The Secrets She Keeps (22 page)

“My palms are sweating,” Ellen says.

“You cannot keep relying on a man to drive you around,” Veronica says.

“Every divorcée needs a set of
these.
” Hadley tosses the keys to Ellen, who misses the catch. She hunts around on the floor for them.

“Divorcée,” Ellen says, popping her blond head back up. “I can still barely even say the word.”

“When life gives you lemons…” Hadley says.

“Learn how to
drive
,” Veronica says.

Somehow, Nash ends up in the backseat, with Veronica in front. Clearly, she’s losing control of the situation. They are having lesson number one right here in the driveway, and Boo looks out from the front window of the house as if he disapproves. Nash hopes that none of the wranglers see her back there, especially Jack. Danny is stuck taking Mrs. Shumley into town to get her hair done, so Nash is safe from him, and who knows where Jack is, anyway. Every time she shuts her eyes, she sees the flash of that camera and him running, half naked, for that photographer.

The engine is on, chuckling as if in a fine, jovial mood. Ellen checks her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Veronica shows her how to shift into reverse, and down the drive they go in a sudden lurch that makes Nash shriek and causes Hadley to give a round of applause.

“Easy, easy,” Veronica says. It’s the same thing Jack says to Zorro.

Ellen shifts again, and they go forward and then stop suddenly in telegraph style—dash, dot, dash, dot. Nash’s head begins to throb. It is due to last night’s lack of sleep, but it is also unexpressed anger, pressing outward against her temples. She is angry at Jack, yes, but she is also angry at her mother for leaving and at her sister for just about everything. When it comes to sisters, it seems that one stays and one goes, one remains bound and the other is set free. She is who she is in good part because of who Gloria isn’t. In order to be herself, in order to be different from her sister, she had to take what was left over, the opposite, unchosen road. She is both glad and furious about this.

“The horse was easier!” Ellen says. There is a trickle of sweat by her temple, brought on by nerves and heat, but her eyes are bright and excited. “I never thought I’d say
that
.”

“You are doing beautifully. Stay calm. Watch the ditch! Next, the Grand Prix!” Veronica grips the seat edge. She looks pale.

Veronica may be right about Ellen’s next venture, because Ellen hits the accelerator so hard that they go shooting off, and even Veronica screams. “Slow down, slow down!” she says.

Nash prays silently. She asks to be forgiven for all her sins and her uncharitable thoughts, especially about her sister. It’s not Gloria’s fault that Nash is stuck on the ranch. This is her own choice. This is who she is. She has always been more like Alice than like their father, Carlyle, who was known for his occasional rash acts, a spin of the roulette wheel, a fast ride in bad weather, the buying of a ranch against his wife’s better judgment.

“A car is coming!” Ellen squeals. She veers to the side of the road so abruptly, it’s only luck that prevents them from barreling into the gully. Nash feels bad for poor Jemima, who has another lesson with Ellen tomorrow; she hopes Ellen shows more calm and restraint with that old girl. Animals are saints, with what they put up with.

The car steadily approaching them—it doesn’t belong here; Nash knows immediately that this is serious. She can feel the threat right there in that place under the breastbone, where every living being likely senses a predator. A ditch, a new driver—that’s nothing. The car is a shiny black Cadillac convertible, and its top is down. It has white-walled tires and a silver hood ornament in the shape of a flying lady, a goddess with wings. There are red leather seats, too. A man in a suit and a straw fedora is driving, and another man, in casual shirtsleeves and a panama hat, sits in the passenger seat.

Nash looks over her shoulder toward the house, which she can’t quite see from here. She sends a silent message to Lilly.
Stay where you are
, she pleads.

“Shut off the engine. Now,” Veronica snaps. She’s calm but firm. She understands what’s happening, too. This car has driven under the tall arch of the Tamarosa sign, and it is on their property, and Veronica and Nash both know who that man is. That’s no hired private investigator that can be scared off with a little arm-waving; that’s the monster himself.

Nash is out of the car and onto the road. She has her hands on her hips. Later, she’ll recognize how silly she must have looked to them, a powerless girl, but right now she realizes she’s even more like Alice than she ever thought. Her hands feel like Alice’s hands, and her hips feel like Alice’s hips.

