A Family Secret

by Cross, Kennedy

  The beach’s little parking lot was packed tightly today, but I never drive anyway. At least not on Sundays. The cove is only a few miles from my house, and the walk to and from town has a therapeutic feel of its own. Usually I’d wait to come down until the late afternoon, pack a bag with some light food and sit in the cove until sunset. But today I can’t do it.

  I can’t sit there without the scene from Thursday night playing over every time I begin to zone out, every time I glance out over the ocean. I wasn’t going to sit at home until the afternoon, but now I can’t even sit in solitude without feeling on edge.

  Sometimes kids or young couples will wander to the little cape just below the grassy hill. And although they don’t often venture all the way to where I am, I can still hear them. They’re vague sounds, mostly hollers and laughs. But I can feel their presence until they wander away again. And today, it was as if someone was always there. Like they were looming just over the hill, tucked away and waiting.

  So I’m already walking back home.

  It’s not like I heard anything, and not like not hearing anything is unusual either, but today there was something about it. For the last two years now, I haven’t gone anywhere without the worry that I’m being followed. I’ve grown used to glancing over my shoulder, used to scanning a room before I enter, used to guarding my routines and maintaining a low profile. I haven’t once let my guard down in Fort Martin, and it’s been good. It’s easygoing and laidback. But I’ve been here for too long.

  I haven’t spent more than a month in any other place. But that’s starting to make it impossible to snag a new job. I’m not looking for anything long-term and steady, but eight jobs in two years is a hell of a red flag that I’m tired of trying to justify.

  And yet, I still can’t escape it. I have a hard time believing that Mabel’s death was an act of random violence. There is no chance. Mabel was killed purposefully and professionally. She wasn’t expecting it, at least she didn’t seem to be, and they pinned her at just the right time.

  My train of thought instantly evaporates when I notice a black Corolla breaking to a stop at the red light in front of me. Again. I swear it’s stopped at each and every red light I’ve passed. Like it’s following me.

  I need to get out of here.

  I need to leave Fort Martin. Hell, I should leave Florida.

  I’ve never lived anywhere else, but what the hell’s stopping me? I should’ve left two years ago. If I’d done that then I never would’ve met Mabel, I never would’ve witnessed her murder, and I wouldn’t be trapped here as a witness in an ongoing investigation.

  But they can’t force me to stay. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m pretty certain there’s no legal obligation for me to remain local, how could there be?

  When I reach the stoplight at the next block, it’s there again. That black Toyota Corolla.

  How many black Corollas can possibly be out and around today, concentrated in the several blocks stretch from town to the beach? I should’ve memorized the plate. With this one, I do. TY6-5PN.

  But there could be multiple.

  There was more than one car that pulled up on Mabel. They were SUVs, but still. What if they’re circling the block, waiting to corner me. Or scouting out the right time for an ambush.

  What if they know my route.

  At that thought, I break hard to the right. I hurry down Taylor St and take a left onto Dawson. I’ve only ventured this way once, and never on my walk home from the beach.

  Dawson St is bustling with a nice crowd of people, and as graciously as I can, I weave through them. This was a good idea. We’re all walking the same direction, and with a slight rush in my step, I can easily shuffle through while still blending in.

  There’s some sort of fair up ahead. I can make out the entrance sitting under a purple banner at the next block, and it looks like it’s got the whole block closed off, maybe more. That’s perfect.

  As I near, the banner reads Dawson St Farmer’s Market, and I amble in alongside a family of five. Immediately, I turn down the first row. There’s a booth with various pitchers of lemonade at the end of the aisle, and I take a hard left into the middle maze of the market.

  When I hear my name the first time I pretend as though I didn’t. It was lighthearted, nonassertive and unfamiliar. A coincidence. But it comes again.

  “Liam!” Still light and friendly, but louder this time.

  I slow my pace, glance to my left, and that’s when I see her. The girl from the funeral and her sister walking beside her. Alison. That’s her name.

