The Art of Keeping Secrets (33 page)

“I know,” Keeley said, stepped toward her brother.

Annabelle attempted a smile for her children. “Okay, I’m going to shower and we’ll have pizza in a few. Okay?” They both stared at her without speaking. She repeated herself. “Okay?”

“Mom, are you all right?” Jake squinted at her.

“Sure,” she said.

“Why’d you give Shawn that painting?” Keeley pointed at the rectangle of clean wallpaper.

Annabelle shrugged. “I never really liked it.”

“It was a piece by Liddy Parker, wasn’t it?” Jake asked.

“Yes, it was.”

Keeley and Jake looked at each other. Annabelle lifted her chin and took large but careful steps down the hall toward her bedroom. She needed to carry her doubt gingerly so as not to pass her disbelief about their father onto her children.

Annabelle stood beneath the scalding water, let it pound her back, her thighs, her hair. She scrubbed the sand from her face and scalp. Could Knox have wanted Liddy in the same way she had just wanted Shawn, if only for a moment? Could he have loved his wife and wanted Liddy at the same time? On the sand dune, she had both desired Shawn and loved Knox. Was this only possible when someone was dead and gone? These were questions without answers, and Annabelle let them flow over her just as the shower did, let the unanswerables twist down the drain with the sand and sweat.

When she came into the kitchen in a pair of jeans and an oversized cotton button-down shirt, her wet hair dripping down her back, her face scrubbed clean, Shawn, Keeley and Jake were lifting the top of the pizza box. Hunger rose like a sleeping force, and Annabelle accepted a slice with sun-dried tomatoes, feta and sausage—her favorite. She took a bite, closed her eyes. “Yummm,” she said.

Jake laughed. “Hungry, Mom?” He held four plates in his hand.

She glanced at each of them, one by one. “I love you guys,” she said. “Really, I do.”

Keeley groaned. “Geez, Mom. Just eat.”

Shawn turned away, pulled four glasses from the cupboard and set them next to a pitcher of ice water.

“You knew my favorite pizza,” Annabelle said.

“Of course,” he answered, poured a glass of water and handed it to her.

They all stood around the kitchen bar and devoured the pizza without speaking until Annabelle set down the remains of her final slice. “Wow, you’d think I’d starved y’all.”

“Long day,” Jake said.

Annabelle seated herself on the bar stool. “Tell me.”

Jake took a stool across from her. “You’re not gonna like this.”

Annabelle shrugged. “Go ahead anyway.” A drop of water from her hair plopped onto the floor.

“Sofie is coming to visit.”

“Oh.” Annabelle looked down at the wet drops from her hair.

Shawn came around the island bar, put his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “She’s coming to see you?”

“Yeah.”

Annabelle looked up now, faked a smile. “Isn’t that nice?”

“No,” Keeley said. “Not so much. Why in the hell is she coming to see you?” She walked toward her brother. “Please don’t tell me you have something going on with her. That is way gross.”

Jake shook his head. “We’re friends.”

Keeley rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s what Joe told me right before he started dating Jessica. Friends, ha!”

“Keeley,” Annabelle said, “it’s okay. Really.” She looked at Jake. “When is she coming?”

He scrunched up his face. “Tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m not sure how I feel about this. . . .”

“Geez, Mom.” Keeley slammed her slice onto the plate. “You sound like you’re on drugs.”

Annabelle leaned onto the counter to stare at Jake. “Why is she coming? The truth, Jake.”

He took in a long breath. “She said she wants to tell us her story.”

“What does that mean?” Keeley asked. “Her story? Like we care one minute about her story. How weird is she?”

Jake looked at Keeley. “She is not weird.”

“Whatever.” Keeley threw her half-eaten slice into the garbage, and then bounded up the back stairs. Jake, Annabelle and Shawn looked at one another in silence until the echo of her slammed door reached the kitchen.

“I think she’s lost it.” Jake picked up the last piece of pizza.

“I think I want this story to be over,” Annabelle said, kissed her son’s cheek. “When tomorrow will she arrive?”

“Evening,” he said.

“Okay,” Annabelle said. “Okay then.”

Shawn closed the pizza box. “I’ve got to go.” He lifted his hand in a wave goodbye, moved toward the front hallway.

