Frowning, Leslie picked up one of the books and stared at the cover, a sepia shoreline marred by a single set of footprints—Sand and Stone. The next showed a crumpled bridal veil beside a snapshot of a flyboy and his sweetheart—A Letter Home. She’d heard of that one. In fact, she’d lit into an intern once for reading it at her desk.
She simply didn’t understand why anyone would spend good money on something designed to make them cry when life was perfectly capable of sending you on a crying jag for free. And just what kind of sadist prided himself on a moniker like the Master of Heartbreak anyway? Flipping the book over, she searched the back cover for a photo and felt the blood drain from her face. It seemed J. D. Hartwell, the Master of Heartbreak, was living on her grandmother’s farm.
She had to admit he looked every inch the part, handsome and windblown in his cable-knit sweater, perched easily on a craggy bit of rock. She scanned the bio, then the reviews beneath it, but still couldn’t get her head around it. He’d obviously kept it from her on purpose. It was hardly the kind of thing you forgot to mention. But why? The question was still churning when the floor behind her groaned and a curvy blonde stepped up beside her.
“Something I can help you with?” Her smile was a bright, frosty pink, her drawl so thick it sounded put on.
“I was just…I was looking at these books.”
“He’s scrumptious, don’t you think?”
Leslie opened her mouth, then closed it again. Best not to say what she was thinking at the moment.
“You have read him, haven’t you?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
The woman’s blue eyes went wide, as if such a thing was beyond comprehension. “Why in the world not? I promise you, no one will make you cry like this guy.” She grabbed another book from the table. “This one—it’s called His Kind of Girl. It’s about a woman who learns she’s losing her sight. And then she meets—”
“Let me guess…a guy?”
“Yes! And she falls so hard for him she can’t bring herself to tell him the truth. Well, of course they fall in love, and all the time he doesn’t have a clue anything’s wrong. Only he does! He knows the whole time that she’s losing her sight but pretends not to. Oh my God, it’s heartbreaking!”
Leslie was beginning to find this conversation heartbreaking. She pointed to the table. “I can’t help noticing that this type of thing doesn’t fit with the rest of your inventory. The owner must be quite a fan.”
The bright pink smile widened. “I am,” she said, offering a hand glittering with silver rings. “I’m Deanna Harper, and this is my shop.”
“It’s great,” Leslie said. “Full of really unique things.” Still, she couldn’t help wondering how the Master of Heartbreak fit into Deanna Harper’s merchandising scheme. “It’s none of my business, but can I ask what made you stick a table of these in the middle of a new age shop? It seems so…”
“Out of place—yeah, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. I just adore his writing. He’s not one of those guys who just churns out three hundred pages a year to make a buck. He writes about real emotions. Call me a sap, but that makes me like the guy. Well, that and the fact that he’s gorgeous. And even better in person than on the back of that book, if you ask me. His real name’s Jay Davenport. If you’re around long enough, you’ll probably run into him. He lives out at Peak Plantation. Have you heard of it?”
The floor creaked as Leslie shifted her weight. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s a gorgeous place.” Deanna’s silver bangles clanked as she tidied the table. “You should drive out and take a look. It got to looking kind of run-down a few years back, but it’s all fixed up again now. People used to say it was haunted. They said that back in the day a lady died—”
“I’m Leslie Nichols.”
Deanna’s bracelets went quiet. “Lord, aren’t I the perfect dunce. I heard you were back, and here you stand while I run my mouth. So I guess you know Jay, then? Of course you do.”
Leslie wasn’t sure she would agree with that. She knew Jay the handyman who lived in her grandmother’s cottage, Jay the cash-strapped drifter who dreamed of starting a winery, but this Jay—this best-selling author—was a stranger to her.
