The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  I still don’t know if it had impressed her, though. Five years later, my career is on life support, and I’m boiling with shame over my spectacular recklessness and stupidity. Facing my brilliant, contemptuous mother is part of my penance.

  “I’ve heard people are curious about you and Graham.” Her eyes are like pieces of sea glass. “Most advisors would wash their hands of a student who behaved as idiotically as you did.”

  The slight doesn’t affect me as much as the thought of Graham, who advised and guided me through six years of PhD research and writing, taking heat for having been the one person in the world to defend me. I grip the paper napkin in my lap.

  “There has never been anything untoward between me and Graham.”

  Juliette rolls her eyes slightly. “And you think your word is enough for me to believe you? What about Graham’s wife?”

  “Mary knows perfectly well Graham and I are friends and colleagues only,” I reply coldly. “Even if you don’t trust my word, Graham is honorable to the core. He would never betray his wife.”

  “I’m sure that’s what people said about… what was his name again?”

  Bitch. She knows his name perfectly well. Everyone does. He’s the one who was so badly wronged by an obsessed female professor twenty years his junior.

  I suddenly wish I’d ordered a glass of wine… no, whiskey.

  Juliette tilts her head toward me, the silence so portentous I have no choice but to fill it with the response she demands.

  “David.” His name cuts my tongue with bitterness.

  “Oh, yes.” Juliette arches a brow. “I suppose people believe that a woman who chooses to have an affair with a married man is stupid enough to repeat her mistakes.”

  I clench my teeth. A familiar tightening of my jaw warns me of impending tears, but I can control those. I’ve spent a lot of time battling back tears, refusing to give my adversaries evidence that they’d broken me.

  “I didn’t know he was married.” I keep my voice low, but the words are glass crushing in my mouth.

  How many times have I said that to myself? To others? It became my lifeline, the only thing I could cling to when my world crashed down around me.

  The server stops by our table and deposits salads in front of us, his expression impassive.

  “For God’s sake, Eve,” Juliette snaps. “You can tell yourself that as much as you like, but you’re stupider than I thought if you believe it. How could you not have known your lover was married?”

  My body goes numb, only a burn of embarrassment rising as the server glances at me and departs. I’ve asked myself that question countless times too. My only answer had been “naïveté,” which still rings hollow in my head.

  “I just… didn’t.”

  Or did I?

  I’d been prudent with boyfriends throughout my twenties, choosing young men who were studious and practical about their lives. Juliette had never married my physician father, and he’d died in a car accident when I was four. My memories of him are faint at best. By contrast, I’ve spent my whole life in my mother’s shadow, trying to earn her approval. That reward is not to be won by having rich, passionate relationships that expose all of one’s vulnerabilities.

  Still, even with a lack of romantic experience, I should have been astute enough to read David’s clues—if he’d given me any.

  “I didn’t know,” I repeat, more to myself than to Juliette.

  “Liar.” The word snaps out of her like breaking ice. “What were you trying to prove? Do you know how many people coveted the position you held? You were on the path to a well-regarded career. Instead you ruin your life by fucking around with a married man… who had children, for the love of Christ. Don’t you dare shirk blame by claiming you didn’t know he was married.”

  But I didn’t know. Did I?

  Shit. I stare down at my plate, fighting the sharp sting behind my eyes. I can’t stop it, the barrage of images, the incessant rehashing of the two months during which I’d let the handsome older professor into my life, my bed.

  “He had an apartment.” My breath hitches. “His own, right in Westwood Village. There was no sign that… no ring or even a line where a ring would have been. He didn’t have any personal social media sites, and there was nothing in his official biographies about a wife or family. I used his cell phone numerous times, and there was nothing on it that led me to believe he was lying to me. We… we went out…”

  “Right, and I’m certain you stayed in a lot too.” Juliette curls her lip. “You lived in Los Angeles, you idiotic girl. You could have gone out every night of the week and not run into anyone either of you knew. But more often he suggested you both snuggle up in your apartment, didn’t he? He knocked on your door with a bottle of wine and a smile. Next thing you knew, you were letting him do whatever he wanted to you.”

  Her assessment is not far from the truth. Back then, I’d seen David as a welcome respite at the end of a painful journey.

  A year ago, in the midst of watching Uncle Max disintegrate under relentless chemo treatments, I’d been exhausted by weekly trips to San Francisco to visit him combined with the pressures of my tenure-track position. I was a young professor, still needing to prove myself to my esteemed colleagues and the department’s students. I couldn’t let anything slide.

  Juliette had orchestrated the medical side of the situation from afar—calling upon her colleagues, sending in troops of specialists to review Max’s case. She’d viewed his illness with the same clinical detachment as she did her neurosurgery patients, but I’ve no doubt that her influence bought him more time than he’d otherwise have had.

  Max had had an endless stream of visitors—friends, students, colleagues. But no other family. Only Juliette ensuring no medical stone was left unturned, and only me to deal with the messy practicalities of everything else.

