The Art of Keeping Secrets (22 page)

“And now?”

She shrugged. “Not sure.”

He stayed quiet for long moments, then said, “Tell me about the painting you own.”

She answered in a whisper. “It’s beautiful. It’s been hanging in my foyer for twenty years now. I’d forgotten who painted it.” She closed her eyes, floated into her house with its broad-planked hardwood floors, lovingly cared for by her and well worn by children racing in and out, adults crowding together for parties. On the right side of the hallway stood a hunting table, where mail was dropped. In a tiny pottery dish that Keeley had made in fourth grade, keys had accumulated over the years—Annabelle didn’t know which locks some of them fit into. A large photography book of the antebellum homes in Marsh Cove took up the right corner underneath a milk glass lamp, once her grandmother’s. Hanging on the wall above these family items was the framed painting.

Maybe all along its presence had been a hint—family mementos in the entranceway of her home eclipsed by Liddy Parker’s painting. Nausea shimmied and danced along Annabelle’s gut, and she pulled away from Michael, looked at him. “Listen, I’m not sure what you’re really after here, but the painting is just like a bunch of others in coastal homes. It’s a beach scene with sand dunes and sea oats, a pathway leading to the beach. Nothing spectacular. Really.”

“Are there people in the painting?”

“No.”

“There never are.”

“What do you mean?”

“She never puts people in her paintings. Animals, sea life, inanimate objects, never humans. For the last five or six years, her art has included words below the translucent paint—suggesting she was trying to say something, but wasn’t sure she really wanted anyone to know it.”

Annabelle shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know how to say it.”

“No, I think she didn’t like people all that much.”

“Oh, you think you know this artist even though you never met her. You have her completely figured out through her paintings? Some mysterious woman who needs you to save her or—”

“Sometimes we know strangers better through their art than we know the people we live with. Art is often an expression of an interior life, a subconscious life.”

“Is that your premise for your article?”

“No, just an observation. We can drop the subject.”

“Can you tell me what you know about her?” A wind rose inside Annabelle that she felt would carry her away if she didn’t hear something, anything to secure her to the ground, to reality.

Michael faced her. “I first found her art in a fellow faculty member’s house ten years ago. He had bought the painting in a studio in Charleston. It was an image of sand dollars on the beach, large and blurry with masterful brushstrokes. It was signed with the name Ariadne. I called the Charleston studio and asked if they had any more of her work. They told me that her paintings came in at odd moments through a patron—a man who wouldn’t tell them her real name. He took care of the money, deliveries and communication. They didn’t know his name or how to get in touch with him. He stopped by about once a year to pick up payment, if something had sold, and drop off anything new if he had it.”

Annabelle shivered with a sudden and outrageous conviction: Knox. She didn’t speak his name out loud, as it might shatter the universe, splinter her very world to know or speak his name in association with something so secretive.

Michael leaned against a light post, crossed one leg over the other in a relaxed pose. “So . . . several years later, this studio called me and asked if I was still interested in an Ariadne piece as two of them had just come in.”

“When was this?” Annabelle asked.

“Seven years ago or so . . .”

“And?”

“I had them fax me a color copy of the paintings and bought both on the spot. I couldn’t afford them, and it was crazy that I bought them without touching or seeing them, but there was something about the art that made me have to have it. I was intrigued by not only the art, but also the fact that the artist had this much talent and yet wanted to remain anonymous.”

“Oh.” Annabelle shifted her weight on her feet.

“Ariadne is the name of a Greek goddess.”

“Goddess of what?”

“She’s called the goddess of the labyrinth. Do you know the story?”

Annabelle shook her head.

“Ariadne lived in a castle with her father in Crete. He had a labyrinth with the Minotaur, who was fed seven young men and seven young women every nine years. But Ariadne fell in love with a man who was to be eaten that year—Theseus. She helped Theseus escape the Minotaur by offering him a red thread that he would carry into the labyrinth, then use to find his way out. There are many versions of this myth, but after Theseus survived the Minotaur, he took Ariadne with him, as he’d promised, but then left her on a deserted island. There she met and fell in love with a god, Dionysus, who saved her. After learning she had named herself after this goddess, I decided I would do my article on artists who hide their real identities. And I came looking for her because I figure she is the only one who can tell me why she hid her name.”

