The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  But he was too late. Kate had reached into her pocket, pulled out a red knife—looking just like Maggie's—and with a raging sob, jammed it straight into Beckwith's neck.

  The psychiatrist clutched his throat, staggered back, met John's eyes for one precarious second, and then tumbled backward off the bluff. John, reaching for Kate, pulled himself to the edge. They lay there together, holding each other, staring at Beckwith's inert body lying on the breakwater below. The lighthouse beam passed overhead, illuminating the cresting waves, revealing the tide: full high.

  “Kate,” he whispered.

  “John,” she cried, holding him, stroking his face. “Don't die, don't go. Stay with me! I'll go get help. Don't die now!”

  John stared into her eyes. They were so beautiful, that odd color that had reminded him of river stones the first time he'd seen her. Of smooth round stones, their edges softened by the passage of water over them, through this century and the last, ancient stones polished by endless water. By that beautiful west-running brook, just across the orchard, where John wanted to spend all the time in the world with her. Eternal eyes . . .

  “I love you, Kate,” he whispered. He heard the sea in his ears, the salt-filled ocean rushing to take him away. Behind it a high call, a cry, a siren . . .

  “I love you, too,” Kate Harris cried, rocking him, holding him as if she didn't want to lose what she had just found. Because he felt the same way, just before the dark wave rose to take him away, he felt the tears rise in his throat, pumping out of his body along with his blood, into the cold ground.

  epilogue

  It was the day after Thanksgiving, and the morning of the first funeral.

  All the Jenkinses had gathered at the Silver Bay Chapel, dressed in black and with heads down to avoid television cameras and news photographers. Their friends surrounded them in a cluster, helping them into their cars afterward.

  Only Hunt Jenkins spoke to a news reporter, angrily stating that “My nephew didn't kill Amanda Martin, had nothing to do with Willa Harris's imprisonment. . . . He's a victim of Dr. Philip Beckwith, just like they were. . . . At most, he was hired to build the lighthouse room, but he never had any idea what it was for. . . .”

  The second funeral, Dr. Philip Beckwith's, would be held at a later date, a private ceremony to be announced by his mother, his only surviving relative, of Boston, Massachusetts.

  “What explanation can there be,” the Judge asked, carving the turkey, “for a doctor who does that much harm?”

  “I'm not sure we can explain any of it, Dad,” John said, watching Kate across the table. She had her arm around Maggie, and she was staring back at John as if she never wanted to look away again.

  “How come we get to eat Thanksgiving dinner with the TV on?” Maggie asked. “We never have before.”

  “We've never had it on Friday before, either,” Maeve said, carrying the gravy over from the stove. “Or eaten in the kitchen . . .”

  “Miracles sometimes take time,” the Judge said solemnly. “And we can't rush them. Friday was our first available date.”

  “Daddy almost died,” Teddy said.

  “And so did Kate's sister,” Maggie said, bending into Kate's body, closing her eyes as if she couldn't believe she had someone wonderful to sit next to, to lean against. “We couldn't have Thanksgiving until we knew they'd be okay.”

  “Will your sister be okay?” Teddy asked.

  “Yes,” Kate said, still staring at John so warmly, with so much love in those cool river eyes. “Yes, she will. After some time in the hospital . . .”

  “I helped, right?” Maggie asked. “By telling you about the airplane pin, by loaning you my knife?”

  “I wouldn't have known where she was without you, Maggie,” Kate said, avoiding the question about the knife. Blinking, looking away—as if she could block out the fact that she had killed two men. John, sitting on the sofa in the family room part of the kitchen, leg extended, moved closer, wanting to reach for her across the table.

  “Kate?” he said, stretching out his hand. “Come sit next to me.”

  She obliged, but Maggie came with her. As if joined at the hip, when Kate sat down beside John, Maggie plunked down beside Kate.

  “Who wants white meat, who wants dark?” the Judge called over from the table.

  “And who wants gravy?” Maeve said. “Cranberry sauce, turnips . . . and don't the glasses sparkle? My sister and I washed them ourselves, every one.”

