The Art of Keeping Secrets (8 page)

“Men are so stupid. They have everything they’ve ever wanted right in front of their faces, and they still think they need to go find it somewhere else. But, just damn, I never thought it would be Knox.”

“So, you think it was an affair?” Annabelle leaned forward, touched Mae’s knee.

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“No, I said they found a woman—I didn’t say I knew who she was or why she was there.”

“Oh, I just assumed. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. I just assume, too. But now I don’t know. There could be . . . other reasons; through all the trials, you’ve always been a dear friend. But you’ve also been Knox’s friend, and if you’ve kept a secret
for
him or kept something
from
me, I need to know now. It will come out in the papers, and the police are looking for the woman’s identity. . . . If you know, please tell me.”

Mae shook her head. “I have no idea. I really don’t. I never, ever saw Knox with anyone but you. Ever. He never talked of anyone else. You knew everyone he knew that I know.”

Annabelle looked at Mae’s face, stared hard and long; she was telling the truth. Annabelle leaned back in the chair. “I’ve been going over our lives, and I can’t find the moment when he would’ve lied or known someone else or left with someone else. I mean . . . maybe on a business trip or another hunting trip.”

“I guess there could be a million explanations. . . .”

“Yeah, I guess so. But there’s only one true one. . . . I just don’t know what it is.”

Mae rubbed her face. “Did you have any reason, whatsoever, not to trust him? Was anything weird going on?”

“No, I always trusted him.” And this was true.

“Then don’t stop now.”

“I’m trying not to.” Annabelle stood up. “Can you think of anyone else I should ask? Do you think Frank would know anything?”

Mae gently shook her head. “No, I don’t think Frank would have a clue. But I’ll ask him. Who else have you asked?”

“Shawn, Cooper and Christine.”

Mae shrugged. “If we don’t know, I don’t know who else would.”

“Someone has to know. I mean someone has to know she’s gone or missing. People don’t just not come home without someone being affected.”

“I’m sure the police will figure it out.”

“Yes,” Annabelle said, “but I’d like to know first.”

Mae hugged her. “Call me if there’s anything I can do.”

“If you think of something else . . . someone else, please tell me.”

“Of course. It doesn’t change anything, you know.”

“Of course it does,” Annabelle said. “It changes everything.” She opened the front door, turned back to Mae. “Thanks.”

Annabelle got into her car and shoved the key into the ignition a little harder than necessary. She drove home through the familiar streets of Marsh Cove, every corner and curve filled with reminders of Knox and of their life together.

FIVE

ANNABELLE MURPHY

The mirror fogged over with steam from the hot shower Annabelle had just taken, clouding her face, softening the lines and puffiness. She’d made such a mess of the day, forgetting all her obligations. They’d never ask her back to Bible study, nor would her book club, the volunteer organizations, the library and school.

She wrapped the tie around her bathrobe and walked through the hall to the kitchen. A slight thump echoed from the front door: the evening paper landing on her porch. Keeley’s footsteps clicked on the hall stairs and Annabelle bolted for the front door in her dripping hair, not wanting Keeley to see the headline before Annabelle had a chance to read it first, to figure out how to discuss the situation with her daughter.

Her stocking feet skidded across the hardwood floors when she ran around the corner. She grasped the handle, threw open the front door and reached for the paper lying on top of the WELCOME TO OUR HOME mat. She shut the door, leaned against the bead-board wall and slid down to the floor to rip off the plastic and open to the front page.

Her eyes blurred with tears at Knox’s photo filling the entire left column. Annabelle began to reread the article she’d already received from Mrs. Thurgood.

Keeley’s voice startled her into looking up at her daughter standing at the foot of the stairs. “Oh, my God, you’re insane now, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re reading the paper half-nude. Should I call nine-one-one?”

Annabelle pulled her bathrobe closed where it had slipped to reveal her chest. “I am not insane.” Annabelle pinched her daughter’s foot in a teasing gesture. “I was in the shower. . . .”

