Tell Me a Secret (The Story Series Book 4)

by Tamara Lush

  Memories of the weekend washed over me. I sank into a black leather Eames lounge chair, my legs suddenly unable to hold my weight.

  It had been early in our relationship, and he’d whisked me north in a private jet. It was spring and the city was just coming alive with sunshine and flowering trees and carefree women with bare legs. We’d stayed at the luxurious Sherry-Netherland Hotel, and he’d brought me to Barneys and encouraged me to try on the most delicious, black babydoll dress with a lace trim collar.

  “It’s Saint Laurent. I can’t let you buy this for me,” I said, gaping at the high, four-figure price tag.

  “You can, and you will,” he’d said, then kissed me.

  Sitting in my living room, exhausted as hell, I could almost feel my husband’s warm, supple lips. I swooned a little and closed my eyes, thinking of how he’d planted the kiss on my mouth, right in the store. The department store had smelled like a unique blend of expensive perfume only women in the north wore, and I’d wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight, not caring if all the snooty salesladies saw how much I loved him. At that point in our relationship, I hadn’t yet told him I loved him. But I did.

  Heaving a sigh, I opened my eyes and tapped out an email to the detectives.

  This looks like his wallet. It’s the same brand he had. I don’t know an Ashley.

  Of course, the idea of an Ashley nagged at me. If it was Caleb’s wallet, who was she?

  But an hour later, I got bad news; the wallet turned out to be another American’s, a guy who had dropped it outside a club. He worked at Universal in the public relations department, as well, and Ashley was his coworker. He’d gone to the police station to claim the wallet and brought Ashley with him. The contents, except for the business card, had been stolen.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you this evening, Mrs. King,” the detective said formally. “We are still trying. We’re not giving up on Mr. Caleb King.”

  I stammered a thank you and hung up.

  For the rest of the night I sat, numb, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows and watching the distant Disney fireworks over Cinderella’s Castle. The explosions looked wan in the night sky, and I dully wondered if the park was using a different palette these days or if the colors were less vibrant only to me.

  “There’s still hope for Daddy,” I whispered to Charlotte in my arms. I fed her a bottle and she let out a satisfied gurgle. I looked at her face and, as usual, was gutted over how much her eyes looked like Caleb’s. The shape, the hue, the long lashes.

  “There’s still hope, baby girl. We’re not giving up on Caleb King.”

  In the ensuing days, I wasn’t sure who was crying more: she or me. My sadness manifested as worry and anxiety, and I called my doctor for every perceived problem, from too much spit-up to too little poop.

  “You’ve got to calm down,” Laura said a week after the Brazilian police revealed the found billfold wasn’t Caleb’s. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but her tall form somehow made her look like a supermodel. Laura looked so stunning and together; you’d never know she’d spent periods of her life in a state of near-constant anxiety. Although Charlotte seemed to have a calming effect on her, which made me proud, somehow.

  That’s what my daughter did: soothed a broken family. I knew it might eventually be her burden, but for now, we all circled around her. Charlotte, despite her colic and crying, was our lifeline.

  Laura walked the fussing baby around the room while I splayed on the sofa, spent. My joints ached. Charlotte was three months old, and I hadn’t showered in days. When had I last changed out of my Minnie Mouse sleep shirt? I wasn’t sure.

  “See, she’s relaxing. Maybe she senses your stress. Let’s put her down for bed.”

  Sure enough, Charlotte had stilled and was in a deep sleep. It was odd that Laura, who suffered from a panic disorder, could sometimes quell my baby’s cries better than I could. Or at least it felt that way. With a wave of my hand toward the bedroom, I directed Laura to put Charlotte into her crib so I could savor a five-minute nap.

  I drifted off.

  “You don’t need to be superwoman, Emma. Maybe we should hire a nanny.”

  Laura’s soft voice invaded my brain, and my eyes snapped open to see her pour two glasses of sparkling water. A string of drool had leaked out the corner of my mouth, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. The gesture would be funny, given how carefree and gilded my life once was, if it wasn’t so sad.

