Secrecy (38 page)

She had just tied on an apron when the doorbell rang. Cliff, she thought, going weak inside, Cliff with the rest of the news, God help us. And she opened the door.

“Hello,” said Roger.

For an instant she thought she might be mistaken, that this man only resembled Roger, and she would be making a fool of herself if—

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked.

She began to cry. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and took her into his arms. She felt his hands on her shoulder blades, under her braid, stroking and stroking; he was kissing her tears, whispering her name, and talking in broken sentences.

“… drove fifteen miles north … couldn’t get through the town, all swamped … came south, back way … disaster on television … tried
Pauline … knew how much I loved you … what a damn fool I am.”

When Bill came into the hall, they broke apart, and Roger held out his hand, saying frankly, “You’re shocked to see me.”

“Well,” began Bill.

“All these months I kept thinking of her. I was so angry.… She wouldn’t tell me.… She saw what was happening and wouldn’t tell me.… I couldn’t stand it, so we fought.…” Breathless, he raised his hand to prevent interruption. “But when this happened here, people homeless, people dead, I had to come. All of a sudden I was frantic. If something happened to her … I got a speeding ticket on the way. Oh, God, Charlotte, can we be all right again? Can we?”

“It certainly looks as if you can,” Bill said. “But you find us here at a strange time. There are things happening—”

Somebody was coming up the walk again. Bill opened the door.

“Bill,” Cliff said, not even seeing Roger, “it is. There’s no mistake. The wristwatch has
Cliff to Ted
on it. My birthday present.”

So here it was, here after all these dread-filled years. Charlotte, searching her father’s face, saw no expression. It was as if he were under anesthesia. Perhaps that was nature’s mercy for the wounded.

A moment later Bill recovered. “If you can just keep in touch for me, Cliff. It seems to be the day of reckoning.”

“Tomorrow, more likely. They’ll need some time to reach any conclusions.”

Suddenly the men became aware of Roger. Cliff was the first to speak.

“We’re all glad to see you, Roger. It’s been too long.”

And Bill added, “Yes, very glad. Very. You’ll stay overnight, I hope? I’ll stay at Cliff’s.”

Conservative as he was, Charlotte knew, he wouldn’t want to be in the house while his daughter slept with Roger. Nevertheless, and typically, he wished his daughter joy.

“So we’ll be going. Give him a good dinner, and, Charlotte, you may tell him the whole story.”

When the two men had gone, Charlotte and Roger sat down on a sofa. With his arms around her and her head resting on his shoulder, she began.

“When I was in Italy, my mother told me …”

“If they find anything,” she concluded, “he will be under suspicion of murder.”

“And if he really had done it, he would have had good reason,” Roger said darkly.

“Ah, yes! But it doesn’t work that way. You’re the only one to know this beside Cliff, and he found out just yesterday. Don’t you know that I would have told you long ago, except that it wasn’t my secret?”

“I’m ashamed. I talk so much about ‘understanding,’ and then, when I should have understood, I didn’t. I was afraid to walk in the Common, because I might see you and you would not talk to me. Still, in another way, I hoped I would see you.”

“I was so ashamed that you had all these debts because of me. And you still have them.”

“My firm—Uncle Heywood—finally paid them to save the firm’s name, and mine. So now I owe him. But that’s not so bad,” Roger said quickly. “I pay back a little every week.”

No wonder, thought Charlotte, his aunt Flo pretended not to recognize me on Newbury Street. And if there had not been a flood, she thought, he would not be here! Again the pain of loss swept through her, as she turned her head now to look at him. He asked her what was wrong, what she was thinking, and she told him.

“No, no,” he said, “I would have been here anyway. You can ask Pauline. I met her accidentally last week, and I—well, you can ask her. She told me you were about to go home for a few days. I wanted to see you and beg you to come back, to wear the ring again. Look, I’ve even brought it with me. Give me your hand.”

So they talked all through what remained of the day, had a small supper, and talked some more until it grew late.

“There’s only a single bed again,” Charlotte told him.

“I rather like that. Perhaps we should even have one when we’re married.” He laughed. And then, turning serious, asked quietly, “What time can you get the newspaper here in the morning?”

“It’s delivered early, only now on account of the flood, there’s no telling.”

