Season of Secrets. Marta Perry
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difficult to force the words out. “Court knows I was a suspect in his mother’s death. My son knows that, Dinah.”
“Oh, Marc.” The pity in her face was almost worse than her anger had been. “I’m sorry. Surely he doesn’t believe you did it.”
“He says he doesn’t.” He tried to look at the situation objectively, as if he were a prosecutor assessing a case again. “Most of the time I think that’s true.”
But what if there was a doubt, even a fraction of a doubt? Could he stand to see his close relationship with his son eroded day by day, month by month, until they were polite strangers?
“I’m sorry,” she said again, looking at him as if she knew all the things he didn’t say. “I wish I could help you. I really do. But I don’t know anything.”
He studied her troubled expression. Dinah certainly thought she was telling the truth, but there might be more to it than that. She’d been there, in the house, that whole summer. There far more than he had been, in fact. If there’d been any clue, any small indication of trouble in the events of that summer, Dinah could have seen.
He wouldn’t say that to her, not now. He’d shaken her enough already, and if he wanted her cooperation, he’d have to step carefully.
“I understand.” He stood, seeing the relief she tried to hide that he was leaving. He held out his hand to her. After a moment she rose, slipping her hand in his. Hers was small and cold in his grip. “But you can still be a friend, can’t you? To me and to Court?”
She hesitated for a fraction of an instant before she produced a smile. “Of course. You must know that.”
“Good.” He made his voice brisk, knowing he had to pin her down while he could. “Come and see us tomorrow. We should be settled enough by then to entertain a guest. I want you to meet Court.”
Again that slight hesitation. And then she nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start with. If Dinah knew anything, eventually he’d know it, too.
Two
“I just wish you wouldn’t go over there.” Aunt Kate followed Dinah to the front hall the next day as if she’d bar the door.
Dinah stopped, managing a smile for her great-aunt. “I wish I didn’t have to.” She hadn’t told Aunt Kate about Marcus’s intention of looking into Annabel’s death. That would only distress her more.
“Well, then—”
“I must, don’t you see?” Obviously Aunt Kate didn’t, or they wouldn’t be having this conversation again. “You’re the one who taught me about the importance of family.”
Aunt Kate’s lips pursed into a shape reminiscent of a bud on one of her rosebushes. “Marcus Devlin is not a member of our family.”
“Annabel was.” She struggled to say the words evenly.
Aunt Kate’s eyes misted. “Does he know you haven’t been in that house since Annabel died?”
“No. And you’re not to tell him.” She clutched Aunt Kate’s hand. “Promise me.”
“Of course, dear. But if it bothers you that much, it’s all the more reason not to become involved with Marcus’s visit.”
“This isn’t about Marcus. I have to go over there for Court’s sake.”
Aunt Kate gave in at that—she could see it in her eyes. It was a good thing, because Dinah couldn’t bear to argue with her.
“I suppose if you must, you must.” She touched Dinah’s hair lightly. “You’re as stubborn as I was at your age.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek.
“We’ll deal with the gossip somehow, I suppose.” Her aunt tried one last volley.
“Darling, you know they’ll gossip anyway. What I do or don’t do won’t change that.”
“I suppose. It’s just…” She caught Dinah’s hand as she opened the door. “Be careful, Dinah. Please.”
The intensity in her aunt’s voice startled her. “Careful of what?”
“Marc. Just be wary of Marc. There may be more to his return than he’s telling you.”
Dinah could think of nothing to say to that. She slipped outside, closing the door quickly.
Aunt Kate, through some instinct, seemed to know more than she’d been told. Marcus did have an agenda, and it certainly wasn’t one of which Aunt Kate would approve.
Well. Dinah stood on the piazza for a moment, pulling her jacket a little tighter around her. How had Aunt Kate stumbled upon that? Had she sensed something from Dinah’s reaction?
She’d tried to hide her feelings after Marc had left the previous day. This idea of his that he’d look into Annabel’s death—well, it might be understandable, but she couldn’t help him. She had to make him see that.
She went out the brick walk to the gate in the wrought-iron fence that enclosed Aunt Kate’s house and garden. The gate, like most of the others on the street, bore a wreath of magnolia leaves in honor of the season.
She touched the shining leaves. Maybe Court would like to make one, if he was determined to observe a real Charleston Christmas. Charlestonians were justifiably proud of their Christmas decor.
Crossing the quiet street, she had to will her steps not to lag. She took the step up to the curb, facing the gate in the wrought-iron fence. Marc’s gate was similar to Aunt Kate’s, but the black iron was worked into the shape of a pineapple in the center—the traditional symbol of Southern hospitality.
The house beyond, like Aunt Kate’s and most other old Charleston houses, was set with its side to the street, facing the small garden. According to local lore, the houses were laid out that way because in the early days of the city, home owners were taxed based on how many windows faced the street. The truth was probably that they’d been clever enough to place the piazzas to catch the breeze.
Open the gate, go up the brick walk. Her breath came a little faster now. Ridiculous, to hear her heart beating in her ears because she neared her cousin’s house. She should have faced this long ago. If Aunt Kate hadn’t sent her away so quickly after the tragedy—
She stopped herself. Aunt Kate had done what she thought was best when confronted with the death of one great-niece and the emotional collapse of the other. She couldn’t be blamed.
Dinah had come back to Charleston as an adult. She could have gone into the house at any time, but she’d successfully avoided every invitation.
Her first instinct had been right. Marc’s return would change all of them in ways she couldn’t imagine.
She reached for the knocker and then paused. In the old days, she’d run in and out of Annabel’s house as if it were her own. She shouldn’t change things now. She grasped the brass knob, turned it and let the door swing open.
Please, help me do this. Slowly, she stepped inside.
The spacious center hallway stood empty, the renters’ furniture gone with them. Weak winter sunshine through the stained-glass window on the landing cast oblongs of rose and green on the beige stair carpet. The graceful, winding staircase seemed to float upward.
The space was different, but the same. Even without Annabel’s familiar furnishings, it echoed with her presence, as if at any moment she would sail through the double doors from the front parlor, silvery blond hair floating around her face, arms outstretched in welcome.
A shudder went through Dinah, and she took an involuntary step back.
“I know.”
She