Season of Secrets (2 page)

“You'll get your wish,” Marc said abruptly. “He's over at the house now, unloading the rental car.”

She could only stare at him. “You've brought Court here, to the house where—” She stopped, unable to say the words.

“You think I'm crazy to bring Court back to the house where his mother died.” Marc's voice was tinged with bitterness, but he could give voice to the thought she couldn't.

“I'm sorry.” She sought refuge in platitudes. “I'm sure you know what's best for your son.”

“Do I?” Vulnerability suddenly showed in his normally guarded eyes, disarming her. “I wish I were sure. I thought I knew. I thought the best thing for Court was a whole new life, with nothing to remind him of what he'd lost.”

“So you kept him away from us.” Did he have any idea how much that had hurt?

“Away from you, away from this place.”

Marc surged to his feet as if he couldn't sit still any longer. He stalked to the window, then turned and came back again. The room seemed too small for him. He stopped in front of her.

“I did what I thought I had to,” he said uncompromisingly. “And it worked. Court was a normal, bright, happy kid, too happy and busy to worry about the past.”

She caught the tense. “Was?”

“Was.” He sat down heavily.

She waited, knowing he'd tell her, whatever it was. She didn't want to hear, she thought in sudden panic. But it was too late for that.

“Maybe this would have happened anyway,” he said slowly, sounding as if he tried to be fair. “He's thirteen—it's a tough age. But when school started in September, one of his teachers assigned a writing project on family history. He started asking questions.”

“About Annabel.”

He nodded. “About her, about her family. About our life here in Charleston. He became obsessed.” He stopped, as if he'd heard what he said and wanted it back. “Not obsessed—that's not right. I don't think there's anything unhealthy about it. He's curious. He wants to know.”

She swallowed, feeling the lump in her throat at the thought of Annabel's child. “I remember. He was always curious.”

“Yes.” His face was drawn. “He has to know things. So he told me what he wanted for Christmas.”

He paused, and she had a sense of dread at what he was about to say.

“He wanted to come back to Charleston. That's all he asked for. To come back here and have Christmas in the house before I sell it.”

“And you said yes.”

“What else could I do?” He leaned toward her, his dark eyes focusing on her face, and that sense of dread deepened. “But it's more complicated than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand closed over hers, and she felt his urgency. “I realized something the moment I saw the house again—realized what I've been evading all these years. I have to know the truth about Annabel's death.”

 

He had shocked Dinah, Marc realized. Or maybe
shock
wasn't the right word for her reaction. His years as a prosecutor had taught him to find body language more revealing than speech, and Dinah was withdrawing, protecting herself against him.

Protecting. The word startled him. Dinah didn't have anything to fear from him.

He deliberately relaxed against the back of the chair, giving her space. Wait. See how she responded to that. See if she would help him or run from him.

He glanced around the room with a sense of wonder. It hadn't changed since the days when he'd come here to pick up Annabel, and he'd thought it caught in a previous century then. Clearly Kate preferred things the way they had always been.

But Dinah had changed. He remembered so clearly Annabel's attitude toward her shy young cousin—a mixture of love and a kind of amused exasperation.

She's such a dreamer. Annabel had lifted her hands in an expressive gesture. She's impossibly young for her age, and I don't see how she's ever going to mature, living in that house with Aunt Kate. Let's have her here for the summer. She can help out with Court, and maybe I can help her grow up a little.

His heart caught at the memory.
I feel it more here, Lord. Is that why I had to come back?

Dinah had certainly grown up. Skin soft as a magnolia blossom, blue-black hair curling to her shoulders, those huge violet eyes. He couldn't describe her without resorting to the classic Southern clichés. Charleston knew how to grow beautiful women.

Dinah seemed to realize how long the silence had grown. She cleared her throat. “I don't know what you hope to accomplish at this late date. The police department considers it an unsolved case. I'm sure someone looks at the file now and then, but—” The muscles in her neck worked, as if she had trouble saying those words.

“They've written it off, you mean. I haven't.” He wasn't doing this very well, maybe because he hadn't realized what he really wanted until he'd driven down the street and pointed out the house to his son. “Court hasn't.”

Dinah's hands were clasped in her lap, so tightly that the skin strained over her knuckles. “There's nothing left to find after ten years. No one left to talk to about it.”

“There's you, Dinah. You were there.”

Her face went white with shock, and he knew he'd made a misstep. He shouldn't have rushed things with her, assumed she'd want what he wanted.

She pushed the words away with both hands. “I didn't see anything. I don't know anything. You, of all people, should know that.”

