The Secrets She Carried (36 page)

“Leslie, there are a few things—”

Before he could get the rest of the words out, their waiter appeared with an armful of appetizers, and he was forced to bide his time until the food was served and the glasses topped off. By the time they were finally alone again, Leslie had begun nibbling at one of the crab cakes and was portioning out paper-thin slices of tuna.

She paused, her fork halfway to his mouth. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you hungry?”

Jay accepted the bite, chewing mechanically. The dining room was beginning to fill. Strains of jazz filtered in from the lounge, piano and bass mingling with the low hum of conversation. Outside, the day was slipping away, the streetlights winking on. He was in his favorite city, his favorite restaurant, and he was with Leslie. Surely what he had to say could wait until after dinner.

“It’s a shame we have to hurry right back,” Leslie said, interrupting his thoughts. “It would be fun to do a little exploring. And after that meeting I could use a little fun.”

Jay mustered a grin. “You don’t classify sparring with Emilie Fornier as a good time?”

“No, I do not. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m disappointed. The only thing we know now that we didn’t know when we left home is that Emilie’s grandfather had a fetish for Tanner’s so-called wife. We knew there was a good chance Henry bought the paintings from him. We just didn’t know why. And we still don’t. I mean, why go all the way to Charleston for them? And then there’s the question of the money. It was 1941; the Depression was just ending. How would he have money to blow on art?”

“That’s an easy one. Henry never trusted banks. Maggie said he would come home from the Smithfield market with his pockets full of cash. To her knowledge he never put a dime of it in the bank. It wasn’t unusual back then, especially in the South, and it would explain his remaining afloat when so many had lost everything.”

“That might explain
how
he bought them, but not why.”

“Does the
why
really matter?”

Leslie pushed her plate back and folded her arms on the edge of the starched white tablecloth. “It’s one more thing that doesn’t fit, so yes—
why
does matter. I was really hoping Emilie would tell us something that tied those paintings to Adele.”

“Such as?”

Leslie shrugged. “I have no idea. Something about her life, maybe. How she died—and why. Instead, I’m back to square one.”

Jay was more than relieved to see the waiter arriving with their meals. She’d have her answers soon enough. For now, though, he wanted to savor the evening a little before whatever had started between them came crashing down around his ears.

“Do you realize,” he said, raising his wineglass, “that we’ve been talking about dead people all day? Here’s to changing the subject and to enjoying an outstanding meal together. By the way, they’re very strict about dessert here. That praline soufflé you ordered won’t leave the kitchen until you’ve cleaned your plate.”

When dinner was over, the last vestiges of their shared soufflé
scraped from its ramekin, they stepped out into the nighttime bustle of East Bay Street. Instead of heading back to the car, Jay took Leslie’s arm and steered her across the street, toward the pier at Waterfront Park, silently rehearsing the opening lines of his confession. He had decided at some point during dessert not to wait for the drive back. He wanted to be able to say he had looked her in the eye when he finally told her the truth. She deserved at least that much.

He was conscious of the occasional brush of her body against his as they strolled to the end of the pier, their footsteps hollow on the weathered boards. As it was on most nights, the pavilion was filled with young lovers, huddled against the breeze around tables or in long slatted swings. The Gullah peddlers were about too, many of them children, selling woven sweetgrass roses to amorous tourists.

He was glad to find the end of the pier empty, the long, low benches deserted. He loved it here, especially at night when the air was sharp and fresh, thick with the brackish perfume of the marsh. Closing his eyes, he breathed it in, listening to the languid wash of the tide moving through reeds and shells, a queer and beautiful music.

When he opened his eyes again Leslie was at the railing beside him, face tipped toward the breeze, shivering visibly. “You’re cold. We should head back to the car.”

“Oh, no, it’s beautiful here. Just get behind me and block the wind.”

Jay stepped as close as he could without touching. He needed to keep a clear head.

“Mmmm,” she murmured, nuzzling her head back against him. “That’s better.”

Instinctively, his arms crept around her waist, cinching her close, until her hips were warm and firm against him. Her hair smelled like lilies and rain.

“Thank you for today, Jay,” she said quietly. “You were the one
who finally broke the ice with Emilie. Then that delicious dinner, and now this.”

“Leslie…”

“I know…,” she said softly. “We should be getting back.”

But neither of them moved, and Jay couldn’t seem to make his tongue work. Everything was perfect, too perfect to ruin with talk of her father or of surreptitiously written manuscripts.

He couldn’t say how much time passed before he realized they were swaying almost imperceptibly, moving to the ebb and swell of the water below. Leslie must have realized it too. Turning in his arms, she found his mouth, tentative at first, then surer, hungrier. Before he could check himself, he was leaning into her, savoring the slight, sweet strokes of her tongue, breaths mingled, swaying still, with the quiet insistence of the sea.

Finally, through the rhythmic white noise, his senses returned. If he went through with this now, he’d be risking something he suddenly knew he wanted very badly, perhaps irrevocably. Sliding his hands to her shoulders, he pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length.

“Leslie, we have to talk. There are things I need to tell you.”

Her eyes were bright in the moonlight, heavy lidded and confused. She reached up to touch his face, her fingertips chilly against his cheek. “We’ve been talking all day. I don’t want to talk anymore. I know what I want. I think it’s what you want too. Let’s not go back tonight. Let’s stay.”

When she tried to close the new distance between them, he kept his arm firm. “I don’t mean small talk, Leslie. There are things you need to know before we take this any further.”

