She was ashamed at how relieved she felt by the prospect of leaving this house. “Thank you for the tea,” she said. “And the cookies.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Lightman rose, too, and then Mrs. Lightman surprised Quinn by taking her hands and holding them in her own cool, d
ry hands that felt, somehow, as unused as this room. “You look so lovely, Quinn,” she said. And for the first time since Quinn had arrived Mrs. Lightman looked directly into her eyes. “You know Jake made some mistakes. But he loved you very much,” she said. “He was planning on the two of you still seeing each other on weekends in college. He told me once he wanted to marry you. He was so happy with you, dear.” Her blue eyes were shining.

  Quinn was stunned. When she looked at Mr. Lightman, though, he nodded his agreement, as if he, too, had been privy to this information. Obviously, Jake’s parents had never found out that she’d broken up with him the night he’d died. Well, she wouldn’t be telling them this now. And, for a moment, she felt almost light-headed with tiredness. She had to get a good night’s sleep sometime soon. Mrs. Lightman had her scheduled nap to look forward to every day. And for her, even an hour of unconsciousness must have felt like a sweet gift.

  “Paul will walk you out, dear,” she said to Quinn now, giving her hands another squeeze. “And don’t forget, you’re always welcome here.”

  Chapter 15

  After Quinn left the Lightmans’ house, she drove around aimlessly, until she found herself at Butternut Lake’s town beach. The lake was beautiful. The water was glassy, a perfect mirror for the great northern pines that fringed the shore. She was relieved to have a place to pull over, and she parked where she could see the large flat gray rock that jutted out into the water, the same rock she and her friends used to sunbathe on in high school. The Lightmans weren’t angry at her, she reflected, looking out at the lake. In fact, they still loved her. She could tell. Unlike Gabriel and Theresa, they weren’t blaming her for anything. And she felt a small reprieve, though this was complicated by what Maggie had said about Jake wanting to marry her one day. She and Jake had never discussed marriage.

  There had been the matter of the ring, though. The promise ring. Jake had given it to her in December of that year. They’d been dating for almost six months, and the make-out sessions in Jake’s pickup truck and in the Lightmans’ rec room had turned into stolen afternoons and evenings at the Hoyers’ cabin on Butternut Lake. The Hoyers, Griffin Hoyer’s parents, had bought it when they’d moved to Butternut a few years earlier. It was meant to complement the house they owned in town, to be a weekend escape. But they must not have felt the need to escape, because the cabin—which they’d planned to tear down and rebuild one day—remained in much the same condition it had been in when they’d bought it, lock, stock, and barrel, from the previous owner. It was unused and unloved, or it would have been, if Quinn and Jake hadn’t both used it and loved it.

  It was a funny little place, with a living room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. The floor in the living room sloped from one end of the room to the other, the books in the bookshelves gave off an ancient, musty scent, and the kitchen cupboards were full of mismatched crockery.

  But Quinn found everything about it delightful. The way the fireplace smoked a little, so that when she went home at night, her hair, her clothes, and even her backpack smelled faintly of woodsmoke.

  She’d never told Jake that after the first time they’d gone there together, on a rainy evening in late October, she’d gone home that night and slept in the T-shirt she’d worn that day. She didn’t want to take it off. It reminded her of the cabin, of Jake, and, of course, of what had happened between them.

  She loved, too, the ancient patchwork quilt they’d found in one of the cabin’s closets. It was so worn its pattern was almost invisible, but it was so soft that when they’d spread it before the fireplace she wasn’t even conscious of the scratchy living room rug beneath them. All of it—every rickety piece of furniture, every chink in the china, every crookedly hung painting—was wonderful to Quinn. But the real world did not stop at the cabin’s front door. It was there in that funny little place whether Quinn had wanted it to be there or not.

  December, Senior Year, Jake and the Promise Ring

  It was bitterly cold outside that night—they were calling for snow—and the fireplace was smokier than usual after Jake lit the fire, making Quinn’s eyes burn and water. She didn’t complain. Tomorrow was a school day, and they only had a few hours before they both needed to be home. They were on the leather couch, which was no doubt older than the two of them put together, and Jake had just helped her out of her sweater, when he remembered something.