A vivid image filled his mind, fresh as if it had happened yesterday—Dinah's small form crumpled on
the staircase of the house across the street, black hair spilling around her. He'd found her when he'd come home in the early hours of the morning from a trip to track down a witness in one of his cases.

He'd rushed downstairs to the phone, shouting for Annabel, and seen the light in the parlor still burning. He'd pushed open the half-closed door—

No. He wouldn't let his thoughts go any farther than that. It was too painful, even after all this time.

“I know that you fell, that you had a concussion. That you said you didn't remember anything.”

“I didn't. I don't.” Anger flared in her face, bringing a flush to her cheeks that wiped away the pallor. “If I knew anything about who killed Annabel, don't you think I'd have spoken up by now? I loved her!”

The words rang in the quiet room. They seemed to hold an accusation.

“I loved her, too, Dinah. Or don't you believe that?”

She sucked in a breath, as if the room had gone airless. “Yes.” The word came out slowly, and her eyes were dark with pain. “I believe you loved her. But there's nothing you can do for her now. She's at peace.”

“The rest of us aren't.” His jaw tightened until it was difficult to force the words out. “Court knows I was a suspect in his mother's death. My son knows that, Dinah.”

“Oh, Marc.” The pity in her face was almost worse than her anger had been. “I'm sorry. Surely he doesn't believe you did it.”

“He says he doesn't.” He tried to look at the situa
tion objectively, as if he were a prosecutor assessing a case again. “Most of the time I think that's true.”

But what if there was a doubt, even a fraction of a doubt? Could he stand to see his close relationship with his son eroded day by day, month by month, until they were polite strangers?

“I'm sorry,” she said again, looking at him as if she knew all the things he didn't say. “I wish I could help you. I really do. But I don't know anything.”

He studied her troubled expression. Dinah certainly thought she was telling the truth, but there might be more to it than that. She'd been there, in the house, that whole summer. There far more than he had been, in fact. If there'd been any clue, any small indication of trouble in the events of that summer, Dinah could have seen.

He wouldn't say that to her, not now. He'd shaken her enough already, and if he wanted her cooperation, he'd have to step carefully.

“I understand.” He stood, seeing the relief she tried to hide that he was leaving. He held out his hand to her. After a moment she rose, slipping her hand in his. Hers was small and cold in his grip. “But you can still be a friend, can't you? To me and to Court?”

She hesitated for a fraction of an instant before she produced a smile. “Of course. You must know that.”

“Good.” He made his voice brisk, knowing he had to pin her down while he could. “Come and see us tomorrow. We should be settled enough by then to entertain a guest. I want you to meet Court.”

Again that slight hesitation. And then she nodded. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

It wasn't much, but it was enough to start with. If Dinah knew anything, eventually he'd know it, too.

“I
just wish you wouldn't go over there.” Aunt Kate followed Dinah to the front hall the next day as if she'd bar the door.

Dinah stopped, managing a smile for her great-aunt. “I wish I didn't have to.” She hadn't told Aunt Kate about Marcus's intention of looking into Annabel's death. That would only distress her more.

“Well, then—”

“I must, don't you see?” Obviously Aunt Kate didn't, or they wouldn't be having this conversation again. “You're the one who taught me about the importance of family.”

Aunt Kate's lips pursed into a shape reminiscent of a bud on one of her rosebushes. “Marcus Devlin is not a member of our family.”

“Annabel was.” She struggled to say the words evenly.

Aunt Kate's eyes misted. “Does he know you haven't been in that house since Annabel died?”

“No. And you're not to tell him.” She clutched Aunt Kate's hand. “Promise me.”

“Of course, dear. But if it bothers you that much, it's all the more reason not to become involved with Marcus's visit.”

“This isn't about Marcus. I have to go over there for Court's sake.”

Aunt Kate gave in at that—she could see it in her eyes. It was a good thing, because Dinah couldn't bear to argue with her.

“I suppose if you must, you must.” She touched Dinah's hair lightly. “You're as stubborn as I was at your age.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” She bent to kiss her aunt's cheek.

“We'll deal with the gossip somehow, I suppose.” Her aunt tried one last volley.

“Darling, you know they'll gossip anyway. What I do or don't do won't change that.”

“I suppose. It's just…” She caught Dinah's hand as she opened the door. “Be careful, Dinah. Please.”

The intensity in her aunt's voice startled her. “Careful of what?”

“Marc. Just be wary of Marc. There may be more to his return than he's telling you.”

