The Art of Keeping Secrets (21 page)

Had she edited her memories like some people edited their family history for their Christmas letter? Let me tell you about all the wonderful things our family did—I’ll leave out how Johnny was suspended and Janie came home with a police escort. Had she done the same thing? Once, she’d actually written an advice column on this subject. She’d told her readers that they didn’t need to brag in their Christmas letters. No one liked to hear how perfect your family was when their own family was fighting over something as silly as which brother-in-law would cut the Christmas turkey.

Through the years, had she done the “Christmas Letter” to her life memories with Knox, leaving out the spaces in which he could have loved another woman? If finding his plane two years after his death with another woman inside was possible, then anything was possible.

She hadn’t even kissed anyone else but Knox—except that one brief and impulsive kiss with Shawn. Oh, and in fourth grade, Mitchell Lawson had caught her behind the long slide, pinned her against the metal bar and smashed his mouth against hers. She’d had a big crush on him, and the other boys had dared him. She didn’t have a crush on him after that—he’d tasted like ravioli from the lunch-room, and the kiss had made her nauseous. So much for experience. She’d started dating Knox at fourteen, and that was that. No more ravioli kisses for her.

In all the years that she’d been faithful, had Knox been kissing someone else? Had he done more?

She stopped; her mind was going in random and lopsided circles. She lifted her cell phone to call Jake. She needed food and wanted to eat it with him—a touchstone of family. He answered on the second ring. “Hey, Mom.”

“Where are you?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“Want to meet for dinner?”

“Sure, but . . .” His voice trailed off and Annabelle slumped forward. Of course he didn’t want to meet his mother for dinner.

“Forget it,” she said.

“Mom, I’d love to, but I really think Sofie trusts me, and I want to talk to her some more.”

“Jake, if you can’t meet me for dinner, I need you to tell me what else she said.” Annabelle shivered in the warm air.

“Not much, really. We talked about her work, and, Mom . . . this is really hard to say, because it is such a terrible thought, but she did tell me that Dad is not her dad—you know what I mean?”

“God, Jake, I hadn’t even gone there.”

“I know, I don’t think I had either, but she told me anyway. There are things, something she’s not telling me . . . and I think she will.”

“Maybe,” Annabelle said, “it’s best if we don’t know. Maybe we should let this go. I need to get home to Keeley . . . and . . .”

“Mom, maybe you
should
go home. I can stay here and try to get some more information out of her.”

“No, Jake, this situation is bizarre and ridiculous. Let’s just go home and get on with our lives. We’re never going to prove anything.”

“Everyone wants proof, don’t they?”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay.” Annabelle hung up. She stood, walked down the dock and counted all twenty-seven sailboats again. Some things were provable, countable, stable and sure. She once thought their lives were, too.

FIFTEEN

ANNABELLE MURPHY

Annabelle huddled in the far corner of the restaurant bar and sipped a cup of hot tea. Everything in her hurt: her heart, her bones, her head. She stood to get a table when a conversation with the bartender caught her ear.

A man who stood four stools over, leaning across the sleek bar, had uttered “Liddy.” Annabelle inched closer, tried to look away as she eavesdropped. He was asking about Liddy Parker, if she had painted or just owned the Newboro Art Studio. Annabelle stared at him, weighed her choices. This had to be the art historian who was looking for Liddy, the one Jo-Beth and the woman at Sofie’s building had mentioned.

He looked about Annabelle’s age, or slightly older, with dark, wavy hair that fell just past his ears and a goatee of dark hair mixed with gray. To Annabelle he looked more like he should be in a band playing guitar than doing research as an historian. He turned from the bartender and caught Annabelle staring at him. He wore glasses with round silver wire frames. The overhead lights lit the outside of his glasses, and she couldn’t see his eyes.

She tilted her face away. She’d wanted to hear what he was saying, but not get caught. She felt a movement, and pulled her purse closer to her body. “Excuse me,” a deep voice said.

Annabelle met his gaze. “Yes.”

“Do you live here?”