“No, you’re insane.” Keeley laughed, then her gaze went to the floor, to the scattered paper. “Dad.” She mentioned her father as simply as if he had just walked in the door after another day at work.

Annabelle fumbled with the newspaper, closed it on the article. “I wanted to read it before you. . . . This is hard.”

Keeley sat down next to her, took the front page and read the entire article. Annabelle watched her daughter with a tightening of her chest. She wanted to protect this young woman from pain as much as she had the newborn and toddler Keeley once was. Even as her children changed, the need to guard them from the arrows of life remained the same. Anger rose at Knox for shooting this near-fatal arrow at their family, at their daughter.

Keeley finished the article, handed the paper back. A single tear dangled at the edge of her right eye, and then fell. She stood and ran up the stairs, and the foyer chandelier shook with her slammed door. Annabelle swallowed around the lump in her throat and took the newspaper to the kitchen, poured herself a generous amount of Hendricks’ Gin, tossed a splash of white cranberry juice over it, cut a cucumber and placed a thin slice in the glass. She took long sips until it was gone, then made herself another.

This had been their favorite drink on Friday afternoons—hers and Knox’s. They’d make a batch in a small glass pitcher, place thin slices of cucumber on top and take glasses to the porch to talk about their week. As she poured her second drink, she realized that she hadn’t pulled out this bottle of gin in two years.

The bar stool wobbled where, years ago, their dog at the time had chewed on the back left leg, and Annabelle stabilized herself by bracing her thigh against the underside of the counter. Then she reread the full article.

The printed words had more impact than they had had in an e-mail. It had always been this way with her: someone could tell her a sad story, but if she read it on paper, the story made more of an impression. The written word held a power she almost revered: to be able to write so as to influence the hearts and minds of other readers seemed nothing short of a miracle.

She folded the paper into a neat pile, took another sip of her drink, tasted the cold liquid at the back of her mouth and ached for Knox in every part of her body, for his touch and his talk, for his brown eyes softening in understanding while she told him about her day.

The deepest loneliness came from not knowing whom to call to share the mundane details of her life. With habitual motions, she opened the paper to her column before she remembered her smart-ass answer to Confused in Charleston.

Annabelle held her breath as she read exactly what she’d written in her fury, thinking no one but Mrs. Thurgood would see it. She groaned just as the phone rang. She flicked open the front cover of the cell phone, and heard Mrs. Thurgood chastising her in rapid and formal words of rebuke.

“Mrs. Thurgood . . . ma’am . . . ,” Annabelle said. “I can’t understand a single word you’re saying.”

“What in the bloody hell were you thinking? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?”

“Okay, okay. I know it was rash, but I thought only you would read it, then tell me no way were you going to publish it—it was a joke. I meant it as a sarcastic joke. I was in the middle of typing another, nicer answer when I got your e-mail about Knox’s article and I just . . . forgot.”

“Belle, I haven’t felt the need to check your articles in over two years. I read them in the paper just like everyone else.”

“Oh.” Annabelle bit her lower lip. “I didn’t know that.”

“Damn, we are going to get so much flak about this.”

“Maybe it was what Confused in Charleston needed to hear.”

“It’s not about what the readers
need
to hear. It’s about what they
want
to hear, my dear. You know that.”

“Hmmm . . . maybe that’s just half the problem—everyone is always telling everyone what they want to hear and not what they need to hear.”

“Love makes the world go round, baby.” Mrs. Thurgood laughed her deep, husky laugh. “Listen, Annabelle, I can’t have you ruining the reputation of this column or my paper, so why don’t you take a week or two off, and we’ll figure this out later, okay?”

“What am I going to do with a week or two? Wander aimlessly through South Carolina and ask everyone if they knew who the hell my husband took a trip with two years ago?”

“Newspaper articles seem to bring out answers. . . . Someone will call. Someone knows.”

“Yeah,” Annabelle said. “And it’s not me.”

“No, it’s not, is it?”