The Cadillac rolls to a stop. It is so black and shiny and expensive that it has no business being in the desert. It’s the same as the minks Veronica wore when she first arrived, and the same as the patent-leather valise of Mr. Jonathan Jakes, one of the few men they’d had at the ranch. Clearly, those things are not from here. Here, the only things that are black and shiny and fast and sleek are the horses, especially the mustangs.

The driver steps out while the second man stays in the car. Of course he stays in the car, and his arm even rests on the window ledge, as if he is enjoying a summer afternoon. The driver walks toward them. He removes his hat and holds it to his chest in some gallant gesture that feels demeaning and hostile. Why this innocent gesture is plainly not innocent is hard to say. Maybe it is the smirk playing about the man’s mouth and the self-satisfied gleam of his shoes. His hair is black and greased back. He has a blunt chin and small rodent eyes, but he has large, ring-less hands, with stubby, cigar-like fingers.

“How can we help you?” Veronica asks. She’s next to Nash, with her arms folded against her checked shirt, which is tucked tidily into her slacks. This should be Nash’s line, but it appears that Veronica has come from her own lineage of women with backbones of iron.

“Looking for a cowboy,” the man says. “You got cowboys out here, I take it.”

“We’ve got plenty of cowboys,” Nash says. Even her voice sounds like Alice’s.

“I only need this one,” the man says. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and hands over a folded newspaper page. It’s Jack riding Little Britches, who died not long after, a terrible death, thrashing and biting at her stomach after she got colic. Little Britches is nearly off the ground in the photo, leaping into the air, and Jack looks cocky on her. It was taken at the Washoe County Roundup last year.

“Never seen him,” Nash says.

Veronica lets out a low whistle. “Handsome fella. I’d have remembered that one.”

Nash’s heart is beating hard in her chest. It feels the way thundering hooves sound.

“It says he works here. Tamarosa Ranch. This
is
Tamarosa Ranch.”

“Of course,” Nash says. “But we don’t have that horse, either.”

“Small-town hacks,” Veronica says. “With small-town newspapers.”

“Right,” the man says. He folds the newspaper page again and puts it back into his jacket.

“Let’s get out of here,” the man in the passenger seat says. “I don’t have time for this.”

It’s over,
Nash thinks, a thought that always tempts fate, and this is when she hears the
slap-slap
of shoes behind her, the sound of someone running. It’s Lilly, who has wandered up the road to watch Ellen’s progress and is now racing toward them—if
racing
is the right word—with her hand under Beanie, her lopsided self lurching forward.

“Stop,” she yells. “Stuart, stop!”

Lilly is not close enough to hear or understand what is actually happening, that Stuart and the fat-fingered man are turning back. Her own history interprets what she sees: The man stands too close to Veronica; Nash’s hands are on her hips; Stuart removes his arm from the window ledge of the car, disgusted, fed up. What she thinks will happen next is what usually happens next. Only she knows what he’s capable of.

Lilly stops, out of breath. She meets Stuart’s eyes. There’s the
click-clatch
sound of the car door opening, the slam of it shutting. This is all so fast, Nash can only take in image flashes: the flap of Stuart’s shirtsleeves, a scream, a hand grabbing the fabric of Lilly’s dress, the muscles in Stuart Marcel’s arm as he shoves, the sound of Lilly’s bottom and the heels of her shoes and her palms skidding backward over gravel.

“Whore,” he spits.

Veronica’s face has changed. Her eyes are fierce, and her teeth are clenched. She resembles a cat in a fight. “Get out of here!” she snarls.

Stuart Marcel turns to face her. He’s so close to Veronica that their noses nearly touch. Nash can hear them both breathing hard. It happens in seconds, too fast for Nash even to act. She will regret this later, the way she just stands and watches in shock. There is no response or plan or move to action on her part. There is only Veronica, holding his eyes, the muscle in her cheek twitching.

“If you lay a fucking hand on me, you will fucking live to regret it,” she says.

He laughs.

It’s the sort of derisive
heh-heh
that says she’s not worth his trouble. With that chuckle and the brief flash of his teeth, Nash’s mind finally begins to work, still only offering up wrong, useless ideas, ideas that flail and panic—the Savage Model 720 under the bed; a yell to the boys, who are too far away to hear; a visual plea to Ellen and Hadley, urging them to hit the accelerator and run the bastard down.

