Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep

by Donna White Glaser

  “That’s a diamond? But it’s pink.” And huge. I slid the paired rings on the appropriate finger. I needed to see if they fit, right? Instinctively, I splayed my hand, making the sparkles dance in the sunlight.

  “It’s a pink diamond. It’s not exactly a traditional setting, but it suited her. My mom, I mean.” A faint smile flitted across his face as he stared at my hand.

  “Would she be okay with your using them like this? As a prop?”

  His eyes rose to mine and his smile widened. “She’d love it.”

  My eyes flitted away, and I took a steadying breath. It was just play-acting, I reminded myself. I would be fine… as long as I didn’t lose the damn things. They were a tad loose on my finger. Glancing over again, I surprised a musing look on Eli’s face. His eyes met mine again.

  Outside, a child gave a squealing giggle as her daddy hoisted her up on his shoulders. The strange tension lifted like dandelion fluff on a breezy day. Even though we’d gotten there early if we didn’t hurry we were going to end up late for the service.

  As we neared the church, Eli took my hand in his, giving a gentle squeeze. “Well, wife, are you ready for this?”

  I pulled away from the warmth of his touch. “We’re supposed to be conflicted about our relationship.”

  “That’ll be the hard part.”

  Gibson’s attractiveness and charm were put to good use from the pulpit. Although not movie star handsome, his blond hair, blue eyed earnestness put one in mind of an angel. Possibly a fallen one.

  It’d been a while since I’d been to church, so I wasn’t really sure how to take the sermon. That it was about the divine nature of forgiveness, I understood, but the reception of the message seemed at odds with what should have been a positive topic.

  At least it got my mind off the shiny bauble on my hand, and served as a reminder of what mattered. Trinnie’s desire to break with her past by revealing her secrets—and presumably someone else’s—resulted in her murder. She wanted forgiveness, a fresh start. He or she wanted silence. So far, the killer had gotten what he wanted. So far.

  I shivered, and gave myself a little shake.

  Rustling and the sounds of feet scuffing against the wood floor told me I wasn’t the only one agitated. Trying not to be obvious, I glanced around the sanctuary, trying to identify the source of tension.

  Maybe people were pissed, because Gibson had based the sermon on Alexander Pope’s quote: To err is human, to forgive divine. Even I knew something from the Bible would have worked just as well.

  We’d chosen a pew dead-center in the middle of the congregation, so I couldn’t very well turn around and gape, but the expressions of those nearest me displayed a wide range of conflicting emotions. Most nodded as the pastor spoke, and smiled gently at him. Despite the apparent majority approval rating, it was impossible to ignore the scattered few sitting with arms crossed, brows furrowed, and radiating anger… or was it disgust? Still others seemed to be wrestling with embarrassment. Judging by Eli’s expression, he felt the tension, too, but instead of watching the crowd, his focus centered on a demure woman in a dove-grey suit sitting in the front row.

  I poked him and gave a why-are-you-staring-at-her toss of my eyebrows. He tilted his chin at the pastor, either telling me to shut up and listen or indicating the answer lay with the man in the pulpit. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I watched.

  Gibson spoke with passion. Despite the bone-chilling air conditioning, sweat dewed his forehead and his face was taut and red with emotion. His restless gaze swept the congregation, seeking, imploring.

  Suddenly, I understood what Eli had been trying to tell me.

  Though Gibson’s gaze, moving from person to person, held the crowd enthralled, his attention always returned to one face, one woman—the lady in the front row. His wife, I assumed.

  Was he teaching about forgiveness or asking for it? And from whom?

  The woman had parted her soft, brown hair evenly, ruler-straight down the middle, and pulled it back into a low bun clipped with a tortoise shell barrette. If she wore make-up, she’d blended it so well it disappeared. She sat quietly, an island of serenity. Calm emanated from her like a force field, repelling the swirl of ambivalence surrounding her. Though obviously aware of Gibson’s attentiveness, her placid smile never wavered, nor did her gaze.

  If she was Saint Bitch, she fulfilled the first descriptor quite well. The bitch part remained to be seen.