“He’s a great guy, isn’t he? Not like a celebrity at all. He hates all the fuss. In fact, I tried to get him to come in, you know, for a reading like they do, but he won’t. Won’t even talk about it. Hey, maybe you could get him to write something new! It’s been years. Guess that’s why folks let him be now. They’ve moved on to Nicholas Sparks. He’s good too, but he’s never made me cry like Jay did. And a girl needs a good cry now and then, don’t you think?”
Leslie’s head was too full to manage more than a distracted nod. She’d suspected him of so many things, fleecing, forgery, even outright thievery, but never of being a famous writer. It seemed that once again he’d left out a fairly important piece of the story.
“I was real sorry to hear about your grandma,” Deanna said. “She was such a part of this town. Everyone loved her. We’re glad you’re back, though. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes,” Leslie said, glancing at her watch. She wanted to beat Jay to Bishop’s. “It was nice meeting you, Deanna, but I have to run. I’m meeting Jay for lunch.”
“Well now, you don’t want to be late for that, do you?”
It was obvious by her pink grin and not so subtle wink that Deanna had the wrong idea, but at the moment Leslie had bigger fish to fry. She turned toward the door, then realized she was still holding a copy of A Letter Home. She handed it to Deanna, who then dropped it into one of her bags with a wink.
“You can’t live with the man and not have read his books.”
“I don’t live with him. I live near him.”
“Sure. Right. Anyway, read that. It’s my favorite. One of his really early ones, but it’s one of his best. A World War Two pilot engaged to be married. Plane goes down. Oh God, you have to read it! I won’t tell you any more.”
Before Leslie could fish her wallet from her purse, Deanna stopped her. “No, honey, it’s on me. Consider it a welcome-home present.”
Leslie was already sipping a vodka tonic when Jay arrived. He was charm itself as he wove through the lunch crowd, waving to several patrons as he made his way over. He smiled as he dropped into the chair across from her.
“Looks like mission accomplished,” he said, pointing to her shopping bags.
Leslie said nothing as she reached into the nearest bag, pulled out her brand-new copy of A Letter Home, and thumped it down on the white tablecloth.
Jay stared at it a moment before pushing it back. “Well, I see you’ve been to Deanna’s. That is where you got it, isn’t it?”
“Where I got it isn’t the point, Mr. Hartwell,” she shot back. “What is that anyway, some kind of drippy pen name you chose because you thought it would help sell books?”
“It’s a family name, actually. My mother’s before she and my father married. And none of that has anything to do with now.”
Before Leslie could respond, a pretty brunette wearing an apron and a grin appeared over Jay’s left shoulder. “Hey, stranger, nice to finally see you again.”
Glancing up, Jay managed a tight smile. “Hey, Susan. How’s business?”
Susan tossed her dark hair off her face and shot him a wink. “Better now that you’re here. We just got the 2009 Carano Fumé Blanc in. We’re pairing it with the lime-ginger shrimp you like.”
“Thanks, sounds good. Bring us two.”
Leslie held up her glass. “And I’ll take another one of these, please.” She watched Susan’s retreat thoughtfully, then leaned in. “Another devoted fan?”
“She owns the place, along with her husband, Billy.”
“So when were you going to tell me the truth?”
“You’re suggesting I’ve been lying up ’til now?”
“Haven’t you?”
“No.”
Leslie jabbed
a finger at the book lying between them on the table. “You’re a best-selling writer, for crying out loud. When were you planning to bring that up? Or were you just waiting for me to find out about it like I do everything—from someone else?”
“It was a lifetime ago, Leslie.”
“So now you’re masquerading as a wine maker? Pretending to be flat broke?”
Jay opened his mouth but closed it again, smoldering quietly while Susan dropped off their drinks and a basket of bread. When they were alone again, he tossed down the napkin he’d been about to spread in his lap.
“I’m not pretending to be anything, Leslie. I am a wine maker. And I am flat broke—or close to it.”
Leslie felt her jaw go slack. “How? Your books were everywhere—airports, drugstores, 7-Elevens, for God’s sake. I threatened to fire an intern once because she was such a wreck over one of your endings that she could barely get through the day. Then she ran out and bought another one! It’s like romantic crack! How could you possibly be broke?”
