Season of Secrets

Then it came again-a faint, distant creaking this time. She listened another moment. Nothing.

A shrill sound broke the silence, and she started, heart hammering. Then, realizing what it was, she shook her head at her own foolishness, snatched her cell phone out of her bag and pressed the button.

“Hello?” Her voice came out oddly breathless.

“Is everything all right?” Marc asked. “You don’t sound quite yourself.”

“It’s nothing. Really. I was just scaring myself, thinking I heard someone in the house.”

“Get out. Now.” The demand was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip.

Holding the phone clutched tightly against her ear, Dinah raced across the room, through the hallway, and plunged out the door.

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MARTA PERRY

has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.

Marta loves hearing from readers and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. E-mail her at marta@martaperry.com, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

MARTA PERRY

Season of Secrets

For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know full, even as I am known.

—1 Corinthians 13:12

This story is dedicated to my granddaughter,

Greta Nicole Wulff, with much love from Grammy.

And, as always, to Brian.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Questions for Discussion

One

“Why is he coming back now?”

Aunt Kate put her morning cup of Earl Grey back in the saucer as she asked the question for what had to be the twentieth time since they’d heard the news, her faded blue eyes puckered with distress. December sunlight streamed through the lace curtains on the bay window in the breakfast room, casting into sharp relief the veins that stood out on her hand, pressed to the polished tabletop.

“I don’t know, Aunt Kate.”

Love swept through Dinah Westlake, obliterating her own fears about Marc Devlin’s return to Charleston. She covered the trembling hand with her own, trying to infuse her great-aunt with her own warmth. Anger sparked. Marc shouldn’t come back, upsetting their lives once again.

“Maybe he just wants to sell the house since the Farriers moved out.” Aunt Kate sounded hopeful, and she glanced toward the front window and the house that stood across the street in the quiet Charleston historic block.

Annabel’s house. The house where Annabel died.

Dinah forced herself to focus on the question. “I suppose so. Do you know if he’s bringing Court?”

Her cousin Annabel’s son had been three when she’d seen him last, and now he was thirteen. She remembered a soft, cuddly child who’d snuggled up next to her, begging for just one more bedtime story. It was unlikely that Courtney would want or need anything from her now.

“I don’t know.” Aunt Kate’s lips firmed into a thin line. “I hope not.”

Dinah blinked. “Don’t you want to see Courtney?” This visit was the first indication that Marc would let his son have a relationship with his mother’s kin that consisted of more than letters, gifts and brief thank-you notes.

Tears threatened to spill over onto her great-aunt’s soft cheeks. “Of course I do. But that poor child shouldn’t be exposed to the house where his mother died, even if it means I never see him again.”

“Aunt Kate—” Dinah’s words died. She couldn’t say anything that would make a difference, because she understood only too well what her aunt felt. She, too, had not been back in that house since Annabel’s funeral.

Except in the occasional nightmare. Then, she stood again on the graceful curving staircase of Annabel and Marc’s house, looking down toward the dim hallway, hearing angry voices from the front parlor. Knowing something terrible was about to happen. Unable to prevent it.

“Everyone will start talking about Annabel’s death again.” Aunt Kate touched a lacy handkerchief to her eyes, unable as always to say the uglier word. Murder. “Just when it’s forgotten, people will start to talk again.”

Something recoiled in Dinah. It seemed so disloyal never to talk about Annabel. Still, if that was how Aunt Kate dealt with the pain, maybe it was better than having nightmares.

She slid her chair back, patting her aunt’s hand. “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m sure people are so busy getting ready for the Christmas holidays that Marc will have been and gone before anyone takes notice.”

Her aunt clasped her hand firmly. “You’re not going to the office today, are you? Dinah, you have to stay home. What if he comes?”

It was no use pointing out to her that Dinah was going to police headquarters, not an office. Aunt Kate couldn’t possibly refer to her as a forensic artist. In Aunt Kate’s mind, a Charleston lady devoted herself to the church, charity and society, not necessarily in that order.

“I thought I’d check in this morning.” As a freelance police artist she only worked when called on, but she’d found it helped her acceptance with the detectives to remind them of her presence now and then.

“Please, Dinah. Stay home today.”

Her hesitation lasted only an instant. Aunt Kate had taken care of her. Now it was her turn. She bent to press her cheek against Aunt Kate’s.

“Of course I will, if that’s what you want. But given the way he’s cut ties with us, I don’t expect Marcus Devlin to show up on our doorstep anytime soon.”