  THIRTY

  I‘d been so engrossed watching the Forgive The Sinner show that I didn’t spot Beth until everyone was filing out of the church. Maneuvering to talk with Gibson, Eli and I hung back, letting the long line of people pass. Beth stood about four families up clad in a fashionable mauve dress. Other than a “Wow!” widening of our eyes at each other over the sermon, we avoided contact.

  After nearly everyone had left, we moved forward. I wondered if Gibson would recognize me from Trinnie’s funeral. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of unease on Gibson’s face, but couldn’t be sure. The dove-lady stood next to her husband, hand tucked into his elbow. Reverend Gibson introduced her: Mary. Fitting.

  Playing disgruntled wife, I interrupted Eli and the reverend’s small talk in order to mention we were interested in coming to the group, Couples Corner.

  “You understand it’s a group for marriages who are experiencing, well, let’s say troubled waters?” Gibson said. He glanced at his wife. “If you’re looking for a more social outlet, I might suggest our Tuesday night Bible study. It gets quite lively at times, and once a month we do a hot dish potluck. My angel makes a wonderful egg bake.”

  She smiled.

  “No, Reverend,” Eli replied. “We’re more in need of help from the marriage group. That’s why we came today. Things aren’t going well for us right now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Of course, all marriages have difficult times, isn’t that right, Angel?”

  “God has led you to the right place,” Mary said.

  “Thank you. Will we be seeing you tomorrow night as well?” I asked her.

  “Yes, indeed. In fact, Lyle and I are co-leaders. This is how we’ve chosen to let God work through our problems. No marriage is immune to trials and temptations.”

  “Especially temptations,” I inserted, scowling at Eli in the best fishwife tradition.

  “We shouldn’t keep the reverend from his duties,” he gritted a smile, pretending to ignore my comment. Or actually, pretending to pretend to ignore my comment.

  “Mom. I’m gonna go hang out with the guys.”

  I jumped, not realizing somebody had walked up behind us. Eli put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off.

  A shaggy-haired adolescent boy slouched beside Eli and I, thoroughly ignoring our existence as only a teen can do. Dressed in expensive, made-to-look-ragged jeans and shoes that cost more than my rent, he kept his attention fixed on his mother.

  For the first time, I saw a flicker of emotion from Mary. “With what guys? Where?”

  “We’re going to the pit.”

  “The gravel pit? Caleb, you know that’s off-limits.” Turning to me, she said, “They go swimming, but it’s completely fenced off.” To him, “You’ll just have to find something else to do.”

  “I thought you had a private lesson today,” Gibson broke in. To us, he said, “My son’s training for his junior black belt in tai kwon do. His sensei agrees that he’s very talented, but you know, at this age, they lack discipline. You’re not going to disappoint everyone, are you?” Gibson tossed a strained, paternal smile to his son.

  When Caleb pointedly ignored him, Gibson’s face tightened in aggravation. Mary put a restraining hand on her husband’s sleeve.

  “Caleb, just hold on a minute while we finish up here,” Mary said, indicating Eli and me.

  Her son finally glanced over at us. At me, in particular. He gave my body a slow, thorough scan, an evaluative glint in way-too-young-for-this-shit eyes. It gave me enough time t
o take note of his dilated pupils, though.

  Eli cleared his throat, snaring Caleb’s attention. They entered into a brief eye-dual until Caleb broke off with a smirk, and strolled over to sprawl across a pew.

  We said our goodbyes and left. Frowning, Eli said, “I guess what they say about preachers’ kids is true.”

  “Did you notice his eyes?”

  “You mean the way they were crawling all over you or the fact that they looked like black holes?”

  “The black holes part. What do you think he’s on?”

  “He’s what? Sixteen? Seventeen? That’s the age for pot, but then his eyes would be red and, if anything, his pupils would be constricted. But dilated? I hate to say it but I’m thinking coke or some kind of amphetamine. They’ve got their hands full. By the way, am I the one who’s supposed to have cheated?”

  “Duh. We’re going to imply you cheated with Trinnie. It would be a natural way of bringing her name up at the group and it would explain why I was at her funeral.”

