The Secrets She Carried (46 page)

“Or burn down your shed, yes.”

Leslie closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the sofa cushions.

“It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? Living a lie all those years, trying to fit into a world that wasn’t hers, loving a man that wasn’t hers, giving
birth to a child, a daughter, that was never really hers. And then to die like that, alone and trapped. It’s…incomprehensible.”

The final word was little more than a choked whisper. A pair of drops squeezed between her lashes. Embarrassed, she brushed them away and turned her head. Part of her wished she’d never stumbled across the grave, never heard the name Adele Laveau. But even as the thought entered her head she knew it was a lie. Adele was as much a part of Peak as Maggie. Her heart and bones were buried in its soil, her echo trapped in its walls, and nothing would ever change that.

“You’ve had quite an afternoon,” Jay said gently. “What do you say you go soak in a nice hot tub, then lie down for a bit? I need to go out to the barn and take care of a few things. When I come back I’ll throw something together for dinner.” When she started to protest he cut her off. “Go—you’ll feel better.”

Jay had been at least partly right. The bath did make her feel better, but lying down had produced no rest at all, only the churning and rechurning of the day’s revelations. After half an hour she had given up, venturing down to the study instead. It seemed right somehow to be among Henry’s things when his losses felt so fresh, to roam his sanctuary, touch the things that had both comforted and tortured him in his grief.

Pausing before the small cloth-draped table that showcased the old phonograph, she reached for the handle with its polished oak knob. It wobbled as she touched it, making the large metal horn lurch dizzily from its crane. Steadying it, she lifted the cloth to peer at the table beneath, only to find herself looking not at a table but at a battered old trunk turned on its side.

It seemed an odd use for such a thing, especially when the table near the window was much better suited for displaying a delicate antique. Curious, she lifted the cloth further, noting badly scarred
corners and a plain brass latch, suggesting the trunk’s original purpose had been functional rather than decorative. Kneeling, she squinted to make out the tarnished brass plate riveted to one corner.
PARSON’S HARDWARE, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. EST. 1914.

New Orleans.

Was it possible she was looking at the trunk Adele had brought with her to Peak? After carefully moving the phonograph to the floor, she dragged off the cloth and wrestled the trunk over so that the lid faced up. It landed with a promising thud, clearly not empty.

She held her breath as she tried the latch, cursing under her breath when she found it locked. Moving to Henry’s desk, she searched the drawers for a key, then for a letter opener or anything else that might be used to pick a lock, but found nothing. Not that she had the slightest idea how to perform such a task.

It took a moment to remember the ring of keys Goddard had given her all those months ago, and several more to finally remember where she’d put them. There had to be twenty keys on the ring, but only one that had any shot of fitting. To her surprise it slid home easily, turning with a rusty click. The smell of mothballs wafted out as she lifted the lid. Her heart thrummed in her ears as she pushed aside several yellowed sheets of the
Gazette
.

Beneath the newsprint, the trunk was crammed with plain, everyday things: dresses of softly worn calico, flattened hats and serviceable shoes, bedclothes and kitchen linens—and a weathered leather pouch.

Her hands trembled as she unwound the leather thong that fastened it, then reached inside to extract its contents. Letters. She recognized the faded stationery at once, and the cramped, scratchy hand. There were eight in all, tied up with plain brown twine. They were addressed to Henry. Leslie held her breath again as she tugged the knot free and fanned the letters out in her lap. They were in order by date and spanned more than a decade.

She lost track of time as she began to read, savoring the small details of a young boy’s coming-of-age, of schooldays and spelling bees, bike riding and bandaged knees, of learning to dance and drive and play the saxophone. But perhaps more compelling than the letters themselves were the photographs included in every one, a progression that ran from a round-cheeked boy with tawny skin and a mop of bright curls to a man full grown, strikingly handsome in his United States Army uniform.

But what then?

Leslie studied the face of the young soldier, trying not to think about why the letters had suddenly stopped. Had he died? Had Vivienne? They would never know. A realization struck Leslie as she stared at the date in the right-hand corner of the page—
October 4, 1957
. The letter in her hand had been written a full ten years after Henry’s death. In fact, several of them had. And yet here they all were, carefully stored together.

Maggie.

It made sense, of course, but the thought of it left her heartsick. Closing her eyes, she imagined Maggie opening letters still addressed to her father, reading, again and again, news of the brother who had been torn from her life. When she was finished she would have folded them tenderly and slid them back into their envelopes before tucking them away with the others. She had obviously never bothered to write to Vivienne of Henry’s death, but why? Was she afraid the letters would stop? Or was she simply too proud to acknowledge a socially inconvenient brother, however loved? It was one more thing they would never know. Sighing, she refolded the final letter and placed it with the stack in her lap. They were making her sad, and she was tired of feeling sad.

The smell of coffee and bacon wafting through the study door was a welcome diversion. After retying the string of twine, Leslie slid the packet of letters back into the leather pouch and tucked it beneath her arm.

In the parlor she found two trays set up in front of the sofa and a
fire crackling in the grate. She slipped the pouch between the cushions, on her way to the kitchen to lend a hand, when Jay appeared carrying plates heaped with pancakes and bacon.

“I’d think with your father here you’d have more in the house than eggs and soup. He’s already eaten, by the way. Angie brought sandwiches out to the barn so they could keep on working.” He handed her a plate, then the bottle of syrup beneath his arm. “I thought you were trying to fatten him up.”

“I am, but all I can get him to eat are eggs and soup, so there’s no point in anything else. I got ambitious last week and made a meatloaf. He barely touched it.”

Jay grinned as he slid in behind his tray. “Sure it wasn’t your cooking?”

