The Secrets She Carried

by Davis, Barbara

  “Yet?” Angie snorted, then leveled hard green eyes on Leslie. “I hate to break it to you, honey, but you’re staring down the barrel of forty. You think you might be getting ready anytime soon?”

  Leslie winced. There it was, that right-between-the-eyes honesty Angie hauled out when she wanted to get your attention. “Angie, this isn’t about age, or biological clocks, or any of that. It’s about whether I’m ready to open my life up to someone. Aside from you and Buck, I don’t know too many people that’s actually worked out for, which is why I’m not sure I see the point in starting something that’s only going to end up being temporary.”

  “Who says it has to be temporary?”

  “I do. I have some history with this.”

  “Leslie, most of us get it wrong the first time, but we have to keep trying.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the alternative is being alone.” She paused, bringing her tone down a notch. “Look, I’m not trying to push Jay down your throat—well, maybe a little—but it’s because I don’t want to see you make up your mind about forever based on a few bumps in your past. Don’t close the door is all I’m saying. I’m going to leave now, before I get thrown out. Come by the house later for coffee if you have time. No sermons, I promise.”

  Leslie slid back into her chair, listening to the slap of Angie’s flip-flops receding down the back porch steps. Her advice had been kindly meant, the words of a friend, however bluntly spoken. But it wasn’t that simple. She was scared, though of what she couldn’t say. She’d been in relationships before, had survived her fair share of breakups, sustained the usual nicks and bruises to her pride. So why was this so different?

  It was a question she’d been asking herself for days now, though she wasn’t at all sure she was ready to face the answer, that with Jay there was more than just her pride on the line, and that she might already be in too deep to walk away.

  Leslie blinked at her laptop, trying to recall what she’d been about to do before Angie popped in, when she spotted the brand-new message in her inbox from Doug Somers. Her stomach clenched as she opened it, praying he and Stephen hadn’t changed their minds about subletting her apartment. The last thing she needed right now was one more distraction. But the e-mail wasn’t about the apartment at all.

  Les—

  Just an FYI—some guy came around yesterday looking for you. Claimed to be your father. Didn’t tell him anything except that you had moved. Asked if I knew where. Told him no. Thought you should know. The guy looked a little worse for wear. D.

  Leslie slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe slowly. Jimmy was out, then, in New York and apparently hot on her trail. At least she’d been given a heads-up. It was unlikely that he’d heard about Maggie’s death or her inheritance. Peak might not occur to him. But if it did? She thought of the proceeds from her watch, stashed in the top drawer of her bureau, allocated for things like tent rental, lighting and decorations, and the band she’d already hired. It would get him to go away, at least for a while.

  And then what? When it was gone he’d be back.

  She shut down the laptop and sat very still, listening to the faint whir of the refrigerator and the steady ticktock of the kitchen clock. She had spent the first eight years of her life at Peak but had returned as a stranger. Now, somehow, while she wasn’t looking, it had become her home. Not the kind of home she’d had in New York—a small, sterile space carved out of concrete and glass—but a real home, where her heart could live and breathe.

  There were people in her life now, Angie and Young Buck, and a strawberry blond eight-year-old who called her Aunt Leslie. And somewhere in all of it, there was Jay. She had become part of a circle, part of the life and purpose that pulsed through Peak, and she liked it. Jimmy wasn’t ruining that. Let him come if he wanted, but he wasn’t staying, and he wasn’t getting a cent.

  For all her resolve, Leslie almost jumped out of her chair when her cell phone went off. No one ever called these days. Peering at the display, she saw that the number was local, though it wasn’t one she knew. It took a moment to recognize the voice on the other end.

  “Mr. Randolph?”

  “Do you have a minute to talk? I’ve just had a call about your painting. Turns out it’s a bit of a rarity.”

  Leslie grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and stepped out onto the back porch, concerns about Jimmy temporarily on the back burner. “A rarity in what way?”

  “Well, for starters, it appears to have been painted by a rather obscure artist, a man by the name of Tanner, who painted in Paris between 1905 and 1915 or so.”

