The Secrets She Carried (25 page)

“I’m glad you were here,” Leslie said quietly. “I’m glad she didn’t…I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”

Jay looked up then, his hands momentarily quiet. “Maybe it’s time to open the wine.”

Leslie cleared her throat, grateful for the change of subject. She felt like a novice as she fumbled with the bottle, an awkwardness only intensified by the surgeon-like precision with which Jay was wielding his knife. He wrote books, cooked gourmet meals, knew about wine, and wasn’t afraid to get dirty. It was a daunting combination, and rather attractive, now that she thought about it. The kitchen was small and he filled it completely, lean and tan in his khakis and plain white oxford, and—she couldn’t help noticing—smelling faintly, but distractingly, of sandalwood.

Pouring a glass of wine, she set it beside the cutting board, then poured one for herself, happy to have something to at least occupy her hands. She should offer to help, to peel something or chop something, but when it came to food prep, she didn’t have a clue and had no wish to demonstrate her lack of skills. Thankfully, she spotted several bowls and a handful of utensils in the sink. She could at least handle a sponge.

Jay glanced up from his chopping but made no comment when she picked up the sponge and turned on the tap. They worked in companionable silence, elbow to elbow in the tiny kitchen until the fish was ready to go into the oven.

Jay set the timer, then topped off their glasses and carried them to the small café table in the corner, indicating the chair across from his. “Now, I believe you promised to tell me what you’re up to. Something about a party?”

Leslie took a sip of wine, surprised at the butterfly wings suddenly fluttering in her belly. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how much she wanted his approval.

“I’ve been kicking it around for about a week now, and I’m
convinced we need to get some early buzz going, get the locals excited about what we’re doing here. A soft opening timed to coincide with the Harvest Festival is just the kind of thing we need. It would be a lot of work, and on very short notice, but the payoff in exposure could be huge.”

Jay narrowed one eye. “In case you haven’t noticed, Big City, we’re not exactly rolling in cash.”

Leslie crossed her arms with a self-satisfied smile. “What if I told you it wouldn’t drain the coffers by a single penny?”

“Then I guess I’d want to know how you plan to pull it off.”

“By networking. I called Susan Bishop a few days ago to find out what catering would cost, and she immediately wanted in. She volunteered to kick in with food, then offered to pave the way with other locals she thinks will want to participate in exchange for the publicity.”

Jay looked mildly exasperated. “Leslie, the doors aren’t even open. What kind of publicity do they think they’re going to get?”

Leslie smiled, a slow-spreading Cheshire grin. “The kind that comes from a full-color spread in the
Gazette
’s
Weekender
.”

“A full color—” He sat up straighter, set aside his wine. “And how much is that going to cost?”

“Not a cent.”

“You’re telling me the paper isn’t charging us for a full-color ad?”

“Not an ad, a two-page feature. We’re talking pictures, history, the works. I also got them to agree to two preview pieces. The first will be about Peak’s history; the second will cover the harvest.”

Clearly impressed, Jay leaned back in his chair, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Dare I ask how you pulled off this magic feat?”

Leslie took a leisurely sip of wine, savoring the moment. When she knew she had his full attention, she crooked a finger, drawing him closer. “I’m going to tell you something not many people know about me,” she
said in hushed tones. “But first, I need to know you can keep a secret.”

When Jay leaned in expectantly, she met him partway across the tiny table, her voice a mere whisper. “I’m actually very charming.”

Jay’s face went momentarily blank, the expression followed by a burst of laughter so loud it brought Belle scrambling to see what all the fuss was about.

Leslie glowered at him, arms folded. “It wasn’t supposed to be
that
funny.”

Jay made a halfhearted attempt at self-control. “I just expected you to say something else; that’s all.”

“No, you’re right. I’ve never been charming. When your only role models are the barflies your father brings home on Friday nights, you tend to get shortchanged in the charm department.”

Jay’s amusement fizzled abruptly, leaving a yawning silence in its wake. Leslie looked away, cursing herself for ruining the moment with that vivid and unsavory image of her childhood. She was relieved when the timer went off and Jay rose to serve up dinner.

Leslie stood too. “If you point me toward the silverware, I’ll go ahead and set the table.”

“The drawer beside the sink. And if you would, pull the salads out of the fridge.”

Leslie did as she was told, adding a pair of cloth napkins she found at the back of the drawer. Jay came up behind her, holding a single candle and a disposable lighter.

“What’s this?” she asked, taking them from him.

“I thought we’d do it up right. You know, celebrate your success today.”

“Oh.”

“Charm aside, I really would like to know how you pulled it off. Go ahead and refill the glasses and I’ll be right there. Then you can tell me all your naughty tricks.”

As their plates gradually emptied, Leslie fleshed out her ideas for the Splash, barely pausing in her enthusiasm to breathe between topics. She was pleasantly surprised by Jay’s level of interest, as he asked questions, pointed out challenges, even suggested a few ideas of his own. She was also surprised at how good it felt to talk through her day over a simple meal in the kitchen. She’d been on her own for so long, cut off from anything remotely resembling intimacy, that she hardly knew how to include someone else in her life. It was funny how you couldn’t know you’d been missing a thing until you actually found it.

Finally, Jay pushed back his plate and laid his napkin aside. “In case I haven’t said it, I’m impressed, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. You’ve got a real head for this stuff.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I was rather shameless with Mr. Whitney.”

“Used your feminine wiles to get your way, did you?”

Leslie lifted her nose with a sniff. “Certainly not.”

“Then what?”

“I used cunning and guile.”

Jay grinned, teeth flashing white in the soft candlelight. “Why does it sound so dangerous when you say it?”

