Secrets She Left Behind

by Diane Chamberlain

  It took me about twenty seconds to discover she had no panties on under that dress. I knew chicks liked sex slow, but damn. What was I supposed to do? It’d been way too long. She rubbed against me through my jeans. I finally held her hips still.

  “I’m gonna come if you don’t stop it,” I said.

  She laughed, leaning forward to kiss me, and I reached between us to touch her. She was wet, slippery as silk. I groaned, and she undid my zipper and whipped off my jeans like she did it every day of the week. Then she sank onto me. I tried to hold back, but two thrusts and it was over.

  “Sorry,” I said when I managed to catch my breath. I could usually hold out long enough to get girls to come. I used to be good at it.

  She laughed in my ear. “That’s okay, baby,” she said. I felt her muscles tighten around my cock. “You needed it.”

  We lay like that awhile longer, with her head on my chest and my aching arms around her. Her hair smelled incredible, the scent just about making me drunk. I needed another Percocet, but I didn’t want to move.

  “Are you cold?” I asked, rubbing her left arm with my right. I felt my cock slip out of her.

  “Not at all. You?”

  “No.” I twisted some of her hair around my fingers. “You smell like oranges. Orange and vanilla. Creamsicles.”

  She laughed. “Is that bad?”

  “Uh-uh. It’s excellent.”

  “Let’s move to the bedroom.” She got to her feet and reached down to help me up. I thought briefly about dinner—I could smell that she actually had cooked something—but right then I didn’t care if I never ate again.

  Her bedroom was massive, the bed bigger than my whole room in the trailer. We got naked and under the covers and she wrapped her arms around me.

  “Are you in pain?” she asked.

  “Uh-uh.” I’d hesitated half a second too long before answering.

  “Yes, you are, too,” she said. “Can I get you some aspirin?”

  “I have pain meds in my jeans pocket.” My jeans were on her living-room floor and I didn’t feel like letting go of her to get them.

  But she hopped out of the bed before I could stop her, and in another minute was handing me my bottle of pills and a glass of water. I popped a couple of the Percocet. Any more action like we’d had in the living room, and I’d need every milligram.

  She climbed back into bed again, wriggling over next to me.

  “I’m sorry you have pain,” she said.

  I kissed her. “It’s all right,” I said.

  “Are you angry?” she asked.

  “What?” I thought she meant about attacking me at the front door before I’d even had a bite to eat. “About what?”

  “Your…the pain.”

  “You mean the burns.”

  “Yeah.”

  Oh, yeah. I was angry.

  “Do you know the whole story about the fire?” I asked.

  “You mean, how that Maggie Lockwood girl was trying to help out her boyfriend by starting a fire so he could be some big hero, and—”

  “She didn’t actually start it.” I interrupted her. “That’s the thing. She—”

  “I remember reading about it,” Jen said. “She planned it and poured the gasoline around the building and then chickened out when she realized there would be kids in the building. But one of the kids lit a cigarette and tossed down the match and—”

  “That was me,” I said. Then I laughed. “Cured me of smoking, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Oh, Keith,” she said. “You don’t blame yourself, do you?”

  “Hell, no. I blame Maggie.” I thought of telling her how Maggie and I were related, but just didn’t feel like getting into all that. “I hate that bitch. Our mothers were friends when I was a kid, so I was always stuck playing with her and her brother.” I could tell her about my mother going missing, but I didn’t want to think about that tonight, either. “Her brother, Andy, was so weird,” I said. “Turned out Maggie was even weirder, though she was good at putting on the normal act.”

  “Andy’s the one they thought started the fire, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How could she let him take the blame?” she asked. “Did she have a crappy relationship with him or what?”

  “The opposite of crappy,” I said. “She’s really protective of him. She and her mother even tampered with evidence to try to get him off.”

  Jen suddenly sucked in her breath. “I think I just figured something out,” she said. “Though I hope I’m wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “Your mother’s not that woman who just went missing, is she?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh, no. How awful.” She leaned up on an elbow. “I’m sorry. Have you heard anything? Does anyone know what happened?”

  “The cops are supposedly looking for her, but they think she left by choice, which is bullshit. I feel like I should be doing something myself, but I don’t know what.”

  “Like looking for her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It must be so terrible for you. I wish I could do something to help.” She ran her fingers across the ruined half of my face. My muscles tightened up. Only my mother had touched those scars, and that was just because she was supposed to massage them to keep adhesions from forming.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She touched my cheek again. Her eyes were on my skin and I tried not to pull away. To hide. She leaned over me, pressing her lips to my cheek. Kissing it. When she lifted her head away, I saw tears in her eyes. I touched one of them where it hung on her lower lashes. My throat tightened up.

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  She smiled. “I know you are. And you’re beautiful. You’re a beautiful man. Do you know that?”