  Leslie dropped heavily into the nearest rocker. “I’m sorry, did you say Tanner?” She had seen the name before, in the articles her mother had saved about addiction and mental illness. Now here it was again, directly connected to the Rebecca.

  “I did. Jeremiah Tanner was his full name. He was a minor artist in his day, had a reputation as a bit of a ne’er-do-well, but after his death in 1917, his work started to gain attention. There are six known works of merit attributed to him, and somehow your great-grandfather managed to get hold of five of them.”

  “Have you—? Do you have any idea—?”

  “How much it’s worth? No, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s difficult when there are no recent sales on which to base a price. I haven’t given up yet, though. There’s one more painting out there we haven’t accounted for, and the trail ends with a man named Fornier, a gallery owner who once owned the entire collection. Apparently, he got mixed up with some unsavory political types and had to emigrate from France to avoid arrest. That was back in ’thirty-seven or ’thirty-eight. We’re fairly certain he brought the paintings with him, though we believe they were liquidated not long after.”

  “Is there a way to know who may have bought them?”

  “That’s what I’m calling to tell you. The Fornier Gallery is still operating.”

  Leslie watched a pair of cardinals vying for the bird-feeder leftovers as she digested this bit of news. “He’s still alive?”

  “Good heavens, no. Claude Fornier died in ’seventy-two. His granddaughter owns the place now. I tried to get in touch with her to see if she knew the fate of the collection, but all I got was a recording that the gallery is closed for the season. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until it reopens in the spring. At any rate, we don’t need the painting anymore, if you’d like to pick it up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Randolph.” Leslie tried to keep the frustration from her voice. Spring was an eternity away. “I’ll be by in a day or two, if that’s all right. In the meantime, would you mind if I tried to get in touch with Fornier’s granddaughter?”

  “Not at all. It’s your painting. I’d be obliged, though, if you’d let me know what you find out. This will probably sound silly to you, but in my line of work, you learn that old things tend to have stories, and something tells me this one might be a doozy.”

  Leslie didn’t think it sounded silly at all. Things did have stories. Photos and paintings and gravestones had stories, and like Mr. Randolph, she wanted to know what they were and why she couldn’t shake the feeling that those stories were somehow connected. After jotting down the number for the Charleston gallery, she ended the call.

  Two hours later she was still waiting to hear back from Ms. Fornier. She had reached the same recorded message as Mr. Randolph. The gallery was closed for the season and would reopen on March first. She hadn’t bothered to leave a message. Instead, she hopped online. It had taken less than thirty minutes to locate an address and phone number for Ms. Emilie Fornier of Charleston, South Carolina. Her message was short and sweet; she would like to speak with Ms. Fornier at her earliest convenience, with regard to several paintings from her grandfather’s private collection. It was presumptuous, she knew, and would probably turn out to be a huge waste of time, but it was the only lead she had. She couldn’t do anything now, but when the Splash was behind her, she’d have some fr
ee time. If it was wasted, so be it. At least she would know she had tried.

  She was finishing up a few e-mails the next morning when her cell went off. She immediately recognized the 843 area code. The voice on the other end was cool and brisk, opening with a series of rapid-fire questions. How had she gotten this number? Was she a collector? A dealer? Was she looking to make a purchase?

  Inexplicably, Leslie found herself tongue-tied. She had tracked the woman down at home on a Sunday, and now that she was on the line, she didn’t know where to begin. In the end, she decided to keep Mr. Randolph out of it, saying only that she had inherited a painting that might be the work of Jeremiah Tanner, and that since her grandfather had been a collector of Tanner’s work, she hoped Ms. Fornier might be able to authenticate the piece.

  It took a bit of doing, but Emilie Fornier finally agreed to view the Rebecca, scheduling an appointment at her home on the Tuesday after the Splash. Leslie felt almost giddy as she ended the call. It would only be a day trip, but she could do with a change of scenery. Maybe she’d invite Jay along. It was time they got to know each other better, time to stop all the wary circling and finally figure out what they wanted from each other.

  By late afternoon she had finally screwed up the courage to actually extend the invitation. She found Jay out behind the cottage in his garden. She paused at the gate, watching him turn what was left of the herb beds. When he finally looked up, he seemed startled.

