The Secret Sister (8 page)

How had Laney come to live with him? What'd happened to her mother?

Maisey was curious about those things—curious enough that, after stacking the books in their original piles, she headed back down the hall to Laney's room. When she'd passed it earlier, she hadn't even paused. She'd been too busy telling herself she had no business snooping, that she needed to get out of Rafe's house and forget about anything else.

But knowing she might never have another opportunity, she decided to take a quick peek to see if she'd find a picture of Laney's mother or something else that would reveal some clue as to why Laney was living with her father, whether or not she had any contact with her mother or her mother's family and what had caused her blindness.

Laney had a tall, four-poster bed with lots of frilly pillows and the usual assortment of stuffed animals and toys. Or maybe the assortment
wasn't
so usual. All the toys appealed to the sense of touch, or they made sounds when certain levers or bars were pushed or when various shapes were put into the corresponding holes of a ball. An electric piano stood under the window. The keys were well worn, suggesting that it received considerable attention. But, surprisingly, since the walls in the rest of the house were mostly bare, there were things to see in here—stars on the ceiling, a big mirror over the dresser and a large picture of Laney as an infant being held by her father.

There were no other pictures, no cards propped on the dresser, no letters on the small nightstand next to the Disney princess-themed lamp, no Mommy Hearts Laney T-shirts tossed on the ground—nothing, in other words, to indicate who Laney's mother was or whether she had any involvement in Laney's life.

Maisey moved closer to the photograph of Rafe holding Laney. His hair had been cut differently five years ago, and he looked lighter overall, less muscular. But besides the tenderness on his face, she saw a determined set to his jaw that led her to believe he was thinking something like, “Don't worry. I've got you. I'll be there for you no matter what.”

His expression—that smile for the camera—couldn't quite hide the protectiveness he felt, and that made it almost impossible for Maisey to look away. She wished she could have a copy of that photograph. It reminded her of the love she'd felt from her own father, of how powerful a father's love could be.

She thought of the pictures taken of Jack and Ellie. He'd had no reason to assume that Ellie's life would end the way it had, so the look in his eyes was never quite as fierce. But why had that love not been stronger? Once Ellie was gone, Jack had seemed willing to move on, which was partly why Maisey's recovery had been so hard. It was almost as if she'd been left to mourn for both of them. He hadn't even kept any of the pictures of him and Ellie and, much as Maisey was tempted when she got rid of his other stuff, she hadn't been able to make herself throw them out. They were in a box marked Attic, and had been sent, along with Ellie's other pictures, to Coldiron House, where they'd stay until Maisey could bear to reclaim them.

If that day ever came...

She chastised herself for being so rude as to poke around. She'd told herself she wouldn't. It felt like an invasion of Rafe's privacy just to
see
this photograph because it laid his heart so bare.

With a final glance, Maisey left Laney's room, locked the house behind her and hurried over to her own bungalow. She was intent on finding her phone.

She could hear it ringing as she came through the door.

Was it Keith?
Finally?
Or Josephine?

Maisey doubted her mother would lower her pride and try to make amends. Still, Maisey ached for that olive branch, for Josephine to show enough love and concern to forget how wronged
she
felt and, just once, let the past go without forcing Maisey to assume all the blame. The little contact they'd had since Maisey left Fairham had been
her
doing. She'd
never
forget how cold and uninterested her mother had acted when she received news of Maisey's pregnancy—and that didn't change when Ellie was born. The morning Ellie died, her mother had been the last person Maisey had wanted to speak to. She'd instinctively worried that Josephine would make her feel as if she deserved what she'd gotten. And yet she'd needed her mother that day. So she'd swallowed her own pride and, out of the depths of her despair, called Coldiron House.

That
unforgiving reception had cut the deepest. She couldn't reach out afterward. She didn't have the emotional fortitude it required. But she'd have to now, to ask for a truck so she could move some furniture.

