Keep No Secrets (49 page)

"I suppose that depends on the reason for it. In most cases, I'd say no."

"Well, then, why do you think Mr.

Hilliard committed adultery?"

Claire's mouth opens slightly but no words come out. She blinks several times as if the question has left her

dumbfounded. She shifts her gaze to Jack again, helplessly, as if searching for the answer in his eyes.

Claire once told Jack she'd made a promise to herself never to ask him the question Walker just asked. "I told myself that it was the one question I'd never let myself ask, because I knew—no matter what you said—it would never satisfy me, never justify what you'd done."

She kept the promise to herself. Not once did she ask him why, and he was grateful, because he didn't have an answer. Not one, at least, that either of them was ready to accept. It took more than four years for that to happen.

"Mrs. Hilliard?" Walker persists.

"Please answer the question. In your opinion, why did Mr. Hilliard commit adultery?"

She reluctantly looks away from Jack and sits taller. For courage, Jack thinks.

"Based upon everything I know about Jack Hilliard, only one thing could have compelled him to do what he did."

Holding its collective breath, the courtroom waits. Jack stares at the blank lines of his legal pad. He knows what she's about to say, and he can't bear to look at her as she says it.

"Love."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WHEN JACK ARRIVES home around

four, reporters clog the street in front of his house. This time, they're there for Claire. Inside the house, silence reigns.

He knows she left the boys with her parents that morning after receiving a commitment from Ruth that she wouldn't let Harley badmouth Jack in front of them. When he doesn't find her in the kitchen or the family room, he wonders if she joined them after leaving the courthouse. Her minivan, though, is in the garage.

He climbs the stairs to their bedroom.

Except for the suit she wore to court hanging on the closet door, there's no sign of her up there, either.

It's not until he enters the office downstairs to get online and check the day's accumulated emails that he finds her. She's curled up asleep in the corner chair, a forgotten book open and turned upside down on the armrest. She let her hair down; except for a few strands on her cheek, the loose curls splay against the cushion behind her head. She exchanged the suit for a fleece sweatshirt and shorts.

Her pale legs are bent, her bare feet are tucked to the side underneath. He's still drawn to her delicate features, and the knowledge he always will be doesn't make any of this easier.

He pulls the French doors shut, but through the glass panes he sees her eyes open at the click of the latch. She lifts her head and spots him.

"Jack."

He reopens one door slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay."

They regard each other tentatively.

"Thanks for today," he says. "I mean, for what you said on the stand."

After another awkward silence, he says,

"Well, I guess I'll go find something to eat. Do you want me to shut this?"

"No, it's okay." As he turns, she calls his name again to stop him. "I wanted you to know, I didn't perjure myself. I meant every word." He waits, unsure what part she thinks he might believe was perjury. "I know you didn't do anything to Celeste."

He looks at the floor because if he continues to look at her, he'll be tempted to say what's on his mind.
Why did you
wait so long? Why didn't you tell me that a long
time ago?
If she had, he thinks they might have had a chance.

In the kitchen he stands before the open refrigerator but doesn't see the ample contents. Instead, he sees himself a few months into the future, standing before a refrigerator in a small apartment somewhere, maybe in the city closer to the courthouse. The refrigerator will be empty except for the basics—milk, eggs, maybe some lunch meat. Even the loaf of bread will be kept there because it would mold quickly if left on the counter. He wouldn't need more because he can't imagine bothering to cook for one or having the time. He'll become one of those attorneys who always works late into the night because he'll have nothing to come home to.

And even though Claire would never poison Michael or Jamie against him, he'll still become the interloper, always on the periphery of his sons' lives. He imagines the various milestones—graduations, weddings, the birth of grandchildren—

where the role of host will default to Claire, and Jack will be just another guest.