  I wave.

  The one I’d sat with tugs Alison’s arm, and they close the distance between us. She’s smiling.

  “Nice to see you again,” she says. Her face looks reinvigorated. It looks new.

  “Hey, you too. Both of you,” I say. “Remind me of your name?” Though I know she never actually mention it. I would’ve remembered.

  “I’m Claire.” She offers her hand. “I don’t think I ever introduced myself.” The sunlight’s shimmering off her dark hair, adding a gentle gleam to her skin. I know it’s not true, but she looks remarkably unscathed and put together. She looks beautiful.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. For a moment I hold a smile. “And Alison, right?”

  The sister nods assuredly. “Liam, was it?”

  “Yeah. Good memory.”

  “Are you coming back from a show?” Claire gestures at the guitar on my back.

  “Yeah, you didn’t see me?” I point at the bag of grapefruits slung over her shoulder. “They have me come play The Fruit Song over by the grapefruit booth. It gets the people hoppin’.”

  She opens her mouth in a half smile. She didn’t get my reference. And it was a dumb joke anyway.

  “You know, the song by Jeanie Reynolds?” I say. “Late seventies, I think.” I’m not sure why I’m bothering to explain it. Though she still hasn’t discarded her smile.

  “Oh, are you talking about that dance song?” Alison asks.

  “Yeah! See, she knows what I’m talking about.”

  “Why is it called The Fruit Song?”

  “I don’t know, Jeanie Reynolds is just singing about how love is like all these kinds of fruits.” I shrug. “It was the seventies, so—ya know.”

  Claire laughs at that. “Is there a line about grapefruits?”

  “Uhm—” I hum the jingle in my head for a second. “—no, I don’t think so.” I turn to Alison for confirmation. “Pomegranate is, though. I think that’s the first one she says.”

  “I think you’re right,” Alison says. She hums the jingle for herself, then laughs. There’s an air of poise and intelligence to her. The quintessential older sister.

  “You guys doing some grocery shopping?” I ask.

  “Just perusing,” Claire says. “Getting some fresh air.”

  “It’s a nice day,” I say in agreement. And it is, but I’m also ready to retreat to the A/C. “You guys come often? I’ve never seen all this set up before.” I motion at the surrounding booths.

  “It’s here every Sunday,” Alison says. Not arrogantly, just a friendly statement of truth. “I stop by every few weeks.” She looks at Claire. “I really should come more often than I do, though. It sure wears Danny out.”

  Claire perks at that. “We should’ve brought him along.”

  “Not a chance. He was already down for a nap when we left.”

  “Is Danny your son?” I ask.

  Alison smiles. The big sister and proud mother. “He’s three,” she says.

  “He must be a heavy little sleeper if you leave him to nap while you hit the farmer’s market,” I joke.

  She laughs. “No, he’s home with his Dad.”

  “And Dad’s probably counting the minutes, huh?” I say, and this time it’s Claire who laughs.

  “Dad has learned lots of patience in the last two years,” Alison says. “That’s for sure.”

  I smile. Claire’s smiling too. She has dim
ples. I hadn’t noticed before, not until now, but they’re there in her cheeks when she smiles.

  A sudden silence floods the space between us. The kind of silence that arrives abruptly when a spontaneous conversation overstays its welcome.

  “Well it was good to see you guys again,” I say, tugging the guitar cover up higher onto my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I’m glad I ran into you again. I didn’t get the chance to thank you,” Claire says.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you guys. We always love a chance to play.”

  “I mean for sitting with me,” she says. Her sister looks at her. “I appreciated the company. I needed some air, but it was nice not to sit alone.”

  “Oh, of course. I needed some air too and—” Just say you’re welcome. “—yeah, you’re welcome. It was the least I could do.”

  She smiles at my reply and a little more at the way it came out. Without thinking, I let go of the words that are playing at my lips. “Let me know if you need company again, or someone to grab coffee with.”