  Two days after Max told me he was stopping chemo, I’d been sitting in a campus coffeehouse, trying to focus on work through my grief. I’d looked up from my laptop to find a silver-haired, handsome man two tables away watching me with an intent, almost predatory air. That look broke through the shell in which I’d been living, resonated through the deep, dark well inside me.

  He moved to sit at my table, his hand extended, his smooth voice rolling over me as he introduced himself as a professor of corporate finance at the School of Management. Only later when I’d looked up his faculty profile—after I’d accepted his offer of lunch the following day—did I discover the level of his esteem as a professor, investment consultant, and author.

  Yes, I was impressed by his credentials and by him. Even more, I was flattered by his interest in me, an assistant art history professor who was just starting to make her mark. Our affair was a welcome escape from the pain of losing my uncle, a buffer against the shock of realizing I had no one left in the world except my mother, and that there was so little I could do in the face of her power.

  I did have control over what I did with David, however. With him, I regained a sense of security, of grounding. He was suave and polished, a man who’d attained the pinnacle of success in his field. He knew so much about politics, the stock market, mutual funds, art investments. He was a highly skilled lover who assured me I was doing everything right, both in and out of the bedroom. I was lulled into a welcome security and physical satisfaction, not realizing until it was too late that I was also being deceived, misled, lied to…

  …or was I?

  Had I really missed any sign that he was married? A secretive phone call, a brief look on his face as he typed out a text? Had I not wondered why he sometimes cancelled our dates, claiming work as an excuse?

  But why wouldn’t I have believed him? He had so many students, papers, meetings, lectures. Of course he was swamped with work.

  And when he made time for me? All I thought about was how good it felt to be with someone who liked being with me, with no weighty expectations or demands, no need to think about anything but pleasure.
r />   “Face it, Eve.” Juliette drops her fork and reaches for her sweater. “Any intelligent woman would have figured it out. Instead you chose to stay and demean yourself for him. If you had been the only one affected, then fine. Do as you please and face the consequences. But you never gave one thought to how your actions would affect others, did you? Not even after your humiliating comeuppance.”

  I push my plate away. “Why did you come here? So you could lecture me about being stupid and naïve?”

  “To tell you to get to work salvaging your career.” Her voice rises. “You’ll always be the woman who fucked around with a married man and paid the price, but you can rise above your reputation if you do something about it. I will not have you sitting around this shithole town, wasting your education and the opportunities you were given. So figure it out. Write a paper, apply for professorships, attend conferences. By the time you leave here, the whole mess will have died down and you might still stand a chance of having a decent career.”

  Her lips compress. “Despite your naked slut pictures that will live in infamy on the internet.”

  The people at the tables around us have gone oddly quiet. My heart hammers. Panic spreads through my veins, burns my face.

  Naked slut pictures. Jesus Christ. What if—

  Juliette stands, pinning me with her gaze like a butterfly to a mounting board. “If you ever again do something to tarnish my reputation, or Graham’s for that matter, or that of your former colleagues, I will wash my hands of you for good. Perhaps I should have already done that. Try and stay out of the gutter, Eve.”

  She strides away, electricity crackling in her wake. The people around us turn back to their dinners, conversation humming. I take a deep breath and force the anger down deep where it will fester and burn like it always does.

  I am Eve Perrin, gifted art historian and scholar who was offered graduate scholarships to Yale and Princeton and had her pick of three prestigious professorships before she’d been awarded her doctoral degree. I’ve lectured at international universities, I have publications in every major art history journal, and I’ve consulted with museum curators all over the world. I’m a goddamned prodigy.

  Rather… I was.

  I still can be again. A tiny gleam of determination flares. Everything inside me is battered and bruised—my heart, my soul, my ego, my trust—but my intellect is still intact. Though I haven’t pursued anything scholarly or academic in over a year, I’m still an art historian. Still good.

  Reaching for my coat, I catch the eye of an older man seated at the opposite table. A sick feeling rises to my throat at the look in his eyes, a mixture of intrigue and sly hunger. Like he thinks he knows exactly what kind of woman I am. The kind men like to use.

  I pay the bill quickly with my overloaded credit card, then grab my coat and purse. Hurrying from the room as fast as I can, I wish I could run and run and keep running.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Uncle Max’s fairy tales gave me an early romantic view of old buildings—houses where sweet, pretty girls live before being cast into daring adventures; castles populated by kings and queens; forest cottages owned by woodcutters and cobblers. I love stories in which houses are almost another character. Manderley, the Burrow, Villa Villekulla, Miss Havisham’s mansion, the Gingerbread House.

  When I was born, Uncle Max had willed to me the house he’d owned in Castille and a collection of two dozen rare books and paintings. Over the subsequent thirty-three years, his collection grew into the vast library that my mother auctioned off after his death, and I assumed he’d sold the house fourteen years ago when he moved to San Francisco.

  So when I’d discovered he’d still owned the old Colonial house, a deep, tender nostalgia struck me. My uncle’s old home, where the walls resonate with his presence and the air whispers about magic spells and golden eggs, now belongs to me.

  I had never seen the house. Growing up, my mother refused to let me visit “the backwoods of Maine,” so I only saw Max during the months he spent in San Francisco. But after the catastrophe with David left me jobless and unable to afford the rent on my LA apartment, Max’s house became a beacon pulling me to Castille.