Surely she could approach her mother for something as simple as that. And if it was Josephine on the phone, she'd have her chance.

The call wasn't from anyone she might've expected, though.

Maisey felt her jaw drop as she recognized the number. She'd deleted this person from her contacts list, so there was no name attached. But she recognized those ten digits more quickly than she would've recognized the number attached to her own phone.

It was Jack.

8

M
aisey told herself not to answer it. She had nothing to say to her ex, especially after she'd acted so inappropriately with a man who was nearly a stranger to her. Considering how long she'd yearned for Jack to regret tossing her aside, to want her back, it was quite the coincidence that he was calling her
now
. What could he possibly want?

When the call went to voice mail, she waited to see if he'd leave a message. If he had a legitimate reason to get in touch, wouldn't he say so? It could be that some stock or other asset he'd failed to list on their separation agreement had sold and, instead of keeping all the proceeds for himself, he'd decided to do the right thing and pay her half. But considering how hard he'd fought for every dime, including some of the proceeds of her books, it was more likely that he'd heard she'd left Manhattan and wanted to find out what she'd done with his personal belongings. When he moved out, he took only what he could carry that day and had never come back for the rest. Was there something he still wanted?

If so, it was too late to recover anything except the pictures she'd saved in the dark attic of Coldiron House. She'd hawked her wedding ring and donated what he'd left behind to Goodwill. She'd figured the move was the perfect time to get rid of each and every item that reminded her of the man she'd loved so deeply, because they now reminded her of the day she'd gone to Chicago to surprise him on his business trip and encountered him walking off the elevator, holding hands with the woman they'd bumped into on Fifth Avenue.

She saw that she had a voice mail, so she tried to listen. But all she heard was three or four seconds of silence, as if he'd contemplated leaving a message but changed his mind.

“What the heck do you want?” She frowned at her screen. She wasn't calling him back; he could text her if it was important. Maybe she'd reply if he did, since texting didn't require speaking to him directly.

Or she wouldn't. She didn't feel she owed him anything.

Clicking away from her voice mail, she went through her missed calls, hoping to see Keith's name.

It wasn't there.

What was going on with her brother? Her mother hadn't called, either, of course. As usual, Maisey was going to have to be the one to get in touch.

There was one other missed call—from her editor in New York. Beth McKinney checked in on her now and then, hoping to hear that she was back at work. Spotting her editor's name always made Maisey feel a little ill, because she knew she was losing something else that meant a great deal to her. Writing children's books had always been her dream. Other than when Ellie was born, she'd never been happier than when she'd held her first book in her hands. It wasn't easy to get a start in that market; it was even harder to get any kind of foothold. She was foolish for turning her back on everything she'd accomplished since
Molly Brimble Conquers the World
came out seven years ago.

But there was nothing she could do. The more she tried to work, the longer she sat at her desk, feeling inept and overwhelmed and utterly hopeless.

Shoving a hand through her hair, which was wild and tangled, having dried while she was rolling around in Rafe's bed, she was just summoning her nerve for the inevitable call to Coldiron House when Jack tried getting through to her again. Then, contrary to everything she'd told herself to do, she allowed her curiosity to overcome her reluctance and slid the answer button to the right.

“Hello?”

“Maisey?”

His voice nearly made the blood freeze in her veins. How many times had she heard him say her name before? Thousands—under very different circumstances. And yet, after being married for nearly ten years, nurturing each other's careers and having a child together, they were like strangers. That hurt but, somehow, it didn't hurt as much as it used to.

Thank God
, she thought when she found she could still breathe. “What can I do for you, Jack?”

“I thought I'd see how you're doing.”

“It's been eight months since I heard from you.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “I'm overdue.”

She gripped the phone tighter. “Is this a joke?”

“No. Not at all. It's just...well, Keith called me last night.”

Relief shot through her. Keith was alive—unless he'd done something since then. But Jack was the last person she'd ever dreamed would deliver this news. “He did? Why?”