  Claire’s smile pushes into her cheeks, pinching the dimples. She draws her phone from her pocket and hands it to me. Wordlessly, I punch in my number and save it with my first and last name. Her sister is grinning uneasily when I hand it back.

  “If you need it.” I shrug. I don’t know what else to say. Claire smiles in response, and again the silence grows thick between us. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” I add.

  “You too,” Claire says.

  Alison waves and I’m the first one to continue walking, but it’s a relief. I feel like a teenager, both in impulse and shame. Claire is in a vulnerable place, and for me to act on that is incredibly insensitive. It’s fucked up.

  I swallow the lump in my throat as I pull out my phone and call an Uber. Six minutes away. Six minutes in which I don’t stop walking, circling the aisle closest to the street. Hell, I can’t even wait for an Uber without feeling like I’m waiting to be ambushed.

  With my luck, I’ll probably run back into Claire and her sister while I’m circling. I wonder if she’ll ever give me a call. I wouldn’t if I was her. I doubt there’s many people that come together over a funeral. It’s not exactly the romantic first date you reminisce about. And I don’t know what it says about me that I’m someone who offers their number to one of the deceased’s family members.

  But fuck it. Whatever. It’ll be her choice to call.

  The hairs on my neck stand up when, on cue, someone yells my name. A red sedan inches further down the curb in my direction. A Ford Fusion. The Uber. The driver’s window is down, his bronze arm hanging out. “You Liam? You call an Uber?”

  “I did, yeah.” I open the door and slide into the back seat.

  It’s only a seven-minute ride back to my place, but each minute passes with an anxiety that seems to turn each and every street light red as we approach.

  I don’t talk, except to answer the driver’s initial questions. No, I’m not visiting from anywhere, yes I’m local, no I grew up just outside Miami, actually. Finally he goes silent, and the next five minutes pass with no more questions. And no black Corollas.

  10

  Claire

  I’ve been waiting for Alison to bring it up. I know she will. And second glass of wine, thirty minutes into the movie—an old black and white flick we threw on after Ben and Danny went to sleep—is when it comes.

  “So, tell me what’s going on with you and Ethan?”

  “We split up.”

  “Yeah, what for?”

  “He was cheating.” I take a swig from my chardonnay.

  Alison makes a face of dismay. “Really?”

  I nod.

  I can feel more than I can hear her take in a breath. “I’m sorry, Claire,” she says. There’s true sadness, even a little hurt, in her voice. I only shrug and shake my head in response. Alison screws her lips to the side of her mouth and exhales the breath I’d felt her take in.

  “I found an email between him and his assistant,” I say. At least a little explanation feels necessary. “Someone named Anna.”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten minutes before you called me.” I scoff a sad, humorless chuckle.

  Her eyes grow wide in surprise. “On Wednesday?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow.” Her voice is tender, gentle, and I suddenly feel as though I’m twelve again. Like my big sister is the only one whose words have truth in them. She shakes her head, giving me the chance to continue, but I stay silent and expressionless.

  “How are you doing with it?” she asks eventually.

  “Well, I’ve definitely got a lot of other things on my mind right now,” I deadpan. “Maybe that’s a good thing, I don’t know.”

  “Yeah,” she murmurs. Not in agreement, just in acknowledgment. It’s the way I imagine her consoling her clients. She shakes her head again. “What shitty timing.”

  That’s not the way she speaks to her clients, and it has a rejuvenating effect. It is shitty timing. It’s shitty and it’s cruel and awful of Ethan to add to my suffering when he should be my shoulder to lean on. It’s a complete, utter betrayal.

  For some reason, I suddenly imagine him sitting next to me. His weight on the couch cushions beside me, his hand rested on my leg. He always rested his hand on my leg, in the car, in restaurants, on the couch at home. He was possessive in that way, and I loved it. Just like I loved the way he’d place his hand at the small of my back whenever we’d walk through a doorway. His touch was grounding, it was assuring, and it’s one of the things that feels most absent now.