“No,” she said, shook her head, and then stood to walk away. When she reached the end of the bar, she stopped. What if this man knew more about Liddy Parker than she did? What if he could tell her something, anything? The need, the clawing and consuming need to know the answers to her questions, overcame her. She turned back and saw that he had moved to the other side of the bar to talk to another patron. Someone with that much tenacity could most definitely help her find out what the hell Liddy Parker was doing in a plane with her husband.

The dim lighting and weary sense of unknowable secrets weighed upon Annabelle as she approached the man. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re looking for Liddy Milstead, and I thought maybe . . . well, maybe we could help each other.” Annabelle felt as though her moving lips did not match the words she said; she felt disoriented, disconnected from reality.

He smiled. “Did you know her?”

“Yes. Though not well.” Annabelle sat on a bar stool and gazed at the bottles of gin, vodka and whiskey reflecting the bar lights. She wanted to be rational, to speak with care yet all she felt was a reckless need to know mixed with righteous anger. She dug her nails into her palms in an attempt to fight the madness welling up inside her like a living thing.

“She was with my husband on a private plane. They were supposed to be headed for Durango, but the plane crashed and she died with him. That was two years ago in a remote region of Colorado where rescue helicopters couldn’t find them.”

“Oh.” He sat on the bar stool next to her and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I’m sorry . . . for your loss. I was told she died in a car wreck visiting her mother. Were you close to her?”

Annabelle felt the mad laughter rise, then catch in the base of her throat. “Close? No. I hadn’t seen her in ten years. Now, my husband? I guess he was close with her. Everyone here thinks she died in a car wreck—but her daughter, Sofie, said that her mother was the woman in my husband’s plane.” Annabelle leaned forward. “And Liddy Milstead was not from Colorado, as everyone around here seems to think. She was from Marsh Cove, South Carolina, where I live.”

He squinted and Annabelle saw now that his eyes were gray with an underlying blue, like the water in Marsh Cove Bay on an overcast day. As she averted her gaze, he touched her shoulder. “Where she used to live . . . in Marsh Cove, do you know an artist named Ariadne, or did Liddy? I promise I don’t mean to pry into your personal lives; I just want to finish my research article, find more of this particular artist’s paintings and move on. I won’t interfere. . . .”

“Interfere?” Annabelle asked. “Interfere?” Her voice rose. He leaned back, glanced around the bar. Annabelle took a breath and smiled at him. “Listen, you’re not interfering. You want information about Liddy, and I want to know why she was on that plane with my husband. That’s all. I thought you might know more about her than I do.”

He stared at her while Annabelle thought about all the things she truly wanted to know: who Liddy really had been, why she had changed her name when she moved to Newboro and then lied about where she came from, why Liddy had been with Knox, why she had left a daughter alone in this world . . . why the hell Liddy had lived in Marsh Cove and then left.

The man tapped on the bar. “I don’t know much more about Liddy than you do.”

Annabelle realized she hadn’t even told him her name. She held out her hand. “By the way, I’m Annabelle Murphy.”

“Michael Harley. Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand, held it a moment longer than necessary. “Here’s what I do know. I am writing about an artist named Ariadne, and I came to Newboro because her paintings once hung in the local gallery. When I got here everyone told me the former owner, Liddy Milstead, died in a car wreck in Colorado. The new owner knows nothing about who Ariadne was . . . or is. She said that she hasn’t received a new painting from her in over two years, and that Liddy Milstead was the only woman who knew who she was.”

“Did you ask her daughter, Sofie?”

“She slammed the door in my face.”

Annabelle nodded. “Did you go to her place or her boyfriend’s?”

“She has a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, a professor named Bedford Whitmore—or at least that’s what her neighbor told me.”

Michael ran his finger along the edge of the bar, and Annabelle saw the paint under his fingernails.

“Do you paint?” she asked, touched his hand before she gave any thought to her action.