“You can't guess?” He sounded put out.

“I wouldn't have asked if it was obvious to me.”

“It was nearly two in the morning. He was pulling his usual shit.”

There was irritation and scorn in that response. Jack had always been disgusted with her ne'er-do-well brother. “What usual shit?” Maisey asked. “I'm confused. Has he been contacting you since the divorce?”

“Of course not. I mean he was ranting and raving and cursing, like he used to when we were married and the slightest thing upset him. He'd call you acting like a maniac. You know how he is.”

She knew him a lot better than Jack did, who'd never had enough respect for Keith to invest much emotionally. She'd been dealing with Keith her whole life. At one point, he'd been diagnosed as bipolar, but he wouldn't take his meds. “What I don't understand is why he'd call
you
.”

“To cuss me out for what happened between us.”

What
happened
? That sounded so passive, as if their marriage had been torn apart by someone else. Jack had cheated! But considering what she'd just done, Maisey felt less indignant than she ever had before. People made mistakes. Who knew what Jack's needs were back then, and whether or not she'd been capable of meeting them. Maybe he'd bumped into Heather Johns at a vulnerable moment, and Heather had managed to make him feel great instead of miserable after the loss of their child. Rafe had made her feel a decade younger and free—for that short time—of all the cares that weighed so heavily on her shoulders, hadn't he?

As easy as it was to villainize her ex, she figured she'd be better off to simply look forward and quit blaming him for her misery. And there was nothing to be gained by taking responsibility for the past herself—since she couldn't identify anything in particular she'd done wrong. Nothing of a serious nature, at any rate. She'd been the best wife she knew how to be; she'd been the best mother she knew how to be. Obviously, none of it had been adequate but, regardless of any regrets, there was no going back. “Was he okay?” she asked.

“Okay enough to tell me what a bastard I am for ruining your life.”

She chose to ignore that. “Did he say where he was?”

“I hardly had a chance to ask before he said he'd like to come to New York and blow my head off. I swear, Maisey, there's something really wrong with him. He needs to be locked up.”

What would Jack think if he knew about the suicide attempt? She didn't care to find out. “He must've been high when he did that.”

“I'm sure he was. But that's no excuse. He can't go around threatening people.”

“I'm sorry. He had no business contacting you. If—
when
—I talk to him, I'll ask him to delete your number and never call you again.”

He seemed surprised that she was so understanding and apologetic. “I wasn't expecting to hear from him after so long,” he said, noticeably less combative.

“He was messed up or he wouldn't have bothered you,” she reiterated. It was pretty ironic that Keith had blasted Jack after leaving her with no food or furniture. What about fulfilling his own obligations, for a change? “You don't have anything to worry about. He doesn't know where you live since you moved out.”

“You never told him?”

“How could I? I don't have your address.”

“You could've gotten it easily enough. It's not like I've kept it a secret.”

“Why would I need it?” So she could walk by and ache for what she no longer had? Try to spy on him and his new love interest?

Fortunately, she hadn't stooped that low. But maybe she couldn't take any credit. What dignity was there in being too depressed to even leave the apartment?

“We spent almost ten years of our lives together,” he said.

Which he'd thrown away...

“You never missed me?” That question, spoken so softly, so fervently, made her stomach tense. What did he want to hear? That he'd nearly destroyed her? That living day to day was still a challenge?

“I can't imagine Keith has the resources to fly to Manhattan,” she said. “Even if he somehow got your address, he couldn't come—not unless he's managed to find a new friend who's helping him. As usual, he has almost nothing.”

There was a pause, as if he was tempted to pursue the question she'd ignored. But he seemed to think better of it. “I wouldn't underestimate him. Normal rules of society don't apply to him.”

“He
might
be dangerous, if he was capable of following through with anything. But he's not. He couldn't even stick around long enough to help me move.”

“Stick around where? What do you mean...move?”