“It was good!” Leslie shot back as she tore a strip of bacon in two and crumpled half into her mouth. “I did potatoes and everything.”

“You seem to be feeling better. I’m glad you got some rest.”

Leslie pulled the leather pouch from between the cushions and placed it in her lap. “I didn’t, actually. After you left this afternoon, I went into the study and I found something. Turns out the table that’s been holding up that old Victrola all these years isn’t a table at all. It’s an old trunk, and I’m pretty sure it was Adele’s. I found this inside.” She paused to hand him the pouch. “It’s full of letters.”

Jay eyed the pouch almost warily. “What kind of letters?”

“From Adele’s mother to Henry. They’re all about Jemmy, about him growing up. There are pictures too.”

“Did you read them?”

“Of course I read them. They’re wonderful—and they’re sad.”

Jay reached for the fastening, but Leslie stopped him. “Would you mind not opening that right now? I’m sort of on overload. I’d really like to just sit here and eat.”

“Sure.” Jay grabbed his jacket off the arm of the sofa and slid the pouch into an inside pocket. “They’ll keep ’til later.”

They ate their pancakes in silence, content to savor the fire and the quiet, but Leslie still felt on edge. After dinner she was going to break the news to Jay about her upcoming trip to Connecticut. The timing was incredibly bad, but it wasn’t something that was negotiable. She also planned to ask him about finishing the book. With Landis and Annie Mae tying up the loose ends, there was no reason she could think of for him not to.

Jay drained his mug and set it on his tray, then shifted so that he was facing her. “So have you forgiven me?”

After the long stretch of silence the question was startling. “Forgiven you for what?”

“For believing Maggie could have set that fire.”

Leslie sat back, sipping her coffee thoughtfully. Eventually, she met his gaze over the rim. “There isn’t really anything to forgive. I wanted to be mad at you. I really did. But I couldn’t. The more I saw things through your eyes, the more your suspicions made sense. It was too horrible to think about, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think about anything else.”

“Then why dredge it all up again with Porter?”

“Because I needed you to be wrong and because I was almost certain Porter could tell me you were. Still, I’m glad there’s no more to know. It’s all so unreal and so terrible. Think of it, giving up your child to the wife of your lover.”

“We never really talked about that. Does it make you think less of Adele?”

The logs shifted noisily in the grate, sending up a fan of orange sparks. Leslie stared at the flames, tongues of orange and amber licking up behind the screen. It was a valid question, and one she’d been asking herself since they’d found the adoption papers. How did a woman give up her firstborn? But then, circumstance had left Adele little choice.

“I think a lot of things,” she answered finally. “Mostly, how incredibly hard it must’ve been. But I don’t think
less of her. I can’t. She was broke, and miles from her family at the height of the Depression. She must’ve been terrified.”

“It doesn’t bother you that she took the easy way out by giving Maggie up?”

Leslie blinked at him, startled by the absurdity of the question. “You think she took the easy way out? Jay, watching Susanne raise Maggie had to have been the worst possible torture, far worse than anything she might have endured as a single mother, even back then. She gave Maggie up because she knew she couldn’t take care of her on her own, and because she loved Henry too much to leave Peak.”

Jay tilted his head, studying her. “How is it possible you know so much about a woman you’ve never met?”

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It isn’t hard to fill in the blanks. Under the skin we’re not so very different—women, I mean. The heart wants what it wants. A friend told me that.”

“And you believe it?” Jay’s eyes were warm in the firelight, lingering softly on her face.

“I’m starting to, yes.”

It was true, she realized. The heart did want what it wanted. And her heart wanted Jay Davenport. She’d known it since Charleston, perhaps even before that. But was she ready to open that door again, to risk her heart when everything in her life felt so completely upside down? She honestly didn’t know.

The opening and closing of the mudroom door prevented any further musing on the subject. Jimmy had finally come in from the barn. She waited a moment for him to call out or join them in the parlor. Instead, she heard the heavy scuff of his boots moving up the back stairs. It was a slow, weary sound, and her heart squeezed at the thought of what might lie ahead for him, for them both.

“Can we take a walk?” she asked Jay, when she heard Jimmy’s bedroom door close.

Jay looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. “Leslie, it’s been sleeting on and off all day. It’s freezing out.”

“Please.” She raised her eyes pointedly to the ceiling. “I need to talk to you, and I don’t want to do it where Jimmy might hear.”

Outside, all was glistening and frozen. The clouds that had been dumping sleet all day had finally begun to break up, shredding and sailing on an icy wind that stung Leslie’s cheeks and made her eyes water. They said nothing for a time, shoulders brushing now and then as their steps crackled over the icy lawn. Finally, the lake slid into view, shimmering and iridescent in the cold moonlight.

Leslie took the lead, heading for the dock, her boots clomping noisily on the weathered boards. It seemed colder out over the water, the breeze stiffer, and she found herself wishing she’d grabbed something heavier than a sweater. Yanking her sleeves down over her hands, she stared up at the three-quarter moon, trying not to think of another moonlit walk, another dock, and wondering if Jay was thinking of it too. It seemed like a hundred years ago now. She turned, expecting to find him behind her. Instead, he was standing several yards back.

“Come in from there, Leslie. It may be icy, and I don’t relish having to go in after you if you go skidding into the drink.”

Leslie shot him a grin, but it faded as she walked back to where he was standing. “I need to tell you something. I know my timing stinks, with the opening getting close, but Jimmy’s due to go back for his tests after New Year’s, and this morning I told him I’d go with him.”

Jay nodded, blowing on his cupped hands to warm them. “I think it’s a good idea. He shouldn’t be alone if the news isn’t good.”