The Art of Keeping Secrets (15 page)

She checked into room 623, crawled into bed fully dressed and fell asleep before one more thought could carry her down the spiral pathway of doubt.

 
Daylight filtered through the blinds, hit Annabelle’s face. Confused, she squinted into the light and lay still, trying to remember where she was and how she’d arrived there: somewhere in North Carolina on the way to Newboro. She rose from the bed, an ache stretching along her back from the drive and the unfamiliar mattress. She walked to the window, threw open the curtains to look at her view of the parking lot.

She picked up the folder on the desk and saw that she was in Holly Ridge, North Carolina. The clock blinked seven a.m.

She drank the instant coffee provided in the room while out loud she talked herself through what she would do next. She’d call Keeley and Jake and soothe their worries about where she was. Then she’d call Shawn. And then what?

She’d decide when she got there.

 
The bridge to Newboro spanned a river with the deep basin of a marina, the quaint town below. She’d only been here once before—to pick up Jake from sailing camp—and then she’d been in such a rush to get home, she hadn’t stopped to appreciate the outrageous beauty of this place and its harbor, homes and boats. Now the possibility that she’d lived her entire life too fast, without noticing important things, filled her with regret.

When she’d spoken to Jake he’d been concerned, but quiet. Keeley hadn’t cared about her mother’s absence as long as Gamma didn’t try to boss her around.

Annabelle turned off the bridge and into a town surrounded by water. Public parking was available along the waterside streets; she pulled into a spot, shoved coins in the meter without any idea what to do next except get out and walk around.

Live oaks lined the roadways through the middle of town, as though the trees had been planted a hundred years ago with just this day in mind. They framed the town square while midday sun filtered through the Spanish moss. Bed-and-breakfasts in hundred-year-old homes were scattered up and down the block. There was an art studio, a bookstore located next to a coffee shop and a corner drugstore that claimed to be the first to sell Pepsi. Annabelle entered the coffee shop and paid for a large black coffee and toasted bagel with cream cheese to go.

She walked out onto the sidewalk, then across the street to where a wrought-iron fence surrounded a massive stone church. She stood eating outside the gate and stared at the stone building. The words on an iron plaque described the history of a town founded before the signing of the Declaration of Independence, proclaiming with pride that this town was older than the country itself.

People were walking into the church, and Annabelle realized it was Sunday. She marveled at all these people believing and having faith when her world was falling away.

A man and woman passed, smiled and nodded at her. Annabelle swallowed the last of her hasty breakfast and followed them into the sanctuary. Maybe her faith would be fortified in this stone structure, in a place older than the country, than her marriage, than her doubts. She went in and sat in the back row, where she could see most of the congregation without being seen herself.

A slight, tall young woman entered the sanctuary. Her presence caused a tingling in Annabelle’s neck. She was a fragile blonde with pale skin and a haunted expression. She clung to the arm of a man who looked to be her father; he led her into the far left pew. Annabelle couldn’t take her eyes off this woman.

In the way people know someone is staring at them, the woman turned to Annabelle. Their gazes held longer than a stranger’s would and a deep chill, not caused by the air-conditioning but originating deeper inside, ran through Annabelle. She had once known this woman. She closed her eyes, mentally scrolled through time until she reached ten years ago. Her eyes flew open—this young woman looked like Liddy Parker, but younger. Liddy Parker had once owned the art studio in Marsh Cove, and then abruptly moved away.

Disorientation overcame Annabelle. Liddy Parker and her daughter, Sofie, had moved here? Had she known that? Had Knox ever mentioned them again? Or was fatigue making her delusional?

Liddy had had a young, beautiful daughter who had been . . . ten when they’d moved. Recognition came in a single knowing: this woman was Sofie Parker all grown-up.

The blonde looked away, as if Annabelle had said her name out loud; then she whispered to the man next to her, rose and walked out a side door. Annabelle scooted from the pew, ran out the front door and around the church to the outdoor courtyard, where she had stood only moments ago.