He thinks about holidays, Michael and Jamie crowded around a table with Claire and her parents, her aunts and uncles, and eventually their own kids. Thanksgiving or Christmas with Jack will be nothing more than a pity visit to be endured until they politely move on to their mom's house. Given Mark's affection for Claire, Jack thinks even his own brother might defect.

He can't imagine moving forward, and yet he knows they can’t go back.

He shuts the refrigerator, as empty-handed as when he opened it. He can't seem to take a deep breath. His eyes fill again for the second time that day and he tells himself to get a grip.

He turns for the stairs and startles when he sees Claire at the end of the island, watching him.

"I guess I’m not very hungry," he says.

It's a lame attempt to disguise what almost happened, but she saw, and she mistakes its meaning.

"We could open a bottle of wine," she suggests. "Mom said she'll keep the boys all night if we want. We could talk."

Earl once told Jack that a marriage can survive infidelity. Jack believed him. After all, Earl's did. Jack thought his and Claire's would, too. He wanted it to. He really wanted it to.

"I don't think so."

She moves closer and stands on her tiptoes to reach two wine goblets from the cabinet. He wants to grab them from her hands, fling them so they shatter against the wall, and ask her if she heard him. Instead, he watches her uncork a bottle of red. Her small hand is strong as it twists the corkscrew. He notices her nails are painted, rare for her, and it makes him look down at her toes, too.

They're painted a blush pink color that always reminds him of the beaches on Cat Island, where they celebrated their tenth anniversary.

She pours the wine and he accepts it without meeting her eye. He can't think of a time they didn't toast, no matter the occasion or lack thereof. But he knows there will be no toasting tonight. He lifts the glass and swallows more than a sip.

Hers remains on the counter, untouched.

She stands in front of him and her hands go for his tie. She gives him a look that asks,
May I?
When he fails to respond either way, she picks at the knot and loosens it for him. Next she starts on the button at his collar. He calmly but decisively pushes her arm away.

"Don't."

"I'm just—"

"I can unbutton my shirt if I want it unbuttoned."

She steps away and raises her hands in surrender. "Fine. Sorry."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Seriously?"

He sighs and places his glass down, starts to leave. She grabs his arm.

"I want to talk about us." She pauses, perhaps anticipating a protest. "I want us to start fresh. I'd like to put everything behind us and start over. Can we talk about that?"

"I think we tried that once and failed."

"We'll try again. We were doing fine until this mess with Celeste."

Fine
. Not quite how he wants to spend the rest of his life. Simply
doing fine
. He also can't help but notice she doesn't mention Jenny this time.

"You'll be acquitted and we'll put it behind us."

"And if I'm convicted?"

She steps closer again and he feels like a caged animal. "You won't be."

"I might. You said so yourself. Celeste might give an Oscar-worthy performance tomorrow."

"Then we'll fight it."

He shakes his head. How can she not get it? "I
have
been fighting it, Claire, even if you weren't. Even as you were still deciding whether you thought I was guilty."

Her cheeks redden. "I never thought you were guilty."

"You know what? I think I believe you.

And that's the problem. Even though you always believed in my innocence, you couldn't bring yourself to tell me. Instead, you withheld it as some sort of

punishment. You've been punishing me from the moment I was arrested. Christ, Claire, you actually suggested I take the plea." He shakes his head, still unable to believe it. "You did perjure yourself today

—"

"What?" she cries. "I didn't—"

"—when you said you forgave me for what happened with Jenny. You haven't."

"I have."

"You haven't. You tried. I know you tried, but you haven't been able to. And if you couldn't forgive me after four years, you never will. I don't blame you. I won't stand here and profess to know how it felt when you found out what I'd done.

And I don't know whether I would

forgive you, either, for the same thing. It doesn't matter."

"Jack, it matters," she says softly. "It matters. We have a family. We have Michael and Jamie." She places her palm on his cheek, and he closes his eyes to ward off the attack. She knows his weak spot and won't be shy about going after it. "If I've been punishing you, I'm sorry.