Annabelle walked with him to the front door. “Call us tomorrow?”

“Why don’t you call me if you want to talk?”

She took his hand when they were away from the kitchen, away from Jake’s eyes. “Shawn.”

He freed her hand, put his forefinger over her lips. “Please don’t say anything, but do know this—I have always loved you. Always. Tonight wasn’t just about seeing you alone and sad. You have always been in the center of my heart. You are the emptiness in me, and at the same time, you are something complete in me.”

He paused, then spoke with a steady, sure voice. “Sounds goofy, doesn’t it? It’s the only way I know to describe how I feel, but I’ll never bring it up again, I promise. Tomorrow just listen to what Sofie has to say . . . and move on. Beyond Knox. Beyond me. Past all this mess.”

Annabelle closed her eyes, felt dizzy. “I don’t know what is beyond us. . . .”

“You will,” he said, kissed her on the forehead. “You will.”

She watched him walk across the porch, down the stairs. The light seemed to follow him.

TWENTY-FOUR

SOFIE MILSTEAD

The long drive caused Sofie to feel as though sandpaper were embedded under her eyelids. She had thought adrenaline would carry her all the way into Marsh Cove, but fatigue caught up with her as though it had been chasing her Volvo down the highway.

She entered Marsh Cove and wove her car down the forgotten streets of her young life. She moved past Marsh Cove Elementary, the tabby-and-stucco library and courthouse, then into downtown. She parked in front of the art studio and stared at the front doors, at the people coming and going. She tested herself. Had she really lived here? For so long, her mother had trained her to say she’d lived in Colorado, she had almost come to believe it.

How many lies,
she thought,
do we tell others and ourselves before we believe them, and the made-up life becomes more real than reality?

She rested her head on the steering wheel. When the car’s air conditioner threatened to quit, she pulled from the curb and drove to the Murphys’ home.

Sofie parked in the bay’s paid parking lot, shoved quarters into the slender silver meter and walked the half block to Jake’s house. Late-afternoon sun headed toward the horizon to bring twilight to the day: her favorite time. In twilight she believed in possibility.

A bird crowed from a magnolia tree in the yard, dove down to pick something off the lawn, then flew back to a branch. Sofie remembered the tree now, remembered this house and street. As though driving here had opened a dam of water-drenched memories, remembrances of Marsh Cove’s streets and houses poured in.

Sofie took a step, then hesitated. She’d called Jake’s cell phone, told him she’d stop by around this time, but the house looked empty. Maybe they’d all left to avoid her. She took a breath and one step, then another, and then stood at the foot of the porch steps and realized she’d held her breath the entire way across the street. She breathed in the fresh air, and then startled as a teenage girl opened the screen door. She filled the doorway with her height and presence although she was small, thin and quiet. Wavy brown hair fell past her shoulders, and she wore a pair of rolled-up denim shorts and a boy’s white tank top. Her arms were tanned and muscular, her legs long and spread in a stance of defiance.

The girl closed the door, stepped out onto the porch. “Are you Sofie?”

Sofie lost her words, nodded. Coming here was a huge, monstrous, outrageous mistake. How could she have let a few friendly e-mails trick her into doing something so foolish?

The girl looked behind her, then back at Sofie. “You can leave now. We don’t want to hear your story.” She shook her head a few times as if for emphasis.

Sofie backed a few steps from the house, tripped on a tree root that had forced its way through the brick sidewalk. She caught her balance, grabbed on to a branch and stood her ground. “Is Jake home?”

The girl walked across the porch, down the front stairs to come face-to-face with her. “Why are you here? Hasn’t your family caused enough hurt for a lifetime? What makes you think you can come here, ask for my brother, my mother?”

“Keeley?” Sofie asked. “Are you Keeley?”

“Yes, I am. And you’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Sofie astounded herself with her answer, with her strength. “No, I’m not.”

Keeley stamped her foot; tears rose in her eyes. “Get out of here. I hate you. I hate your mother. I hate her art. I hate . . . this entire thing. Get out of here.”

Sofie felt an odd urge to hug this girl, to save her from the revulsion that crept over her features. She tried with words. “It’s okay, Keeley. I understand. I’m here to take away the pain, not make it worse.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Please, just give me a chance to explain. Then you never have to talk to me again.”

