The Art of Keeping Secrets (31 page)

Now she stood outside the studio and stared at the double wood doors painted bright blue. If pressed, she wouldn’t be able to count how many times she’d been here for cocktail parties, art shows, an afternoon with a girlfriend looking at new work in the gallery. The present owner offered classes and showings on a regular basis.

Annabelle ran her hand through her hair, wiped her palms on her jeans. After Liddy had left this place, Annabelle had wondered for a year or so where she’d gone. Then she’d forgotten about Liddy altogether. But someone hadn’t forgotten.

Her heart took a quick skip when she heard someone say her name. She turned, expecting to see Michael, but found Shawn instead. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He was unshaven, and his white linen shirt hung loose over a pair of khakis. He was tan and appeared calm, so well-rested.

“Hey, girl.” He held up his full hands. “I’d hug you if I could.”

She smiled at him. “You look well. Guess unemployment is doing you good.”

He laughed, then crinkled his eyes. “How’d you know about that?”

“Cooper told me.” She lifted her sunglasses, set them atop her head. She didn’t know what to say or do because she hadn’t seen him since he left her on a bench at the bay after his confession of love and her mute reponse. Nervousness moved like quick-fire sparks across her skin.

“So you’re emerging from your cocoon? Does this mean you might come out of hiding and rejoin the rest of us?”

“I haven’t been hiding, Shawn. Just . . .”

“Hiding.” He took a sip of his coffee, shoved the paper under his arm and used his free hand to rub his face. “Listen, I didn’t mean to freak you out last time with my sudden revelation. I didn’t mean to make you hide. I just needed you to know.”

“You didn’t freak me out.”

“Can’t we go back to before? Pretend I never said it, okay?”

Annabelle felt a sudden and irresistible urge to mend their friendship, but she didn’t know how. “How do we go back to before?” she asked.

“A little at a time. How does that sound?”

“Good, I guess. Good.” She stared at him for a moment. “Why’d you quit your job?”

“To start my own company.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Guess.”

She stared at him, grinned. “Our beach wishes.”

They’d been sixteen years old and had drunk too much Tickle Pink at a beach party. Annabelle had never drunk alcohol before, but Shawn had told her it was fizzy lemonade. She’d only half-believed him, stretched back on the sand with him to watch the stars move in the sky, and then said, “Fizzy lemonade, my ass.” Shawn laughed so hard he started to hiccup. That night, he told her that he hoped to someday open his own marina and start a sailing team. She wanted to write a novel that would be made into a movie. John Travolta would star in it. Shawn teased her that she’d taken her wish one step too far, and they’d laughed until curfew, knowing those were wild dreams . . . impossible dreams.

Annabelle reached out and touched Shawn’s arm. “Maybe dreams told under the stars on a Lowcountry beach are the kind that come true.”

“You remember.”

“I remember a lot lately.”

“Sometimes you have to stop remembering and live.”

“I know. You think I don’t know that? But I’m not done remembering . . . yet.”

He nodded. “I get it.”

They smiled at each other, and for Annabelle a single crack in their broken relationship had been mended. She turned to see Michael Harley walking up the sidewalk toward them. She waved.

Shawn gave her a puzzled look. “You know him?”

She nodded. “He’s an art historian. I met him in Newboro. . . .”

“In Newboro?” His eyebrows lifted. “I thought you said you let that go. . . .”

“I did. He didn’t.”

Michael came to them, and Shawn briefly introduced himself, his words clipped; then he walked off.

“Hello, Michael,” Annabelle said.

He offered a brief hug. “So good to see you again.”

She nodded, returned the embrace. She lifted her hand toward the studio. “Here it is.” She tried on a smile that felt like an ill-fitting outfit.

Michael nodded toward the place where Shawn had just stood. “Did he know Liddy?”

Annabelle laughed. “Why, yes, he did.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“I’m sure you can. I’ll give you his number. I bet he can tell you some things about her that I can’t.” Annabelle noticed the bite to her words, but she allowed herself to feel the slight jealousy and then laugh. “Okay, come on. I’ll introduce you to Kristi.”