Dinah could think of nothing to say to that. She slipped outside, closing the door quickly.

Aunt Kate, through some instinct, seemed to know more than she'd been told. Marcus did have an agenda, and it certainly wasn't one of which Aunt Kate would approve.

Well. Dinah stood on the piazza for a moment,
pulling her jacket a little tighter around her. How had Aunt Kate stumbled upon that? Had she sensed something from Dinah's reaction?

She'd tried to hide her feelings after Marc had left the previous day. This idea of his that he'd look into Annabel's death—well, it might be understandable, but she couldn't help him. She had to make him see that.

She went out the brick walk to the gate in the wrought-iron fence that enclosed Aunt Kate's house and garden. The gate, like most of the others on the street, bore a wreath of magnolia leaves in honor of the season.

She touched the shining leaves. Maybe Court would like to make one, if he was determined to observe a real Charleston Christmas. Charlestonians were justifiably proud of their Christmas decor.

Crossing the quiet street, she had to will her steps not to lag. She took the step up to the curb, facing the gate in the wrought-iron fence. Marc's gate was similar to Aunt Kate's, but the black iron was worked into the shape of a pineapple in the center—the traditional symbol of Southern hospitality.

The house beyond, like Aunt Kate's and most other old Charleston houses, was set with its side to the street, facing the small garden. According to local lore, the houses were laid out that way because in the early days of the city, home owners were taxed based on how many windows faced the street. The truth was probably that they'd been clever enough to place the piazzas to catch the breeze.

Open the gate, go up the brick walk. Her breath came
a little faster now. Ridiculous, to hear her heart beating in her ears because she neared her cousin's house. She should have faced this long ago. If Aunt Kate hadn't sent her away so quickly after the tragedy—

She stopped herself. Aunt Kate had done what she thought was best when confronted with the death of one great-niece and the emotional collapse of the other. She couldn't be blamed.

Dinah had come back to Charleston as an adult. She could have gone into the house at any time, but she'd successfully avoided every invitation.

Her first instinct had been right. Marc's return would change all of them in ways she couldn't imagine.

She reached for the knocker and then paused. In the old days, she'd run in and out of Annabel's house as if it were her own. She shouldn't change things now. She grasped the brass knob, turned it and let the door swing open.

Please, help me do this.
Slowly, she stepped inside.

The spacious center hallway stood empty, the renters' furniture gone with them. Weak winter sunshine through the stained-glass window on the landing cast oblongs of rose and green on the beige stair carpet. The graceful, winding staircase seemed to float upward.

The space was different, but the same. Even without Annabel's familiar furnishings, it echoed with her presence, as if at any moment she would sail through the double doors from the front parlor, silvery blond hair floating around her face, arms outstretched in welcome.

A shudder went through Dinah, and she took an involuntary step back.

“I know.”

She turned. Marc stood in the doorway to the room that had once been his study. He'd exchanged the jacket and tie he'd worn the previous day for jeans and a casual ivory sweater. His eyes met hers gravely.

“I know,” he said again. “I feel it, too. It's as if she's going to come through the door at any moment.”

“Yes.” She took a shaky breath, oddly reassured that his memories were doing the same thing to him. “I thought it would seem different to me, but it doesn't.”

He moved toward her. “I thought I'd already done all my grieving.” His voice roughened. “Then I found the grief was waiting here for me.”

She nodded slowly. For the moment, the barriers between them didn't exist. Her throat was tight, but she forced the words out.

“I haven't been in here in ten years. I couldn't.” Her voice shook a little. “Or maybe I was just a coward.”

Marc grasped her shoulder in a brief, comforting touch and then took his hand away quickly, as if she might object.

“You're not a coward, Dinah. It's a natural reaction.”

Ironic, that she'd just done what she'd told Aunt Kate not to do. Still, the confession of her weakness seemed to have eased the tension between them.

“What about Court? Is he having trouble with being here?”

He shook his head. “He doesn't seem affected at all. It's unnerving, somehow.”

It would be. She had a foolish urge to comfort Marc.
“He was only three, after all. He slept through everything. He doesn't have the memories we do.”

“No.” He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. “I'm grateful for that.”

“Maybe that makes it right that you kept him away from us.” She couldn't help the bitterness that traced the words.

His jaw tightened. “I thought it was best for him.”

“Obviously.” Unexpected anger welled up in her. Both Marc and Aunt Kate had done what they thought was best, regardless of the consequences. “Are you sorry for the pain that caused us? Or do you just not care?”

