My Secret to Tell (10 page)

She’d be my first choice if she hadn’t thrown me under the bus in a fit of grief-induced psychosis. A trio of seagulls flies overhead, and I close my eyes, listening to their cries. What’s the big secret she doesn’t want me knowing? God, there’s so much I don’t get about that. About the way she’s been acting in general.

This isn’t the time to hold grudges, so I call her. It rings six times before her voice mail picks up. I try again, and it’s straight to voice mail, so she denied the call.

Still pissed then.

I take a breath and force myself to lift my chin. In thirty minutes, I’m supposed to hit Clawson’s with Seth, and I’m not going to be torn to bits about this the whole time. Still, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to eat a burger either.

I fire off a quick text to Seth, who’s all too willing to swap out Clawson’s for the Cru. Good. Coffee I can definitely do. I head in that direction, forcing myself to keep a slow and steady pace to calm down.

The Cru is a dark, quiet hodgepodge of a restaurant with a deli counter on the left and a full-service bar around the corner to the right. It’s also the only place in town to get a seriously good cup of coffee. Summer mornings are a madhouse, but we’re lucky enough to have one of the long comfy couches in the back tonight.

I wipe down the rim of my coffee cup with my napkin while Seth dives into his ham and cheese sandwich.

“So,” I say. “When did you switch to Team Chelsea?”

Seth half chokes, and I grin, whacking him on the back when the coughing goes on for a while. He finally holds up his hands to stop me.

“I’m good, I’m good! Boy, you don’t dance around a subject, do you?”

“This week? Not so much. You sure you’re okay?”

“Bruised, but fine.”

“So, Chelsea, huh?” I say again.

He scratches the back of his neck and scoots forward on the couch. “Yeah. I don’t really know when it happened. It wasn’t you or anything. I wouldn’t want you to think—”

“No, I get it,” I say. “People change.”

“Yeah, I guess you know about that.” I shake my head, not sure what he means, but he goes on before I can ask. “I mean with your brother and all.”

Everything in me bristles, but I force a light tone. “Landon is just trying to figure himself out. He’s confused. There was a lot of pressure on him. It was doctor or bust, and not just from my parents. This whole town expected him to be our poster child or something.”

“That’s your hero worship talking,” he says. Then he lifts his hands like he’s surrendering. “Not judging. My dad’s so big around here, you’d think he brunches with Jesus.”

“It’s gotta be nice though.” I smile over the rim of my coffee cup. “At least you want to be a veterinarian like him.”

“Not especially.” Seth laughs, so I must be gaping. “You’ll catch flies that way.”

“Sorry.” I straighten the pillow beside me. “I’m shocked. You’re always at the shelter.”

“Got to get my hours in. Walking dogs is better than changing geezer diapers.”

“Wow.” I take a drink of coffee to hide my frown. He has a career plan I’d love to have, and he could take it or leave it.

When I set the cup back on the table, Seth chuckles. “Emmie, you’re looking at me like I’m confessing to a murder.”

I wince. “I know, sorry. It’s just—you had this all planned out. Third-generation equine veterinarian, right? Isn’t your grandfather planning to retire when you get your license?”

He nods, puts his coffee down on the table. “Absolutely.”

I put a paper coaster under his cup. “But you don’t want it?”

“Well, I want the money.” I must not hide my distaste, because he laughs again. “I like animals. Maybe not like you do, but well enough. The money’s good, and I have a family advantage. It’s business, Emmie. Gotta be sensible.”

He’s right. And I really should watch the way I’m looking at him. It’s not like I’m doing something so different. I didn’t grow up dreaming of law school. I adapted. I got sensible.

He crumples his sandwich wrapper, and I wince at the crumbs that spray over the coffee table when he tosses it in the basket. I resist the urge to clean them up, but I can’t stop looking at them. Bits of bread. A shred of lettuce. It revolts me more than it should.

“So what are you up to for the rest of the night?” Seth asks. “Want me to call Caleb and his crew?”