Michael nodded. “This is a precious town.”

“Precious?” Annabelle lifted her eyebrows.

He looked as though he were searching for words, but found none. He pointed at the art studio. “It’s bigger than I expected.”

“When it first opened, this downtown area was struggling to get back on its feet after Hurricane Hugo. Space went for cheap then . . . not now.”

“It still couldn’t have been easy for a single woman.”

A chill ran through Annabelle: in that moment she knew how Liddy Parker had bought this space in the middle of Marsh Cove in the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo. Knox had paid the down payment. In those days real estate was inexpensive, down payments kept low to encourage businesses to move downtown. In all their years of marriage, she had never questioned Knox on the issue of finances. She had put the family bills on his desk and knew there was a notebook listing their investments. He’d had some family money, which he’d used to start their life together, and he could have written a check for a down payment on cheap space in a hurricane-ravished downtown, and Annabelle wouldn’t have ever known.

She turned away from Michael so he wouldn’t see the blood rush from her face. She thought she’d killed all doubt in the quiet weeks that had just passed, but this new knowledge watered the seed of distrust still hidden in the farthest corners of her heart.

Michael’s voice came from behind her. “Okay, let’s go see this place. Nothing better than art I haven’t seen.” He walked toward the doors, and Annabelle followed with shaky steps.

Kristi sat behind an antique oak desk scarred from years of use and the spilled paint and ink of the studio. She wore her hair loose down her back, a pen stuck behind her ear and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose while she examined a drawing. She looked up when Michael and Annabelle entered.

“Hello there, Annabelle.” Kristi got up to hug her. “It is so good to see you. It’s been a long while since you’ve been in. We have so much new art.”

“Hi, Kristi,” Annabelle said, gestured toward Michael. “This is Michael Harley, and he’s interested in some of Liddy Parker’s work. Do you still have any?”

Kristi shook her head. “We haven’t had any since the year after she left.”

Michael shook Kristi’s hand. “Nice to meet you. This is a wonderful place. By any chance do you have any pieces by an artist named Ariadne?”

“Oh, yes. I have one left. It arrived about two years or so ago, and I’m surprised no one bought it. It’s priced on the high side, but many have remarked on its beauty. It’s not as . . . soft as some of the artist’s other work, but I like it.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure.” Kristi gestured toward the far wall. “It’s right there.”

Annabelle and Michael turned to the back wall, and Annabelle stared at a painting she’d seen many times at gatherings here in the studio. It was an image of the marsh at dusk. Nighthawks flew over the middle of the picture, and a thin moon perched in the upper-right corner. The left side of the canvas showed the setting sun, while the middle of the work remained in shadow.

Michael walked over and touched the frame. “The moon rising, the sun setting, twilight in between. Something coming, something leaving, with dusk and shadow in the middle.”

Kristi came to Michael’s side, pointed to the price written on a piece of paper. “This artist wants fourteen thousand dollars for it.”

“Do you ever hear from Ariadne?” he asked.

“Not in a couple years. I’ve never met her, only heard her voice. Her work was always shipped here. Then I mailed a money order to a P.O. box in Raleigh, North Carolina. It’s always been very mysterious, but until this painting I didn’t care because they always sold. Now I don’t know who to contact. I’ve mailed a letter to the P.O. box to ask if she’d lower the price—but I’ve received no answer.”

“That’s because she’s dead.” At Annabelle’s proclamation behind them, Michael and Kristi turned to her.

“Who’s dead?” Kristi asked.

“So you agree with me?” Michael asked.

“Yes, I agree with you.” She looked at Kristi. “Michael believes that the artist Ariadne was actually Liddy Parker.”

Kristi nodded. “Well, that would make sense.”

“Why?” Annabelle steadied herself against an exposed wooden pillar.

“Well, Liddy moved without wanting anyone to know where she was going. It would make sense that she wouldn’t want anyone to know this was her art.”

Michael took a camera out of his satchel. “Do you mind if I take a few photographs?”

Kristi shrugged. “I guess not. But why?”