He held out his palm, and her finger fell into his open hand when she had only meant to touch the edge of his thumb. Flesh on flesh. She hadn’t felt the potential and imminent need for touch in a long time. She allowed her finger to stay there a moment before she withdrew her hand.

“Yes, I paint. Not as much as I’d like, but I worked today. The landscape here is breathtaking and a challenge to capture because it changes with every breath. It might be the most fluid environment I’ve ever tried to paint. Quick movements of cloud or wind, a shift in tide, and the entire picture alters.”

Annabelle laughed. “Where are you from?”

“Philadelphia. I’m a teacher at the art school there.”

“Well, that explains it. . . .”

“Explains what?”

“Your accent.”

“I’m not the one with the accent—you are.” He grinned.

Annabelle gestured with her hand. “I think if you ask every single person in the bar, they’ll tell you that you’re the one with the accent.”

He laughed loudly and several people turned and stared at them, yet he didn’t seem to notice. “Just because a bunch of people say it’s true doesn’t make it true. You can’t take a vote on everything, you know.”

She wondered if he was talking about more than her accent.

Without removing his hand from her arm, he leaned closer. “Everyone here says Liddy Milstead knew the artist Ariadne. I think Liddy Milstead
was
the artist. What do you think?”

Annabelle shivered, shrugged. “I don’t know anything except that when I knew her, she was Liddy Parker. She lived in Marsh Cove for about ten years with her daughter, Sofie, and she painted and had an art gallery. She signed her own name to her paintings. I have one at my house in Marsh Cove. The woman I spoke to here said Liddy didn’t even paint, that she came from Colorado. It’s like we’re talking about two different people.”

“What were her paintings of?”

Annabelle visualized the Liddy Parker painting hanging in their foyer. Dizziness overwhelmed her. Her head dropped into her hands; her tangled hair fell over her hands and onto the sticky bar. Michael lifted her hair, whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

Annabelle followed him out of the restaurant. When they stepped into the clear night, she moved away from his guiding hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She turned her back to him. “I don’t even know you; I should never have told you all those things.” She faced him. “Listen, I don’t know any more than you do. I was hoping you could tell me something.”

“Let’s see. . . . What can I tell you? I’m a teacher at the Philadelphia School of Art working on an article for publication. I’m single. No kids. I grew up in Philadelphia, and this is the first time I’ve been to this area of the country, which, by the way, I have fallen madly in love with.” He laughed. “So there you go—you know who I am.”

Annabelle looked at him in the light of the gas lamp and thought she just might know more about him than she ever had about Liddy Parker. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sure there’s lots more to you.”

“Yes, but that’s the fun part—getting to know somebody’s story.”

“I don’t have a story, or if I do—right now, it’s a tragedy.”

“I doubt that. You are too . . . exquisite to be part of a tragedy.”

His kind words, the way he said them and then moved closer to her, made her breath catch on that lump in her throat that had been there since the day the sheriff arrived to tell her they’d found the plane. She took in a long breath of fresh sea-scented air and admired the way her lungs expanded, filled the dreaded tight spaces that had occupied the middle of her chest. She wanted to give a witty answer to his words, but nothing came to mind.

He motioned toward the bay. “Let’s walk, okay?”

She nodded.

They strolled in silence under the gas lamps, over the cobblestone pathway toward the water. The quiet felt like a warm soothing blanket, peaceful, seductive, and Annabelle hoped she wouldn’t have to speak again for a long time.

Michael placed his hand on the small of her back and led her down a side alley that ended at the water’s edge. They stood watching the tide move in, the sailboats rising with the floating docks, the stars growing brighter as their eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The horizon blurred, became indistinguishable. Annabelle stared until she could just make out the line separating sea and sky.

“I always imagined I would disappear into that line—that thin line right there.” She pointed across the bay.

“The horizon?” he asked.

“Yes, the horizon. Isn’t it an appealing thought—to just disappear into that line?”

“Seductive, yes. Now, why would you want to disappear?”

“My husband died.”

“Yes, you told me that.”

“Seemed like a good solution at the time.” She laughed at her own absurd words.