But Stuart is backing away from Veronica.
Look at that. He’s retreating.
Likely he prefers less of an audience when he uses his muscle against someone half his size. He says, “Come on,” to the fat-fingered man, who now watches from the sidelines as if it’s just another tiresome playground scuffle. They both get in the Cadillac. Every move drips disdain. The fat- fingered man examines his watch. Stuart Marcel flicks a bit of dust from his shirtfront.

Lilly stays on the ground. No one moves. They watch the car reverse and then turn around. It kicks up all the mean dirt as it leaves. Rocks ping against the hubcaps. Those white-walled tires will be a mess by the time they make it back to Reno.

Nash’s hands shake; her legs are shaking, too, as she helps Lilly up. The women look Lilly over. She has scrapes and scratches on the backs of her legs and her palms; there’s blood and dirt where the skin has broken.

“Get in! For God’s sake, get in!” Hadley shouts from the open window of the car. Ellen’s eyes are large. She’s still gripping the wheel. Nash can see Ellen’s gold ring with the diamond chips on her left hand.

They do get in, Veronica in the front seat next to Ellen, Nash and Lilly in the back with Hadley. “Are you all right?” Hadley asks. “The baby?”

“Yes,” Lilly says. “I think so.”

“He’s your garden-variety bully, that’s all,” Veronica says. But it’s a lie, and they all know it. The first Mrs. Stuart Marcel, the whisper of her sad and furious ghost, is telling them so right now.

“I thought he was directing a film in Africa. Didn’t you say he was in the Congo somewhere?” Ellen asks.

“He’s supposed to be,” Lilly says. Her voice is small. “I am so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You’re not the one who’s supposed to be sorry,” Hadley says.

“I am, though. I am.”

“Isn’t there a cigarette in here somewhere?” Veronica is rooting through her purse. “I need a cigarette.” She slams the bag shut, lets out a low whistle of disbelief. It’s an all-purpose disbelief, covering missing Chesterfields, as well as vicious men.

Nash’s head hurts. She could almost cry. She wants to go into her room and bolt the door. She wants her mother. They sit in stunned silence for a while, watching a cloud of gnats just beyond the windshield. They spin like the neutrons and atoms in Nash’s old science book.

“Get us home, Ellen,” Veronica says. “Hell with the cigarette, I need a drink.”

—

Ellen sets her glass down on a coaster decorated with a photo of the Cal Neva Resort. Hadley and Lilly have gone back to their cabins together, but Veronica and Ellen are nursing their mules.

“It’s all in who you choose, isn’t it?” Ellen says.

She’s right. It’s the bare fact of it. The people who come and go and come and go, all of the many, many people who walk up and back down the steps of the Washoe County Courthouse—they are mostly here because of a wrong move. They’ve picked darkness over light, fiery demons over a calm heart. That’s the trick: a good choice. It’s the most basic thing that draws the line between plain old struggle and utter disaster. Yet there’s just something in the way he tips his hat or stares her right in the eyes, something about her weakness or his coldness, that lures, that tugs at some deep, deep place. Some old place, some small piece of a person that makes the danger and darkness feel like a memory.

She keeps seeing that hand on Lilly’s chest, shoving. It feels as if Stuart Marcel is still around, hovering. Likely for Lilly, he will always be hovering, her whole life long, even when he’s gone for good. She let the monster in, and now only the monster will decide when he leaves.

Can Nash even judge bad choices and wrong love, though? She looks at Jack and none of it matters, the way he drinks too much, the way he held and kissed Lilly Marcel in the pool, even. She disregards the impossibility of it all, the certainty of catastrophe. Something about him compels her. When she sees Jack’s hand gripping Zorro’s reins, or when he drives too fast in bad weather—it is the ugly unease of danger that lures her, unfamiliar familiarity. This is what her mother would call
against one’s better judgment.

These things are always
against one’s better judgment.
Somewhere, the women and the men always know better, but they make their choices anyway. They will tell you this later. They are under a deep, powerful spell that logic cannot begin to conquer. Fate pushes the story forward, and what is a story, anyway, without villains and miscreants, horrible wrong turns, and new days dawning.

The whole thing makes her furious. The women, the men, the court steps. That hand on Lilly’s dress, shoving; the lurch, the landing that Beanie surely felt; naked figures in moonlight. The needless risks. Her own stupid heart most of all.