The two girls were staring at each other, Keeley standing with her arms crossed, Sofie with her hands spread wide, when Jake hollered from the porch, “Hey.”

Sofie and Keeley both turned; Jake bounded down the front steps. He hugged Sofie before she could put her hands down. “You made it here safely. Great. You remember Keeley?” He stood with his arm over her shoulder. “Of course she was just a toddler when you lived here.”

Warmth spread from Jake’s arm, across Sofie’s shoulder, through her body, to her heart. “We just had the pleasure of meeting,” Sofie said.

Keeley glared at her brother. “You’re a disgusting traitor.”

“Keeley,” he said, the single word a sharp stab.

She spun around, ran toward the house, wrenched open the screen door, then the wooden door while Sofie and Jake watched her.

“Well,” Jake said, tousled Sofie’s hair, “welcome to the Murphy home.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” Sofie said. “I didn’t even wait for your response. I just came. Stupid.” She banged her hand on her forehead.

“If you’d waited for my e-mail, you’d know I told you to hurry up. I couldn’t wait to see you. . . . I’m . . . really glad you’re here. Forgive my sister.”

“Let’s go somewhere else. I was a fool for thinking they’d want to hear my story. I’ll just . . . tell you.”

Jake turned her to face him. “Sofie, let me ask you this. Does this story have anything to do with my father?”

“Yes,” she said, averted her eyes.

“Then it is for all of us to hear. Okay?”

She nodded. Jake took her hand and led her toward the house. They entered the foyer and Jake called for his mother and sister. Sofie glanced around the entranceway. So this was how a real family lived. This was where a real family fought and loved and cried and ate. Tears welled up behind her eyes, gathered in the corners.

Annabelle came from somewhere in the back of the house. Sofie stared at her; she’d always wanted to imagine Annabelle as an ugly woman, an almost-witch, who kept Knox Murphy from them. But here was a beautiful woman with a son, a daughter, and a dead husband. Sofie’s heart hurt. She placed a hand over her chest. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy,” she said.

“Hello, Sofie.” Annabelle nodded once, then gestured into the house. “Why don’t we all sit down in the sunroom and have some sweet tea?”

“Sounds nice,” Sofie said. “It was a long drive. . . .”

“A long, boring drive,” Annabelle said in simple words of solidarity.

“Yes.”

“Jake?” Annabelle touched her son’s arm. “Will you please tell Keeley to come down?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the front stairs two at a time, and Sofie watched him until he rounded the top of the banister. He hollered for Keeley.

Sofie followed Annabelle into the kitchen, a large room painted a pale blue-gray—the color of the water in Newboro. Black-and-white photos of the land and sea were arranged on the walls along with photos of Keeley and Jake at various ages. A large framed photo of Jake and Keeley with Knox on the bow of a boat sat on the kitchen desk. Sofie walked over, picked it up. Jake’s hair had been lighter then, tousled and wet. Keeley was smiling up at her father. Sofie spoke without thinking. “He was a good father.”

“Is that a question or a comment?” Annabelle’s voice came from behind her.

Sofie placed the frame back down and turned to her. “A comment. Not because I would know, but because Jake is a good man and that couldn’t have happened if he hadn’t had a great dad.”

Annabelle nodded, handed Sofie a tall glass of iced tea. “Here, let’s sit.” She gestured toward the sunroom off the kitchen.

The two women faced each other across an antique trunk painted bright green with small lanterns arranged on the surface. The iced tea glass was slippery with the sweat of the ice cubes. Sofie leaned back on the striped cushions and tried to control her shaking hand as she took a sip.

Keeley and Jake entered the room, and Keeley sat on the couch farthest from Sofie.

“I guess you’re probably wondering why I came here,” Sofie said.

“I don’t care why,” Keeley said, folded her arms across her chest.

“Keeley,” Annabelle said, “Sofie is our guest. Be polite.”

“Go ahead,” Jake said, leaned forward and patted her leg.

“I’m here”—Sofie took in a long breath—“to tell you my story. To tell you my mother’s story.”

Cicadas and frogs began their evening song in the back-yard as twilight descended, as possibilities opened wide.