His track friends? Nice enough guys, but without Chelsea to chat with? I’d rather lick the underside of this table. I make myself smile. “Actually, lame as it is, I think I want to stop by Joel’s office. He’s out of town, so I’m checking in more often for calls and such.”

“On a Sunday night?”

“Trust me, Joel’s work never ends. People call day and night.” Which is true. But really, I just want to make sure everything’s in order. Because I want to do a good job for Joel. And because organizing brings me down a notch or two on the anxiety scale. And also because I maybe want to scan our files for any details on these coordinates burning a hole in my pocket.

“Joel’s place is out in the east end, right?” He stands up. “I’ll walk you over, maybe keep you company.”

“Are you sure? I actually might do a little work. I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

“Maybe you’ll give me some Chelsea tips while we walk,” he says. “I’ll help you collate copies or whatever when we get there.”

Seth smiles, and I bare my teeth in a close approximation, discreetly scraping his crumbs into a napkin.

He heads to the counter to put a few bucks in the tip jar, and I mash my lips together, scrubbing at the table with my napkin. Why on earth would he want to hang out with me while I work? And how am I going to get out of this without being rude? I notice Seth watching and still my hand, crumpling my napkin in my fist.

Outside, the misery of the day has given way to a perfect night. There’s a band playing at Dockside, and the air is cooler. Sweeter. We walk along the waterfront, where I tell him Chelsea is a no for flowers but a yes for letters and a definite yes for penuche from the Fudge Factory.

It’s easy with Seth to pretend that Chelsea and I are fine, but I know we’re not. We will be though, so I focus on that. We’ve hurt each other before, and we’ve always gotten over it.

“When you talk to her, maybe you can put in a good word,” he says as we turn toward Joel’s office. “Make sure she knows you aren’t secretly pining over me.”

“Trust me, she already knows,” I answer.

“You wound me.”

“Really? I think we’re getting along a whole lot better now that we’re not trying to date.”

“We
were
dating, just not seriously,” he says, leaning against the painted porch railing. “I was pretty good at it.”

“Pretty modest too.” I pull out my keys and look up at the small office. The flower boxes need cleaning. I should do that in the morning. Sweep the welcome mat too. Seth’s still waiting on the porch, not catching the hint at all. We need more things to do in this town.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he asks. “You seem weirded out.”

I hesitate. I have no idea how Joel would feel about Seth being here. I mean, it’s Seth, but is that unprofessional? Probably not as unprofessional as standing here in the dark, hemming and hawing about it like it’s a difficult question. Especially since deep down, I know the only reason I’d think about not letting him in is because I want to snoop.

I look at Seth, feeling like my mom is hovering over my left shoulder. Life would be so much easier without manners. My smile feels like it belongs to someone else.

“I’ll just check the messages really quick,” I say. “I can do the rest in the morning.”

“Putting something off until later?” Seth clutches his chest. “You make me proud, Emmie. Hey, care if I use the bathroom really quick?”

I can’t even flash teeth this time, but my voice stays perky. “Sure, come on in. I’ll just…”
Think of ways to get rid of you?
“…check those messages.”

We step inside, and I point at the bathroom just inside the door. Seth heads left, and I wait on the carpet in the main office until I hear the door latch. The light and fan combo whirs to life, and I move quickly, slipping past my desk, where for once, my phone’s red message light isn’t blinking. So I have maybe two minutes.

I could check the paper log on Joel’s desk. He keeps a month printed out for easy reference. Maybe there will be some clue on that. Some really long-term charter I missed.

Only the lamp in Joel’s office is on, but I can see his large footprints trailing through my vacuumed carpet, so he must have stopped by before Asheville. I step into his doorway and see a shadow hunched over the desk. My throat cinches tight.

“Joel?”

He looks up, and I stop dead. It’s not Joel. It’s Deacon, sitting in the big leather chair with a few Westfield files open on the desk. A thousand feelings hit me in that second, all of them beating furious wings inside my chest.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. “You shouldn’t be here, going through Joel’s files.”