Frantic, Annabelle glanced around the courtyard, ran to the far side, where a children’s playground had been set up next to an ancient graveyard—an anomaly that seemed sacrilegious: a plastic play set alongside the worn stones of the dead founders of the church and town.

The young woman’s ponytail fell over the back of the stone bench where she sat facing away from Annabelle. The playground and graveyard were in front of the bench, and Annabelle could not see what the woman was staring at until she got closer, walked around the bench and saw that Sofie was gazing at her hands. Annabelle’s feet made a crunching noise in the gravel, and Sofie looked up, offered a single nod.

Annabelle sat on the bench, turned to this familiar stranger. “Are you Sofie Parker? You look so much like—”

“Yes,” Sofie said, quiet and trembling in her voice and body. “But it’s Sofie Milstead. . . .”

“I thought I recognized you. . . . Do you know who I am?” Annabelle whispered as one would to a child one wished not to scare away.

“Mrs. Murphy,” Sofie said.

“This is the oddest coincidence,” Annabelle said, rubbed her temples. “How long have you lived here?”

“It’s not so much of a coincidence,” Sofie said. “Not really.”

Annabelle straightened up. “What do you mean?”

Sofie turned now and looked directly at Annabelle. “My mother and I lived here for a long time, and your husband visited frequently, so I figured you’d show up eventually.”

“My husband . . .” Annabelle’s pulse knocked against her wrists in an erratic beat.

“Mr. Murphy. Knox. He helped a lot of people around here,” Sofie said.

Annabelle smiled; she would pretend she knew what Sofie was talking about. Her real world at home in Marsh Cove began to fade into sepia shades as this world in Newboro became too bright, too crisp with the image of Knox living in it.

“So,” Annabelle said, “you do know he . . . passed away two years ago.”

“The plane crash,” Sofie said. “Yes, I do.”

“Do you know his plane was recently found and that a woman was traveling with him?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I saw it on the news.” Sofie looked across the playground. “This is my second-favorite place in Newboro. Isn’t it beautiful? The old stones that have been here for hundreds of years, the old souls that lie beneath this land, the children—when they’re here—defying death with their laughter.”

Annabelle took a deep breath. “Is that your father in the church?”

Sofie’s gaze flashed back to Annabelle; her mouth attempted to move into a smile. “No, that’s my boyfriend.”

Annabelle nodded. “Oh, sorry. How is your sweet mom?” But even as she asked the question, something moved toward her from the corner of her eye: a knowing as wispy as smoke.

“She . . . left,” Sofie said.

“Oh,” Annabelle said. She wanted to chat longer, ask personal questions that would draw information out of this fragile young woman, but the only question she could voice was “So you must know who else was on the plane?”

Sofie nodded. “Yes, he was helping a woman. . . . She was in some kind of trouble, and he was taking her to Colorado.”

“What kind of trouble?” Annabelle asked.

Sofie stood now. “I always knew I’d see you again, but I thought . . .”

“What?” Annabelle looked up at Sofie, the sun backlighting her, blacking out her face and leaving only an impression of a woman, without substance. “There’s more, isn’t there?” Annabelle whispered.

“There’s not more that I can tell you,” Sofie said.

“Yes, I’m sure . . . I’m sure there is.” Annabelle stood, wanted to grab Sofie, shake the information out of her. “This doesn’t make sense.” Annabelle brushed the hair out of her eyes, felt her flesh grow hot and then cold as confusion overcame her.

“His flight was a mission trip of sorts,” Sofie said. “Mrs. Murphy, I really can’t tell you more.”

Annabelle’s body shook as though it was October and a gale wind blew through the harbor to the courtyard. Sofie glanced around the yard, and then took quick, small steps back to the church. “Sofie . . . please,” Annabelle called after her, but Sofie opened the wide wooden doors and disappeared into the sanctuary.

Annabelle sat back down on the bench and felt herself free floating, as though someone had just loosened her tethers to the earth, letting her rise above her body and the stone bench, taking her to an unknown land where her husband flew to Newboro, North Carolina, and picked up a woman for a mission trip of some sort.

