The Secrets We Carried

by Mary McNear

  A few minutes later she put on her coat and headed over to the Corner Bar. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake she made last night, when she skipped dinner. She was sitting in a booth and was glancing through a red leather-bound menu that she still knew by heart when the waitress approached her.

  “Hey. What can I get for you tonight?” she asked Quinn. She was a blond middle-aged woman whom Quinn didn’t recognize and whose name tag identified her as Dawn.

  “I’ll have the Corner Burger, medium rare,” Quinn said, closing the menu and handing it to her. “And a glass of pinot grigio, please.”

  Dawn hesitated. “Can I see your ID?” she asked.

  “Really? I’m twenty-eight,” Quinn said. She extracted her wallet from her shoulder bag and, flipping it open, let Dawn examine her license. “You’re the third person today who told me I look like I’m still in high school.”

  “No, you don’t,” Dawn said, scribbling on her check pad as Quinn put her wallet away. “You look like you’re in your twenties. It’s just that I don’t know you, and Marty, the bartender here, is a real stickler about carding people.”

  “Of course he is.” Quinn smiled. She knew Marty. Or rather had known Marty when she’d lived here before. The way you knew most people in a town like Butternut. He was an institution. Either the only bartender the Corner Bar had ever had, or the only bartender anyone could ever remember the Corner Bar having. Either way, he would forever be married in Quinn’s mind with the extra maraschino cherries—at least a half dozen of them—he’d put in her Shirley Temple when her dad had brought her here as a child. When she’d come in this evening, she’d seen him behind the bar, polishing glasses, and had almost said hello to him, but she’d decided it was too complicated and had taken refuge in a back booth instead. She wanted to be anonymous, for now.

  “Okay, I’ll bring you your pinot,” Dawn said, with a smile. “And just remember, when you’re my age, on the other side of forty, you’ll miss getting carded.”

  “Probably,” Quinn said. Dawn left her, and she looked around the room, which, at five o’clock in the evening, was still quiet. There were a few men sitting at the bar watching a NASCAR race on a flat-screen TV, a family sitting in another booth, and, across the restaurant, two couples sitting at a table. Quinn recognized the female half of one of the couples, who was seated facing her; it was Butternut’s mayor, who had spoken at the dedication today. The man sitting next to her, Quinn assumed, was her husband. The couple across from them had their backs to her so she didn’t know whether she would have recognized them or not, but there was something about the way the four of them were sitting—hunched forward—and the quiet intensity of their conversation that gave Quinn pause.

  “Here you go,” Dawn said, interrupting her gaze as she put the glass of wine on the table. “Your burger will be right up.”

  “Thank you,” Quinn said. She took a sip of the wine and sighed with satisfaction. It was delicious, and, to prevent herself from gulping down the whole thing, she pulled her laptop out of her computer bag. She wasn’t sure she wanted to write anything more tonight. But it wouldn’t hurt to read over her memory of that spring afternoon in the communications room with Gabriel. She reread her file while she sipped her wine. It was faithful to that time in their lives, she decided. Sometimes she found her memory for details irritating; if someone told her, five years ago, about an appendectomy they once had, she could recite the story verbatim today. She was grateful now, though, for that ability to recall, and when Dawn brought her order, she thought some more about that afternoon in the communications room as she munched on her burger and fries. She had spent so much of her last year of high school in that room. Well, until the accident. Still, she reasoned, Gabriel was only half of that year. Jake was the other half. And writing about one without writing about the other was like . . . like telling half the truth. She nudged her plate, empty but for a parsley garnish, away from her, and was reaching for her laptop again when Dawn reappeared.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked, taking Quinn’s plate. “Another glass of pinot grigio, maybe?” She nodded at her empty glass.

  “No, thank you. That was delicious, though. If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to work a little,” she added, gesturing at her laptop.

  “Go right ahead.”