He stands up from the desk. He’s freshly showered. In new clothes too. “They’re
our
files,” he says just as quietly, tapping at the Westfield sticker. “And I have a key.”

“The sheriff is still looking for you,” I say.

He sags, pushing his hand through his hair. “I know. Why are you here?”

I don’t bother to answer. I work here. I’m supposed to be here. I don’t feel like explaining myself. “What are you looking for, Deke?”

“I’m looking for coordinates.”

I feel cold pouring down from my hairline until it pools in my belly. The toilet flushes, and Deacon moves around the side of the desk, brow furrowing.

“Is that Joel?” he asks. Then he looks me up and down. I can feel his eyes burning a trail from my silver necklace to my going-out-tonight skirt. “Wait, it’s Sunday.”

The sink turns on, and Deacon closes the distance between us.

His smirk flips my stomach. “You brought your
date
to work?”

“It’s not a date.” The bathroom door creaks open, and I switch off the lamp on Joel’s desk. I don’t know why. I’m not supposed to be helping him.

“Emmie?” Seth calls.

“I’m back here. Don’t move!” I shout. Too loud. I clear my throat and try again. “I tripped over the lamp cord. I’ll get it.”

I hear the chime of an incoming message on Seth’s phone. It’s the best chance of not being seen. I press my palm to Deacon’s chest, pushing him backward into the narrow space between the window and Joel’s tall bookshelf.

We’re close enough to whisper now, and his eyes are a flash of heat in the darkness. He doesn’t like being tucked away like this.

“
Please.
” The word trembles out of me. “He could call Perry.”

His face changes then. Maybe he sees the fear in my eyes.

“Emmie.” My name is a prayer on his lips, and it goes straight to my knees. His heart—a steady
thump-thump-thump
—grows faster against my palm.

“Do you need help back there?” Seth calls. “Should I look for a switch?”

“No, I’m coming out!” I lick my dry lips, try to kick my voice down from panicked to annoyed. “It’s just fiddly. You know these old houses. You can wait on the porch if you want.”

I hear Seth shuffle to the door, but he doesn’t leave. He’s waiting for me.

There’s nearly no light. I can hear Deacon breathing. Hell, I can practically feel it.

“I have to go,” I whisper.

His fingers brush my hand as I pull it free. He turns away, and I can see his jaw clenched. I think he’s trying to keep his word. To keep me out of it. But he’s looking for coordinates, so the tables have turned. If I really want those answers, he might be my best shot.

I inch forward on the carpet, feeling the toe of my sandal brush one of his shoes. “We need to talk. I found some coordinates. Where can I find you?”

His lips part as he takes that in. Then he holds his breath, like he’s not sure he should answer me. But he does. “That abandoned house where we found Hushpuppy,” he says.

“Emmie?” Seth laughs. “You sure I don’t need to send in a rescue crew?”

“Coming!”

I switch the lamp back on and stride out of Joel’s office without looking back. I take a breath as I lock the door behind me, still feeling the warmth of Deacon’s chest along my palm. My knees knock with every step on my way down to the sidewalk.

I wake up to the smell of coffee and eggs and the sound of Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. I’ve had the big downstairs bedroom since I was eight, but I’m not sure they’ve ever considered that my bathroom sink shares a wall with the dishwasher. I can hear every word they say when I’m getting ready in here. Sometimes that’s way too much information for my pre-coffee brain.

Mom drones on while I pull my hair into a ponytail, mostly tuning her out. I’m brushing my teeth when she starts talking about me. Always harder to ignore that, but it’s usually the same song and dance. She’s proud of me. I’m a good girl, but I’m just so persnickety about things these days.

It’s not
these days
. It’s been this way since the Landon debacle, and I have a feeling I’m going to have to deal with it at some point, especially since just hearing her talk about it makes me want to scour my bathtub.