The realization that Knox was “doing good” spread relief over her like warm water: her dear husband was helping someone; he died while doing a good deed. Her tight fists unclenched; the muscles around her mouth relaxed, and she was able to take a deeper breath.

She exhaled in a loud huff, dropped her head into her hands. The dread she had voiced to Mrs. Thurgood—
What if nothing I believed about my life was true?
—was now answered. Her beliefs were true. Knox was true. Their marriage was true. Questions remained, prodded at Annabelle’s heart, but she rested in one sure thing: Knox had come here to help someone.

 
The hotel air conditioner coughed and sputtered through its coils cold air that smelled of mildew and salt water. Annabelle sat on the nautical-print bedspread and allowed the chill to cool her off. She called her mother to check on Keeley, but heard only the monotonous recording of her own voice saying to leave a message. Annabelle told her mother and Keeley she loved them and what hotel she had checked into, and then she fell backward onto the bed.

For days, memories of Knox had arrived unbidden and without warning. Annabelle remembered when he’d taken the family to Colorado for spring break to ski the great Aspen Mountains. Jake was almost fourteen and about to enter high school, and Knox wanted a great family trip before their older child began navigating the tumultuous world of adolescence. They’d gone together to the nearest outlet malls and purchased ski apparel for the entire family. In their matching goofy white-and-silver ensembles, they had looked like an ad for one brand of ski wear.

Annabelle closed her eyes and saw the hot tub, the kids laughing at dinner; Keeley making a new friend from California (which seemed like another planet to her) whom she still kept in touch with; Jake sneaking out one night to meet a girl at the bottom of the slopes. Annabelle and Knox had lain in bed and laughed because Jake thought he was pulling one over on them when they knew exactly what he was doing.

They had made love, talked about how lucky they were to have this family, this life. The next day with patience and good humor Knox had taught her to snowboard. She’d given up and gone back to the lodge to drink peppermint schnapps and wait for her family to join her next to the fire.

No matter what situation Annabelle remembered or where she placed Knox on the time line of their life together, she could not find a single moment to sift doubt into the sieve of her memory. She would find out who this woman was and how Knox had been helping her, but her essential faith in him was restored.

She curled fully dressed beneath the bedcovers. After driving most of the night and then seeing Sofie in some bizarre time-warp experience, she had hit her limit. Sleep came quick and dreamless.

Jake’s voice called her over and over. Annabelle opened her eyes, attempted to focus in the evening light of the strange hotel room. She must have dreamed about him, of his needing her. She rolled over, rubbed her face and heard his voice again.

“Mom? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

Her mind took a while to catch up with her body. For a moment she listened to her son call her name and wondered if she was in some alternate world. Then he called again; Annabelle bolted from the bed, ran across the room and opened the door to face Jake. He stood in the green-carpeted hallway with the fluorescent light shining down on his concerned face. He wore a pair of wrinkled khaki shorts and a frayed golf shirt that had once been his father’s. Annabelle threw her arms around him. “Why in the world are you here?”

“Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine . . . fine.” Annabelle stepped aside to let him into the room. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” A welling up of love flowed through her body at the sight of Jake’s face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mom. The big question is, are you okay? You pretty much have everyone in a total panic. You ran off in the middle of the freaking night. Who does that?”

“Not me, usually.” She smiled at him. “I called everyone, got Gamma to come for Keeley. No one should be worried. I’m fine.” She glanced around the room. “How did you know my room number?”

Jake shrugged. “I told the cute girl at the front desk that I was your son—I did show ID. She told me your room number—but I didn’t have enough charm to get a key out of her. Shawn . . . Mr. Lewis wanted to drive up here, but I told him I could take care of my own mother. Luckily you told Gamma what hotel you’d be in or I’d be wandering the streets.”

“Oh, Jake, I don’t need to be taken care of.” Annabelle stretched. “But I am so glad to see your face. What time is it anyway?”

“Six o’clock.”

She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m starving. Give me a second to freshen up, and we’ll go grab something to eat.”