She eyed a dust bunny in the corner and made a mental note that she'd need a vacuum cleaner, too. The magnitude of the change she was making suddenly felt overwhelming. “I left Manhattan, Jack.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. I decided to return to Fairham.”

“Why?”

She walked to the window and stared out at the dappled sunshine. “Why not? It's where I'm from.”

“Your mother lives there. I never thought you'd go back.”

The memory of her father, beckoning her to come see a sand crab, played through her mind. “I'm at Smuggler's Cove, in one of the bungalows, on the other side of the island. That gives me some space.”

There was another silence; he seemed taken aback.

“Home is the place that has to take you in, right?” she said with a humorless laugh. “I guess it was inevitable.”

“Not really. You love New York. Your friends are here. Your agent and editor are here, too.”

Any friends she'd had were
his
friends, business acquaintances, people he'd introduced her to. She hadn't felt comfortable around them after the divorce. Since she'd devoted herself strictly to her husband and her career, she'd been closer to her editor than she'd been to anyone else. But she didn't have another book coming out, so she didn't feel she should continue to waste Beth's time. And she'd let Roger, her agent, go. “Authors live all over. I can fly to New York if I need to.”

“Wow,” he breathed. “I can't believe you're gone. You're the reason we came to Manhattan.”

She pressed her forehead against the glass. “Think of it this way. If I hadn't insisted on going to Manhattan, you might never have gotten hired at Merrill Lynch—and you might never have bumped into Heather again.”

When he didn't respond, she drew a deep breath. “Is there anything else? Because I have to go...”

“You seem...different somehow,” he broke in.

She
was
different. Selling their furniture, giving up her apartment and leaving Manhattan had closed the door on the “married” chapter of her life. Maybe he sensed that she'd finally accepted their daughter's death and the subsequent divorce, finally accepted the loss. “I'm sure we've both changed,” she said. “I'll let you get back to...whatever you were doing.”

“Wait...”

She hesitated.

“I miss you. Can I come see you sometime?”

She couldn't believe he'd said those words. He
missed
her? After all he'd done to push her away? “I doubt Heather would like that.”

“I'm not with Heather anymore, Maisey. We broke up over a month ago. She was just an...escape. I've been thinking of giving you a call for...a long time. And when I heard from your brother last night, I thought...I thought I might as well speak up, say my piece. I let you down in the worst possible way, and...I'm sorry about that. I really am. I couldn't face losing Ellie, and I especially couldn't face what it did to you—”

“Jack,” she interrupted.

He stopped.

“You don't have to apologize.”

“I want to. I owe you that much.”

“No. There's no point in rehashing who did what. It's behind us. Feel free to move on without regrets. I hope you find what you're looking for.”

“That's it?” he said. “After everything we've been through?”

“Yes, that's it,” she echoed. “Could there be anything else?”

“What if I'm looking for what I threw away? What if I realize now how stupid I was to let you go? I'll never find anyone like you, Maisey. I hate myself for what I did.”

For a brief moment, she imagined returning to New York. Jack had a place, money. Maybe they could heal together the way she'd always hoped. Maybe she could reclaim her career and they could have another child, and she wouldn't need her mother, her mother's truck or her unreliable brother.

A future with Jack had to beat the one she was looking at here on Fairham. She had
nothing
.

Except the truth. And the truth was...that it was too late.

“Maisey? What do you say?” His voice grew plaintive. “Can we at least...start talking again? See if there's anything left?”

“I'm sorry, Jack. I'm afraid that's not an option,” she said, and disconnected. Her future in South Carolina was formidable, but she couldn't accept the bailout he'd offered her. It was a solution she knew in her gut to be wrong. Whatever she was going to build from here on out, she would have to build without Jack.

“Whew,” she murmured as she stared at her phone. She'd dreamed of that call,
prayed
she'd hear from him, for so long. Funny it didn't mean as much now that she'd finally received it.