The Secrets She Kept. Brenda Novak
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was nice of you.”
“You don’t think I have a conscience?”
“I think you can be devastating, even when you don’t mean to be.”
He’d never live down his reputation. He’d earned it too honestly. But, in his own defense, he hadn’t been ready to settle down—with anyone—and he hadn’t presented himself in any other way.
Regardless, there wasn’t much point in continuing the conversation. They were driving to the morgue in Charleston to view the body of their dead mother. He didn’t need to make this day any worse. “That was five years ago,” he said calmly. “I’m not the same person.”
“You have the same gorgeous face. The same disarming smile. The same appeal to women,” she said. “I’d rather you didn’t rekindle your relationship with Nancy while you’re here. It’s not like you need her—or would ever take her seriously even if you did start seeing her again. There are too many other women out there who’d suit you better.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Nancy again. But it upset him to hear what Maisey had to say. He was used to having his younger sister on his side. They’d always banded together. They’d had to—to survive their childhood. “She’s an adult. I’m sure she can take care of herself and doesn’t need you to run interference for her. Anyway, stop worrying. I won’t be here long enough to start seeing anyone.”
She sighed. “It’s not like I want you to leave. I’m just asking you to stay away from Nancy. As a personal favor to me.”
Her earnest expression irritated him even more. “You’ve gotten that close to her?”
“Yes! She’s someone I trust and confide in, someone I enjoy working with.”
He turned toward the ferry, which would take them to the mainland. “Is that why you paid her the money I owed her?”
The way Maisey fiddled with her purse told him she was suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry if you’re mad that I got involved. But she’s never had much money. I made sure that what she lent you came back to her sooner rather than later, that’s all.”
“I tried to pay her myself,” he said. “Less than a year after I left.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“She didn’t mention it?”
“No.”
“So you thought I never tried.”
“I wasn’t worried. I’d already taken care of it.”
“I gave her a car, too—something to make up for how I treated her. But she wouldn’t take it.”
“You can’t be surprised she’d say no. That was an expensive present.”
“Wow. You are defensive of Nancy.”
Maisey reached out to squeeze his forearm. “Not really. I love you, too. It was very generous of you.”
He pulled into the line of cars waiting to cross over. “She didn’t mention that, either? The car?”
“We don’t talk about you. I mean, I do sometimes. But if I bring you up, she just listens. She never says anything herself.”
He adjusted his windshield wipers to handle a fresh deluge. “She hates me that much?”
“I wouldn’t call it hate. She’s...moved on.”
The ferry captain approached the car in front of them. “Who’s she dating now?”
“Some guy from Charleston.”
“Is it serious?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked over and found her glaring at him. “Does it matter?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he muttered and lowered his window to pay the fare.
* * *
Their mother was on a gurney in the back end, where the corpses were weighed and tagged. A sheet covered her from the neck down, but her arms had been taken out from under it and folded beneath her breasts—probably Dean Gillespie’s attempt to make her appear “at peace,” for their sake.
But there was nothing peaceful or consoling about any of this; Josephine’s death felt wrong in so many ways, beginning with the fact that she’d never looked worse. Her hair fell away from her face exactly as it had dried when they’d pulled her from the tub, and dark circles underscored her closed eyes—the eyes that so many people had admired.
As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, her skin was so waxy Keith barely recognized her. He was tempted to check the name on the tag attached to her big toe, just to be sure. His mother didn’t have age spots or wrinkles. His mother didn’t have dull, lackluster hair. But this person did.
Her body wasn’t the same, either. Although Keith had heard his mother described as a bombshell on more than one occasion, she looked frail and insignificant under that sheet, as if she’d never been a singular beauty.
This was what it took to finally get the better of Josephine Lazarow, Keith decided. Age alone wasn’t enough. Age conquered everyone else, but not her. Only death could win.
“She would hate that we’re seeing her like this,” Maisey whispered.
Keith wished he hadn’t come. She might have been his greatest stumbling block, his greatest challenge, but she’d also been a constant he could rely on—someone who stood firm in her convictions, commanded respect, lived by her own rules and made damn sure everyone around her did, too. He’d known that if he ever really needed her she might give him hell, but she’d come through in the end.
“We’ll hire a good makeup artist for the funeral,” he said, but only to comfort his sister. Makeup wouldn’t help now. His mother had lost that vital essence that’d made her so magnificent.
Maisey didn’t respond.
“Her death feels so...premature,” he added.
When Maisey put her hand over his in a show of understanding, he wished he could shrug her off. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted answers. Who had felled their powerful mother? She must not have seen whoever it was. The person who’d killed her had to be someone she would never, in a million years, have expected to do her wrong.
“The various funeral homes usually engage someone who specializes in hair and makeup,” Dean told them. “All you have to do is bring in a picture, and they’ll do their best to make your mother look like you remember.”
“I’ll ask her regular hairdresser to do her hair,” Maisey told him. “And I’ll try to manage her makeup myself.”
“If that’s what you prefer,” Dean said. “Just keep in mind that those services are available if you need them.”
Keith couldn’t imagine being asked to do something like that, but maybe all stylists knew that preparing a client’s hair for his or her funeral was a possibility. The last dead person he’d encountered had been his father, and even though they’d never been particularly close, that loss had hit him hard, since Malcolm was the only calm parent of the two...
Trying to shrug off the feelings any memory of his father—or his past, really—evoked, he studied his mother’s throat. He thought he could discern a faint tinge of blue, where a strong pair of hands might’ve cut off her airflow, but he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining things. Her whole body looked blue...
“Have you seen enough?” Maisey asked.
Keith didn’t answer. “She has no marks on her anywhere?” he asked Dean.
“Marks?”
“Injuries?”
Dean shook his head. “None that I’ve seen, but I haven’t