I frown at myself in the mirror when Dad agrees with her. It’s not like I can argue. I know I’m flirting with something that looks a lot like OCD, but even that isn’t enough to make me quit doing it. I put my brush away and close the medicine cabinet. Wipe down my sink and the faucet handles too. Wipe them once more before I force myself to stop.

“Sheriff Perry called me last night,” Mom says.

I pause at the mirror. My reflection goes tight. And then pale.

“Has she been with Deacon again?” Dad asks.

“Not sure. He said he’d keep an eye on her for us though.”

“Good,” Dad says. “Those Westfields are trouble.”

I don’t like his tone. All the Westfields are trouble now? Why? Because Deacon drives too fast? Because Mr. Westfield cut Dad’s maintenance contract? Maybe he’s forgetting all the days I spent at their house, days when Dad was packing his things and splitting our family in two. A cramp in my jaw reminds me to stop gritting my teeth.

It’s getting clearer every day that Perry isn’t investigating anything. This case begins and ends with Deacon for him—but not me. I glance over at my laptop open on my bed.

I still don’t know what to make of the coordinates. If my research is legit, then a few of the Westfield boats could make it down there, and there are some small islands in the area. But people don’t charter clunky fishing boats for a pleasure cruise to a remote tropical paradise.

Is it a fishing thing? Some rare “not legal to catch here” opportunity that I wouldn’t have a clue about? Definitely a Deacon question. Guilt still flits around my plans to see him, but I’ve been round and round with it all night. Deke might have answers, and if I don’t get some of those soon, I’m going to start pulling out my bedroom carpet fibers, one by one.

I pause with my hand on the door, reviewing the mental to-do list I pored over all night.

Spend time with Mom so she doesn’t worry.

Visit Chelsea.

Weed flower boxes and check messages.

Check in with Joel.

See Deacon.

Okay. It’s showtime.

In the kitchen, Dad’s reading the paper and Mom’s chopping vegetables for something she’s probably cooking later. I sit at the oak table, eating toast with too much butter, while we all chitchat about breakfast-appropriate things. The weather. The new boat engine Dad’s all excited about. The estate sale Mom’s shopping this weekend.

It’s all as sunny as the kitchen itself. I pretend I didn’t hear them talking about me, and they pretend they are still married. We’re very good at this game.

I put my plate in the sink and head to the back door. “I’m going to head out to check on Chelsea. Run some errands.”

“When will you be home?” Mom asks.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalant. “Probably late. I want to stop by Joel’s office. Might see who’s hanging out at the Cru.”

Mom’s lips go a little thin, and Dad looks up from the paper. It’s as close to suspicious as they’ve ever looked with me. My shoulders go heavy, but I force a smile. “What’s the matter? I said the Cru, but you guys look like you heard seedy meth lab.”

Mom waves a dish towel at me, but her laugh is nervous. “No, sugar, it’s all fine. Just…just check in on your phone.”

I push her anxiety out of my mind as I head across the backyard. There’s no help for it right now. If Deacon’s name is cleared, they’ll chill out, and they’ll never even have to know I was involved.

The morning haze still hasn’t burned off, so the air is thick and muggy. It might be one of those days where the cloud cover never clears. I slog through the humidity, focusing on all the ways this conversation might go with Chelsea. The inn is only a couple of blocks from my house, so I don’t have much time to think. It’ll end up the same anyway. Chelsea and I will talk. Holler a little maybe. Then we’ll be friends again.

Maybe she’ll even know something about the coordinates.

The Ann Street Inn is a two-story white beauty with a wide front porch. There are pretty tables for cocktails and rockers and lounge chairs with plenty of cushions. Most of us in the historic district have spent at least one night chatting on this porch with Donna and her guests. It’s almost weird to see it empty.

I climb the steps and slip inside, spotting the narrow table with brochures and the door to the Queen Anne suite on the right. Faintly, upstairs, I hear the whir of a vacuum cleaner.

“Donna? Are you up there?” I call.