  “Is she asleep?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Laura handed me the water, and I took a gulp.

  “Thank God.” I pushed out a breath. The nanny idea was a conversation I’d had with everyone lately. Even my father had gently suggested it. “I don’t want a nanny. There’s no need for outside help since I don’t work. The housekeeper is already enough. You and Sarah have also been great in watching her.”

  “We had to force you into bed last weekend and swear we’d keep Charlotte alive while you took a two-hour nap.”

  I thought back to that nap. Admittedly, it had been the best two hours of sleep I’d had in a while. I grunted noncommittally and shut my eyes.

  “Em, maybe a nanny’s a good idea, just to give you an hour or two break a few times a week. It doesn’t have to be a full day. Maybe you could go to the bookstore and interact with adults. Or do some writing.”

  “I don’t have the brainpower to write. I haven’t even written to Caleb in weeks.”

  Laura pinched her lips together. “You haven’t?”

  “Nope. I wanted him to know everything that was going on so when he came home he’d be up to date but…” My voice quivered. “I don’t have the time. Or the words.”

  Laura crouched down so she was looking into my eyes. “I think it’s probably healthy, Emma.”

  I shut my eyes. “It’s like you’ve already declared him dead.”

  Her cool fingers wrapped around my sweaty arm, and I opened my eyes.

  “I’ve known him my entire life. If he was alive, he would crawl back to you,” she said. “He loved you that much. He’d never be apart from you if he could help it.”

  I shrugged. “I still don’t know what to think. I want to believe. I need to believe he’s coming back.”

  “And that’s okay. But we also think it’s time for you to get out of the house. Back to circulating among the living, being around adults. You might gain some perspective if you have some time away. Charlotte’s a demanding baby.”

  “You know, I don’t really want time away. I don’t want time to think.” My thick voice hung in the air. “I kind of admire Charlotte for being difficult. She’s forcing me to live in the present. Forcing me to focus all of my attention on her and not on Caleb. It’s as if she knows it’s exactly what I need right now.”

  Laura sighed. “Sara and Colin and I were kind of thinking the opposite. Maybe you need some space so you don’t slip further into postpartum depression. Would you be open to seeing a therapist? I can recommend a good one.”

  I flashed her a glare. “No. I wouldn’t. I’m not interested in talking about my feelings with a stranger. I think I’m doing fine, under the circumstances.”

  “You’re doing fine, Em. More than fine. You’re amazing. We’re just worried about you, is all. Colin, especially. He thinks you should get out into the world a little more.”

  I rolled my eyes, recalling how matted my curly hair had been the last time Colin had stopped by and how he’d used the words rat’s nest to describe it. “It’s only been five months since Caleb has gone missing. Just let me do this on my timetable, okay?”

  She nodded, and I could tell she wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t, either, because I knew the scenarios: Caleb was either dead, or for whatever reason, he’d chosen not to return.

  I just couldn’t figure out which option made me feel worse.

  Chapter 4

  “Pack up. You’re coming with us.”

  I scowled at Colin, who was in my living room with Laura and
Sara. They were all dressed in crisp pastel hues, shorts, T-shirts, and sandals, looking like they’d stepped out of a J. Crew ad. Me? I was in a pair of black leggings and a faded, black T-shirt of Caleb’s. This one still smelled faintly of his oaky-vanilla cologne and his perspiration—or it had until I’d worn it for three days straight. Now it smelled like rancid baby formula and my sweat.

  “Where are you going?” I eyed them suspiciously.

  “The lake house,” Colin replied.

  The lake house. I sighed. It was near a national forest and also had a crystal blue, seventy-two-degree freshwater spring on the property, in addition to overlooking a pristine lake perfect for paddle boarding. Caleb and I had loved going there on weekends to unwind, but I hadn’t been back since he went missing.