  “I know you did, Maeve, girl,” the Judge said, blowing her a kiss. “You're quite a team, you and Brigid.”

  “Aye, we are,” Maeve said, smiling quietly as she ladled gravy over the plate Teddy had fixed and handed to her.

  The assembly line continued, and John sat with his arms around Kate. He felt her breath on his cheek, her heart beating through her skin. They were at his house—Maggie had begged to come home, to have Kate stay with them instead of at the Judge's—for as long as it took for her sister to recover enough to move back to Washington, and Kate had agreed.

  Now, looking out the large windows at the sun shining on the silver sea, on the white lighthouse rising from the headland a half mile away, John saw nothing gothic, nothing frightening, nothing at all to show that lives had been lost there. He held Kate tighter, as if he could protect her from memories of what had happened.

  “Daddy?” Maggie asked.

  “What, Mags?”

  “Are you Kate's lawyer now?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied.

  “You advised me, though,” Kate said, looking down into his eyes.

  “Only because I wasn't sure what the police were thinking,” John said. “When Billy came driving up, the cruisers right behind him . . .”

  “Teddy called him,” the Judge said. “He had a bad feeling when you didn't come right home . . . and with Kate on her way to the lighthouse on such a stormy night.”

  “I thought you both might be able to use some help,” Teddy said with shy pride.

  “Thank you, Teddy,” Kate said, holding John's hand. “You saved your father's life. I was afraid . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to scare the kids by mentioning how close John had come to bleeding to death.

  “Of the bad men?” Maggie asked, looking up into her face.

  “No, Mags,” Teddy said as he carried plates of turkey over to the sofa. “She'd already taken care of them. You're brave, Kate.”

  “I was defending people I love,” she said.

  “You love your sister,” Maggie said, her eyes shining. “And who else?”

  “Mags,” John warned. “Be polite . . .”

  “No—I want to know.” Maggie asked, “Who else?”

  John sat still, on the sunroom sofa, his leg, bandaged so clean and white, sticking straight out in front of him. He could feel his daughter smiling like sunshine, and he was almost afraid to look at Kate's face. What if she was embarrassed, or what if she wanted to dodge the question and move on—politely reply, give Maggie an answer she could live with, eat Thanksgiving dinner, and head over to the hospital to be with Willa?

  Kate was smiling. That was the thing: John loved her smile. Even now, with Billy Manning wanting to question her again, with Willa hospitalized with more damage than they could even begin to imagine . . . even with all that, plus two kids watching her with huge eyes and the most obvious longing—as if she were Wendy and they were the lost boys and all they really wanted was for her to be their mother—even with all that, Kate just smiled and smiled.

  “Am I being rude?” Maggie asked, and Kate's grin grew wider. “By asking you who else?”

  “Who else . . . what?” Kate asked, squeezing John's hand. “I forgot the question.”

  “Who else were you defending?” Maggie asked. “Who else do you love?”

  And as Maeve began saying grace, thanking God and her sister and her four sons Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, as Teddy and the Judge bowed their heads, John felt a huge shiver go through his body. Kate squeez
ed his hand, smiled a little wider, and turned to look at him with so much depth and love in her eyes that John thought he might go crazy waiting for her to speak again.

  But she didn't, right away. She just stared at him, through and through, giving him the feeling that they were alone in the sunroom, that although the rest of the family were with them, they were also, somehow, all alone.

  Just the two of them, man and woman, two friends, two strangers who'd happened to meet in a dark parking lot in Fairhaven, Massachusetts, and again at a lonely lighthouse in Silver Bay, Connecticut.

  Two people, John and Kate, who couldn't manage to let go of each other's hand.

  Of course Kate remembered Maggie's question.

  It rang in her ear . . . and that took some doing. Kate's head had been filled with the sound of ringing for a few days now.

  She heard the ringing of metal striking metal—Maggie's knife on the rusty hinge. And the sound of a revolutionary cannonball striking stone . . . and her feet clanging on the wrought-iron stairs . . . and the echo of Willa's voice, beseeching her to get her out of the nightmare box . . . and the sound of the bar hitting Caleb's skull . . . and the resonance of the Judge's tires on the clamshell drive . . . and the ringing of Beckwith's bullet hitting the lighthouse, ricocheting into John's bone . . . Maggie's knife stabbing the monster's neck . . .

