The Art of Keeping Secrets (9 page)

“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes what is worse is not being able to be with the person you long for.”

“Exactly . . .” She lifted her head. “Are we talking about you?”

He shook his head. “No. I have everything I need.” He released her.

“So, what if Knox longed for
her
?”

“No, I would have known. I know what that terrible feeling looks like and acts like, and it didn’t look or act like Knox Murphy.”

Annabelle nodded as the doorbell rang with their pizza. Shawn answered the door and paid, then handed the box to Annabelle. They each ate a slice in complete silence, comfortable as only old friends can be.

Shawn stood, stretched. “I need to get on home. You get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and hugged him. “Thanks for checking on me . . . and feeding me.”

He touched her arm, then squeezed her hand. “Good night.”

Annabelle locked the door behind him, and climbed the stairs to Keeley’s room. She knocked lightly, and when there was no answer, she slipped the door open and saw Keeley’s body beneath the yellow quilt. Annabelle walked in, brushed the hair off her daughter’s face. Just as Annabelle’s life had become uncertain and full of doubt, so had Keeley’s. Like the magnolia tree outside, their roots were intertwined. Annabelle sat on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, Keeley,” she whispered. Keeley appeared younger with her face scrunched up against the pillow, her features reminiscent of the toddler who’d listened to Dr. Seuss before bedtime.

Annabelle lay down next to Keeley and thought of their life like a lopsided sand fortress built by a pack of children at low tide: a sandcastle built on the belief that Knox had truly loved her and their family, that she knew everything there was to know about him.

Keeley stirred beside her, opened one eye. “Mama, what ya doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Keeley said, rolled over and returned to her own sleep. “You can lie here.”

Whatever Knox had been doing
then—
on that plane with that woman—was affecting them more now than it had at the time he was doing it.

Starting tomorrow, she would face her neighbors’ questions and odd looks with smiles of false certainty, with expressions of a faith and bravado she didn’t possess. And maybe if she faked the feelings long enough, they would become real.

SIX

ANNABELLE MURPHY

Pushing a full grocery cart, Annabelle ticked through a mental checklist of items she needed for the dinner party that night at Cooper and Christine’s house. She was in charge of the appetizers. Although only three days had passed since the last dinner party, the group had decided they needed to get together again. Annabelle wasn’t a bit fooled by their talk of a free night and “Why not just meet tonight?”—they were worried about her. Keeley was being asked questions at school, and Jake hadn’t returned any of her calls in two days, but she would tell her friends she was doing just fine, thank you for asking.

A calm she couldn’t explain had come over her, a sense that all would be well. If the ache and longing for Knox were here to stay—so be it. The possibility that she could move on, maybe love again, now seemed foolish. Some people lived their entire lives loving someone they couldn’t have. She could, too. The plane’s discovery was a simple reminder that for her love was a once-in-a-lifetime event. She needed to get on with the business of living, yet it would forever and only be Knox who dwelled in her soul.

Whoever was on that plane could stay on that plane, not enter her life—past or present.

She dropped a block of St.-André cheese and a package of water crackers in the cart. After this, the dry cleaner, the garden club meeting (they’d forgiven her for forgetting flowers for the retirement home), then preparing for the dinner. In between these chores she needed to finish her advice column.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to face Kristi Miller, the owner of the local art studio. “Hey, Annabelle,” she said.

“Hi, Kristi. How are you?”

“I’m good. Just wanted you to know I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Thanks,” Annabelle said.

Kristi leaned in. “Did they find out who the woman was?”

Annabelle had thought she’d fortified herself for these questions, had even rehearsed the answer.
Oh, of course I’m fine. I’m so grateful they found his plane. It’s a relief.
Then she’d nod and smile, almost console the person who had asked. But staring at Kristi, she felt the tingle of tears behind her eyes. “No, they don’t know yet.”

