The Secrets She Carried (28 page)

I feel bad for Annie Mae because I can see she’d rather be anywhere than where she is at this moment and because I know full well that the hollering is about to start.

Minnie draws a rusty-looking knife from her bag, pausing a moment to run a finger along the edge of the blade. For the first time, something like a smile crosses her lips. “Don’t mean nothing, but I
still do it,” she says, dropping the knife beneath the bed with a clatter. “Because my mama always did it.”

I muster a smile for the familiar words and lift my head weakly. “Because it cuts the pain in two?”

Minnie nods, then moves to my head, dragging me up against my pillows. “That’s right, child. Now, get yourself ready. Me and you got some work to do.”

Leslie

L
eslie dubiously eyed the mess surrounding her: sketches, legal pads, sticky notes, and newspaper clippings, all organized into haphazard piles around her laptop. It was one of the pitfalls of living alone. Because there was no one to share a meal with and no one to complain, one’s kitchen table gradually morphed into a kind of makeshift desk, until one eventually found oneself eating over the sink. It hadn’t gotten that bad yet, but it was certainly heading in that direction.

She could have used the desk in the study, but the truth was, she found the room and all its sad reminders a little disquieting, as if she was never quite alone. Once again, her thoughts strayed to the shed fire and the article she still couldn’t bring herself to throw away. It had nothing to do with Adele, nothing to do with anything, really, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it did mean something. She recalled the names at the bottom of the page, Samuel, Randall, and Landis Porter—the boys the police had questioned. Were any of them still alive? And if so, would they be able to tell her anything?

It was a silly idea, she knew. They would be Maggie’s age by now, or older. Still, the urge to do a little investigating was there, nudging her to abandon her work, which was something she really couldn’t
afford to do. To quote Jay, the harvest had been an unqualified success—no equipment issues, perfect picking weather, and an even better than expected yield. She wanted to be able to say the same about the Splash, and with less than two weeks to finalize things, she didn’t have time to go on a wild-goose chase.

Forcing her brain back to the matter at hand, she picked up this morning’s
Gazette
, studying the slightly grainy shot of Jay and Young Buck working the crush pad. She had been pleasantly surprised to see the harvest story had made the front page. Must have been a slow news day, not that she was complaining. It was a great piece, even better than the first, which had already generated a nice bit of buzz with the locals. She needed to send Steve Whitney a great big thanks.

She had just opened her e-mail inbox when a quick tap sounded on the mudroom door. A minute later, Angie poked her head around the corner.

“I made a double batch of lasagna last night. Thought I’d bring some by and keep you from having to cook.”

“Keep me from having to microwave, you mean,” Leslie shot back. “But thanks.”

Angie set the plate on the counter, eyes widening as she scanned the kitchen table. “Wow, when you said you had a lot of ideas for this shindig of yours, you weren’t kidding.”

“I’ve got a whole new respect for party planners these days; I can tell you that. But at least I can focus now that the harvest is over and done.” She made a face as she rubbed her backside. “Speaking of which, I can’t believe I’m still sore.”

“I can. A corner office doesn’t exactly prepare you for picking seventy acres of grapes. You did great, though. Jay was impressed with how you pitched right in. By the way, I couldn’t help noticing you two seem to be getting along better. Anything you’d like to share?”

Leslie looked away, pretending to tidy a stack of sketches. No, there wasn’t anything she’d like to share. Mostly because she had no
idea what, if anything, had actually started that night in Jay’s kitchen. It was a handful of kisses over a sink full of dishes. And with the bustle and prep for harvest, they really hadn’t seen much of each other since, and never alone. Not that either one of them seemed in any great hurry to find out what came next.

“We’re taking it…slow,” Leslie answered finally. “Whatever that means.”

Angie wasted no time and pounced. “So there is something there!”

“I don’t know, maybe. We kissed and it was…”

“Nice?”

“Amazing.”

“Funny,” Angie responded drily. “I could’ve sworn I heard the word
amazing
come out of your mouth just then. So how come you look like someone just ran over your prize pig?”

Leslie chose to ignore both the sarcasm and the humor. “Because
amazing
can get you into all kinds of trouble, and I don’t know if I’m ready for a serious relationship yet.”

“Yet?” Angie snorted, then leveled hard green eyes on Leslie. “I hate to break it to you, honey, but you’re staring down the barrel of forty. You think you might be getting ready anytime soon?”

Leslie winced. There it was, that right-between-the-eyes honesty Angie hauled out when she wanted to get your attention. “Angie, this isn’t about age, or biological clocks, or any of that. It’s about whether I’m ready to open my life up to someone. Aside from you and Buck, I don’t know too many people that’s actually worked out for, which is why I’m not sure I see the point in starting something that’s only going to end up being temporary.”

“Who says it has to be temporary?”

“I do. I have some history with this.”

“Leslie, most of us get it wrong the first time, but we have to keep trying.”

“Why?”

“Because the alternative is being alone.” She paused, bringing her tone down a notch. “Look, I’m not trying to push Jay down your throat—well, maybe a little—but it’s because I don’t want to see you make up your mind about forever based on a few bumps in your past. Don’t close the door is all I’m saying. I’m going to leave now, before I get thrown out. Come by the house later for coffee if you have time. No sermons, I promise.”