  Closing her eyes now, Kate gasped, taking it all in.

  “Mags,” she heard John say as he squeezed her hand. “You want to let it rest right now?”

  “I didn't mean anything bad,” Maggie said.

  “That's okay, John,” Kate said, her eyes flying open, not wanting any of them out of her sight for a moment.

  “We haven't had a minute alone,” John whispered. “There's so much I want to say to you.”

  “Me, too,” she whispered back. Their faces nearly touching, she felt his breath on her forehead as his lips gently brushed her skin.

  She shivered, unable to believe what had come to pass.

  Willa was safe.

  She was hurt, horribly traumatized, but alive. Matt—going against everything in him—was coming north to see his sisters. He would arrive late that night; his oyster boat pushed to the limit, it would arrive at Silver Bay marina around midnight, just after the tide change.

  Kate's old family was going to be reunited for the first time in over six months. Last night, sitting by Willa's side, she had stayed in the hospital till long after visiting hours. Willa had sobbed quietly, telling Kate the story of what had happened.

  “I was staying at the East Wind,” she said. “It was so beautiful there, and I swear all I could think of was you coming up . . . me begging you to forgive me . . .”

  “You wouldn't have had to beg,” Kate whispered, although she wasn't sure that was true. So much had washed away these last six months; all the hurt and rage had leeched out, leaving nothing but love and forgiveness for her little sister.

  “I would have anyway,” Willa said stubbornly. “I would have taken you to lunch in Hawthorne, to see the American Impressionists in Black Hall . . . we would have walked together out to the lighthouse,” she said, shuddering.

  “Don't talk about it,” Kate urged, stroking her hair.

  “I want to,” Willa said. “I sent you that postcard, and I felt so free. I didn't have the nerve to ask you outright . . . but I hoped. I thought . . . she'll come. I'll see her soon. And I checked out, thinking I'd just go to Newport for a few days. Bonnie and I would bide our time, wait for you to come north.”

  She had headed east, checked into the Seven Chimneys Inn, then driven up to New Bedford to the whaling museum.

  “I remembered that time on Matt's boat,” Willa said. “When we saw the mother whale.”

  “I thought you did,” Kate said, knowing she had been right. She had smuggled Bonnie into the hospital, and the Scottie, overjoyed at seeing her mistress, lay blissfully across Willa's lap while the nurses all pretended not to see.

  “The museum was great . . . spent hours there. Then I grabbed a bite to eat across the bridge.”

  “In Fairhaven.”

  “Yes. And I needed gas for the ride home. So I . . .”

  “Went to the Texaco station.”

  “At the convenience store.”

  Willa nodded. “I saw a van drive out from behind the long building. I thought I recognized it, from Connecticut . . . the son of the people who owned the inn.”

  “Caleb.”

  “Yes. I didn't quite know his name, although we had waved to each other, and once . . .” she hesitated, reddening as if the memory still caused her shame. “Once I thought he was watching me in the shower. When I came out, he was pretending to replace a lightbulb. I should have told his mother. Or left right away . . .”

  “But it might not have mattered anyway,” Kate said soothingly, “because you met up with him again.”

  “Yes,” Willa said, shivering. “Right there in Fairhaven.”

  “Fairhaven,” Kate said, thinking it was such a pretty name for the place where such a terrible thing happened.

  Caleb had told Willa he was having van trouble, asked her to follow him to the highway. He'd led her the back way, pulled over at a rest stop. When he'd gotten out of his van, she hadn't been upset or scared. But then he'd opened her door and let Bonnie loose—to run into the woods.

  Willa had started to scream and run after the dog, but he'd forced her into his van.

