Secret Lives

by Diane Chamberlain

  “I was four when they sealed it up,” she said. “My memory's very cloudy.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “What?”

  Ben set down his sandwich. “My brother's a shrink. Whenever I can't remember something he tells me to close my eyes, and gradually the picture comes into my head.”

  Eden obediently closed her eyes and leaned back against the cool metal side of the pickup. At first she could concentrate only on the sound of Ferry Creek rushing below them. But then she heard it, the clack, clack, clack of the typewriter keys, muffled by the cotton her mother had put in her ears. She felt cool air on her arms. The cave was dimly lit by lanterns hanging from the walls and by candles set here and there on the floors and rocky ledges. The room was filled with shadows. Eden was playing with her friends, the stalagmites. She'd forgotten about them, the cold, grotesquely shaped formations that in her four-year-old imagination took on human form.

  Her mother sat on a wooden chair, an enormous black monster of a typewriter on the table in front of her. Sheets of paper were scattered on the cave floor around her chair. Her face was blurry. Eden could see only her hands, the skin silky and smooth, the fingers slender, the nails trimmed short. Her hands never paused. Clack, clack, clack…

  Eden opened her eyes. Ben was watching her, gnawing his lip.

  “I was afraid you got stuck back there,” he said.

  “I remembered the stalactites and stalagmites. Tites and mites, my mother called them. They fill the cavern. They were my playmates. I'd play with them while she typed, and when she was finished for the day she'd cuddle me on her lap and read to me.” Her voice had softened, thickened, betraying her. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be held that way, with no strings attached to the love.

  Ben leaned forward to touch her knee. “This film's not going to be easy for you to make,” he said.

  She shouldn't have said so much, been so open. With every word she'd made herself more vulnerable. “I don't think it will be that difficult.” She stood up and jumped out of the truck, relieved to have the heat of his fingers off her knee. “I'd better get going. Thanks for the sandwich.”

  “Could you show me how to do that?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Turn off your feelings that quickly.” His eyes were narrowed.

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. One minute you're sad, next minute everything's right with the world.”

  She sighed, giving in. “To be honest, I'm usually better at it.” She put her hands on her hips and looked toward the cave. “My defenses are down out here. Usually I can pretend everything's fine until I actually start to believe it myself.”

  “Whew. I'll teach you to dig if you'll teach me how to do that. How about over dinner tonight? Just something casual. just, you know, platonic.” He grinned. “I mean, I know about you and Michael Carey.”

  She groaned. “Michael and I are just friends. And why do you want to have dinner with me if you already know everything about me?”

  He ignored her question. “I'll pick you up at seven.”

  She wanted to go. It would be easier than having dinner with Kyle and Lou. “Maybe I could meet you somewhere.” She'd be in control then. No chance of being stuck with him longer than she could handle.

  “Seven at Sugar Hill,” he said. “Kyle can tell you how to get there. Don't forget to take your pottery with you to impress him.”

  She walked across the field to the pit, picked up her pottery, and headed toward the embankment, feeling his eyes on her the whole way. What was his game? She would meet his daughter. He didn't have to take her out for that to happen. He could write to the folks back home and say he went out with Eden Riley. Hopefully he had no illusions that she would sleep with him. Maybe he wanted to get on Kyle's good side to get a boost up the career ladder. He had to be bored in this confining little site. Or could he possibly just be lonely? It didn't matter what his motives were. She knew as she walked through the woods toward the house that it was her own neediness she had to fear, not his.

  –6–

  Sugar Hill was Ben's favorite restaurant in the area. He liked the rustic atmosphere, the woody smell. It was always dark inside, which helped him feel anonymous. There was a dance floor in the center of the tables, and the bar stretched the length of one wall.

  He sat at a dark corner table, watching the door, trying to recall if he'd eaten dinner with anyone other than Kyle and Lou or Sam and Jen in the last year and a half. He had not. Unless he counted prison, but his dining companions in jail had hardly been his choice.

  So he was justified in feeling nervous. He stood quickly when he saw Eden at the door. She hesitated, adjusting her eyes to the dim light. He walked toward her. She wore her dark blond hair pinned up, as she had that morning. Her throat was long and slender, like the rest of her, but she had a solidity that appealed to him. Probably because it was the antithesis of Sharon's fragility. She looked as if she could handle whatever might come her way. She would not spook easily.

  Again, he was struck by how unrecognizable she was. Good. He didn't want to draw attention to himself in here.

  Eden smiled when she saw him and took the hand he held out to her. He led her to the table, got her seated with a menu.

  “What would you like from the bar?” he asked.

  “Wine,” she said. “Something white.”

  He ordered Eden's wine and his beer at the bar. As the grinning bartender handed him the drinks he winked at Ben and said, “She's a little old for you, isn't she?”

  Ben turned away without comment. On another night he might have said something in return, something sharp to defend himself. But he didn't want to start this evening that way. Ignore it, he told himself. Don't let it get to you.

  But by the time he'd set Eden's wine in front of her and taken his own seat, his knees were shaking. That one line from the bartender had thrown him off balance. He was not as anonymous in here as he would have liked. He sipped at his beer, wondering if all eyes in the room were focused on him and Eden.