  I laughed. “No, I don’t know that at all,” I said. If another girl had told me that, I would’ve thought she was mocking me. Not only wasn’t I beautiful, I was only seventeen. Not exactly a man. But I had the feeling Jen was being totally real.

  “You are,” she said. “And you have the most amazing, big brown eyes. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not beautiful. Not ever.”

  I kissed her again, nibbling her lower lip. No tongue. Not yet. I’d try not to rush this time. I’d make it as good for her as she’d made it for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Maggie

  I WAS SHELVING BOOKS IN THE BIOGRAPHY SECTION WHEN JEN poked her head around the corner of the stacks.

  “There you are!” she said. “I was looking for you.”

  “Hey, Jen.” I was ridiculously happy to see her. She was the only person my age who didn’t try to avoid me. Of course, that was because she didn’t know who I was, but still. Plus, I’d been doing some research to help with her college plan. “I found out some things for you.”

  “Really?”

  “About getting into schools with fashion design programs.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little piece of paper where I’d written the URL. “Here’s the Web site.” I handed the paper to her.

  “That’s so cool of you!” She looked at the Internet address. “I want to narrow it down some more today. I don’t know whether to go in-state or out or what. I thought I could apply, like, everywhere, but I didn’t realize how expensive that would be.”

  “Oh, I know.” I’d applied to several schools, but money had been no big deal for me. Once I met Ben, though, I knew I’d be going to UNC Wilmington. No way would I go any farther away from him than that. I was so stupid. I’d never ever ever again plan my life around a guy. Actually, I didn’t think I’d ever fall for someone that way again. Trust someone like that. You couldn’t totally know a guy, ever. They thought differently. They had a different kind of moral code or something, or maybe it just boiled down to testosterone. Even Daddy’d given in to it. I couldn’t picture Uncle Marcus ever hurting my mother like that, though. He practically worshipped her
.

  Jen glanced at the books I was shelving. “Do you have a minute to help me get online? I do not get these library computers!”

  “Sure.” The library computers could be confusing the first couple of times you used them.

  I sat down next to her like I did on Wednesday and showed her the Web site with the information on fashion design programs. Then I got caught up in helping her narrow down her choices. It was more like bringing her back down to earth. She was ready—in her mind, anyway—to apply to Parsons and the Fashion Institute of Technology.

  “See how it says you need a portfolio to get into these schools?” I pointed to the Web site. “It’s really best if you go to a community college or one of the state schools so you can get the experience and put a portfolio together. That’ll be easier moneywise, too. Then maybe you could get into one of the fashion design schools later.”

  She bit her lip. “I would love to go to New York,” she said. “How cool would that be?”

  “But do you get what I’m saying?” I asked. “About starting out someplace where you can learn the basics? The sketching and sewing and…I don’t know, the design jargon and theory or whatever it is in design.” I felt overwhelmed for her. She had a GED. She had no experience. She probably had, like, zero extracurricular activities from when she was in high school. Could she write an admissions essay? I doubted it.

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” she said. “I get it. I’m just dreaming.”

  “Dreaming’s good,” I said. “You just need to—”

  “Are you Maggie Lockwood?”

  I looked up to see a woman about Mom’s age standing next to my chair. Her brown hair was in a ponytail and a little blond boy held on to her hand. She looked angry, and I wished I could lie.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They should have kept you locked up for the rest of your life,” she said. “Or worse.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was like my mouth was paralyzed. I was so embarrassed that Jen heard her, and I suddenly realized that the other two women and one old man sitting with us at the computer bank were staring at me.

  “I…I’m doing community service now,” I finally managed to say. “That’s the second part of my sen—”

  She leaned forward, her eyes practically popping out of her head, and spit in my face. I felt the saliva hit my eye and start running down my cheek.

  “Oh my God!” Jen knocked her chair over in her rush to get out of the way.

  I jumped out of my own chair, wiping my face with my hand, horrified. People around us gasped. Whispered. I stared at the woman, but she was already walking away from me. I could hear her little boy ask, “Mommy, why did you spit at that lady?”

  I ran to the restroom. I didn’t look at my face in the mirror. I didn’t want to see that disgusting wad of spit slipping down my cheek toward my mouth. I leaned over the sink and pooled water in my hands, washing my face over and over again. Then I scrubbed it with a rough paper towel.

  Jen quietly opened the door and slipped inside. I caught her gaze in the mirror.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I shut my eyes, pressing the wet paper towel to my face. “Sort of,” I said.

  “That was so disgusting. Why did she do that?”

  “It’s a long story.” I was a little surprised Jen hadn’t recognized my name, but then, she was from Asheville. The fire had been national news, though, thanks to Andy’s appearance on the Today show.

  “I’ve never seen anyone do something like that before,” she said. “And she did it in front of her little boy. Gross.”