“I’m an art historian writing an article on artists who hide their identities.”

“Will you mention my studio?” Kristi asked, then laughed and posed like she should be in the picture.

“Of course.” Michael snapped a picture of Kristi, and then took multiple shots of the artwork. When he finished, he sat on a stool at the desk. “Can I ask you a few more questions?”

“Sure,” Kristi said, and sat down next to him.

“Did you buy this studio from Liddy Parker?”

“Yes. Ten years ago. She announced to my art class that she and her little girl, Sofie, would be moving away. She asked if any of us knew of someone who might be interested in buying the place. It took me less than five minutes to decide. This was my dream, and whatever made Liddy leave town helped me to fulfill it. My husband and I paid Liddy in cash, and well . . . I’ve been here ever since, and never wanted to be anywhere else.”

“Did you pay cash because Liddy was willing to sell cheap?”

“It wasn’t cheap—but she did ask for cash.”

Michael nodded. “Well, did you ever see her again?”

“No, I paid her more than the place was worth, gave her the money and off she went. Who can put a price on a dream?” Kristi shrugged. “She called me once, about six months after she left, but that was before caller ID. I have no idea where she was calling from, and all she wanted was her portion from the last sale of her work here.”

Annabelle took two steps forward. “Where did she have you mail that money?”

Kristi looked back and forth between Michael and Annabelle. “I didn’t mail it.”

“What did you do with it then?” Michael asked.

“It was a long time ago,” Kristi said.

Annabelle felt tentacles of suspicion spring from new-grown roots and wrap around her heart. “I know you remember.”

Kristi cringed. “I gave the money to Knox and we never talked about it again and she never called again.”

Her knees weak, Annabelle sat on the remaining stool and stared at the painting across the room. “Oh.”

“It never crossed my mind that the person on the plane was Liddy—I would’ve said something. That was the only time I was asked to give Knox anything that had to do with her.” Kristi shifted papers on her desk.

Annabelle nodded. “Okay.” But the tentacles squeezed tighter.

Michael spoke into the quiet. “Annabelle, don’t you have a painting of hers?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

She squinted at him through the sunlight coming in from the high windows. “You can see it and you can have it.” it. »

 
He shook his head. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“No, but it’s what I’m telling you.”

A group of five children entered through the front door, talking over one another, laughing and pushing to be first to the art table set up in the back of the room. Kristi hollered to the mothers, “Hello, all. I’ll be right with you.”

She leaned her elbows on the desk, looked from Annabelle to Michael. “I have to teach my kindergarten budding artists class now. Please excuse me. If there is anything I can do, please feel free to call. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

Michael stood. “Have you kept a pictorial record of your sales?”

“I sure have,” Kristi said. “I’ll make a copy of all Liddy’s and Ariadne’s sold art. But it won’t be ready until late tomorrow. I have too much on my plate today.”

“No problem,” Michael said, glanced at Annabelle. “I don’t mind staying in this town one more day.”

Annabelle walked to the front door without saying a word. When she slid behind the driver’s seat of her car, she realized that she’d left Michael on the sidewalk. He hollered after her, “I don’t know where you live.”

She poked her head out the window and heard the breathless quality of her voice, as though someone had taken something significant from her words. “Do you have a car?”

He nodded. “But it’s back at the inn. I walked here.”

“Then get in,” she said, reached over and opened the passenger-side door.

Michael slid into the seat, leaned back and rolled down the window. “I hate that I’m making things hard for you. Since the moment I met you, I’ve wanted to make them easier.”

“You’re not making things hard for me. Knox did. Or Liddy did. Or . . . hell, maybe I’m making them hard on myself.” Annabelle started the car and pulled out onto Broad Street, following the familiar route until she pulled into her driveway and gestured. “My house.”

Michael climbed out and followed her up the front walk to the porch, through the front door. Annabelle pointed to the painting over the hall table covered in today’s mail, a set of extra keys, and a note from Grace saying she’d stopped by to say hello. Michael didn’t look at the paraphernalia on the table, which Annabelle sifted through to avoid staring at the painting.