I knock on the wall by the banister, and the vacuum goes silent. Donna bumps something upstairs, swears softly. Then she rounds the landing at the top of the steps, breaking into a wide smile. “Hey, you! You here to see Chelsea?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Shoot, no need for the ma’am here.” Donna’s the epitome of life in Beaufort—always friendly, always smiling, and
always
ready for cocktail hour. “She’s out back with a visitor. I think he’s from Children’s Services or something?”

I feel my brows pull together. “Children’s Services? Oh no, did her aunt call?”

“Well, I didn’t think to ask. But they’ll have to figure out where she’ll go long term, so maybe.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Her daddy’s got a long road yet.”

“Of course,” I say, though I’d never thought about that. I just assumed Joel would get the guardianship, but maybe my mom was right about their aunt.

Donna looks back into the upstairs, toward the guest rooms most likely. “I’d love to sit and wait with you, Emmie, but I’ve got to get these bathrooms done. Grab a glass of tea from the fridge if you want to wait in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

I slip through the small living area, cluttered with thick-cushioned sofas, then past the huge dining room table on my way to the kitchen in the back. Tea’s not a bad idea. I can pour us both a glass. It’ll make this visit look more social and less “let’s talk about your betrayal and your dad’s possible attacker.”

I find glasses on the counter and glance outside, spotting Chelsea at a chair just beyond the windows. The windows are open for air, but the blinds are tilted down enough to make it easy to see out without totally sacrificing privacy.

I like that it gives me the chance to see Chelsea, to brace myself for our talk. She’s still with the guy Donna mentioned, so maybe I should give them time. I don’t recognize him, but he looks nice enough—dark skin, gray suit, and a friendly face.

“I don’t know how long,” Chelsea says, apparently answering something. I feel a little bad being able to hear them so well, so I grab a glass for the iced tea and start pouring.

“Do you think Emmie knows anything about this?”

My head jerks up at my name. What kind of a Children’s Services question is that? What would
I
know about? Unless maybe she wants to stay with Mom and me? Hope unfurls in my chest.

“I don’t know,” Chelsea says, her voice cracking. “God, I hope not.”

“But you aren’t sure,” the man says. “We have to be sure.”

Chelsea sighs. “She works for Joel, not my dad, so I doubt it. I don’t know though. It’s not like I haven’t kept secrets from her.”

My stomach drops, and tea dribbles over the rim of my glass. I set down the pitcher. This isn’t about where Chelsea is staying. This is about secrets. And somehow about me.

“Maybe I’ll have a talk with her,” the man says.

“Don’t!” Chelsea’s urgency startles me. “Please don’t talk to Emmie. Not about this.”

The kitchen goes narrow and dim. All I can see is the tea I spilled, rivers of brown liquid that pool into tiny lakes on the counter. I snag a handful of napkins with shaking hands.

“I can’t make you promises, Miss Westfield.”

“She wouldn’t keep this quiet,” she says. “Emmie can’t handle secrets like this.”

I’m wiping furiously, scrubbing at the mess on the counter.

“It’s almost time,” the man says.

“I know.” Chelsea looks down at the table and sighs. “I should get back in there.”

She stands up outside, and fear grips me. I don’t want her to see me. I don’t want her to know I heard them. I swipe the napkins into the trash and put my glass in the sink. I all but sprint out of the kitchen.

I’m at the front door when Donna starts coming down the stairs. “Emmie? You’re as white as the wall.”

“I’m so sorry, Donna. I think I might be sick. I’ll come back.” My gaze darts to the back of the house. I can’t see the kitchen from here, but I don’t hear anything yet. “Could you maybe not tell Chelsea? I…I wanted to surprise her.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she says with a smile.

I stumble outside without another word, my stomach in knots and my world falling apart.

• • •

I dial Joel half a block from Ann Street Inn, but his line goes straight to voice mail. Okay, slow down. Think. Calling Children’s Services will get me nowhere. Calling my parents will result in a paranoid mess. The police?

I pause at the corner, thinking that one over. I don’t know if he was Children’s Services or not, but Chelsea wasn’t afraid. He obviously introduced himself to Donna. The only scary thing about any of this is the fact that Chelsea obviously has a secret. One she doesn’t want me knowing about.