  He wasn’t happy, but at least his sulking fit the image we were aiming for.

  Monday evening, Eli led the way through the church’s back door, and we followed arrows on hand-printed, construction paper signs. They pointed us down a set of stairs and into a cool, dim hallway. Doors opening into Sunday school rooms decorated with Jesus felt boards and Noah murals flanked us on both sides. The arrows directed us left as the hallway made a T-crossing, bringing us into view of a lighted doorway. Voices murmured softly.

  A half-dozen pairs of eyes swung toward us as we paused at the entrance. Under the intense scrutiny, I reached for Eli’s hand, then remembered and dropped it. Aside from the Gibsons, I didn’t recognize anyone. I’d been half-afraid I’d run into a client or two, so that was a bit of a relief.

  Mary met us at the door. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Don’t be shy,” the pastor added, moving to her side. “We’re all here for the same reasons, more or less.”

  Mary shot him a glance, then glided toward the circle of chairs. Clapping her hands for attention, she motioned the other group members to join her. Most moved forward as directed and began seating themselves. I held back, as though reluctant.

  I wasn’t the only one. A paunchy, fifty-something man in a stretched-tight polo hovered around the coffee urn as though waiting for donuts to reincarnate from the sugar cubes. Gibson, a smarmy smile on his face, spread his arms, attempting to herd me and the donut-dreamer toward the group. Donut-guy evaded the pastor and darted back to the table to pour himself a cup of coffee. His back to the group, he overturned the bowl of cubes into his cup, splashing coffee over the white tablecloth.

  I let Gibson lead me to a seat beside Eli, and studied the group members. An anxious, sweet-looking woman with soft, white skin seemed partnered with the donut-guy. She was eye-begging him from across the room, and patting the seat next to her as if calling a poorly trained puppy. He ignored her, apparently too intent on stirring his concoction. The tiny, red-and-white striped straw didn’t seem up to the job.

  A second couple sat limply next to each other, each of them staring off into opposite corners of the room. Younger than the first by a couple of decades, they were both attractive in a standard, clean-cut, career-oriented fashion. As I watched, the woman sighed and made eye-contact with a fourth female. Cutting her eyes toward Donut-guy, she rolled them, and they both grimaced. I couldn’t decide if their scorn was caused by donut-guy delaying the group or because of the amount of evil white sugar he was snarfing down.

  The fourth woman appeared to be on her own, although the purse sitting on the empty chair next to her seemed to be reserving it for someone. In her early twenties, she was fit and carefully made up. She kept glancing at the door, obviously waiting for her husband.

  From what I could tell, Eli and I appeared to be the only newcomers. When Donut-guy finally joined his wife, Mary suggested each couple introduce ourselves and give a brief summary of the issues we were facing.

  Not surprisingly, the eye-roller took charge and started us off. “I’m Bee-Bee, and this is my husband, Tad. We’re here because we can’t agree on how to budget our money. In a nutshell, I want to save it, and Tad wants to throw it away.”

  “Bee-Bee—”

  “Never mind that now, Tad,” said Gibson. “Let’s just move on. Janet?”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Donut-guy jumped in her seat. “My turn? Well, I’m Ralph’s wife, Janet. We… um… that is, Ralph doesn’t… ” She drifted to a breathy halt, looking helplessly toward her husband.

  “I’m havin’ trouble feeling attracted to Janet,” he said. “She put on all this weight, see? When I married her, she wasn’t no bigger than a clothes pin, and now look at her.”

  Janet bowed her head.

  “Are you kidding me?” I blurted. It was glorious to not have to maintain a therapeutic poker-face.

  Assuming an arms-crossed, belligerent stance, Ralph narrowed his eyes and scowled at my outburst. Leaning forward, Eli intercepted Ralph’s glare, and slowly shook his head at the bully. Ralph’s gaze skittered away.

  Bee-Bee laughed.

  Before matters could get worse, Gibson cut in. “And now, Shelly?”

  The unescorted woman looked away from the door through which her husband persisted in not appearing. “I’m Shelly. My husband should be here any minute.”

  Ralph snorted. Eli shot him another dirty look, which apparently inspired Ralph’s intense interest in his own cuticles.