  “I know I don’t have to say this,” Alison says, “but you don’t deserve to deal with that. You were great to him.” She pauses. “And frankly, it’s better to manage this now than have it surface down the road.” She doesn’t add to that, doesn’t say Better this happened now then once you were married, or after you two had kids, and I’m glad.

  To think I ever imagined a life with Ethan. And kids, I’d imagined that too.

  Alison and I had even talked about it. Not with any urgency, and not about kids necessarily, but I remember telling her that Ethan might be the one. I remember times where I’d watch her, Ben, and baby Danny and insert me and Ethan in their place. All the pleasant, domestic scenes I’d watched while visiting, all with Ethan at my side, the two of us exchanging smiles.

  I wonder if he’d ever envisioned what I had, or if every day, every moment, was just an act to distract from the secrets.

  Alison allows Ethan to fade from our conversation, as if he’s not worth dwelling over, and I appreciate her for it. Sometimes I wonder if her ability to be so empathetically understanding is a product of our circumstances or an inherent gift. No doubt it’s a little of both. But I do wonder if Alison would’ve pursued in a career in counseling others without growing up the way we did. Either way, Ethan has gone absent from my mind when I finally leave.

  I debated spending the night. And not because I’m too intoxicated to drive home, but because Alison’s company was tough to leave. She makes everything easier, but I can’t lose sight of the real reason I’m still here in Fort Martin.

  It’s not enough to stay here and return to the house tomorrow. I need to wake up there. I need to wake up with solitude feeding the urgency in my chest. I need to wake up immersed in the emptiness that permeates that house. I need to be where it happened.

  But as I drive home, I’m not thinking about Dad’s murder or the suicide note, I’m thinking of Liam.

  Our conversation from earlier in the day plays over and over in my head. And every time, I hold onto the look of his smile, the way it effortless fills his face. He smiles with such authenticity. Everything about him is down-to-earth and authentic.

  And I have his number.

  He doesn’t even know me. He only knows that my father is dead. And yet, sitting outside the funeral reception, it felt as if he was the only one who knew me.

  I brake as I near the old empty house at 528 Ocean Tr
ail. I feel lighter. Like I’ve shed every poisonous idea that Ethan polluted me with and replaced them with a clear minded focus. But when I pull into the driveway, that’s exactly who’s waiting for me.

  Ethan is asleep in the driver seat of his Mercedes, his feet propped up on the dashboard and his chair reclined. There’s a bouquet of flowers in the passenger seat. It’s a bouquet of irises and lilies, My favorites.

  For a moment I debate leaving him out here to wake up sometime later, see my car parked beside his, and realize that I completely ignored him. But I tap my fingers lightly on his window and he startles awake.

  Ethan opens the door without inclining his seat. “Claire!” He swings his feet out and stands up.

  “I asked you to go home.”

  “I know. But I also know that if I leave and go home then I’m leaving our relationship to collapse before I have the chance to make it right.”

  I drop my head and shut my eyes. I don’t have the energy for another argument right now. The wine, the exhaustion and fatigue of the last few days hits me all at once.

  “Are those flowers for Anna?” I ask in spite of myself. He shakes his head.

  “They’re for you,” he says, defeated. He reaches into the car to retrieve them. “Not like they make up for my mistake.” His voice is so gentle that it tugs at the stubborn knot sitting in my stomach. I take the flowers. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the fatigue of the last few days, but right now I feel more like letting him in than pleading for him to go home again.

  It’s almost midnight, and at this point I just need some rest.

  “Listen to me, you can stay the night on the couch,” I say. “In the morning, we’ll talk.” It doesn’t sound particularly sincere as I say it, and maybe that’s for the better. “But only if you agree that after that, you’ll go home and leave me to think things over.”

  His expression perks up.

  “It’s not a promise for anything,” I add. “Only that tomorrow morning we’ll talk, and you can get out whatever you have to say. But honestly, Ethan, after that I need you gone.”