  I shook my head and bounced my baby on my lap. Charlotte was like me, petite and sturdy, and she was just beginning to wriggle like crazy and attempt to crawl. She clasped a fistful of my hair in her hand, and I gently pried open her surprisingly strong fingers.

  “Nah, I’m good. I’ll be fine here. We have plans to go to the park today.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Charlotte is five months old. She has no plans. Her plans are to eat and poop and maybe put a few toys in her mouth. Come on. I’ll help you pack while Laura and Colin play with the kid.”

  Laura held out her arms, signaling for me to hand over the baby. “It’ll be good for you to take a spontaneous trip. It’s only for two nights.”

  “Fine.” I lifted my daughter to Laura and trudged toward my room to pack. From the looks on their faces, they weren’t going to accept no for an answer. I didn’t even feel like getting dressed.

  “Do I have to shower?” I mumbled.

  “No,” Laura called out.

  “I’ll get Charlotte’s stuff,” Sarah yelled from the nursery.

  I stopped in the hall. “Wait, we can’t go. Charlotte doesn’t have a place to sleep.” She’d been sleeping in a wooden crib next to my bed, one too heavy and permanent to easily move.

  “I bought her one and had it delivered and set up there. I also got a playpen or whatever they’re called. And a high chair thing. And a bunch of other stuff,” Colin said.

  I groaned. There really was no getting out of this. I turned to look at him. “Thanks. How did you know what to buy?”

  He grinned, the first I’d seen on his face a while. “Cute sales clerk.”

  An involuntary smile came to my face as I went into my bedroom. But as I packed, I wondered if we were somehow disrespecting Caleb by going to the lake. By smiling and joking. By moving on without him.

  In the car, I was silent the entire trip north, pondering these questions as my chest grew heavier and heavier.

  * * *

  The King family’s lake house always made me feel like I was coming home after a long journey. As much as I loved terraces and cocktails, pretty dresses and shopping, the cabin in the central Florida woods was something out of a dream. A quiet place I never knew I needed until I arrived.

  It wasn’t a minimalist penthouse like Caleb’s or a sprawling, new mansion on a country club resort development like Colin’s home. The lake house was, to be honest, a little rundown and not much to look at. It was more like a Florida cracker shack, with a wide, screened-in wraparound porch. It had been built by Caleb’s great-grandfather out of wooden planks, with his own hands, when he moved to Florida from the north to farm citrus and timber. Over the years, the family had thought about replacing it with something more modern, but Caleb, Colin, and Laura protested because they loved the weathered and low-slung building that held years of their childhood memories.

  I loved it, too, because it smelled like pine trees and Christmas, of clean sheets and now, the memory of my husband’s satiny skin.

  There were four bedrooms and two bathrooms, and Charlotte and I had the master suite, which meant it was the only bedroom with an attached bathroom, one that had been added on in the 1960s. The room was sparse, with a faded, pastel quilt, an iron headboard, and some mismatched furniture. It was also where Caleb and I had spent many weekends in carnal bliss, talking and laughing. When I stepped in the room, the yearning nearly knocked me to my knees.

  “Why do you want me so much?” I’d asked in this room, tracing his jaw. The heat of his body had surrounded me, and I recalled the way the bright sunlight filtered through the window, onto our bodies, like a column of liquid gold.

  “Because you’re you,” he’d said, running his fingers down my stomach, then lower, turning my insides to liquid. I’d spread my legs lazily, and his fingers circled me, as if my clit was a bull’s eye he was trying to tease and hit. Those were the early days, the ones where we had consumed each other every moment we had the chance.

  I pushed out a breath. The room was warm, stuffy, filled with memories. It smelled like sun-warmed fabric softener and pure love. There were ghosts here, specters of the sex-drenched days I’d passed with Caleb.

  I didn’t notice Colin was on my heels. His voice startled me so badly that I almost crashed into the crib set in the corner.

  “See, here’s the crib, and in the drawers—” he opened one on the bureau with the white peeling paint “—there’s some clothes and stuff for Charlotte. I paid extra to have everything delivered before we got here.”