  “Do you come here often?” Eden asked.

  He nodded. “In a rut, I guess.”

  The older waitress, Ruth, appeared at their table, her orange lipstick creeping outside the line of her lips. “You want your regular?” she asked Ben.

  “Uh, no.” He was in a rut. “I'll have the crab cakes tonight.”

  He felt hot and knew the color was rising up his neck to his cheeks. If the bartender knew about him, Ruth must as well.

  “I'll have the stuffed flounder.” Eden smiled innocently up at Ruth.

  He was certain Ruth gave him a curdling look of disgust as she headed back to the kitchen. He never should have brought Eden here, should have suggested someplace farther out where no one knew him. But there was dancing here. Nearly every night he watched other couples dance, wondering if he'd ever have the chance to hold a woman in his arms again.

  “Do you like to dance?” he asked.

  “Love it.”

  “The band will start up in a little while.”

  She nodded, lowering her eyes as she sipped her wine.

  “What did Kyle think of your pottery?”

  “He thinks you planted it for me to find.”

  “Did he wash it off for you?”

  “Yes. And I painted the little numbers on the back.”

  He swirled the beer in his glass, annoyed at his discomfort. He'd felt fine with her this morning, once he realized Kyle had not told her about him, but he could not shake the feeling that his every move here was being scrutinized by the other diners, by the staff. He would have to keep any conversation on her and off himself.

  “You look deep in thought,” she said.

  “I was trying to think of a question to ask you that I don't already know the answer to.”

  She laughed and the diamond she wore at her throat shimmered in the light from the dance floor. “Tell me what you know and we can work backward.�
��

  “Well, you split up with your husband nearly a year ago.” His cellmate had been reading the National Enquirer and there it was on the front page. A picture of a dark-haired man arm in arm with a redheaded woman, the caption in capital letters proclaiming something like EDEN RILEY CRUSHED BY HUSBAND'S AFFAIR WITH PENNSYLVANIA TEACHER. There was a small picture of Eden in the lower-right-hand corner, her face contorted with emotion. Probably something they pulled out of one of her movies and stuck, out of context, in the paper. Sitting there on his bed in his cold cinder-block cell, he felt sorry for her. He knew what it was like to have your life picked apart by the masses.

  “A year next month,” she said. “How about you? How long have you been divorced?”

  “We separated about a year and a half ago and were divorced this past January.” He couldn't let her question him. “Your husband was a lawyer, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You're lucky you got custody.”

  “He put up a valiant struggle.”

  “I'm sure he did. Lawyers aren't my favorite people.” He stared at his beer. God, he sounded like an idiot. “You must know people around here from when you were a kid,” he said.

  “Not many. No one I'd care to see.”

  “How old were you when you moved in with Kyle and Lou in New York?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “And your grandparents took care of you before that, right?”

  “My grandfather and his second wife. You do know my life story, don't you?”

  “Kyle and Lou brag a lot. And they're in love with Cassie.”

  Her face brightened and he knew he had found the right topic. Her beautiful white teeth flashed in a smile as she told him about her daughter. Only problem was, he couldn't listen. It was too hard to hear about a four-year-old girl. He wanted to say, Bliss does that too, or, Yes, I know exactly what you're talking about, but he couldn't. Instead he tuned out her words and focused on the warm blue of her eyes.

  “Cassie will be here in July,” she said. “Will your daughter visit you this summer? They could play—”

  “Shhh!” He quickly covered her hand with his as Ruth set their plates in front of them, and he held her silent with his eyes until the waitress walked away. “Sorry,” he said as he took his hand away and picked up his fork. “No, not this summer.” Not any summer.

  Eden frowned at him. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He cut a wedge of crab cake, neatly, with great concentration. He couldn't look at her, and he was relieved when she finally lifted her own fork and began to eat. How had he managed to kid himself into thinking he could ever have a normal relationship with a woman again? And Eden Riley? Christ, Alexander. He'd thought about her all afternoon, hoping there could be something between them—something short, a brief connection. He wasn't asking for much. When she said she and Michael Carey were just friends, wasn't she telling him she was interested? Fool. This woman was an Academy Award–winning movie star. Every person in this restaurant would recognize her name. She wore an enormous diamond around her throat. Her daughter went to what sounded like an exclusive day-care program. She lived in a beautiful house on the ocean. He could picture it—hot tub, parties in the balmy California air. He saw her again in that hotel room scene with the darkly handsome Michael Carey. How ridiculous that he'd thought she could be interested in him. At one time he might have stood a chance, but not now. He made barely enough to keep a head of lettuce and some cheese in the refrigerator and a leaky roof over his head. He wanted to tell her about the house he and Sharon had owned, the one he'd designed himself. He wanted to tell her he'd had a job that earned him the respect of the entire archaeological community. But then he'd have to explain why he'd lost it all.

  She had eaten a third of her flounder when she set down her fork. “Ben, I'm not sure what's going on here but you look as though you'd rather be just about anywhere but here with me. We don't have to drag this out, okay? Let's call it a night.”

