The Secrets She Carried (29 page)

She was finishing up a few e-mails the next morning when her cell went off. She immediately recognized the 843 area code. The voice on the other end was cool and brisk, opening with a series of rapid-fire questions. How had she gotten this number? Was she a collector? A dealer? Was she looking to make a purchase?

Inexplicably, Leslie found herself tongue-tied. She had tracked the woman down at home on a Sunday, and now that she was on the line, she didn’t know where to begin. In the end, she decided to keep Mr. Randolph out of it, saying only that she had inherited a painting that might be the work of Jeremiah Tanner, and that since her grandfather had been a collector of Tanner’s work, she hoped Ms. Fornier might be able to authenticate the piece.

It took a bit of doing, but Emilie Fornier finally agreed to view the Rebecca, scheduling an appointment at her home on the Tuesday after the Splash. Leslie felt almost giddy as she ended the call. It would only be a day trip, but she could do with a change of scenery. Maybe she’d invite Jay along. It was time they got to know each other better, time to stop all the wary circling and finally figure out what they wanted from each other.

By late afternoon she had finally screwed up the courage to actually extend the invitation. She found Jay out behind the cottage in his garden. She paused at the gate, watching him turn what was left of the herb beds. When he finally looked up, he seemed startled.

“Ah, you’re just in time to help.”

“With what? It looks like you’re almost finished.”

“With this part, yeah. But then I’m planting some winter lettuce.”

“You’re quite the Renaissance man.” She stepped through the gate, letting it close behind her. “Have you got a minute? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“All right. I was about to get myself some tea. Can I bring you out a glass?”

Leslie nodded, though she wasn’t thirsty. She wondered how Jay
would react when she told him she was going all the way to Charleston on the hunch that there was a connection between Adele and the paintings in Henry’s study. He’d already questioned her once, accusing her rather heatedly of letting Adele get under her skin. Well, maybe she was. But her gut told her she was on to something, and her conversation with Mr. Randolph only served to strengthen that conviction.

Jay reappeared with a glass in each hand and a bag of pretzels between his teeth. Leslie relieved him of the pretzels and one of the glasses.

“Let’s sit a minute,” he suggested, pointing to a shady stretch of stone wall. “My back is killing me.”

Leslie dropped down beside him on the mossy stones, feeling the cool damp seep through the seat of her jeans. Jay tore into the pretzels, then offered her the bag, but she declined.

“I’m going to Charleston the Tuesday after the Splash,” she said without preamble.

Jay blinked at her. “What’s in Charleston?”

“An art gallery—or rather, the owner of an art gallery. Her name is Emilie Fornier.”

“Does this have to do with your photography?”

“My photography?” Leslie frowned, then shook her head. “No. It’s about the paintings in Henry’s study. There’s a woman who owns a gallery there who might be able to give me some information on them.”

“You do realize Charleston is almost six hours away?”

“I do.”

“And just what is it you’d drive six hours to find out?”

“I had someone look at one of the paintings—an expert. He said it was painted by a man named Jeremiah Tanner. Apparently, he only painted six pictures, which means Henry was one shy of owning the entire collection. Before that, the collection belonged to a man named
Fornier from Charleston.” Leslie paused, plucking a pretzel from the bag. “Unfortunately, no one knows what happened to them after they left Fornier’s hands. It’s like they vanished, except five of the six are hanging in Henry’s study.”

Jay looked mystified. “That’s it? You’re going to drive all the way to South Carolina to find out why your great-grandfather had a study full of paintings? Leslie, Henry was fairly well-off, and at a time when no one trusted the banks. Maybe he saw art as a safe place to park his money.”

Leslie sipped her sweet tea as she considered the idea, plausible enough given the economic climate after the crash, but something still didn’t feel right. Finally, she shook her head. “No, that wasn’t it. Other than Maggie’s portrait in the parlor, and the one of Susanne up in the attic, there isn’t another scrap of art in this house. Why these paintings? Why Tanner?”