But don't make the same mistake. Don't punish me now for not telling you about the PI. Don't punish
us
."

He's already been through all this in his head. He's done the mental gymnastics and thought about whether his decision is merely his own way of striking back at her. He doesn't think so. It hurts too much.

It occurs to him that they're both making their way through the five stages of grief. He just happens to be further along, somewhere between depression and acceptance. She's stalled at

bargaining.

She gently touches her lips to his. He doesn't resist. He even tries to

reciprocate, but he feels nothing but sadness.

He pulls away and wonders if he just kissed his wife for the last time.

"Just say you'll try," she whispers. Her cheeks are wet from silent tears. "We'll both try."

"Claire . . ." The rest—
I can't
—sticks in his throat.

"Do you still love me?"

"You know I do. You know I'll always love you."

"Then we can—"

"It's not enough."

"Would it have been enough if she hadn't come back?"

There it is, finally. He knew in the end, for Claire, it would come down to this question, and he made himself think a lot about this, too, so no matter his answer, it would be honest.

"No."

"But—"

"If she hadn't come back, would that have made a difference in your ability to forgive me?" He asks the question as if he already knows the answer, because he does. Her silence and the devastation on her face convince him he's right. She knows she can't honestly answer and save the marriage both.

"It might have taken longer for us to reach this point if she hadn't come back,"

he says, "but we would have reached it, one way or another. The damage was already done."

Later, after the boys are home and everyone has gone to bed, Jack climbs the stairs in the dark and waits a moment outside the master bedroom. He listens for the page of a book turning, the toilet flushing, the setting of the alarm clock, any sounds indicating Claire might still be awake.

He offered to sleep in the spare

bedroom, but she refused. They can't shield Michael, who already suspects what has happened even if neither Jack nor Claire has told him outright, but Claire wants Jamie to remain ignorant about the impending split until they know Jack's fate. Jack assured her that Jamie wouldn't have to know—he could retire long after Jamie falls asleep and rise before he wakes

—but, perhaps fearing he may soon spend his nights on a prison cot, she insisted Jack sleep in their bed as long as he remains in the house. He reluctantly agreed even as he already dreaded the oppressive tension he knew would

accompany this nightly façade.

He thinks she’s asleep and is about to attempt a stealth entrance when he hears her voice through the door. At first he thinks she might be talking in her sleep, but then he makes out the next words

—"I don’t think so, Mom. I think he means it."—and knows she’s not. He has a sudden urge to barge in, tell her he didn’t mean it, that he’s willing to try again, he’s willing to do anything if it would get them back to the place they were before he walked a drunken Jenny to her car so long ago.

Instead, he steps away from the door and plants himself at the top of the stairs, elbows on knees, chin in hands, to wait for the call to end and for sweeter dreams to claim her.

Jack wakes later to a soft knock on the bedroom door and then an urgent but gentle whisper.

"Dad?" The voice belongs to Michael, but Jack must be dreaming because Michael hasn't spoken to him like that since before his arrest. He rises up on his elbows and listens for the voice to repeat itself.

"Dad? Wake up." The tone has escalated from urgent to desperate.

Something's wrong. Jack shoots out of bed and opens the bedroom door.

Michael shoves his phone at him. "It's Celeste," he says breathlessly, and in the small white glow from the screen, Jack sees panic on his son's face.

Disoriented, Jack looks at the phone.

Celeste wants to talk to
me
? he thinks.

"What—"

Exasperated, Michael grabs Jack's hand and twists it so the screen faces him.

"She's in trouble," he says. "We have to do something!"

Jack blinks and squints to focus on the tiny text. He reads I wil , txt me back soon and glances up at Michael for an

explanation.

"Read it all. From the beginning."

"Jack?" Claire's sleepy voice joins the confusion. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." He scrolls up to see the messages that came before.

Mike u up?

Yeah

I dont no what 2 do

R u scared about cort 2morow?