Season of Secrets

“So you’re taking care of her.”

“Of course.”

That’s how it is in families, Marc. We take care of each other. We don’t walk away, the way you did.

He frowned slightly, and she had the uncomfortable sense that he knew what she was thinking.

“Is she too frail to see me?”

Her careful evasion had led her just where she didn’t want to be. “No. She just—”

She faltered to a halt. There wasn’t any good way of saying that Aunt Kate didn’t welcome his return.

“She just doesn’t want to see me.” His mouth thinned. “Tell me, does she think I killed Annabel?”

The blunt question shook her, and mentioning Annabel’s name seemed to bring her into the room. For an instant Dinah heard the light tinkle of Annabel’s laugh, caught a whiff of the sophisticated fragrance that had been Annabel’s scent. Grief ripped through her, and she struggled to speak.

“I—I’m sure she doesn’t think that.” But did she? With her firm avoidance of the subject, Aunt Kate had managed never to say.

His dark gaze seemed to reject the feeble words. “What about you, Dinah? Do you think that?”

Before she could find the words, he shook his head.

“Never mind. I don’t suppose it matters.”

She found the words then, at the pain in his voice. “I don’t think you could have hurt Annabel.”

How could anyone have hurt Annabel, have struck out and destroyed all that life, all that beauty?

His face seemed to relax a fraction. “Thank you. I’m selling the house. I suppose you guessed that.”

“We thought that was probably why you’d come back,” she said cautiously, not wanting to make it sound as if that was what she wanted.

“It’s time. Having the Farriers rent the place all these years let me drift, but when they decided to move, I knew I had to do something about the house.”

“You won’t be here long, then.” She was aware of a sense of relief. He would go away, and the terrible wound of Annabel’s death would skin over again.

His brows lifted. “Are you eager to see the last of me, Dinah?”

“No.” He was making her feel like that awkward teen again. “I just assumed you’d be in a hurry to get the house on the market and go back to your life, especially with the holidays coming.”

“The holidays,” he repeated, something a little wary in his voice.

“I suppose you and Court have all sorts of plans for Christmas.” She was talking at random, trying to cover her embarrassment.

“Well, he’s past the Santa stage, but he still gets excited.”

“Does he?” For a moment she had a vivid image of the three-year-old he’d been—big dark eyes filled with wonder at the smallest things—a butterfly in the garden or a new puzzle she’d bought him, knowing how much he loved working them. “I’d love to see him.”

Again the words came out before she considered. Marc had made his wishes clear all these years, limiting their contact to cards and gifts. Just because he’d come back didn’t mean anything had changed.

“You’ll get your wish,” Marc said abruptly. “He’s over at the house now, unloading the rental car.”

She could only stare at him. “You’ve brought Court here, to the house where—” She stopped, unable to say the words.

“You think I’m crazy to bring Court back to the house where his mother died.” Marc’s voice was tinged with bitterness, but he could give voice to the thought she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” She sought refuge in platitudes. “I’m sure you know what’s best for your son.”

“Do I?” Vulnerability suddenly showed in his normally guarded eyes, disarming her. “I wish I were sure. I thought I knew. I thought the best thing for Court was a whole new life, with nothing to remind him of what he’d lost.”

“So you kept him away from us.” Did he have any idea how much that had hurt?

“Away from you, away from this place.”

Marc surged to his feet as if he couldn’t sit still any longer. He stalked to the window, then turned and came back again. The room seemed too small for him. He stopped in front of her.

“I did what I thought I had to,” he said uncompromisingly. “And it worked. Court was a normal, bright, happy kid, too happy and busy to worry about the past.”

She caught the tense. “Was?”

“Was.” He sat down heavily.

She waited, knowing he’d tell her, whatever it was. She didn’t want to hear, she thought in sudden panic. But it was too late for that.

“Maybe this would have happened anyway,” he said slowly, sounding as if he tried to be fair. “He’s thirteen—it’s a tough age. But when school started in September, one of his teachers assigned a writing project on family history. He started asking questions.”

“About Annabel.”

He nodded. “About her, about her family. About our life here in Charleston. He became obsessed.” He stopped, as if he’d heard what he said and wanted it back. “Not obsessed—that’s not right. I don’t think there’s anything unhealthy about it. He’s curious. He wants to know.”

She swallowed, feeling the lump in her throat at the thought of Annabel’s child. “I remember. He was always curious.”

“Yes.” His face was drawn. “He has to know things. So he told me what he wanted for Christmas.”

He paused, and she had a sense of dread at what he was about to say.

“He wanted to come back to Charleston. That’s all he asked for. To come back here and have Christmas in the house before I sell it.”

“And you said yes.”

“What else could I do?” He leaned toward her, his dark eyes focusing on her face, and that sense of dread deepened. “But it’s more complicated than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand closed over hers, and she felt his urgency. “I realized something the moment I saw the house again—realized what I’ve been evading all these years. I have to know the truth about Annabel’s death.”

He had shocked Dinah, Marc realized. Or maybe shock wasn’t the right word for her reaction. His years as a prosecutor had taught him to find body language more revealing than speech, and Dinah was withdrawing, protecting herself against him.