Was she being a complete coward? Maybe so. But she’d fought her way back from the terror of the night Annabel died, and she had no desire to revisit that dreadful time.

Please, God. Please let me forget.

That was a petition that was hardly likely to be granted, now that Marc Devlin was coming home.

After helping her aunt to the sunroom that looked over her garden, where she would doze in the winter sunshine, Dinah cleared the breakfast dishes. It was one of the few things Alice Jones, her aunt’s devoted housekeeper, allowed her to do to help.

Alice was nearly as old as her great-aunt, and the two of them couldn’t hope to stay on in the elegant, inconvenient antebellum house on Tradd Street if she weren’t here. She wasn’t even sure when she’d gone from being the cosseted little girl of the house to being the caretaker, but she didn’t see the situation changing anytime soon, and she wouldn’t want it to.

A sound disturbed the morning quiet. Someone wielded the brass dolphin knocker on the front door with brisk energy. It could be anyone. Her stomach tightened; the back of her neck prickled. Instinct said it was Marc.

Heart thudding, she crossed the Oriental carpet that had covered the hall floor for a hundred years or so. She turned the brass doorknob and opened the door.

Instinct was right. Her cousin’s husband stood on the covered veranda, hand arrested halfway to the knocker. A shaft of winter sunlight, filtered through the branches of the magnolia tree, struck hair that was still glossy black.

For a moment, Dinah could only stare. It was Marc, of course, but in another sense it wasn’t. This wasn’t the intent, idealistic young prosecutor her teenage dreams had idolized.

“Dinah.” He spoke first, his deep voice breaking the spell that held her silent. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not by our choice,” she said, before thinking about the implication.

The lines around his firm mouth deepened. “I know.” He quirked one eyebrow, and the familiar movement broke through her sense of strangeness. “Are you going to let me come in?”

She felt her cheeks warm. What was she doing, keeping him standing on the veranda like a door-to-door salesperson? No matter how much his return distressed Aunt Kate, she couldn’t treat him as anything but the cousin-in-law he’d always been to her.

She stepped back. “Please, come in.” She grasped for the comfort of ingrained manners. “It’s good to see you again, Marc.”

He stepped into the wide center hallway, the movement seeming to stir the quiet air, and she had to suppress a gasp as pain gripped her heart. Forgotten? No, she hadn’t forgotten at all. His presence brought her ten-year-old grief surging to life.

Was being here doing the same for him? She thought it might—his face had tightened, but that was all. He was better at hiding his feelings than he used to be.

She had to say something, anything, to bridge the silence. She took refuge in the ordinary. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”

He shrugged. “Not bad. I’d forgotten how warm South Carolina can be in December.”

“That just shows how much of a Northerner you’ve become. Everyone here has been complaining that it’s too cold.”

His face relaxed into a half smile. “Wimp. You should try a Boston winter sometime to see what cold really is.”

“No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

He had changed. He was ten years older, of course. Ten years would change anyone. He looked—successful, she supposed. Dress shirt, dark tie, a tweed jacket that fit smoothly over broad shoulders, a flash of gold at his wrist that was probably an expensive watch. Being a corporate attorney instead of a prosecutor must suit him.

But it wasn’t so much the way he was dressed as the air about him—the air of a successful, accomplished man.

“Well?” He lifted that eyebrow again. “What’s the verdict, Dinah?”

She wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “I was thinking that you talk faster than you used to.”

He smiled. “I had to learn because no one would stick around long enough to hear what I had to say.”

The smile was a reminder of the Marc she’d known. Dear Father, this is harder than I’d imagined it could be. Please, get me through it.

“Come into the parlor.” However much she might wish he’d leave, she couldn’t stand here in the hall with him.

She turned and walked into the small, perfectly appointed front parlor. He’d find this familiar, she supposed. Aunt Kate hadn’t changed anything in seventy years, and she never would. Anything that showed wear was replaced with an exact duplicate. Aunt Kate didn’t bother to decorate for Christmas much in recent years, but the white mantel bore its usual evergreen, magnolia leaves and holly, studded with the fat ivory candles that would be lit Christmas Eve.

Dinah sat on the Queen Anne love seat, gesturing to the wing chair opposite. Marc sat, leaning back, seeming very much at ease. But the lines on his face deepened, and his dark eyes hid secrets.