  Managing to return his smile, I shrugged. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

  “I did, because I wanted you to get out of the house.”

  After we unpacked and played a little on the bed, I toted Charlotte to the living room, a great space with exposed cypress beams and an old cast iron stove that opened to a modern kitchen with top-of-the-line, SubZero appliances. The King family had upgraded some parts of the shack with a signature touch of luxury.

  “I hope you’re okay with pasta,” Laura called out.

  I set Charlotte on the rug with a red bucket of wooden blocks. She immediately overturned the bucket and started to gnaw on the edge of a block with the letter Z on it. Always in motion like her father, she then rolled onto her back and chewed on her foot.

  “Sounds good to me. Did you find the pureed sweet potato for Charlotte?”

  Laura hummed in response, and the fragrant scent of garlic filled the air.

  “Em, you thinking about the Miami Book Fair next month?” Colin asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?” Sarah piped in. “Might be good for you.”

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to be down there that weekend. So if you need anything, I’ll be there.” Colin popped open a beer and glanced at me.

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Sarah handed me a glass of lemonade because I still wasn’t drinking. Just didn’t feel right, without Caleb around. “We’ll watch the baby for the weekend. Don’t worry about us. I think it will be helpful for you. Go to the spa at the Mandarin Oriental for an afternoon. Relax.”

  “Sarah, you’re really pushing this relaxation thing, aren’t you?” I tried to laugh it off.

  “I am,” she said seriously.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Maybe it was because we were tired from the drive or maybe the others felt the ghost of Caleb as well, but we ate in subdued quiet. Afterward, we lolled on the comfy, worn sofas, watching Charlotte crawl and coo. With a beer in his hand, Colin walked over to the old turntable console. It had been his grandfather’s and was almost always closed and used as a cocktail rest.

  “Old school,” he said, holding up a vinyl record and spinning it in his hands. We all cracked little smiles. Colin opened the console and clicked on the record player. The strains of Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” crackled and wafted through the air. The four of us sat, drinking and staring with faraway eyes.

  “Caleb loved this song.” Laura’s voice wasn’t sad, just warm.

  “It’s a gorgeous evening out.” I hated when they referred to him in past tense.

  “Don’t change the subject,” Laura shot back. “Sometimes I resent how you always
want to pivot when I want to talk about him. When I want to remember him.”

  Sullen, I buried my face in Charlotte’s hair. “You’re right. I do. It’s too damned difficult, Laura. And when you talk about him in past tense, it makes everything feel so…final.”

  Laura came to sit next to me on the big, tan sofa and looked at me mournfully. Her eyes were more like Caleb’s, deep and sapphire-colored. “I’m sorry. I feel like you think if we don’t talk about Caleb, he’ll somehow magically appear.”

  I stopped her. “No. I can’t bear to think about what happened to him. Talking about him, especially in past tense, makes me think of all the possibilities. All the potentially terrible things that could’ve happened. And sure, I still hold out hope he will magically appear. How could I not?”

  “But why can’t we talk about our memories, too? We have so many. He was so beautiful. So good. Like, almost too good for this world.”

  I swallowed and nodded. It was true. I rubbed Charlotte’s back. She was being uncharacteristically calm tonight. Maybe soothed by the cooler forest air.

  “He made me slow dance to this song,” I said softly, hugging a sleepy Charlotte to me, swaying with her in time to the music. “We were right here in this room. He played it over and over, like ten times.”

  Laura burst out laughing. “That was one of his faults. He could be a little, um, precise, couldn’t he? I used to tease him about how he was anal retentive.”

  “Caleb? No…Like the way he always had to have that one kind of pen?” Colin said sarcastically, then cracked up. “Even in college, he’d only buy blue button-down shirts, grey T-shirts, and faded blue jeans.”

  For the next few hours, we played music and remembered. Colin and Laura told stories about how they’d built forts out of tree limbs near the lake, how they’d beat the crap out of each other, and then went swimming while screaming with laughter.