  Quinn wanted to write about Jake, even if there was a part of her that was afraid to. Still, there were things that needed to be remembered, no matter how difficult remembering them would be. She hadn’t been aware of Jake until high school. He’d grown up in Winton and although it was only fifteen minutes away, they had a separate elementary and middle school. The image that came to her now was of the first time she’d seen Jake, walking down the hallway at Northern Superior High School at the beginning of ninth grade. He was coming toward her, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and while Quinn was at an age where she worked very hard not to be impressed by anything, she was impressed by him. He was good looking and rumored to be a gifted athlete. But it was more than that. He was confident, and while he didn’t have the swagger of, say, Seth Worcester, a senior and the quarterback of the football team, he had something better. An ease. A comfort in his own skin. Quinn tried not to stare at him. He caught her eye, anyway, and smiled at her, a killer smile.

  She smiled back, but she’d already classified him. He wasn’t her type. He was a jock. Her interests lay elsewhere. She doubted they would spend much time together and she was right. Over the next three years, their paths only occasionally crossed, and although they were friendly enough, they were each caught up in their own separate worlds. Their own high schools within a high school. Besides, Jake usually had a girlfriend.

  And even now, ten years after leaving Butternut, she was surprised they’d ever gone out with each other, let alone stayed together for nine months. Their relationship wasn’t only not predestined; it was a fluke. It would never have happened if she hadn’t had an internship at the Butternut Express.

  The newspaper’s offices were in a converted two-bedroom apartment above the variety store. There were three window-mounted air conditioners, which were often on the fritz, and a half-dozen potted plants, which managed to limp along, though Quinn never saw anyone water them. And, of course, back issues of the newspaper were stacked on desks, in corners, in closets, on the stairs, and even in the cupboards of what had once been the kitchen and was now a meeting room. Like so many small-town papers, the Butternut Express operated on a shoestring with only two full-time employees, Bryan Walsh, the editor in chief, and a sales manager, both of whom did a little bit of everything, and two part-time reporters. There was also a freelance photographer they used when necessary. Although, in Quinn’s opinion, he was nowhere near as good as Gabriel.

  She’d started the summer there with a burst of ambition, pitching story ideas to Bryan. But while she begged to write a story on someone like Rusty Brooke, a local raconteur who was running for town mayor, or a piece on the controversial dredging of Butternut Lake’s shoreline, she ended up with features on the closing of Deb’s Bear Den, a local beauty salon, and the volunteer fire department’s purchase of a new truck.

  Quinn didn’t get discouraged, though. She didn’t stop pitching, either, until one afternoon when she realized she was getting on Bryan’s nerves. She left him alone after that, and, when he found her, three days later, reorganizing the storage closet—more back issues of the paper—and asked her if she wanted to do a profile on the high school cross-country star Jake Lightman, she recognized this for what it was: a peace offering. And she jumped at the chance.

  Chapter 9

  Late June, Summer Before Senior Year, Interviewing Jake

  It had been a wet spring, and the summer was so lush that as Quinn walked from Northern Superior High School’s parking lot to the bleachers she discovered that the tidy, cultivated grounds she’d left behind a couple of weeks ago had been transformed into something different, something verdant and wild. The grass on t
he athletic fields had grown long and shaggy, the shrub roses that edged the bleachers were in riotous bloom, and even the willow trees seemed ready to collapse under the weight of their foliage. The sunny day would have been hot but for a breeze that was strong enough to carry the scent of roses on it, strong enough, too, to make the leaves on the aspen trees shiver and quake.

  It was, in short, a perfect summer day. But something about it—its heaviness or its sweetness—had the effect of making Quinn drowsy, and, as she settled onto the bleachers to wait for Jake Lightman, the classmate she was interviewing, she sipped the iced tea she’d ordered at Pearl’s. She’d gotten an extra-large and added five packets of sugar to it, hoping that the one-two punch of caffeine and sugar would boost her mental alertness. She checked her watch. She was five minutes early, as usual. Her punctuality was either her most endearing or her most annoying quality, depending on how you looked at it. To Gabriel, it was endearing.