“I gave it away.”
Vodka sloshed over the rim of Leslie’s glass as she brought it down. “Gave it away?”
“Yes.”
The set of his jaw told her it was true. “But…why?”
“So she couldn’t have it.”
“Who?”
“My wife. My ex-wife, that is. Theresa.”
Leslie sipped her drink while she recovered. She didn’t know he’d been married.
“She and my publicist were…involved,” he said, scowling into his wine. “When I found out I didn’t say a word, but suddenly I was overcome with a need to be charitable. I went to one of those groups that helps set up foundations and I started donating huge chunks of money—libraries, literacy projects, adult education programs. When it was all gone, I told her what I had done and why. Then I left.”
When he looked up, his eyes were like shards of amber, brittle and clouded with old wounds. Leslie glanced away, sorry now that she had pressed him. Eventually the silence became uncomfortable.
“After the divorce you came to Gavin?”
“Not right away. I stuck around long enough to tie up the loose ends. No kids, thank God. I got the Mustang. She got the house and an alimony check that eats up most of the royalties that still trickle in.” He shrugged. “Punishment for the charity business, I suppose.”
Leslie offered a weak smile. “Well, at least you had the last laugh. Do you regret it now, giving all the money away, I mean?”
He took a sip of wine, then shrugged again. “All I cared about then was punishing her. Now I realize how much was my own fault.”
“How is your wife’s cheating your fault?”
“It just was. Or maybe fallout’s a better word, but that’s just semantics. I was so wrapped up in myself and my work, so drop-dead sure the world revolved around the New York Times best-seller list, that I forgot to take care of my life.”
It was Leslie’s turn to shrug. “Success doesn’t come cheap. And your wife certainly benefited.”
“When we got married we were like everybody else, broke but full of dreams. Then I sold my first book and the money started coming in. Everything changed. One day I looked up and I didn’t know her anymore, or me either. I was too busy being important.”
Leslie recognized the words. He’d thrown them up to her once. Perhaps it was time to steer the conversation to safer waters. “What about the books since the divorce? There must have been some money from them.”
“There haven’t been any books since the divorce.”
Leslie was attempting to tear a chunk of sourdough free. She dropped it back in the basket. “None?”
“Not a word in six years. There didn’t seem to be much point. My last book was, shall we say, rather coolly received by the critics, not to mention my fans. It’s not easy to write about love when you’ve stopped believing in it. So you see, we have more in common than you think. Until the winery starts making money, we’re both, as the French say, sans le sou.”
“I don’t understand. Why bother with the winery when all you have to do is grind out another heartbreaker to get back on your feet?”
“I am back on my feet, at least in a way I give a damn about. And the last thing I want is to write another book.”
Leslie shook her head as she resumed her attack on the sourdough. “I don’t get it. How can you have this amazing gift and not use it?”
Jay ignored the chunk of bread she placed on his plate. “You know, you’ve got a pretty short memory. A minute ago my work was romantic crack. Now I have a gift? And while we’re on the subject, when was the last time you used your gifts? And don’t tell me about Edge. I’m talking about your photography. Don’t look so stunned. I Googled you. I know about the write-ups and all the awards. So when was the last time you touched a camera?”
Leslie stiffened and lifted her chin. “We’re talking about you.”
“Not anymore we’re not. You got your answers. The subject is closed.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
His eyes were shuttered when they met hers, hard and unreadable. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you’re not willing to answer yourself.”
Chapter 15
At high noon the attic was stifling, the air thick with dust and discarded memories. Leslie groaned at the sight of so much junk, abandoned furniture stacked with bric-a-brac, a dizzying maze of boxes littered with papery moth corpses. It was the last place on earth she wanted to be, but Jay’s words had stayed with her, awakening her at three a.m., and then again at four.
When was the last time you used your gifts?