“Not dangerous, effective. I threw my old title around, empathized with him about the trials and tribulations of underappreciated editors. He lapped it up like cream. Plus, the stuff I gave him was really good, if I do say so myself. It’s hard to believe my time at
Edge
prepared me to market a winery.”

“It did, though,” he said, his tone suddenly thoughtful. “While my career did nothing to prepare me for this…or for anything, really.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Leslie reached for the bottle of Chardonnay, divvying the last of it between their glasses. “As a writer you created stories out of thin air, and that’s exactly what you’ve done with Peak. You created a story out of thin air.”

Jay met her eyes over the candle, his face all angles in the wavering light. “What a nice thing to say.”

Leslie squirmed, keenly aware of the warmth fluttering in her belly. “Yeah, well, I have my moments. And while we’re on the subject of your writing—”

Pushing back from the table, Jay stood, effectively cutting her off. “I’ll make some coffee.”

Leslie blinked up at him. What had just happened? Before she could respond, he was at the counter with the dinner plates, his spine as stiff as a two-by-four while he waited for the sink to fill.

Gathering up the silverware, she followed him to the sink. “Jay, I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to push. I just wondered if you’d ever thought of writing about Peak. Maybe not a novel, but something about its history, about the people who built it and lived here.”

“About Adele and Henry, you mean?”

“Well, it’s intriguing, don’t you think? Forbidden love, a mysterious grave.”

Jay turned off the tap and turned to face her. “Stories have to have endings, Leslie, and this one doesn’t. Adele died—we don’t know how. The child vanished—we don’t know where. There’s nothing to write.”

Leslie reached into her pocket and withdrew the folded
Gazette
article. “I went to the archives at the paper today. I was hoping to find something about Adele’s death. This was all I found.”

Jay dried his hands on his pants before taking the article. He scanned it a moment, then glanced up. “This is about a shed fire.”

“When I first ran across it, I thought it might have been the accident Maggie told you about, but it says no one was hurt. Did Maggie ever mention it?”

“Leslie, things like this go on all the time on a farm.”

“It says they suspected vandalism. It mentions names.”

“What difference does any of this make now? Adele is dead. You’ve seen her grave. Can’t we just leave it there?”

“Why?”

The one-word question seemed to catch Jay off guard. Tossing the article aside, he turned back to the sink and fished a plate from the water. “Because I think you’re letting this get under your skin.”

“I’m just curious about what happened.”

A pulse flickered along his jaw. “That’s how it starts. Believe me when I tell you, you can get sucked into these things, and before you know it they’re eating you up.”

Leslie stifled a sigh. He was being dramatic, but he was a little bit right. She knew it too. Clearing the grave, schlepping the Rebecca downtown, combing through years of newspaper archives, all pointed to a growing fixation. She also knew she couldn’t afford distractions when so much was on the line for Peak’s success.

“You’re right,” she said, taking the dripping plate from his hand and picking up a towel. “It’s not like we’ll ever know. Forget I brought it up, okay?”

Jay seemed visibly relieved as he handed off another plate, then picked up the silverware Leslie had carried from the table. “What should we talk about instead?”

Instead of answering, Leslie began to giggle, the sight of him at the sink with a fistful of knives and forks prodding memories of their early days.

Jay peered at her over his shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

“I was thinking about the first time you cooked for me.”

“Ah yes…breakfast.”

“And I repaid you by hurling my plate into the sink and drenching you.” The corners of her mouth lifted wryly. “So much for charm.”

Jay turned off the tap and faced her, his hands heavy and damp on her shoulders. “I happen to think you have a great deal of charm, Big City, in spite of your cunning.”

It took all she had to stand still and meet his gaze. “And my guile?”

“Especially your guile.”

His voice was like raw silk, raspy and deep, setting off little tongues of warmth just south of her navel. There was nowhere to run, no door to scurry through, and this time Leslie didn’t want one. He was going to kiss her and she was going to let him—the kiss had been too long in coming. She swallowed a moan as his mouth closed over hers, deep and greedy, tasting faintly of wine. His hands were on her neck, her face, tangled in her hair, and for one mad moment she never wanted to open her eyes again, never wanted this warm, wet yielding to end.

It was Jay who pulled away first. “Should I say I’m sorry?”

Breathless and disoriented, Leslie touched her fingers to her lips. “I think I’ve wanted you to do that for a long time.”

“You could have fooled me. That day in the barn, when I touched you—you ran away like I was some kind of masher.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

“On the contrary. I’d say you’re very good at it.”

“Not this. The you-and-me thing. I don’t…let people in.”

Jay reached for her then and drew her close. “Neither do I. So we’ll take it slow. It doesn’t have to be scary.”

“It already is,” Leslie breathed against the collar of his shirt.

“Yes,” he murmured, his lips wing soft as they brushed hers. “I suppose it is.”

Jay

J
ay peered at the bedside clock and swore softly; twenty after three and he was still awake, wrestling with the memory of Leslie’s mouth against his, the undeniable passion that had erupted as he had pulled her tight against him. Was he crazy to think this could work? Crazy to risk a working relationship that was only just beginning to mesh for a chance at something he wasn’t sure he was even ready for? The look on her face after the initial kiss—confusion and abject terror—seemed to suggest he was. And yet, she had kissed him back, and not just once.

He still wasn’t sure which of them had had the presence of mind to cool things down before they passed the point of no return. He wanted to believe it was him, that in the end his chivalrous instincts had kicked in, but as he lay in the dark, still feeling the warmth of her mouth against his, he had serious doubts.

She had kissed him softly as she left, her face unreadable as she thanked him for dinner and slipped out the back door. Now, as he flipped his pillow over in search of a cool patch of pillowcase, he wondered if she was lying awake too, replaying the evening and feeling regret.