  I imagined it as a sheltering haven where I could put myself back together, find my strength again, start fresh. Maybe I’d even give the property a name, like Eve’s Nest or Fairy Hollow.

  So I arrived—emotionally ready, but in reality completely unprepared for the state of the place. Situated at the end of a narrow drive just outside of Castille, the decrepit house is bordered by an expanse of public woodlands on one side and an ancient shed on the other. If it were restored properly, the house would be beautiful—a grand white Colonial with a gambrel roof and symmetrical windows perforating the façade.

  But Uncle Max’s former house is the opposite of restored. The paint is peeling, the floorboards are warped and creaky, drafts slither through the cracked windows, and I still haven’t cleaned all the mildew and cobwebs. In the ten days that I’ve been here, I’ve heard a rustling in the walls that I’ve been attempting to attribute to ghosts rather than living rodents.

  I had a contractor come out to get the lights, water, and heat working, such as they are, but the bill made me wary of hiring professionals to do much of anything else.

  Which is why I find myself staring at an ancient toilet, which is hissing and gurgling as if it has indigestion. I take the lid off and peer into the entrails. Rusty pumps and levers, greenish-brown water, a slimy-looking inflatable thing.

  Now what?

  I swipe the screen on my phone to display the “How to fix a toilet” website I’ve pulled up.

  Inspect the float—must be the slimy thing—and inlet valve.

  Wincing only a little, I stick my hand into the gross water and lift the lever holding the “inlet valve.” The website says the running water should stop. It does not.

  I adjust the “float arm” with a screwdriver, but the toilet continues to rumble and gurgle. I experience a brief but intense longing for Chuck, the maintenance guy from my LA apartment who, in my estimation, was Dumbledore’s equal when it came to fixing pretty much anything with sorcery.

  After another unsuccessful few steps, the website informs me I need to replace the “ballcock.” As if I haven’t had enough of ballcockage in recent months.

  I turn on the sink taps and rinse my hands in the freezing water before descending the wooden staircase to the first floor.

  I don’t love facing a mountain of repair work, but I’m grateful for the house. Even though it creaks and groans like an old ship rolling over the sea, the rickety Colonial is my new home.

  Even more, it’s the one thing in the world that’s actually mine. One of the few things I have left.

  Aside from clothes and my favorite tea sets, I’d sold most of my belongings before moving since I didn’t want to pay the cost of shipping. That turned out to be a wise decision considering the bills I’ve already had to pay. The house still has a few pieces of old wooden furniture—table, dressers, night stands, cabinets—which are fine for my needs right now.

  I take my organizer off one of the dozen or so cardboard boxes stacked in the living room. The boxes contain the fairy tale books and paintings Uncle Max had willed to me. Though the collection my mother auctioned was much bigger, at least I still have something to represent my uncle’s passion for fairy tales.

  Eventually, I’ll organize the books on the built-in shelves of the living room and choose paint colors based on the aesthetics of the artwork.

  But first things first. Find a job.

  And: Buy a ballcock.

  Well, figure out what a ballcock is.

  After spending so much time in the ivory tower of academia, it’s past time for me to start handling the practical things in life.

  I sketch out a To Do list in my planner, then head outside into the gray morning.

  The woods bordering the house scent the air with pine and the mossy smell of undergrowth. I’ve always l
oved forests—Uncle Max and I spent many happy hours traipsing among the California redwoods—and the woodlands are like a gate keeping the world away.

  A sudden animalistic growl breaks my thoughts. A large mixed-breed dog that looks to be part German Shepherd stands at the corner of the house, ears flattened back and teeth bared. Yellow eyes fixed on me.

  Fear quickens my heart. I can’t tell if he’s wearing a collar or not. He barks, deep and sudden. I back toward my car, reaching slowly for my phone in case I need to call for help.

  Before I can take it out, he barks again and races off in the opposite direction. Relieved, I get into the car. I’ll find out about the humane society or animal control in town.

  I drive to Lantern Street, the main road cutting through downtown. Settled in the seventeenth century, Castille wears its past in the old homes and churches bordering narrow, tree-lined streets, the signs marking historic sites, the festivals and farmers markets. The brick buildings of Ford’s College sit in the center of town, a visual reminder of Uncle Max’s twenty-five year position there as a literature professor.

  There are far worse places I could hide. Lined with cafes, restaurants, a historic inn, gift shops, and art galleries, downtown Castille has a quiet charm that I can certainly use right now.

  I’m safe here too. No one—David and his arsenal of lawyers, his vindictive wife, the administration, the reporters—knows I moved to small-town Maine. Even if it wouldn’t take much to find me, they don’t have a reason to anymore. They defeated me already, and they know it.

  But there is a way to come back from defeat. I just need to figure out how.

  Since I don’t have internet, and the cell service at Ramshackle Manor is spotty at best, I stop at the library to use one of their computers. After sending a message about the growling dog to the humane society, I print out copies of my curriculum vitae and make a list of possible job openings in town.