  She slipped her cell phone out of her back pocket and checked the screen. Nope. Gabriel hadn’t returned her call yet. He was probably in class at his summer program at the Art Institute of Chicago. She took out a pen and the yellow legal pad she’d written the interview questions on. She’d meant to review them, but now she wondered instead about Gabriel. Would he meet a girl there this summer? And if he did, would he tell Quinn about her? It was hard to say. Girls were one of the only things he didn’t talk to her about.

  She was surprised at how much she missed him. How dependent upon him she’d become. How much she wanted him to be here. It was funny how that had sneaked up on her. She remembered the night before he’d left for Chicago. They’d started at the Mosquito Inn, where they’d ordered rum and Cokes. The Mosquito Inn was a dive bar, but unfortunately, it was a dive bar that carded, so they’d ended up driving around and listening to music. Then, after Quinn’s curfew, she got permission from her dad for Gabriel to stay late so they could watch The Shawshank Redemption, one of their favorite movies. They’d talked for hours afterward, until Quinn’s dad said Gabriel had to get home and get to bed.

  A gust of wind ruffled the pages on her legal pad, and, as she smoothed them down, she saw Jake approaching the bleachers. “Hey,” he said, lifting a hand in a wave. She waved back. His body was lean and light, a runner’s body, or so her internet research last night had told her, and he was obviously coming from the locker room, because his wet hair was combed down, and a gym bag was thrown over one shoulder. He had a tan for so early in the summer, and it made the dark gold color of his eyes stand out. He smiled up at her as he climbed the bleachers and Quinn thought, He’s got it. Whatever it is, he’s got it. For some reason, it irritated her.

  “You’re late,” she said, matter-of-factly, as he sat down on the bleacher across from her. He glanced at his watch. She didn’t know this yet, but it was a Garmin watch, a gift from his parents after his cross-country team won the state championship last season. It was his favorite, his only, accessory.

  “Just by a couple of minutes,” he pointed out. “I could have been early, but I was so sweaty from my run I thought it would be rude not to take a shower.” He smiled again, but Quinn only nodded. She was determined to be professional, even if he was one of her classmates. She studied her legal pad, trying to decide which question to start with.

  “Mr. Drossel said you called him last night,” Jake said. She looked up. Mr. Drossel taught U.S. history and coached the cross-country team. “Lou and Griffin said you called them, too.” They were both friends of Jake’s on the cross-country team.

  “I did. When I interview someone for a profile, I try to interview at least five other people connected to them first.”

  “Why?”

  “It gives you a different perspective on your subject, and it helps shape the questions you’re going to ask them.”

  Jake nodded, obviously impressed. “When the Duluth News Tribune did an article on me, I was the only person they interviewed.”

  “I probably have more time than their reporters,” Quinn said, thinking of her self-imposed exile to the supply closet. “Do you want to get started now?” she asked, studying her notes again.

  “Fire away,” he said.

  “Okay, let’s see.” She started with a list of necessary, though to her not-terribly-interesting, questions. Cross-country was his main sport, but he also ran indoor track in the winter and track in the spring. She asked him about what events he competed in, what his best times were, what his training regimen was like. “How’d you get started running?” she asked, her pen poised above the pad.

  He paused. “My brother,” he said.

  “He was a runner?”

  “No, he wasn’t a runner. That’s the point.”

  Quinn looked up, waiting for more information.

  He shrugged. “You know who Tanner is, don’t you?”

  She nodded. Everyone knew who Tanner Lightman was. He was in twelfth grade when Quinn was in ninth. It was almost a rite of passage to have a crush on him. He was like a composite character from the classic 1980s high school movies that Quinn loved. The handsome athlete who falls for the insecure, quirky girl. He’d been something of a daredevil, too. That year he’d been famous for driving his truck on Shell Lake on April Fool’s Day—it was the latest anyone from their high school had ever driven out on the ice before. But all Quinn said to Jake was, “He was athletic, wasn’t he?”