Kristi touched Annabelle’s arm. “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but please know how much we all loved Knox. He was a terrific supporter of the Marsh Cove Art Studio, and we remember him with great fondness.”

Annabelle nodded, and walked toward the checkout counter. A treble vibration of something resembling anxiety filled her gut; she attributed it to the mention of his name by yet another well-meaning friend. Yes, Knox had been a grand supporter of the Marsh Cove Art Studio in downtown, had even invested through the years. But he had done this with many new businesses. If he thought they’d benefit the community, add to the town’s charm and bring in tourism, he’d invest.

Annabelle glanced at Kristi, who now stood with her back to Annabelle, grabbing orange juice off the shelf. Even in the grocery store, she was reminded of Knox and the good things he had done. See, she told herself, there was nothing about him to doubt.

 
Annabelle pushed SEND and off went her advice column in response to the woman who had written asking if she should let her eighteen-year-old son’s girlfriend spend the night with him in his bedroom. Annabelle had to make up for her last sarcastic column, which had received e-mails and phone calls of complaint. She had promised Mrs. Thurgood a particularly sensitive answer.

It always baffled Annabelle that full-grown women asked questions they already knew the answers to. Mrs. Thurgood often told her they just wanted to hold the column up to their friends or the offending party and say, “See, Southern Belle said I was right.”

A sudden, piercing thought made her laugh: she wanted to write in and ask Southern Belle what to do about the woman on Knox’s plane.

Annabelle glanced at the clock: six p.m. She had an hour before the dinner party, was already dressed and ready, the appetizer in the warming drawer, Keeley dropped off at her friend’s house to do homework. She could be early for the party, or read a book, or take a walk. She and Knox would have sat on the front porch, talked about their day and then strolled the two blocks to Cooper’s house.

Annabelle sat back down at the computer, clicked open the untitled novel she’d started the year before Knox’s plane went down. As it popped up on the screen, she thought again that writing a book was just a dream for her. She hadn’t taken writing courses in college, had no formal knowledge of how to compose a full-length novel. An advice column was about all she could handle. But this story—one about a woman who was a battlefield archaeologist—had seemed like a good idea when she’d started it.

She’d never told Knox about the book—clearly they hadn’t told each other everything. Maybe there were other secrets they had kept from each other—harmless secrets, or not so harmless ones.

She hadn’t said anything to Knox about the book because she wanted to wait for the right time, or until she finished, or until she was absolutely sure it was something she wanted to do. Or—and this thought brought a stab of truth—maybe she just wanted something that had nothing to do with family, house and work. Maybe she wanted something that was all hers. Maybe that was all he had wanted, too. . . .

The words on the screen blurred in front of her eyes. What if Knox had just wanted something that was all his—something that didn’t fall under the scrutiny of family?

Annabelle rubbed her eyes and read the two paragraphs she’d written all those years ago, poised her finger above the DELETE button, but couldn’t push it. Maybe one day she could return to this story.

Instead of deleting, Annabelle typed another paragraph:

 
Even as she typed, she felt a shimmer of excitement as she captured a sliver of insight in the words. If writing a single paragraph felt like a miracle, how would it feel to write an entire novel?

The phone rang across the room and Annabelle jumped, hit SAVE and closed the document as though the person on the other end of the line might see her foolish endeavor.

Shawn was calling to ask if she wanted a ride to Cooper’s; he was close by and could pick her up. Annabelle waited on the front porch with her appetizers wrapped in tin foil.

He pulled his convertible in front of the house, jumped out and opened the side door. She climbed in. “So,” she said, “this early and impromptu dinner party is to soothe me, eh?”

“Oh, you think it’s all about you?” he teased.

“Yes, I do.” She grinned.

He exhaled. “I guess we all need a little soothing. It’s been a tough few days on everyone, and Cooper thought a get-together would do us all good.”

“Hmm . . . but I’m really fine, Shawn. A girl is allowed a few days of freaking out, right? Then she’s fine.”