  “Ah, you’re just in time to help.”

  “With what? It looks like you’re almost finished.”

  “With this part, yeah. But then I’m planting some winter lettuce.”

  “You’re quite the Renaissance man.” She stepped through the gate, letting it close behind her. “Have you got a minute? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “All right. I was about to get myself some tea. Can I bring you out a glass?”

  Leslie nodded, though she wasn’t thirsty. She wondered how Jay would react when she told him she was going all the way to Charleston on the hunch that there was a connection between Adele and the paintings in Henry’s study. He’d already questioned her once, accusing her rather heatedly of letting Adele get under her skin. Well, maybe she was. But her gut told her she was on to something, and her conversation with Mr. Randolph only served to strengthen that conviction.

  Jay reappeared with a glass in each hand and a bag of pretzels between his teeth. Leslie relieved him of the pretzels and one of the glasses.

  “Let’s sit a minute,” he suggested, pointing to a shady stretch of stone wall. “My back is killing me.”

  Leslie dropped down beside him on the mossy stones, feeling the cool damp seep through the seat of her jeans. Jay tore into the pretzels, then offered her the bag, but she declined.

  “I’m going to Charleston the Tuesday after the Splash,” she said without preamble.

  Jay blinked at her. “What’s in Charleston?”

  “An art gallery—or rather, the owner of an art gallery. Her name is Emilie Fornier.”

  “Does this have to do with your photography?”

  “My photography?” Leslie frowned, then shook her head. “No. It’s about the paintings in Henry’s study. There’s a woman who owns a gallery there who might be able to give me some information on them.”

  “You do realize Charleston is almost six hours away?”

  “I do.”

  “And just what is it you’d drive six hours to find out?”

  “I had someone look at one of the paintings—an expert. He said it was painted by a man named Jeremiah Tanner. Apparently, he only painted six pictures, which means Henry was one shy of owning the entire collection. Before that, the collection belonged to a man named Fornier from Charleston.” Leslie paused, plucking a pretzel from the bag. “Unfortunately, no one knows what happened to them after they left Fornier’s hands. It’s like they vanished, except five of the six are hanging in Henry’s study.”

  Jay looked mystified. “That’s it? You’re going to drive all the way to South Carolina to find out why your great-grandfather had a study full of paintings? Leslie, Henry was fairly well-off, and at a time when no one trusted the banks. Maybe he saw art as a safe place to park his money.”

  Leslie sipped her sweet tea as she considered the idea, plausible enough given the economic climate after the crash, but something still didn’t feel right. Finally, she shook her head. “No, that wasn’t it. Other than Maggie’s portrait in the parlor, and the one of Susanne up in the attic, there isn’t another scrap of art in this house. Why these paintings? Why Tanner?”

  “Why not Tanner?”

  Spying a pair of finches, Leslie crushed what was left of her pretzel and tossed the crumbs, watching as they pounced on the sudden windfall. “The articles I found in the attic mention Jeremiah Tanner specifically. My mother kept them for a reason, and she kept them together with the letter, which I’m now sure belonged to Adele. She obviously believed they were connected, and so do I. I just don’t know how yet. You said Maggie had a secret she wanted to tell you. She left the photo of Adele’s grave with Goddard so I’d be sure to get it. There was something she wanted us to know.”

  Jay had been rubbing salt off a pretzel with the ball of his thumb. His hand went quiet now. “You’re chasing ancient history, Leslie, about a woman who’s been dead for God knows how long. I don’t see what going to Charleston about a handful of paintings is going to prove.”

  Leslie met his eyes, chin tipped slightly. “I don’t either, but I’m going. I need to know more about Tanner, and Ms. Fornier has agreed to see me. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m hoping she can tell me when Henry bought the painting, and maybe even why. I came to ask if you want to go with me.”