  “What is it?” Quinn asked, watching him unzip his backpack.

  He pulled out a bottle of red wine.

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Are we drinking?” Jake didn’t drink when he was training, and Jake was always training.

  “Why not?” he said. “I don’t have a meet this weekend”—he meant an indoor track meet—“and tonight is special.”

  “In what way?” Quinn asked.

  “You’ll see,” he said, handing her the bottle. She smiled. It did feel special. Jake was often in a good mood, but tonight he was especially so. He’d been touching and kissing and teasing her before they’d even gotten through the cabin’s front door. “Any chance they’ll have wineglasses here?” he asked, over his shoulder, heading for the kitchen.

  “Not a one,” Quinn called after him. She read the wine bottle’s label. It meant nothing to her. Her dad, when he drank, favored beer.

  Jake returned with a corkscrew and two mugs. “You were right about the wineglasses,” he said. “No luck. But at least they have a corkscrew.” He sat down next to Quinn, put the mugs on the coffee table, and took the wine bottle from her.

  “Where did you get wine?” Quinn asked, watching him uncork it, mangling the cork a little in the process.

  “At the back of my parents’ liquor cabinet,” he said. “The way back. I don’t think my dad will miss it.”

  At the mention of Jake’s dad, Quinn frowned. She was thinking about a conversation she’d had with his dad that day after school. She’d been trying to put it out of her mind, but now she couldn’t. “Jake?” she said, as he filled each of their mugs with wine.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I saw your dad today,” she said. She took the mug he offered her.

  “Did you?”

  She nodded. “I was coming out of the drugstore.”

  “What’d he say?”

  She took a sip of her wine. It was rich and heavy tasting. “He said . . . No, it wasn’t what he said, it was what I said. Remember, you told me you were going to have to run errands with him after school? I asked him where you were, and he said he had no idea. He said you hadn’t run errands with him since you were a kid, and even then, the only way to get you to come with him was to bribe you.” This whole encounter had reminded Quinn of a time in early November when Jake said he couldn’t meet her after school because he had to help Griffin with something. But then she’d seen Griffin with his girlfriend at Pearl’s. She’d never asked Jake about this discrepancy, though. In fact, she’d forgotten about it until today.

  “That sounds about right.” Jake smiled. He took a drink of his wine. His mug, she saw, had a little chip in the rim.

  “No, I mean, why did you say you couldn’t see me until tonight because you had to run errands with him?” Quinn said, the uneasiness she felt asking this offset by wanting—needing—a simple explanation.

  Jake’s face fell. Or maybe she imagined it, because in the next moment he recovered. “Does it matter?” he asked, with a shrug.

  “It does to me.”

  He put his mug down on the coffee table and pulled her into his arms. “Okay, I didn’t run errands with my dad.” He kissed her on the neck, but she was preoccupied.

  “Why would you lie about that?” she asked, remembering what Gabriel had told her months ago about the conversation he’d overheard between Jake and Ashlyn, his old girlfriend.

  “Because it was a little lie,” Jake said, pulling back from her. “A white lie. I couldn’t tell you because it’s a secret.”

  “I don’t like secrets,” she said.

  “All right, all right
,” Jake said, smiling. But then his expression turned serious. “Look, I couldn’t tell you where I was going after school without giving this away.” He reached behind the couch cushions and pulled something out from behind them. He held it out to Quinn. It was a ring box.

  She looked at it, and then back up at him. “Jake,” she said. It was silent, then, in the cabin, except for a loud popping sound from the fire.

  “Take it,” he said, his gold eyes warm and liquid in the light from the fireplace. “And don’t worry. It’s not an engagement ring.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. It was that no one had ever given her a piece of jewelry before. Not even her father. She took the box from him and opened it. Nestled in the box’s satiny lining was a gold ring with a pale greenish-blue stone that sparkled in the firelight.

  “It’s an aquamarine,” he said. “I know it’s not your birthstone, but—”

  “I love it,” she said, enchanted. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Here,” he said, and, taking the box from her, he lifted the ring out. “It’s a promise ring.” He slipped it onto her right ring finger. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you where I was going. The salesman said that you could wear it on your right finger or, if you want, you can wear it on a chain around your neck.”