“If it doesn’t come, you’ll give me your father’s boots, and I’ll go into town for it.”

But Cliff got there first. Waving the paper in hand, he cried out the news.

“Safe! Safe! We’re home free! Here, take a look.”

All bent over the newspaper to read the lead column: “
ACCUSED RAPIST FOUND DEAD
.… Ted Marple, long sought overseas, drowned.… Positively identified.… Fleeing with passport and large sum.… Apparently taking a shortcut to avoid roads.… Suitcase, backpack, and some extra shoes.”

Charlotte asked, “No name?”

“No name. And nothing on the bill clip.”

They must have been the only things in the house except the stove that weren’t labeled. Elena was probably rattled because she was leaving just then.

“You’re sure?” Charlotte asked.

Cliff nodded. “I’ve been downtown half the night, been everywhere from my friend at the paper to the medical examiner’s office, asking a hundred questions. It’s only natural, isn’t it? I’m so distraught that they had to tolerate me. He was my wife’s son, after all, and I loved the boy.”

Charlotte felt the tears that come with a wide, wide grin. “And Dad?” she asked.

“You can imagine. I made him go to bed. He hadn’t slept for two nights.”

“A whole lot more than two nights, I’m thinking.”

“I don’t know how he’s stood up under this. Now I’m beginning to remember things, times I wondered about his moods, silence, avoidance—things like that.”

“The terror he must have felt!”

“Yes. Well, I’ll be getting back home. They’re sending reporters. I’m going to tell them as little as I can. It’s all past and it needs to be forgotten, so people can get on with ordinary life.”

Then Roger spoke. “You realize, don’t you, that we can get on with our project now?”

Cliff smiled as he left. “I’ve already thought of that,” he said.

Sunshine out of a pure sky, with not a drop of rain in sight, lay over the breakfast table. Roger began reading aloud from the paper, but Charlotte barely heard. She was filled with a vast thankfulness, unburdened by secrets.

“I feel light,” she said, “as if I had wings, as if I could fly.”

He looked over at her. “You can,” he said. “We’ll fly together.”

A
wooden fence enclosed the vast area in which, seen from the hilltop, tiny toy men were raising toy structures. Lumber trucks and cement mixers were moving in and out. Along the riverfront a brick wall, high enough to keep the next flood away, was being completed.

Despite all this activity the final plan was clearly visible: the village square at one end, and the library, already partly finished, at the other. Between these lay an expanse of greenery, sprouting now in the spring sunshine. Where once a gloomy swamp had stretched lay a large, clear pond, fringed with willows.

“Kingsley never had a real park,” Bill said, “so I thought this would be my personal present to the town. I’ve got people coming this week to design it, with a rose plot and walks and benches, places to relax and watch the ducks.” And shading his eyes, he looked out toward the place where once the textile mill had stood. “The march of time,” he said. “Well,
you two have to get back to Boston, and I’ve got things to do. See you soon.”

They watched him walk away and get into his car.

“Even his voice has a jaunty lilt these days. Have you noticed?” Roger remarked.

“Of course. He’s Big Bill again. Emmabrown says he has a girlfriend, a very nice woman, she says. I’m glad. It’s about time too.”

“That secret was too heavy for him to be thinking of anything else, poor man. Hey, it’s late, Charlotte. We’d better start.” And as she still stood unmoving, he teased, “Can’t you tear yourself away from your brainchild?”

It was not that. She was thinking there, or seeing, rather, the whole long ribbon of her life unrolling to this place and moment.

“What are you thinking?” Roger asked, as he always did.

“I don’t know. Just maundering, I guess, about how lucky I am.”

“I’ll say. Being a name already at your age, with a feature in
Design and Engineering
! Besides all this.” And he waved his arm toward the activity below.

“Not that. I’m glad about it, of course I am, but really more for the rest of you than for myself. It’s true I wanted the glory, but suddenly it’s not all that important to me.”

“What is, then?”

“Do you need to ask?”

“No,” he said with that lovely smile of his, that illumination that said everything. “Sweet Charlotte, let’s go home.”

BELVA PLAIN is the internationally acclaimed author of seventeen bestselling novels. She lives in northern New Jersey.