“Why not Tanner?”

Spying a pair of finches, Leslie crushed what was left of her pretzel and tossed the crumbs, watching as they pounced on the sudden windfall. “The articles I found in the attic mention Jeremiah Tanner specifically. My mother kept them for a reason, and she kept them together with the letter, which I’m now sure belonged to Adele. She obviously believed they were connected, and so do I. I just don’t know how yet. You said Maggie had a secret she wanted to tell you. She left the photo of Adele’s grave with Goddard so I’d be sure to get it. There was something she wanted us to know.”

Jay had been rubbing salt off a pretzel with the ball of his thumb. His hand went quiet now. “You’re chasing ancient history, Leslie, about a woman who’s been dead for God knows how long. I don’t see what going to Charleston about a handful of paintings is going to prove.”

Leslie met his eyes, chin tipped slightly. “I don’t either, but I’m going. I need to know more about Tanner, and Ms. Fornier has
agreed to see me. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m hoping she can tell me when Henry bought the painting, and maybe even why. I came to ask if you want to go with me.”

Jay’s brows shot up. “You’re serious about this, then?”

“Yes, I am.”

She wished she could explain why this was important to her, but nothing she said would make sense. “I know you think I’m crazy to care about any of this, and you’re probably right, but I used to think my family’s secrets all had to do with my mother’s death. Now I think there’s more, something from a long time ago that has to do with Henry’s mistress. And yes, with those paintings. Emilie Fornier may be the one person who can help me figure it out. I set up the appointment for the Tuesday after the Splash.”

Jay said nothing, his brow furrowed in what looked like resignation.

Leslie handed him a pretzel. At least he hadn’t said no. “If it’s a nice day we could take the Mustang.”

T
he night of the Splash had finally arrived, a crisp October evening that might have been made to order. In the lavender dusk, the trees were alive with twinkling white lights. The mellow strains of “Carolina in My Mind” were already in the air. Leslie roamed the tents and grounds, looking for something to do, but found nothing. The tasting barn was finished, every floorboard gleaming, every wineglass polished and at the ready. The bandstand, a simple plywood dais, had been transformed with wine barrels, hay bales, and a few cleverly positioned spotlights. The tents had been raised, the food delivered. They were ready.

So why did she feel like throwing up?

She found Angie in the refreshment tent, standing over a punch bowl with a knife, a bowl of fruit, and several bottles of Seyval Blanc, a flour sack towel draped over the shoulder of her little black dress. She glanced up, then let out a soft whistle. “Wait ’til Jay gets a look at you in that dress. You look gorgeous.”

Leslie smoothed her hands down the clingy sheath of cobalt blue velvet she’d found in a vintage boutique this morning and purchased on a whim. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“I think it’s perfect, and I like your hair up like that. But you don’t look happy. What’s wrong?”

Leslie made a noise that was half sigh, half groan. “I don’t know. I just feel like I should be doing something.”

“Honey, you’ve done enough. There’s only the last-minute stuff left, and I can handle that. You just go breathe into a paper bag or something.”

Leslie laughed, but it quickly faded. “What if no one comes?”

Angie put down her knife and wiped her hands. “Okay, you need to stop now. When you first suggested this, I thought you were crazy. But you pulled it off. This is the biggest shindig this town’s ever seen, and you made it happen. Go enjoy yourself.”

Leslie lingered in the doorway of the tent, gazing at the smattering of stars appearing in the eastern sky and trying to choose between looking for Jay and sneaking off with one of Angie’s bottles of wine. Before she could decide, the first set of headlights peeled off the road and headed up the drive, a white Caddy the size of a small fishing vessel. That would be Avis.

Her heart clenched with relief as she watched the steady crawl of headlights moving in Peak’s direction, all of them pulling off to park. In the twilight, silhouettes began to emerge, mostly in pairs, crossing the lawn to converge on the refreshment tent. Leslie smoothed her dress once more, gave her hair a quick pat, and put on her best hostess smile.