It had been a while; years, in fact. She was only seven when she snapped her first picture, her mother beside her, her first teacher. She wasn’t very good back then, but she had gotten good. Good enough to earn her way through Parsons, land a wall full of prestigious awards, and hold more than a dozen successful shows. Her mother would have been proud. But she had given it all up for Edge, for a title and a corner office, where she helped peddle sports cars to men with dwindling testosterone levels and hawked two-hundred-dollar cigars to big shots who probably couldn’t tell the difference.
The questions were still unanswered when the alarm went off the next morning, but as she had sipped her morning coffee, her thoughts drifted to her mother’s work, carefully preserved at one time in a series of leather-bound albums. What had become of them after she died? Was it possible, after all these years, that they might still be here somewhere?
And so, after an unsuccessful search of Maggie’s room, she had climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. She tried not to dwell on the stacks and piles that would eventually have to be sorted through, the broken picture frames and shadeless lamp, the cartons brimming with glasses and dishes wrapped in sheets of yellowed newsprint, the pots and pans and chafing dishes, battered suitcases and disjointed umbrellas. By the look of things, most of it had been here for at least a half century. Another day or two wasn’t going to make much difference.
After a cursory look through the cartons near the stairs, Leslie moved deeper into the gloomy chaos, where the castoffs were more randomly stacked and it became more difficult to navigate. She had nearly cleared a precarious jumble of old tables and chairs when she tripped over a sheet of canvas and nearly broke her neck. Dust clouded the air as she pulled back the sheet. When it settled she found herself eye to eye with the portrait of an unfamiliar bride.
The strand of pearls at the woman’s throat was familiar, though, distinctive thanks to its ornate garnet clasp. They were the pearls Maggie had worn for her own bridal portrait, the pearls she had promised would one day belong to Leslie. So this was Susanne Gavin, Henry’s wife, and the matriarch of three generations of Gavin woman.
Leslie tilted her head and closed one eye, searching for some scrap of recognition, but the woman might as well have been a stranger. She fell rather short of pretty, despite her lace veil and lapful of lilies, pale and sharp, with a bot
tomless gaze that was too chilly for comfort. It seemed the Gavin women got their dark looks from Henry’s side of the family.
Finding a portrait of Maggie’s mother stashed in the attic, rather than mounted in a place of honor, felt odd. But then she was in no position to judge. She’d been wondering for days what to do with some of Maggie’s relics, and now here was one more. She’d deal with it later. Right now, she was here to look for her mother’s albums, and she wasn’t letting herself get sidetracked.
After two hours of gritty, backbreaking excavation, Leslie finally found what she was looking for, a pair of boxes tucked away in the northeast dormer, each bearing the name AMANDA LYNNE in heavy black marker. The packing tape made a sound like ripping cloth as Leslie peeled it away. Her hands trembled as she turned back the flaps and peered in at the tenderly packed bits of her mother’s childhood: a once-pink tutu with sequins along the bottom, a tarnished gymnastics trophy, a faded Harvest Queen sash.
Ballerina. Gymnast. Harvest Queen.
It was hard for Leslie to imagine her mother as any of those things, let alone all of them. Since her death, Amanda Nichols had lived in her memory as the woman who read bedtime stories and made smiley faces with pancakes and bacon. But this was another Amanda, the girl she’d been before she grew up and married Jimmy, all carefully packed away in a corner of the attic.
Leslie closed up the carton of memorabilia and moved on to the next, holding her breath as she yanked back the tape and peered into the box. There they were, eight leather volumes with the year stamped in faded gold along the spine, and in surprisingly good shape from what she could see as she lifted them out, the pages brittle and brown but intact for the most part.
Laying the most recent album in her lap, she began paging through. Most were nature shots, startlingly good for someone with no formal training. Her mother definitely had an eye. They were arranged chronologically, as they’d been shot. One particular series caught her attention. It began at the mouth of a wooded track, then continued to move deeper along the sun-dappled path.
The Secrets She Carried Page 12