  “No, really,” Shelly said. “He promised.”

  “If he promised, then I’m sure he’ll do everything he can to make it,” Mary replied. Turning to me, she said, “And now it’s your turn. You are?”

  “My name is Violet, and this is my husband, Eli. We… um… we’re having some trouble and thought this might help. I mean, we need to do something.” I let a little whine slide through, cutting my eyes sideways at Eli.

  “What help are you looking for, Violet?” asked Gibson. Twinkling blue eyes snared mine, and he smiled encouragingly.

  “Communication, I guess.” I let my voice trail off as thought flustered with his attention.

  “And forgiveness,” Eli added. “See, we had some problems a couple months ago.”

  “You mean you did,” I spat. Being on this side of the therapeutic relationship was starting to be fun.

  “Okay. Whatever. I did. I made a big mistake and, uh, cheated. I still can’t believe I did that.” Eli shot me a look. “Anyway, we can’t seem to move past it, but we don’t want to get a divorce either. So, we thought we’d try this.”

  “That’s good, Eli. Remember, the Bible tells us even Jesus was tempted,” said Gibson.

  “Well, why can’t people just say no to themselves?” Shelly’s interruption pierced through the pastor’s soothing voice. The focus shifted away from Eli and me, which suited me just fine, especially since the discussion had locked onto the subject of adultery.

  “Because man is weak, Shelly,” Mary answered. “Evil was set loose in the Garden of Eden and it still persists in trying to bring mankind down.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Mankind. Because as far as I can see, it’s the men who have a problem with cheating. Just look at this group. Even you, Reverend Lyle. What I want to know is—why? Why do men cheat?”

  After a lengthy, brittle silence, Eli said, “I can’t speak for anyone, but me. All I know is my fling with Trinnie was a mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”

  “Trinnie?” Mary voice chewed on the name.

  Gibson’s face turned an eerie, pre-tornado green.

  “We met at a bar.” Eli continued. “And just recently she had an accident, kind of, and died. It stirred the whole thing up again. The worst part is I may never be able to—”

  “Oh, my god,” Mary said. Turning to her husband, teeth gritted, she said. “Lyle, you utter bastard!”

  She stormed out the door, heels clicking in a receding doppler-effect. Shelly, also in tears, ran out afte
r her. What was left of the group turned as though choreographed to stare at Gibson.

  “What?” he said limply.

  THIRTY ONE

  “She really was boinkin’ the minister, huh?” Beth said.

  It was Tuesday morning, and I didn’t have to go in to work until after 10:00. Beth led me to her kitchen in the back of the house. At first glance, Beth’s kitchen resembled Lambeau field in February—vast and frigid—except without the beer. Once my eyes stopped tearing up from the icy glare, I was able to make out stainless steel appliances “softened” by white-on-white decor.

  Beth noticed my astonishment. “I know. It’s awful. I only come in here for the goodies.”

  “I suppose little elves prepare the food?”

  Mumbling something about “the help,” she grabbed a plate of cookies from the granite countertop and crossed the room to a window nook tucked into the far corner.

  The cozy space was the only part of the kitchen area that reflected any personality. Floral-print cushions had sun-faded into an impressionistic swirl while a leaning stack of paperbacks and a green depression glass vase of peach-tinted peonies took up residence on the worn table top. Crystal prisms dangled in the wide, bay window, through which a wide panorama of meticulous lawn and formal gardens spread out in geometric ripples.

  Beth passed me a napkin and set the plate between us. Peanut butter cookies studded with chocolate chips. I’d found nirvana.

  “I guess we’ve figured out who Lover Boy and Saint Bitch are,” she said. The mouthful of cookie muted her voice, but I didn’t mind. I had my own cookies to deal with.

  “Doesn’t mean either one was involved in her murder,” I said. “As far as a motive, they weren’t trying to keep the affair secret. Everyone knew about it. Everyone in the group, anyway.”

  “If you’re talking secrets in a church,” Beth said, “one group of people who know a secret as juicy as the pastor boinking a parishioner means the whole dang church knows.” She got up and poured two glasses of milk.