One True Secret. Bethany Campbell
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She said, “They’ve upgraded the storm back to a hurricane. It’s in the Caribbean and moving fast.”
He studied her from behind the mask of his sunglasses. “Hurricane? When did they upgrade it? It was still a tropical storm when we left Key West.”
“I heard it on the radio right before you came.” She tried to smooth her streaming hair. “It’s growing. And picking up speed.”
“Does that scare you?” he asked.
Few things frightened Emerson, and she hated to admit that anything could frighten her. But hurricanes did. She tried to sound philosophic. “Hurricanes are the price you pay for living here.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
Damn, he must sense her uneasiness. “Only a fool wouldn’t respect a hurricane. But it doesn’t scare me until I know it’s close. I’ve seen what they can do.”
“So have I. So what do you do when one’s coming at you?”
“The usual. We have emergency supplies. A propane stove, lanterns, the whole disaster kit. Even a special room. We hope for the best and close the hurricane shutters.”
He looked at the dark horizon, then back at the house. “Maybe you should shut them soon.”
She tossed her head. “Frenchy will. As soon as you leave.”
“I see. And Frenchy would be…”
“The groundskeeper and maintenance man.”
“Frenchy, I take it, is French?”
“No. Frenchy is Norwegian.”
“Then why’s he called Frenchy?”
“I don’t know. Things like that happen in the Keys.”
He seemed to reflect on this. She added, “He won’t talk to you under any circumstances. He’s signed a confidentiality agreement. An ironclad one.”
Take that, she thought. But at that moment, she had to dodge another wave and once again nearly collided with him. Why did he have to stay so close?
But he didn’t seem to notice, and he changed the subject. “So this is the beach your grandfather loved so much.”
She caught his careful wording. “He still loves it,” she said. “There’s no need to use the past tense.”
“He still comes here?” Eli asked, just casually enough.
“Of course.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s the main reason he bought this place. Maybe we should turn back. This isn’t a nice day to be here.”
“I don’t mind.” His gaze swept up and down the beach.
“It’s private here. Very private.”
“Yes. It is.”
“No immediate neighbors. I looked at it on a detailed map. To the south, a mangrove swamp. To the north, a mangrove swamp. To the east, a long tract of wild country that your family owns. And to the west, the Gulf.”
She shrugged. He walked so close now that strands of her hair flicked and danced against the shoulder of his shirt. Her gauzy sleeve, damp with spray, blew against his tattooed arm.
She stopped. “The wind’s getting higher. I feel it. We’ll turn back now.”
She walked to his other side, no longer wanting to play tag with the water. She moved out of its reach, letting her skirt fall to her ankles again.
He kept even with her, and he tilted his head toward the cove. “You’d have a tough time getting here by boat, if I read the charts right. It’s shallow with a rough bottom. Almost impossible to land here.”
“That’s right,” she said, quickening her stride toward home.
“So if a sightseer should come—”
Or a snoop— she added mentally.
“—he could only see this spot from a distance. That wall of trees hides the house. All he could see is the top of the house rising over the branches. Or somebody on this beach.”
“Not many people come sight-seeing,” she returned defensively. “People come to the Keys to fish and boat and party. Not to see an aging painter.”
“I don’t know about that. I did.”
He smiled at her. He had an interesting mouth, a full lower lip for so lean a face. The smile was knowing, and there was a dare in it.
She ignored the dare. “My grandfather’s famous in the art world. But to the general public? He’s not a celebrity.”
His maddening smile stayed in place, bracketed by wry lines. “He used to be. People would see his pictures in the glossy magazines, Vanity Fair, Vogue.”
A prickle of apprehension rippled up her spine. “It got old for him. Stale. He found that sort of thing less and less attractive.”
He stopped, and she started to walk on without him. “Wait,” he said.
She stopped, but turned to stare at him in challenge. “What?”
The wind ruffled his hair, the clouded sky reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. He held up his hand, as if signaling her to stay. “Hold on a minute. Seven years ago, your grandfather threw himself a birthday party. He’d done the same thing for years. The guest list was twenty-one people. If I remember correctly.”
He remembered correctly, all right, curse him. But Emerson gave him a smile of false sweetness. “Yes?”
“But six years ago, no party. None. And none since. He basically withdrew from the world.”
She’d known it was coming and was only surprised he hadn’t zeroed in sooner. She raised her chin. “He decided to focus more on his family and his work. His dearest friend, William Marcuse, died of a heart attack that year. It affected him deeply, especially since my father had a heart condition, too. So the Captain decided to devote himself to what mattered most. Besides that, my grandmother is a retiring woman. The social life was always a strain on her.”
It was a speech she’d rehearsed carefully and delivered just as carefully. She had said exactly the same thing before, and she never changed it. Still, she found her hands clenched into nervous fists and realized she held her back uncomfortably straight.
His gaze seemed amused. “It was very considerate of Marcuse to die when he did. He provided an excuse. It’s very convenient that your grandmother was always reserved. She also provides an excuse. But, Miss Roth, it’s time to stop the lies.”
“What lies?” she asked, feigning indignation.
He took off the sunglasses. His eyes, hard as obsidian, met hers. “No one outside your immediate family admits to talking to your grandfather for six years or seeing him closely. Something’s happened to him. Something bad. Everyone suspects it. It showed in his art then, and it’s showing more now. Much more.”
She clenched her fists harder. She felt her face turn stiff. The salt spray stung her eyes and pricked like tears.
He smiled at her like a man who holds all the winning cards and knows it. “What happened to your grandfather? What have you worked so hard to hide? Everyone knows there’s a secret, Miss Roth. Everyone. What is it?”
CHAPTER THREE
FOR A MOMENT, Eli thought his bluntness had caught her unprepared. He was wrong. She turned from him, laughing, and began to walk again.
“You’re trying to be dramatic, Mr. Garner. You talk as if we’re running some terrible conspiracy. You’re in the wrong field. You should write fiction.”
He caught up with her, but she wouldn’t look