Taking his hand, she folded it in on itself, kissing each knuckle with deliberate slowness. “I know how I feel, and that’s enough. We’re here now, and it’s like a little piece of magic. Peak will still be there tomorrow. We can talk then. We’ll compare scars, if that’s what you
want. You can tell me your secrets, and I’ll tell you mine. But none of it will change what I feel now…what I want now.”

“Leslie—” But the rest of what he meant to say died on his tongue as he gazed down at her, his blood thundering in two places at once.

“Please…,” she whispered against his neck. “Before the magic disappears, and it’s just real life again.”

Jay didn’t know how to say no. She was so beautiful, her eyes luminous in the moonlight, an irresistible force. When she spoke again, the words came so softly they were lost on the breeze, but in the moonlight he could read her lips.

“Let’s stay,” they said again.

Leslie

L
eslie woke to sunlight knifing through unfamiliar blinds. There was a moment of disorientation, of trying to reconcile the deeply carved posts of an old plantation bed with the masculine leg pressed against her hip. And then last night began to flood back, the exquisite abandon of wills and limbs, breath to breath and skin to skin.

Beside her, Jay was still asleep, sheets tangled high about his hips, exposing one leg and a smooth expanse of belly and chest. She reached out, tempted to trace a finger down his midline, then changed her mind. The clock on the nightstand read just shy of eight; plenty of time to let him sleep, and for her to pull herself together.

In the bathroom she rummaged through the small satchel Jay had fished out of the trunk last night—an emergency bag he’d called it. She found a small tube of toothpaste, making do with her finger, then showered and scraped her wet hair into a ponytail with a scrunchie from the bottom of her purse.

When she emerged, Jay was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, working his feet into his shoes.

“Good morning,” Leslie said tentatively. “How did you sleep?” It was a trite question, she knew, but she was too anxious to be clever.
Dropping the satchel to the floor, she sank onto the arm of a striped silk wingback. “I tried to let you sleep. Did I wake you banging around in the bathroom?”

“Not at all,” Jay said, standing to pocket his change and keys. “I’m surprised I slept this late. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Leslie tried to ignore the alarms going off in her gut. “We’re hurrying right back, then?”

Jay ignored the question. “There’s a sweatshirt in there. You’re welcome to it. It’s probably chilly, and the heat in the Mustang takes a while to kick in.”

“I thought we could get breakfast somewhere,” Leslie suggested tentatively. “Maybe take a walk down by the harbor?”

“Actually, I was thinking drive-through. I’d like to get on the road. I’m expecting a call this afternoon, some business I need to handle.”

A tight knot formed beneath her rib cage as she watched Jay disappear into the bathroom. He was so eager to get her back to Peak that he couldn’t even look her in the eye. Under the moon’s soft spell, she hadn’t let herself think of consequences. But now, in the cool glare of morning, consequences were all she
could
think about. Last night had been a mistake, one that would sit between them like some grisly crime scene, to be roped off and carefully stepped around.

Jay finally emerged, clean-shaven and neatly combed. After a quick check of the nightstand, he zipped the satchel closed and slung it onto his shoulder.

“Ready to go?”

Leslie sat fixed to the arm of the chair. “I want— You can tell me the truth, Jay. Do you regret what we did last night?”

“Regret it?” For a moment he seemed astonished. “Did it seem like I was being taken against my will?”

Now it was Leslie’s turn to avoid eye contact. “Not exactly, no. But it was my idea. And now you seem like maybe you wished we hadn’t—”

He crossed the room, silencing her with a long, thorough kiss. “I don’t regret anything that happened last night,” he said, still holding her chin. “I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

Leslie stood and sidled around him, pretending to search for her purse. “You mean you wanted to make sure I didn’t get the wrong idea and start making rice bags.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I wasn’t sure last night was ever going to happen, but I know it was getting harder and harder to pretend I didn’t want it to. And maybe I was trying to slow things down, but that’s because there were things I needed to say…first…before.”

“I’m a big girl, Jay, and I live in the real world. We both need to figure out where we go from here, and if we go together or separately. I get all that. Just please, please, don’t say you regret last night.”

Jay smiled, a quick, tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I won’t if you won’t.”

The morning was spectacular, crisp and clear, with a chilly wind cutting in off the harbor. Leslie offered to drive, but Jay tossed the duffel in the back and slid into the driver’s seat. After a few halting attempts at small talk, she gave up. He was clearly not in the mood for conversation, his attention fixed straight ahead with a kind of grim preoccupation she decided she would rather not question. For someone with no regrets, he certainly was having a hard time meeting her eyes.

When the Mustang finally crunched up the long gravel drive, Leslie shouldered her purse, ready to bolt the instant the car was in park. They both needed time alone, to digest what had happened and decide what, if anything, they wanted from each other.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she told him over the roof of the car. “I guess I’ll see you later?” It came out as a question, though she hadn’t meant it to.

Jay looked at his watch. “I’ve got that call, but maybe later—”

“Oh, sure, maybe later—”

“Good, then. I guess I’ll—”

“Yeah—me too.”

In the kitchen, Leslie brewed a cup of tea, then let it go cold while she switched on her laptop and stared at the list of files. She had hoped to lose herself in work, but the muse just wasn’t there. Instead, her mind kept wandering back to last night, to how right it felt to finally surrender to the feelings she’d been fighting for weeks. Had it been that way for Jay too?

It had certainly seemed so last night. But that was nearly twenty-four hours ago, when the wine from dinner had still been coursing through their veins, the moonlight still spilling through the shutters, playing pale and cool over tangled sheets and damply twined limbs. In the light of day he might feel very different, a prospect that didn’t seem unlikely when she recalled that it was she who had pressed matters, while Jay had seemed uneasy from the moment their meeting with Emilie Fornier ended.