  I nodded. I felt so tired all of a sudden. “She had a reason, though.”

  “Why? What did she mean about you being locked up? Did she mean prison?”

  I wanted to tell her. I needed a friend. I liked Jen, and we had something in common: she was the same age as me and, like me, had taken time off before college—even if it had been voluntary in her case. And if she said I should take a hike once I told her, what had I lost?

  I looked around the cramped bathroom. “I don’t want to talk about it here,” I said.

  There was a knock on the restroom door.

  “Maggie?” It was Gary.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to talk with you when you come out. Just come into the office.”

  I couldn’t imagine walking back through the library. No way.

  “I just want to go home,” I said through the door. “Can I call you? We can talk on the phone?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “All right,” he said finally. “You sure you’re okay?” He was a nice man.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “But I want to leave.”

  I realized Jen was holding my arm, like she thought I’d fall over if she let go of me.

  “Okay,” Gary said. “I’ll be here until seven.”

  Jen let go of me and I looked in the mirror. My face was bright red from the rubbing I’d given it with the paper towel—and from being humiliated in front of half the world in the library. “What a total disaster,” I said.

  “Let’s go get some coffee,” Jen said.

  I looked at her in the mirror. “You wanted to do research, though.”

  She shook her head like it was no big deal. “I can do that anytime.”

  I’d wanted to go home. I could already picture the safe haven of my room. My angora teddy bear. But the possibility of friendship was stronger.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Do you want to go out toward the beach?” she asked. “There’s a cute little coffee place.”

  I knew she meant Jabeen’s. I’d probably never go in Jabeen’s again. I could picture Dawn whipping us up some lattes while I explained to Jen about my criminal past. It was almost enough to make me laugh. “Let’s go closer,” I said. “There’s a coffee shop down the street.”

  “All right.”

  I suddenly remembered my purse. Damn.

  “I have to go into the office to get my purse,” I said.

  “I’ll get it for you. I’ll ask them to give it to me. What does it look like?”

  “Why are you being so nice?”

  “’Cause you helped me.”

  “You might not feel that way once you hear why I was locked up.”

  She shrugged, like she couldn’t imagine that what I’d done was such a major deal. “What does your purse look like?”

  “It’s small.” I held my trembling hands about ten inches apart. “Brown-and-tan fabric, with a shoulder strap.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  I walked through the library as quickly as I could, not looking at anyone and hoping no one was looking at me. I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until I got outside and gasped for air.

  Jen followed my car to the coffee shop. I paid for our mocha lattes, and she didn’t put up a fuss at that. I had the feeling she didn’t have much money.

  “So, all right,” she said quietly once we sat down in a booth. “Out with the details. Why were you locked up?”

  I tapped my fingers nervously on the lid of my cup. “Do you remember about a year and a half ago there was a fire in Surf City? I know you were in Asheville, but I’m sure it was on the news there. It was everywhere. There was a lock-in at one of the churches, basically a sleepover for their youth group, and…” My voice trailed off because I could see the puzzle pieces coming together in her head.

  “Maggie Lockwood,” she said. “Oh.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Right.”

  I thought she leaned away from me a bit, but I might have imagined it.

  “So…people are upset you didn’t get a long enough prison term.”

  “Right.”

  “Wow.”

  I looked down at the lid of my cup, where I was making crisscross lines with my fingernail.

  Jen frowned. “You don’t seem…I just can’t pictu
re you being an arsonist,” she said.

  “I never actually lit the fire,” I said. “I’d never intentionally hurt anyone.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Some kid tossed a lit cigarette on the gas or something, right?”

  “A match.”

  “And wasn’t there something about her…your…brother being blamed?”

  “Andy,” I said. “He saved a lot of people by finding a way out of the fire, but then the police started thinking he set it.”

  “Did you set them straight?”

  “Not for way too long. I put my poor brother through a lot.”

  “And he could’ve gotten killed himself.”

  “Don’t even say that,” I said. “I can’t stand to even think about it.”

  Jen sipped her latte. “Why did you do it?” she asked.

  I told her. I told her all about Ben and how crazy I got. How I loved him so much and wanted to give him a chance to prove himself in the fire department. How the church was going to be demolished in a year or two anyway.

  “The lock-in was supposed to be in the youth building,” I said. “So when they moved it to the church, I decided—of course I decided—not to light the fuel.”

  “But that other kid dropped the match.”

  I nodded.

  “How awful.” She clutched her hands around her cup like she was trying to warm them. “Do you ever think about the people who were killed?” she asked. “I mean, do they, like, haunt you? Not literally…but you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. Haunt was nearly the perfect word to describe how I felt about Jordy Matthews, Henderson Wright and Mr. Eggles. “I think about them all the time,” I said. “And the people who have to live with the scars, too.”

  “Are there a lot of them?” She took a sip from her cup.