Annabelle hung up the phone, poured herself another drink and walked to the living room, sat on the couch and stared out the window. Keeley ran the upstairs shower. A complete sense of uselessness took over, and Annabelle lay down, closed her eyes. It didn’t matter how hard she attempted to hold their family together. It was now coming apart at the weakened and ill-stitched seams.

When a pounding on the front door wouldn’t stop, Annabelle roused herself. It was dark outside, the front porch light spilling into the room. The aftertaste of gin had soured in her mouth. She had no idea what time it was.

The clock on the far wall hid in shadow, her watch was somewhere in the kitchen and she was still in her bathrobe. She stood, hollered to whoever was at the front door, “Hold on.”

She ran to her room, threw on a pair of jeans and a beige tunic, clasped her half-wet hair behind her head and hurried back to the front door without ever looking in the mirror. Shawn stood on the other side of the door “Hey,” he said, smiled. “Were you asleep?”

Annabelle opened the door. “Can’t fool you, can I? Come in. I’m sure you’re here to check on me, find out if I’m okay after that article. Well, I’m just fine.”

“Yeah, fine and drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” Shawn wavered in front of her eyes.

“Oh, okay . . .” He took her hand and they walked to the living room, sat down. “So this really sucks.”

“Well, yes, Shawn, that is a very adult description.” Annabelle rested her head on the back of the chenille couch.

“
I
sound juvenile?” he teased.

“I have screwed up so many things. I am falling apart. I have got to let this go—drop it. You know?”

“Why?”

“Okay, I’ll list the multiple reasons. I will soon be kicked out of every volunteer organization in Marsh Cove; I will lose my job; the church will have a sign on the front door that says ‘Annabelle, Go Home’; Keeley will run away and join some cult.”

He laughed at the last comment. “Okay, I think you’re overreacting now, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. Shawn.” She stood and motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, where she put her glass in the sink and leaned against the counter. “I really cannot let Knox’s death consume my life again. God, just when I had begun to move forward.”

He came to her, put his arm around her shoulder. “What can I do?”

“Let’s go get something to eat like regular people, okay?”

“Belle, it’s midnight.”

“Oh, is it really?” She squinted at him. “Why are you here so late?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep and then I saw the article and I thought you might need a little company. All your lights were on, so I thought you must be up.”

“Do you have something to tell me?”

He stared at her for a long moment, then placed his palm on her cheek. “No, I don’t have any idea whatsoever who was on that plane, okay?”

“Okay . . .” Annabelle touched his hand on her face, and he quickly removed it. “Doesn’t Pizza Plus have twenty-four-hour delivery?”

“I guess it does.” Shawn picked up the phone.

Annabelle sat on the bar stool. “Shawn, do you think Knox cheated on me? I mean, really cheated—not just some unfaithful thought or flirting, but a girl on the side he snuck off with, needed and loved, and then he returned to his family. Is that even vaguely possible?”

Shawn lifted the Hendricks’ bottle. “Annabelle, that is this bottle talking, not you.”

“I asked you a question.”

Shawn ordered the pizza and then sat down next to her. “No, he couldn’t have cheated on you. He wouldn’t have been able to tolerate himself, living and loving his family and friends like he did.”

“People do it all the time. Have affairs and then go back to living their regular lives, no one the wiser.”

Shawn broke eye contact, stared through the back window into the darkness. “Not Knox.”

Even in her fog of gin and half-sleep, Annabelle knew Shawn well enough to recognize the gap between his words and his emotions, but she couldn’t tell what he was really saying. “Did you ever . . . cheat or . . . ?”

“This isn’t about me.” He turned back to her. “But, Annabelle, he was never gone, always here.”

“No, he went on business trips, hunting trips. And when he was here . . . what if it was because he was supposed to be, not because he really wanted to be?”

“You can’t go on believing in your own made-up reasons. You can only trust what he said—then.”

“An affair is too terrible a thought to consider,” she said, “and yet I am. What is worse than anything is thinking that he might have been with me not because he longed for me, but out of a sense of obligation.”

Shawn released a shiver, put his arm around her and pulled her head to his shoulder. She felt something in him tremble. “You okay?” she asked.