“Well, Liddy can’t tell you any more. She’s dead,” Annabelle said. The words tasted bitter, harsh, and yet it was satisfying to spit them out.

Her mind filled with the crazy thought: if Knox had had an affair with Liddy all these years, there was nothing wrong with her kissing a complete stranger; if Knox had cheated on her, she would prove she was still desirable, she was still a woman other men might want and need. But her heart wouldn’t allow her to act out of spite.

She drew back. “I must go now. Thanks for the conversation and . . .”

“Please don’t go,” he said.

“I must.” She forced her mind to focus. It was Monday night—she’d been in Newboro since early Sunday morning. She’d left Keeley with her mom. Jake was somewhere in this same town trying to get information from Sofie. Knox was dead. She was talking to a complete stranger, who was looking for a woman who had possibly been her husband’s lover. “I’ve absolutely got to go,” she said.

Annabelle shoved past him, and moved toward the street without saying goodbye. When she reached the stoplight, she looked left and right, then felt the vibration of her cell phone in her purse. She grabbed it out of her handbag, and looked at the number: home.

She stood still and stared at the phone until a honk made her jump, move to the sidewalk again. “Keeley?” Annabelle said into the phone.

“No, dear. It’s Mom.”

“Hi, Mom. How are you? Is Keeley okay?”

“We’re all fine. I just thought I’d check in on you.”

“I’ll come home first thing in the morning.” Annabelle was sure of her plans now. She needed to get home, get out of this alternate universe that had gone on before her and would go on after her: this world of art and strange men, of secrets.

“Oh, okay.”

Annabelle knew her mom’s voice well enough to hear the hesitation. “What is it?”

“Well, I did get a call from school today. I let Keeley drive to school, but they say she never showed up. And when she got home this afternoon, she wouldn’t tell me where she went. And I just hate to bother you with this, Belle, but should I let her drive to school tomorrow?”

“Mom, you tell her I said you have to drive her and walk her to her homeroom. She’ll yell, scream and probably throw a tantrum, but there is no other option. I’ll be home by dinner. Okay?

“Did you . . . ?”

“Find out anything?”

“Yes . . . did you find out anything?”

Annabelle walked carefully on the sidewalk—avoided the cracks. “I’ve found out a little, but nothing real clear. If anything, I have even more questions now. We’ll talk when I get home, okay? I’ve got to check on Jake and get some sleep.”

“Jake?”

“He’s here, too. He was worried about me and arrived yesterday. I told him he didn’t need to do that . . . but now I’m so glad he’s here.”

“Oh, darling, I feel better that he’s there with you, too.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Annabelle, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” Annabelle had reached her motel by the time she’d hung up. The night wrapped around her, soothed the rougher edges of her thoughts. She would not, in any way, allow this situation to hurt her family. Knox Murphy would never have cheated on her. It wasn’t possible in this world or any other. He wouldn’t and couldn’t live a double life with another woman. She would have felt the disturbance in the earth, the turbulence in the air. Just like the waves that slapped against the dock when a boat ignored the no-wake signs, his actions would have reached her long before now.

This was what she intended to believe.

SIXTEEN

SOFIE MILSTEAD

Golden morning light spilled onto Bedford’s hardwood floors. Sofie lay on the soft mattress, curled into a ball, and pretended she was still asleep so she could enjoy the warmth when it moved across the room and crawled up onto the comforter.

Bedford shook her shoulder with a light hand. “Baby, it’s time to get up.”

Sofie looked over at him. “Not for me. I don’t have to be in until noon today because of the board meeting.”

“Well, let’s not waste the day.” He rose from the bed and stretched, kissed the top of her head. “Rise and shine.”