  “He had a knife, and he handcuffed me,” she sobbed, bending down to bury her face in her dog's black fur. “I knew he could kill me, but all I could think of was Bonnie . . . of her thinking I'd abandoned her, wondering whether I was coming back. During that horrible time, when . . .” she trailed off, unable, yet, to talk about what had happened, “I never, never thought I'd see her again.”

  “I came looking for you,” Kate said, touching her hand. “And I found her.”

  “Thank you . . . I never thought I'd see you again . . .”

  “Oh, Willa,” Kate whispered. “I'd never be able to let you go.”

  “I thought I had disappeared forever,” Willa sobbed. “And I thought maybe you'd want me to.”

  “Because of you and Andrew,” Kate had said, nodding. “For a while, I wanted you to. I was so angry with you, Willa. For falling for him—He should never have done what he did. You're my sister. He came between us.”

  “I let him! It wasn't all his fault.”

  “I know. And I was upset with you. But that's over now. Andrew is in the past. I love someone else now.”

  “I know,” Willa had whispered. “And I know who it is . . .”

  Now, sitting with John, Kate remembered Willa's words and felt a sharp chill run down her spine. Kate had strung the airplane charm onto a length of string, and she'd tied it around her neck to remind her of the people she loved, of how she had nearly lost both of them.

  Brainer and Bonnie sat beneath the Judge, hoping for scraps to fall from the carving platter. Outside, the sun began to set. It was just dark enough for the beacon to switch on, for the lighthouse beam to make its first sweep of the sky. Kate swallowed, feeling the chill in her bones and hands. Somehow she had found it in herself to wield two weapons and kill two men.

  She had had nightmares since that night—woken up screaming, crying for help. Last night John, sleeping down the hall in his own bed, had rushed into the guest room, limping along on his bad leg, and sat beside Kate—holding her tight until she'd stopped crying and Caleb's and Beckwith's faces had faded.

  He had touched her cheeks so softly, drying her tears.

  “He called it ‘the secret hour,' ” she'd gasped. “That's what he told Willa.”

  “No, Kate,” John had said. “It was just nine o'clock. That's all it was. The secret hour is ours . . . by the brook. Remember? The beautiful brook in the orchard.”

  “The west-running brook,” Kate had whispered, feeling her heart begin to calm. “Where we stood with the dogs.”

  “Do y
ou know how glad I am to have you here?” he'd whispered. “How much I never want you to leave?”

  She had nodded, touching his hand, feeling him kiss her lips, wanting more than anything to make love with him, to feel their bodies come together. “I want to stay,” she had said in a low voice.

  “You do? Even after everything—after me being Merrill's lawyer, bringing Beckwith into town . . .”

  She had shaken her head, impatient, as if none of that mattered anymore. “Don't you understand?” she asked. “That wasn't you . . . you were just doing your job. Defending the principles you believe in. But we're meant to be together, John. Everything tells me that. We keep going against the grain.”

  “From that time in Fairhaven . . . and you showing up at the lighthouse to save my life.”

  “We're like your west-running brook,” she'd said, clutching his hand. “Going against everything in nature, running from the sea . . .”

  “To be together,” he had said, taking her in his arms, kissing her deeply.

  “Everyone have what they need?” the Judge asked now, looking around the room and shaking Kate out of her memory of last night.

  “We should all be at the same table,” Maeve said, casting a disapproving glance at the sofa. It was her, Teddy, and the Judge at the kitchen table, Maggie, John, and Kate on the sofa.

  “Dad has to keep his leg extended,” Teddy explained gently.

  “Christmas at the big table,” the Judge promised. “All of us. Willa, too.”

  “Thanks,” Kate said, smiling across the counter. The Judge nodded back, his eyes eloquent with emotion.

  “You're welcome,” he said, raising a glass in the air. “And here's to the young lady who saved my son's life.”

  “To Kate, to Kate,” all the O'Rourkes and Maeve said, clinking glasses of cider and wine. Kate smiled and said, “And to all of you.” Everyone nodded and drank.

  “But wait,” Maggie said, clunking her glass down and turning to look Kate sternly in the eyes.

  “What, Maggie?” Kate asked.

  “You STILL haven't finished answering my question,” Maggie said reproachfully.