“You’ve changed.” His comment startled her, but it shouldn’t. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same about him? No one stayed the same for ten years.

“I’m ten years older. That makes a difference.” Especially when it was the difference between an immature teen and an adult woman.

He shook his head. “It’s not just that. You’re not shy anymore.”

“I’ve learned to hide it better, that’s all.”

Marc would remember the shy, gawky teenager she’d once been. She could only hope he’d never noticed the crush she’d had on him.

“It’s easy to see that you’re blooming. How is Aunt Kate?”

And how, exactly, was she going to explain the fact that Aunt Kate wasn’t coming in to greet him?

“She’s…older, obviously. She’d deny it vehemently, but she’s begun to fail a little.”

“So you’re taking care of her.”

“Of course.”

That’s how it is in families, Marc. We take care of each other. We don’t walk away, the way you did.

He frowned slightly, and she had the uncomfortable sense that he knew what she was thinking.

“Is she too frail to see me?”

Her careful evasion had led her just where she didn’t want to be. “No. She just—”

She faltered to a halt. There wasn’t any good way of saying that Aunt Kate didn’t welcome his return.

“She just doesn’t want to see me.” His mouth thinned. “Tell me, does she think I killed Annabel?”

The blunt question shook her, and mentioning Annabel’s name seemed to bring her into the room. For an instant Dinah heard the light tinkle of Annabel’s laugh, caught a whiff of the sophisticated fragrance that had been Annabel’s scent. Grief ripped through her, and she struggled to speak.

“I—I’m sure she doesn’t think that.” But did she? With her firm avoidance of the subject, Aunt Kate had managed never to say.

His dark gaze seemed to reject the feeble words. “What about you, Dinah? Do you think that?”

Before she could find the words, he shook his head.

“Never mind. I don’t suppose it matters.”

She found the words then, at the pain in his voice. “I don’t think you could have hurt Annabel.”

How could anyone have hurt Annabel, have struck out and destroyed all that life, all that beauty?

His face seemed to relax a fraction. “Thank you. I’m selling the house. I suppose you guessed that.”

“We thought that was probably why you’d come back,” she said cautiously, not wanting to make it sound as if that was what she wanted.

“It’s time. Having the Farriers rent the place all these years let me drift, but when they decided to move, I knew I had to do something about the house.”

“You won’t be here long, then.” She was aware of a sense of relief. He would go away, and the terrible wound of Annabel’s death would skin over again.

His brows lifted. “Are you eager to see the last of me, Dinah?”

“No.” He was making her feel like that awkward teen again. “I just assumed you’d be in a hurry to get the house on the market and go back to your life, especially with the holidays coming.”

“The holidays,” he repeated, something a little wary in his voice.

“I suppose you and Court have all sorts of plans for Christmas.” She was talking at random, trying to cover her embarrassment.

“Well, he’s past the Santa stage, but he still gets excited.”

“Does he?” For a moment she had a vivid image of the three-year-old he’d been—big dark eyes filled with wonder at the smallest things—a butterfly in the garden or a new puzzle she’d bought him, knowing how much he loved working them. “I’d love to see him.”

Again the words came out before she considered. Marc had made his wishes clear all these years, limiting their contact to cards and gifts. Just because he’d come back didn’t mean anything had changed.

“You’ll get your wish,” Marc said abruptly. “He’s over at the house now, unloading the rental car.”

She could only stare at him. “You’ve brought Court here, to the house where—” She stopped, unable to say the words.

“You think I’m crazy to bring Court back to the house where his mother died.” Marc’s voice was tinged with bitterness, but he could give voice to the thought she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” She sought refuge in platitudes. “I’m sure you know what’s best for your son.”

“Do I?” Vulnerability suddenly showed in his normally guarded eyes, disarming her. “I wish I were sure. I thought I knew. I thought the best thing for Court was a whole new life, with nothing to remind him of what he’d lost.”

“So you kept him away from us.” Did he have any idea how much that had hurt?

“Away from you, away from this place.”

Marc surged to his feet as if he couldn’t sit still any longer. He stalked to the window, then turned and came back again. The room seemed too small for him. He stopped in front of her.

“I did what I thought I had to,” he said uncompromisingly. “And it worked. Court was a normal, bright, happy kid, too happy and busy to worry about the past.”

She caught the tense. “Was?”

“Was.” He sat down heavily.

She waited, knowing he’d tell her, whatever it was. She didn’t want to hear, she thought in sudden panic. But it was too late for that.