  “He played two varsity sports. If he could have cloned himself, he would have played three. I saw early on, when I was, like, eight, that I wasn’t going to have his hand-eye coordination. I could run, though. I could always run. My mom said I skipped walking. I went straight from crawling to running. So I figured that was the way to go.”

  “Your brother can’t be your whole motivation,” Quinn pointed out.

  “He’s not.”

  “Why do it then? I mean, why do you love it?”

  “I don’t love it.”

  She paused in her writing.

  “No, it’s true. I hate it.”

  Quinn must have looked skeptical.

  “What? Have you ever been to a cross-country meet in mid-October?”

  She shook her head. She’d never been to a cross-country meet, ever.

  “Okay, then. Let me set the scene,” he said, warming to the topic. “First, cross-country means hills. Second, at that time of year, in Minnesota, it means cold, and rain, and mud, and . . . more mud. Basically, miserable conditions. And, if you’re me, you’re running uphill, fighting cramps and dehydration, covered with mud, your feet freezing cold, and another runner is coming right up behind you, so slowing down is not an option.”

  “That sounds awful,” Quinn said. “But if you hate it, why do it?”

  “Because I only hate it seventy-five percent of the time. The other twenty-five percent of the time, I love it. That’s common, by the way, among distance runners. That love-hate relationship.”

  “Do you get runner’s high?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What’s it like? I’ve never run far enough to get it,” she admitted. She hated running. Always had.

  “It’s worth it.”

  “The cold? The wet? The mud?”

  “All of it.”

  “So the twenty-five percent of it you love is about the runner’s high?” she clarified.

  “No,” he said. “It’s not that simple. The high, that’s like a bonus. It’s not the whole thing. I love running because . . . well, I’m good at it, for one thing. That’s common too. There may be bad runners out there who love it, but I’ve never met any of them. And—this is harder to explain—but I like the mind-set part of it. The mental toughness, I guess you’d call it. If you don’t do well, there’s no one else to blame. You can’t blame the referee or another player or the coach. It’s you. You leave it all there on the trail or the track. If you do well, though, you feel like you can do anything.”

  “That’s interesting,” Quinn murmured, writing this down. But she didn’t know
if it was the running or Jake that was interesting. He was so different than she’d imagined he would be. He was more introspective. And articulate.

  “What about college?” she said, trying to focus. “I assume you’ve been recruited?”

  “Madison,” he said, of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. “You can’t put that in the paper yet,” he added, quickly. “They can’t make me an official offer until July first. Right now, it’s a handshake agreement.”

  “Why Madison?” she asked.

  “Tanner goes there.”

  “You’re competitive with him. Are you close, too?”

  “Close?” He looked confused. “We’re brothers,” he said, as if this were self-explanatory.

  “Not all brothers are close,” Quinn said. She was thinking of Gabriel’s relationship with his brothers. He couldn’t have been more different from them, or less close to them.

  “That’s true, I guess. But we are close. Sort of. Most of the time. When we’re not trying to kill each other,” he joked. “You know how it is.”

  “I don’t. I don’t have any siblings,” she said.

  “No? Well, it’s complicated. We’re . . . pretty competitive with each other. But, yeah, I want to go to the same school as him. It would feel weird not to.”

  Quinn nodded, though sibling dynamics were often a mystery to her.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Where do you want to go to college?”

  “Me?” She was scanning her questions to see if she’d missed anything. “I want to go to Northwestern,” she said. “It’s a stretch, though.”

  “You’ll get in,” he predicted. She looked at him. His hair had dried and a cowlick had popped up. She smiled. He smiled back. She loved his smile, but she would only admit it to herself. “Okay,” she said abruptly. “I think that about wraps it up. Except for the photo. I already gave your contact info to our freelance photographer. His name is Josh Hartley. I don’t know what he has in mind, but you two can work that out. If you want to give input, that’s fine. He’s good at listening to suggestions. Do you have some time available tomorrow?”