At a stop sign he gazed into her eyes. “Are you really?”

“I really am.” She touched his hand. “Come on, let’s go. I hate being late to Christine’s. She gets that look on her face.”

Shawn pulled the car forward. “What look is that?”

“Can’t quite define it, but it has something to do with my personal inadequacies.”

Shawn parked in front of Cooper and Christine’s cedar shake house and smiled at her. “Do you have any?”

“More than you know.”

“I guess we all have our secrets, don’t we?” He laughed, got out and opened the door for her.

And although she knew he was joking, she felt his words vibrate below her heart as she entered the lively house.

 
Christine’s table was set with family china that Annabelle had always been afraid to eat off. It was an old Wedgwood design of cobalt blue ships set against a cream background. The chicken and asparagus dinner lay splattered across the porcelain sailboat as though it had drowned in a sea of green. Annabelle pushed the food around her plate, then took another swallow of red wine. After focusing on kids and work, the conversation eventually turned to Knox.

Cooper, at one end of the table, folded his hands. “Belle,” he said. Everyone fell silent. “Any new information about Knox’s plane since the article came out?”

“No,” she said, twirled her fork on her plate, where it made a high screeching sound.

“Nothing?” Mae asked.

“Nothing,” Annabelle said, leaned back in her chair. “Unless someone comes forward and tells us they know who she was, we’ll be left to make up our own story about her.” She smiled to let them know she was okay with this.

Christine stood, grabbed another bottle of wine from the credenza behind her and handed it to Cooper with the wine opener. “Well, someone
has
to know.” She glanced around the table, and then as though the glance was contagious, everyone took a quick look at everyone else.

“Listen, Christine.” Annabelle lifted her hands. “We’ve been through so much together—I can’t think of much else a group can go through and still remain as we have. If there was something to be told, I hope it would have been told by now.”

“Yes, I’m sure it has been.” Christine glanced at Shawn.

Frank, who was usually quiet and unobtrusive, stood. “I’ve thought of a hundred memories of our friend, and I just can’t believe this woman was on that plane for a terrible reason. The Knox who could coach his son’s baseball team in the middle of working on a high-profile embezzlement case, or the Knox who helped old lady Morgan fight the scam artist who almost took her life savings—that Knox would not be—”

“Cheating,” Annabelle said.

“Exactly,” Frank said, and then sat down. “He just couldn’t. I don’t believe he was capable of being two different people.”

Christine leaned back in her chair. “I don’t think we can ever know what anyone is capable of. . . .”

The energy at the table changed that quickly, and Annabelle stared at the empty plates and half-empty glasses and felt drained of any and all answers. She stood and stared at Christine. “Yes, I’m sure we
all
have our secrets,” she said, and then grabbed a few plates, headed for the kitchen, hoping Christine would understand she was talking about the time two years ago when she’d seen Christine behind Bubba’s Shrimp Shack crying and holding Mark Rider’s hand while she stepped from his shrimp boat. Christine had seen Annabelle, turned away, then later made a curt comment about how sad it was that Mark had lost his shrimp boat to a big commercial concern, and how it had made her cry.

Yeah, sure.

Annabelle leaned against the kitchen counter and took a deep breath. Shawn came in, put his arm around her shoulder. “You okay?”

Annabelle nodded.

The conversation rose in the next room, and Shawn and Annabelle looked at each other. “Listen,” she said. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please stop looking at me like a little kid who just lost a parent or something. I don’t need pity or reassurance or anything else. We’ve all lost Knox; I’m not the only one who has been forced to think about him all over again. My kids are missing him. Y’all are wondering about your best friend. . . . I don’t need anything.”

“We all need something,” Shawn said.

Annabelle smiled at him. “I did need something. And I had it.” She touched his arm, knowing that what she would say might hurt him after losing Maria all those years ago. “We all want someone to walk into our life and touch our soul, enter our heart and stay there. I had that. That’s all that matters now.”