“No,” she said, burrowed deeper into the covers. This was her favorite hour of the morning—but then she remembered what she’d said to Jake Murphy, the secrets she’d revealed that might unravel her entire life.

“Lazy girl,” Bedford said, then laughed as he moved toward the bathroom. Sofie listened to the shower turn on, the pipes sing. Her eyes closed and she waited for the sunlight to move over her body as she knew it would in a few minutes. A sound that didn’t belong to her routine morning came into the room: knocking.

She kept her eyes closed and wondered what it could be: construction across the street, Bedford not able to get the shampoo out of the bottle? Then it came again—an insistent knock on the front door.

Sofie groaned, rolled from the bed and slipped her feet into Bedford’s house shoes. “Bedford,” she called out, but he didn’t answer, and she knew he couldn’t hear her.

His robe was huge on her, but she pulled it around her and held it with her right hand as she made her way down the stairs to the front door. She’d have to remember to bring her own robe next time.

She stood on her toes and looked through the peep-hole: the damn art historian Michael Harley. She turned away from the door, rubbed her eyes. She had to get rid of him before Bedford came out of the shower, before he stepped downstairs in his khakis and button-down shirt, looking competent and sure of himself.

“Hello?” a voice called from the other side of the door.

Sofie opened the door a crack, looked out. “There is nothing I can tell you. Please go away and leave me alone.”

“Please just give me two minutes—that’s all I ask. Then I promise I’ll go.”

Sofie stared at this man with his round glasses and dark hair, his hands behind his back and his eager face pushed forward. “Okay,” she said. “You have less than two minutes. We’re down to one minute fifty seconds.” Her voice was not her own; she didn’t talk this way, but panic changed every word.

“Then I’ll get right to the point. I came to you originally because I knew your mother owned the art studio, and I thought you could tell me how to find an artist whose work she sold there. I have come across some new information that leads me to believe that your mother not only knew who the artist Ariadne was, but that she
was
the artist.”

An earthquake of exposed secrets split the world into two parts: safe life and dangerous life. Sofie felt herself falling, falling into the space between truth and lies where it was dark, cold. She closed her eyes—yes, it would be better to go to this place than where she stood now. She leaned against the wall to fight the dizziness.

She focused until she understood his words. “Are you okay? Should I call someone? Are you okay?”

It took her a moment to find stability. She poked his shoulder with her finger. “Leave now. Hurry.” The sound of Bedford’s footsteps upstairs told her he would soon appear at the top of the stairwell.

Michael looked up the stairs, then at her. “Was your mother Ariadne?”

“No.” Sofie spoke harshly and in a whisper. “Her name was Liddy Milstead and she ran the Newboro Art Studio. She did not paint. We are from Colorado. We moved here ten years ago to open a studio. Now leave. Leave.” Her mind spun—had she said the words in the right order? Had she told the correct story?

He planted his feet wide apart and rubbed his chin. “I thought it was Liddy Parker and she was from Marsh Cove, South Carolina. I was told she died in a plane crash with the lawyer Knox Murphy.”

“Who told you that?” Sofie grabbed his shirtsleeve in some desperate attempt to keep from falling. Had Jake told him? Had Jake betrayed her already? Life swelled with imminent danger.

“Listen, you don’t seem well, and I don’t mean to scare you. I’m just looking for Ariadne. I don’t want to freak you out. . . .”

Maybe if she repeated the words one more time, the speech would become truth. She tried again. “My mother was from Colorado, her name was Liddy Milstead and she owned the Newboro Art Studio here because she loved art and the coast. The end. You might want some great story for your article or your weird obsession, or whatever is driving you. But that is all I can tell you. I don’t know who is telling you all these lies.”

The man backed away. Relief flooded Sofie—he would leave before Bedford came down the stairs for his two scrambled egg whites with whole-wheat toast and coffee.

“Who is telling lies?” Bedford’s voice filled the room as efficiently as if someone had pumped the house full of freezing air.

Sofie spun around. “I have no idea, but this man is leaving.”