“Maybe this would have happened anyway,” he said slowly, sounding as if he tried to be fair. “He’s thirteen—it’s a tough age. But when school started in September, one of his teachers assigned a writing project on family history. He started asking questions.”

“About Annabel.”

He nodded. “About her, about her family. About our life here in Charleston. He became obsessed.” He stopped, as if he’d heard what he said and wanted it back. “Not obsessed—that’s not right. I don’t think there’s anything unhealthy about it. He’s curious. He wants to know.”

She swallowed, feeling the lump in her throat at the thought of Annabel’s child. “I remember. He was always curious.”

“Yes.” His face was drawn. “He has to know things. So he told me what he wanted for Christmas.”

He paused, and she had a sense of dread at what he was about to say.

“He wanted to come back to Charleston. That’s all he asked for. To come back here and have Christmas in the house before I sell it.”

“And you said yes.”

“What else could I do?” He leaned toward her, his dark eyes focusing on her face, and that sense of dread deepened. “But it’s more complicated than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand closed over hers, and she felt his urgency. “I realized something the moment I saw the house again—realized what I’ve been evading all these years. I have to know the truth about Annabel’s death.”

He had shocked Dinah, Marc realized. Or maybe shock wasn’t the right word for her reaction. His years as a prosecutor had taught him to find body language more revealing than speech, and Dinah was withdrawing, protecting herself against him.

Protecting. The word startled him. Dinah didn’t have anything to fear from him.

He deliberately relaxed against the back of the chair, giving her space. Wait. See how she responded to that. See if she would help him or run from him.

He glanced around the room with a sense of wonder. It hadn’t changed since the days when he’d come here to pick up Annabel, and he’d thought it caught in a previous century then. Clearly Kate preferred things the way they had always been.

But Dinah had changed. He remembered so clearly Annabel’s attitude toward her shy young cousin—a mixture of love and a kind of amused exasperation.

She’s such a dreamer. Annabel had lifted her hands in an expressive gesture. She’s impossibly young for her age, and I don’t see how she’s ever going to mature, living in that house with Aunt Kate. Let’s have her here for the summer. She can help out with Court, and maybe I can help her grow up a little.

His heart caught at the memory. I feel it more here, Lord. Is that why I had to come back?

Dinah had certainly grown up. Skin soft as a magnolia blossom, blue-black hair curling to her shoulders, those huge violet eyes. He couldn’t describe her without resorting to the classic Southern clichés. Charleston knew how to grow beautiful women.

Dinah seemed to realize how long the silence had grown. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish at this late date. The police department considers it an unsolved case. I’m sure someone looks at the file now and then, but—” The muscles in her neck worked, as if she had trouble saying those words.

“They’ve written it off, you mean. I haven’t.” He wasn’t doing this very well, maybe because he hadn’t realized what he really wanted until he’d driven down the street and pointed out the house to his son. “Court hasn’t.”

Dinah’s hands were clasped in her lap, so tightly that the skin strained over her knuckles. “There’s nothing left to find after ten years. No one left to talk to about it.”

“There’s you, Dinah. You were there.”

Her face went white with shock, and he knew he’d made a misstep. He shouldn’t have rushed things with her, assumed she’d want what he wanted.

She pushed the words away with both hands. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. You, of all people, should know that.”

A vivid image filled his mind, fresh as if it had happened yesterday—Dinah’s small form crumpled on the staircase of the house across the street, black hair spilling around her. He’d found her when he’d come home in the early hours of the morning from a trip to track down a witness in one of his cases.

He’d rushed downstairs to the phone, shouting for Annabel, and seen the light in the parlor still burning. He’d pushed open the half-closed door—

No. He wouldn’t let his thoughts go any farther than that. It was too painful, even after all this time.

“I know that you fell, that you had a concussion. That you said you didn’t remember anything.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.” Anger flared in her face, bringing a flush to her cheeks that wiped away the pallor. “If I knew anything about who killed Annabel, don’t you think I’d have spoken up by now? I loved her!”

The words rang in the quiet room. They seemed to hold an accusation.

“I loved her, too, Dinah. Or don’t you believe that?”

She sucked in a breath, as if the room had gone airless. “Yes.” The word came out slowly, and her eyes were dark with pain. “I believe you loved her. But there’s nothing you can do for her now. She’s at peace.”

“The rest of us aren’t.” His jaw tightened until it was 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?”