  “No.” He grabbed her hand again, panicked. “I'm sorry. I have a lot on my mind, but I don't want to leave yet.” The band was starting to play. He liked this band. Old rock and roll, of a sort. They made every song sound as if it had a little country in it, but that was okay. He watched another couple walk onto the dance floor. “Let's dance,” he said, getting to his feet. If they moved they wouldn't have to talk.

  The band played an old Doobie Brothers song. It was fast, and Eden moved easily with him. He was glad to see her smiling again as they spun around the floor.

  The next song was slow and Eden didn't object when he pulled her close. The musky silk of her hair brushed his cheek as she moved her arms from his shoulders to around his neck, surprising him, scaring him. He shut his eyes against the stares of the other diners. During this past year he'd wondered if he'd ever make love again, if any woman would consent to have him. He was not even certain he still had the physical ability. He never would have guessed that an affront to his sexuality could take such a toll on him. Could he ever feel normal again? Could he ever touch or be touched without shame and guilt, no matter how unreasonable those feelings were?

  Maybe Eden…God, she smelled wonderful. Entirely too good. He tried to think about the pottery she'd found that morning, the shape of Sugar Hill's bar, the words of the music—anything to keep his erection in check. But when he feared it had grown firm enough for her to feel, he pulled away from her, abruptly, leaving her staring at him as she lowered her arms to her sides.

  “What's the matter?” she asked.

  “Let's sit down.” He led her back to the table, his hand light on her elbow.

  She sat down and reached for her purse. “I think I'd better leave.”

  “No, Eden, please don't.”

  “Do you think you have to entertain me because I'm Kyle's niece?” Her cheeks were red.

  “No!”

  “That's what I think. You don't seem to want to be here with me. That's fine, but please don't use me to make points with Kyle, or to show me off, or…”

  “That's not what I'm doing.” He felt wrongly accused. It was a feeling all too familiar.

  “I'm going to leave. I'll see you at the site in the morning.”

  “Let me walk you out.” He didn't want everyone to see her walk out on him.

  At her car he set his hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him. “This was my fault,” he said. “It's been a long time since I've been out with a woman and I wanted it to go well so much that I screwed it up.”

  “I'll see you tomorrow.” She got into her car and sprayed gravel behind her as she made her escape from the parking lot.

  He drove slowly up to his cabin. He undressed and then, because it smelled like Eden, laid his shirt on his pillow before getting into bed. He'd forgotten to turn off the bathroom light and he thought of the pills on the sink, but he was too tired to do the idea of suicide justice tonight.

  In the faint light from the bathroom he could see the photograph of Bliss stuck in the frame of his scratched dresser mirror and he rolled over to face the wall, away from the picture, away from the past.

  –7–

  Ocotber 2, 1941

  Mama is dead.

  I look at those words and can't believe they're real. Kyle found her and I know it was bad for him. We both heard the shot. It was late last night and I was sleeping so deeply that I thought I was dreaming. I thought Mama finally shot herself an Indian but then I heard Kyle get out of bed and run into the hall. I got up slowly, like something was holding me down, telling me it was for my own good not to rush. By the time I got to the parlor Kyle was blocking the door to keep me out. He seems to have grown overnight and his shoulders nearly filled up the doorway. His lantern glowed from the room behind him and his face was shadowy, but the little moonlight there was in the house was all in the white of his eyes and they were big and round and scared.

  “What happened?” I whispered, trying to push past him into the room, but he held my arms. />
  “Don't come in,” he said. “It's Mama. She shot herself.”

  “Dead?” I asked.

  Kyle nodded and stepped aside because Daddy came into the hall then and wanted to get into the parlor. We listened to hear his reaction but there was none. A more silent man there's never been than Daddy. I wanted to see her to know for sure she was dead, but Kyle wouldn't let me past.

  “It's her head, Kate,” he said and I noticed Kyle was not looking in her direction neither. I couldn't imagine what the shotgun would do to someone's head.

  I guess I am not a good person because I wanted to laugh. It shames me to write that, but it is the truth and this is the only place I can tell the truth. It was hard for me to keep from laughing. Only Kyle's scared eyes kept me from doing it. I wanted to say, “Oh Kyle we're free!”

  Then Daddy came out. He stood in the hallway, his head hung down, then he looked over at me.

  “She's never been right since the day you come to us, Katie.”

  I was shocked, but I could see he wasn't angry with me. His voice was soft and he actually touched the side of my head, something he never done before.

  “Don't blame yourself, girl,” he said. “Weren't your fault. It's best she done this. Now she has peace. Now y'all have peace."

  Kyle and I stayed home from school, but I came here to my cave and Kyle did whatever needed to be done in the parlor. I asked could I help, but he said no, he didn't want me to. He came here a while ago and told me everything he saw and it is all too horrible to write here. The destruction she did to herself is not fitting to put on paper. But I made myself listen to Kyle because he said he just had to talk about it. He sat on the settee he helped me cart from the Smith's house and his voice was one tone, never rising or falling, just steady, telling me one horrid thing after another. His eyes looked changed from seeing what he did and I wished Daddy had not said it was my birth that brought all this on because I felt to blame for the sorrow in my brother's face.