Marc looked as startled as if a piece of furniture had suddenly railed at him. His dark eyes narrowed, and she braced for an attack.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. They both jerked around toward the stairwell.

“Hey, Dad, can I go—”

The boy stopped at the sight of her, assessing her with a frank, open gaze. She did the same. Tall for thirteen—he had his father's height, but he hadn't broadened into it yet. He had Marc's dark eyes and hair, too, and for a moment she thought there was nothing of Annabel about him.

Then he trotted down the rest of the steps and came toward her, holding out his hand. “I know who you are.” He smiled, and it was Annabel's smile, reaching out to clutch her heart.

“I know who you are, too.” Her voice had gotten husky, but she couldn't help that. “Welcome home, Court.”

 

Marc still couldn't get over how quickly Dinah had bonded with his son. He finished dusting the desk he and Court had carried from the attic to his study and put his laptop on it. That's where Dinah and Court were now, happily rummaging through the attic's contents to see what should be brought down for their use over the next few weeks.

At some point, he'd have to take a turn going through the attic. The thought of what that would entail made him cringe. He hadn't sorted a thing before he left Charleston. Now the reminders of his life with Annabel waited for him.

And, as Dinah had pointed out, he should make the house look furnished if he intended it to show well to prospective buyers. That hadn't occurred to him, and he could see already that Dinah would be invaluable to him. And to Court, apparently.

Court surely couldn't remember her. He'd only been three that summer. Still, Dinah had spent a lot of time with him. Maybe, at some level, Court sensed that they already had a relationship.

He opened his briefcase and stacked files next to the computer. The vacation time he'd taken to come here had been well earned, but it was impossible to walk away completely from ongoing cases. He'd have to spend part of each day in touch with the office if he expected to make this work.

His mind kept drifting back to that summer, unrolling images he hadn't looked at in years. Annabel hadn't
felt well much of the time, and she'd been only too happy to turn Court over to Dinah. Face it, Annabel had been annoyed at being pregnant again, and each symptom had been a fresh excuse to snap at him about it.

He should have been more sympathetic, and he knew that painfully well now. He'd been absorbed in prosecuting a big case and relieved to escape the tension in the house by the need to work late most evenings.

What he hadn't expected was how devoted Dinah became to Court, and how well she'd cared for him. Maybe she'd loved him so much because she'd always been alone, the only child being raised by an elderly aunt, shipped off to boarding school much of the time.

That was one thing he'd been determined not to do with Court. The boy had lost his mother, but his father had been a consistent presence in his life. He'd thought that was enough for Court, until the past few months.

“Are you stacking those files, or shredding them?” Dinah's voice startled him.

He glanced down at the files he'd unconsciously twisted in his hands. He put them down, smoothing the manila covers.

“I was thinking about something other than what I was doing. Where's Court?” He turned away from the desk, the sight of Dinah bringing an involuntary smile to his lips. “You have cobwebs in your hair.”

She brushed at the mass of dark curls. “He found the boxes of Christmas ornaments, and he's busy going through them. Your attic needs some attention.”

“That's just what I was thinking.” He crossed to her,
reaching out to pull the last wisp of cobweb from her hair. Her curls flowed through his fingers, silky and clinging. “I can't close on a sale until I clear the attic.”

“I guess it has to be done.” The shadow in her eyes said she knew how difficult that would be.

“Maybe you could help sort things out.” There was probably every reason for her to say no to that. “There might be some things of Annabel's that you would like to keep as a remembrance. I'm sorry I didn't think of that sooner.” He'd been too preoccupied with his own grief to pay sufficient heed to anyone else's.

She made a gesture that he interpreted as pushing that idea away with both hands. “I don't need anything to help me remember Annabel.”

Once he'd been amused at how Dinah idolized his wife. Now he found himself wondering how healthy that had been.

“You might help me choose some things to keep for Court, then,” he said smoothly. Court was probably a safe way to approach her. She'd been crazy about him when he was small, and he'd certainly returned the favor. “I remember him running down the hall full tilt, shouting ‘Dinah, Dinah, Dinah.'”

A smile that was probably involuntary curved her lips. “I remember him singing ‘Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah.' You taught him that to tease me.”

They were smiling at each other then, the image clear and bright between them. He leaned forward.

“You see, Dinah. We do have something in common.”

Her eyes darkened. “If anything, too much.” She took a breath, as if steadying herself. “Court really wants to have Christmas here.”

He nodded. He was playing dirty pool, getting at her through Court, but he'd do what he had to. Any excuse to keep her in the house might help her remember.