Chelsea, what are you hiding?

I remember in a rush. Deacon knows.

The office will have to wait. Everything will have to wait. I narrow my eyes and start out again, toward my house. I don’t care whose secret this is—it’s getting closer to me every second, and I’m tired of being in the dark.

I stop back by the house to pick up my bike—a second-hand beach cruiser with a giant metal basket. Mom and Dad are both gone, and I don’t hear Ralph barking, so they must be out.

My tires crunch over the driveway and then onto the street. I swear I feel eyes on me the second I clear the shadow of my house. It’s stupid. This isn’t some big city. Sheriff Perry doesn’t have the manpower to set up a tail for a seventeen-year-old girl. Heck, we can barely produce a sufficient police presence when things get crazy during the Pirate Invasion Festival every year. Still, I find myself looking over my shoulder at every stop sign.

I avoid the waterfront and take a couple of wrong turns, so it takes me almost an hour to span the four miles to the cottage up the creek. It’s the quiet side of town, the part the tourists don’t see and most of the rest of us don’t think about much. The houses are farther apart and sometimes abandoned. Beaufort isn’t a cheap place to live or an easy place to find work.

The old Carmine place had some sort of foundation problem. When the owner couldn’t fix it, the house was condemned, and after he died, the whole thing turned into a blame game. The place has been sitting vacant ever since. Chelsea, Deacon, and I found it shortly after Mr. Carmine died. Chelsea hated it—thought it was creepy to be wandering around an old dead man’s house—but I thought he’d lived a good life here, and the peacefulness kind of stuck.

I could have come here every day.

I might have, if Deacon hadn’t chosen it as his personal sanctuary too. I’ve ridden out here more than once to spot his motorcycle off in the high grass beside the gravel driveway. Chicken that I was, I kept right on pedaling, too afraid of what might happen if I spent time with Deke without Chelsea running interference.

Feels funny riding up this narrow, twisting road now, not bubbling up with that electric mix of hope and fear that I’ll see him. This time, I’m just praying he’ll be here like he said.

It’s a good choice for a hideout. Close enough to give him access to town. Far enough away to keep people out of his business. Plus, with an attached dock, the property provides easy water access.

The house is ugly, tiny, and lost in a thicket of wildly overgrown shrubbery. Probably has a lot to do with why it’s been in legal limbo so long. It’s a one-bedroom hovel with a closet-sized kitchen and a bathroom so small, you could probably pee and shower at the same time. The plumbing still worked last time I checked, but the occasional critter gets in the bedroom window. And there’s no electricity. Not exactly the Hilton.

I park my bike in the weed-covered driveway and head to the porch. That’s what brought us here the first time. We heard something crying in this thin, awful way. From the road, it had sounded like a little kid. Chelsea was already skeeved out, but Deke insisted we look.

We found her trapped on the second step of the porch, one paw caught between two boards and raw from her trying to free it. The cat hissed and shrieked until even I was ready to call animal control and throw in the towel. Deacon just took off his shirt and wrapped her tight, holding her other paws down while he freed the trapped one. He carried her all the way back to Dr. Atwood’s that night, rolled up like a little kitty burrito in his sweaty T-shirt.

I even suggested Burrito as a name, but Deacon was set on something more ironic. She’s been Hushpuppy ever since.

There’s no caterwauling today though. Just the steady breeze rasping through tall grass. I don’t see any movement inside the windows. Nothing on the chipped kitchen counter or on the floor where a dining room used to be.

Still, I inch around the side of the cottage. I see a flash of silver-gray out by the dock first. My cheeks tingle. Deacon’s little putter-around boat.

I find him in the hammock, stretched out and eyes closed while he sways just a little. I know from my own naps on that hammock that if I get much closer, I’ll hear the creak of the rope against the metal ring. Is he sleeping? I take a second to watch his chest rise and fall in his white T-shirt, his brown arms propped behind his head.