Leslie slid back into her chair, listening to the slap of Angie’s flip-flops receding down the back porch steps. Her advice had been kindly meant, the words of a friend, however bluntly spoken. But it wasn’t that simple. She was scared, though of what she couldn’t say. She’d been in relationships before, had survived her fair share of breakups, sustained the usual nicks and bruises to her pride. So why was this so different?

It was a question she’d been asking herself for days now, though she wasn’t at all sure she was ready to face the answer, that with Jay there was more than just her pride on the line, and that she might already be in too deep to walk away.

Leslie blinked at her laptop, trying to recall what she’d been about to do before Angie popped in, when she spotted the brand-new message in her inbox from Doug Somers. Her stomach clenched as she opened it, praying he and Stephen hadn’t changed their minds about subletting her apartment. The last thing she needed right now was one more distraction. But the e-mail wasn’t about the apartment at all.

Leslie slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe slowly. Jimmy was out, then, in New York and apparently hot on her trail. At least she’d been given a heads-up. It was unlikely that he’d heard about Maggie’s death or her inheritance. Peak might not occur to him. But if it did? She thought of the proceeds from her watch, stashed in the top drawer of her bureau, allocated for things like tent rental, lighting and decorations, and the band she’d already hired. It would get him to go away, at least for a while.

And then what? When it was gone he’d be back.

She shut down the laptop and sat very still, listening to the faint whir of the refrigerator and the steady ticktock of the kitchen clock. She had spent the first eight years of her life at Peak but had returned as a stranger. Now, somehow, while she wasn’t looking, it had become her home. Not the kind of home she’d had in New York—a small, sterile space carved out of concrete and glass—but a real home, where her heart could live and breathe.

There were people in her life now, Angie and Young Buck, and a strawberry blond eight-year-old who called her Aunt Leslie. And somewhere in all of it, there was Jay. She had become part of a circle, part of the life and purpose that pulsed through Peak, and she liked it. Jimmy wasn’t ruining that. Let him come if he wanted, but he wasn’t staying, and he wasn’t getting a cent.

For all her resolve, Leslie almost jumped out of her chair when her cell phone went off. No one ever called these days. Peering at the display, she saw that the number was local, though it wasn’t one she knew. It took a moment to recognize the voice on the other end.

“Mr. Randolph?”

“Do you have a minute to talk? I’ve just had a call about your painting. Turns out it’s a bit of a rarity.”

Leslie grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and stepped out onto the back porch, concerns about Jimmy temporarily on the back burner. “A rarity in what way?”

“Well, for starters, it appears to have been painted by a rather obscure artist, a man by the name of Tanner, who painted in Paris between 1905 and 1915 or so.”

Leslie dropped heavily into the nearest rocker. “I’m sorry, did you say Tanner?” She had seen the name before, in the articles her mother had saved about addiction and mental illness. Now here it was again, directly connected to the Rebecca.

“I did. Jeremiah Tanner was his full name. He was a minor artist in his day, had a reputation as a bit of a ne’er-do-well, but after his death in 1917, his work started to gain attention. There are six known works of merit attributed to him, and somehow your great-grandfather managed to get hold of five of them.”

“Have you—? Do you have any idea—?”

“How much it’s worth? No, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s difficult when there are no recent sales on which to base a price. I haven’t given up yet, though. There’s one more painting out there we haven’t accounted for, and the trail ends with a man named Fornier, a gallery owner who once owned the entire collection. Apparently, he got mixed up with some unsavory political types and had to emigrate from France to avoid arrest. That was back in ’thirty-seven or ’thirty-eight. We’re fairly certain he brought the paintings with him, though we believe they were liquidated not long after.”

“Is there a way to know who may have bought them?”

“That’s what I’m calling to tell you. The Fornier Gallery is still operating.”

Leslie watched a pair of cardinals vying for the bird-feeder leftovers as she digested this bit of news. “He’s still alive?”

“Good heavens, no. Claude Fornier died in ’seventy-two. His granddaughter owns the place now. I tried to get in touch with her to see if she knew the fate of the collection, but all I got was a recording that the gallery is closed for the season. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait
until it reopens in the spring. At any rate, we don’t need the painting anymore, if you’d like to pick it up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Randolph.” Leslie tried to keep the frustration from her voice. Spring was an eternity away. “I’ll be by in a day or two, if that’s all right. In the meantime, would you mind if I tried to get in touch with Fornier’s granddaughter?”

“Not at all. It’s your painting. I’d be obliged, though, if you’d let me know what you find out. This will probably sound silly to you, but in my line of work, you learn that old things tend to have stories, and something tells me this one might be a doozy.”

Leslie didn’t think it sounded silly at all. Things
did
have stories. Photos and paintings and gravestones had stories, and like Mr. Randolph, she wanted to know what they were and why she couldn’t shake the feeling that those stories were somehow connected. After jotting down the number for the Charleston gallery, she ended the call.

Two hours later she was still waiting to hear back from Ms. Fornier. She had reached the same recorded message as Mr. Randolph. The gallery was closed for the season and would reopen on March first. She hadn’t bothered to leave a message. Instead, she hopped online. It had taken less than thirty minutes to locate an address and phone number for Ms. Emilie Fornier of Charleston, South Carolina. Her message was short and sweet; she would like to speak with Ms. Fornier at her earliest convenience, with regard to several paintings from her grandfather’s private collection. It was presumptuous, she knew, and would probably turn out to be a huge waste of time, but it was the only lead she had. She couldn’t do anything now, but when the Splash was behind her, she’d have some free time. If it was wasted, so be it. At least she would know she had tried.