She was surprised at how quickly a few could become a crowd. Most were strangers, but there were a few familiar faces: Avis and her husband, O.W., Susan and Bobby Bishop, Virgil Snipes from the hardware store, and Deanna, who, she was inexplicably relieved to see, had brought a date.

Scanning the sea of faces, she located Jay in the doorway of the crush barn. He looked relaxed in a coat and open shirt, laughing and chatting with Bobby Bishop. She was startled when his eyes strayed to hers, as if he’d known she was there all along. She had wrestled all week with the feeling that he was purposely avoiding her, too busy to stop for lunch or even a cup of coffee. Well, he clearly wasn’t avoiding
her now. She warmed under his gaze, a long, lazy look that traveled the length of her and then back again.

Pleased by his obvious approval, Leslie shot him a smile, already mapping out a path through the crowd when Deanna appeared at her elbow, looking predictably gorgeous in a dress of clingy eggplant-colored silk. She introduced her date, the muscular and decidedly un-new-agey Kyle Pritchett, who, when he wasn’t building houses, was a member of Gavin’s volunteer fire department, then proceeded to gush about everything from the food to the twinkle lights in the trees. Leslie maintained her smile and made all the polite responses, though her eyes strayed more than once to the tasting barn. By the time Deanna ran out of steam and allowed Kyle to lead her back to the punch bowl, Jay had disappeared.

The next few hours passed in a blur of smiles and tag-team introductions, until Leslie’s head began to swim and she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It took some doing, but she finally managed to duck into the refreshment tent, fix a small plate of food, and grab a bottle of water. She’d had enough punch. Making her way to the small patio behind the tasting barn, she dropped onto one of the benches and slipped off her shoes. It was relatively quiet behind the barn, dark and blessedly secluded, and for a time she was content to sit with her plate untouched, reveling in the evening’s success. She had no idea how many people had shown up. She only knew that she was exhausted, smiled out and talked out, and that it felt awfully good.

“Hello, stranger.”

Leslie started at the sound of Jay’s voice. “I didn’t know anyone was out here,” she said, stuffing her feet back into her shoes. “I needed a minute to catch my breath.”

Jay stepped out of the shadows and dropped down on the bench beside her. “I know what you mean. I haven’t been this wrung out since my last book tour.”

“Was it this much fun?”

“What, book signings? Think of doing this three or four times a week, for a month or more. Every day in a different city, every night in a different motel. Alone.”

“Hmm, doesn’t sound very glamorous. At least when we fall into bed tonight we’ll know where we are when we wake up.”

Leslie cringed, grateful for the dark as the remark stretched into an awkward silence. She was still deciding whether she should clarify what had somehow come out sounding like a come-on, or simply leave it alone, when Jay took her hand.

“You did amazing tonight.”

Leslie felt her cheeks color again, this time with pleasure. “Thanks. It feels good. I was terrified the whole thing would turn out to be a big old flop.”

“It’s anything but. People are going to be talking about this for a long time.”

“I had a lot of help. You and Buck did an amazing job with the tasting barn. Angie coordinated all the food. And I’ll never be able to thank Susan for all she did.”

“That’s true, but you’re the one who worked yourself silly pulling it all together, and I’m trying to say thank you. You got us the publicity, and that’s the part that’s going to pay off come spring. Whitney’s already talking about doing a spread for the opening.”

Leslie groaned as she set aside her untouched plate. “I can’t think about that yet. Right now, I just want to savor tonight. And then sleep.”

There was a long stretch of quiet, both of them content to stare at the sky and listen to the muffled strains of “Desperado” drifting from the bandstand.

“Thank you,” Jay said finally.

“You said that already.”

“I don’t mean for tonight. I mean for coming back. For staying.”