  Jay’s brows shot up. “You’re serious about this, then?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She wished she could explain why this was important to her, but nothing she said would make sense. “I know you think I’m crazy to care about any of this, and you’re probably right, but I used to think my family’s secrets all had to do with my mother’s death. Now I think there’s more, something from a long time ago that has to do with Henry’s mistress. And yes, with those paintings. Emilie Fornier may be the one person who can help me figure it out. I set up the appointment for the Tuesday after the Splash.”

  Jay said nothing, his brow furrowed in what looked like resignation.

  Leslie handed him a pretzel. At least he hadn’t said no. “If it’s a nice day we could take the Mustang.”

  Chapter 28

  The night of the Splash had finally arrived, a crisp October evening that might have been made to order. In the lavender dusk, the trees were alive with twinkling white lights. The mellow strains of “Carolina in My Mind” were already in the air. Leslie roamed the tents and grounds, looking for something to do, but found nothing. The tasting barn was finished, every floorboard gleaming, every wineglass polished and at the ready. The bandstand, a simple plywood dais, had been transformed with wine barrels, hay bales, and a few cleverly positioned spotlights. The tents had been raised, the food delivered. They were ready.

  So why did she feel like throwing up?

  She found Angie in the refreshment tent, standing over a punch bowl with a knife, a bowl of fruit, and several bottles of Seyval Blanc, a flour sack towel draped over the shoulder of her little black dress. She glanced up, then let out a soft whistle. “Wait ’til Jay gets a look at you in that dress. You look gorgeous.”

  Leslie smoothed her hands down the clingy sheath of cobalt blue velvet she’d found in a vintage boutique this morning and purchased on a whim. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

  “I think it’s perfect, and I like your hair up like that. But you don’t look happy. What’s wrong?”

  Leslie made a noise that was half sigh, half groan. “I don’t know. I just feel like I should be doing something.”

  “Honey, you’ve done enough. There’s only the last-minute stuff l
eft, and I can handle that. You just go breathe into a paper bag or something.”

  Leslie laughed, but it quickly faded. “What if no one comes?”

  Angie put down her knife and wiped her hands. “Okay, you need to stop now. When you first suggested this, I thought you were crazy. But you pulled it off. This is the biggest shindig this town’s ever seen, and you made it happen. Go enjoy yourself.”

  Leslie lingered in the doorway of the tent, gazing at the smattering of stars appearing in the eastern sky and trying to choose between looking for Jay and sneaking off with one of Angie’s bottles of wine. Before she could decide, the first set of headlights peeled off the road and headed up the drive, a white Caddy the size of a small fishing vessel. That would be Avis.

  Her heart clenched with relief as she watched the steady crawl of headlights moving in Peak’s direction, all of them pulling off to park. In the twilight, silhouettes began to emerge, mostly in pairs, crossing the lawn to converge on the refreshment tent. Leslie smoothed her dress once more, gave her hair a quick pat, and put on her best hostess smile.

  She was surprised at how quickly a few could become a crowd. Most were strangers, but there were a few familiar faces: Avis and her husband, O.W., Susan and Bobby Bishop, Virgil Snipes from the hardware store, and Deanna, who, she was inexplicably relieved to see, had brought a date.

  Scanning the sea of faces, she located Jay in the doorway of the crush barn. He looked relaxed in a coat and open shirt, laughing and chatting with Bobby Bishop. She was startled when his eyes strayed to hers, as if he’d known she was there all along. She had wrestled all week with the feeling that he was purposely avoiding her, too busy to stop for lunch or even a cup of coffee. Well, he clearly wasn’t avoiding her now. She warmed under his gaze, a long, lazy look that traveled the length of her and then back again.

  Pleased by his obvious approval, Leslie shot him a smile, already mapping out a path through the crowd when Deanna appeared at her elbow, looking predictably gorgeous in a dress of clingy eggplant-colored silk. She introduced her date, the muscular and decidedly un-new-agey Kyle Pritchett, who, when he wasn’t building houses, was a member of Gavin’s volunteer fire department, then proceeded to gush about everything from the food to the twinkle lights in the trees. Leslie maintained her smile and made all the polite responses, though her eyes strayed more than once to the tasting barn. By the time Deanna ran out of steam and allowed Kyle to lead her back to the punch bowl, Jay had disappeared.