Season of Secrets. Marta PerryЧитать онлайн книгу.
She blinked. “Everyone knows he was crazy about her.”
“I didn’t.” Had he been hopelessly stupid about his own wife? “How did Annabel feel about him?”
“Oh, Marc.” Dinah’s eyes filled with dismay. “Don’t think that. It never meant anything. Just a crush on his part.”
“And Annabel?” Dinah wanted him to let it go, but he couldn’t.
“Annabel never had eyes for anyone but you. She just—I think she was flattered by James’s attention. That was all. Honestly.”
She looked so upset at having told him that he didn’t have the heart to ask anything else. But he filed it away for further thought.
He bent to pick up the stack of boxes. “We may as well take these to the family room. If I know my son, he’ll drag everything out, but he won’t be as good about putting things away.”
Dinah went ahead of him to open the door to what would be the back parlor in most Charleston homes. They’d always used it as a family room, and he and Court had managed to bring down most of the furniture that belonged here. By tacit agreement, they’d avoided the front parlor, the room where Annabel died.
“Court looks so much like you. Looking at him must be like looking at a photo of you at that age.”
He set the boxes down on the wooden coffee table that had been a barn door before an enterprising Charleston artisan had transformed it. “Funny. I was thinking that I saw a little of Annabel in his face when he looked down from the stairs.”
“I know.” Her voice softened, and he realized he hadn’t done a good enough job of hiding his feelings. “I see it, too—just certain flashes of expression.”
He sank onto the brown leather couch and frowned absently at the tree they’d set up in the corner. He’d told Court it would be too big for the room. The top brushed the ceiling, and he’d have to trim it before the treetop angel would fit.
“Maybe it’s because we’re back here. My memory of Annabel had become a kind of still photo, and she was never that.”
“No, she wasn’t.” Dinah perched on the coffee table, her heart-shaped face pensive. “I’ve never known anyone as full of life as she was. Maybe that’s why I admired her. She was so fearless, while I—” She grimaced. “I always was such a chicken.”
“Don’t say that about yourself.” He leaned forward almost involuntarily to touch her hand. “You’ve been through some very bad times and come out strong and whole. That’s something to be proud of.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but thank you.”
For a moment they were motionless. It was dusk outside already, and he could see their reflections in the glass of the French door, superimposed on the shadowy garden.
He leaned back, not wanting to push too hard. “Being back in the house again—has it made you think any more about what happened?”
“No.” The negative came sharp and quick, and she crossed her arms, as if to protect herself. “I don’t remember anything about that night.”
“That summer, then. There might have been something you noticed that I didn’t.”
She shook her head. “Do you think I didn’t go over it a thousand times in my mind? There was nothing.”
And if there was, he suspected it was buried too deeply to be reached willingly. Dinah had protected herself the only way she could.
He’d try another tack. “You’re connected with the police. If there’s any inside information floating around, people might be more willing to talk to you than to me.”
Dinah stared at him, eyes huge. “Someone already talked to me. About you.”
“Who?” Whatever had been said clearly had upset her.
“A detective I work with.”
He was going to have to drag the words out of her. “What did he say?”
“She. She said…”
He could see the movement of her neck as she swallowed.
“She reminded me that the case is still open. And that you’re still a suspect.”
He should have realized. He, of all people, knew how the police mind-set worked. And this detective, whoever she was, wanted to protect one of their own. Wanted to warn her off, probably, too.
“Dinah, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t think. I’ve put you in an untenable position. I shouldn’t have. If you want to back off…” He shook his head. “Of course you do. I’ll make some excuse to Court.”
As if he’d heard his name, Court came into the room, arms filled with evergreen swags. “I found them,” he announced happily. “But we don’t have nearly enough lights, Dad. We need to go get some more before we can do this. Want to come, Dinah?”
She stood, smiling at Court. “You two go.” She glanced at Marc, the smile stiffening a little. “I’ll unpack the ornaments while you’re out. I’ll be here when you get back.”
He understood the implication. She wasn’t going to run out on them, although she had every reason to do so. He felt a wave of relief that was ridiculously inappropriate.
“Thank you, Dinah.”
Was she crazy? Dinah listened as the front door clicked shut behind Marc and Court. Marc had understood. Or at least he’d understood the spot he’d put her in professionally, if not personally. He’d given her the perfect out, and she hadn’t taken it.
She couldn’t. She may as well face that fact, at least. No matter how much she might want to stay away from Marc and all the bitter reminders, too many factors combined to force her to stay.
She’d been thirteen when he married Annabel, the same age Court was now. With no particular reason to, he’d been kind to her, putting up with her presence when he’d probably have preferred to be alone with his bride, inviting her to the beach house at Sullivan’s Island, even teaching her to play tennis. She’d told herself she didn’t owe Marc anything, but she did.
And Annabel—how much more she owed Annabel, her bright, beautiful cousin. She’d loved her with a passion that might otherwise have been expended on parents, siblings, cousins her own age. Since she didn’t have any of them, it all went to Annabel.
Finally there was Court. Her lips curved in a smile, and she bent to take the cover off the first box of ornaments. Court had stolen her heart again, just as he had the first time she’d seen him staring at her with unfocused infant eyes when he was a few days old.
Whatever it cost her, she couldn’t walk away from this. All her instincts told her Marc was wrong in what he wanted to do, but she couldn’t walk away.
She began unpacking the boxes, setting the ornaments on the drop-leaf table near the tree. They were an odd mix—some spare, sophisticated glass balls that Annabel had bought, but lots of delicate, old-fashioned ornaments that had been in the family for generations.
One tissue-wrapped orb felt heavy in her hand, and an odd sense of recognition went through her. She knew what it was even before she unwrapped it—an old, green glass fisherman’s weight that she’d found in an antique shop on King Street and given to Annabel for Christmas the year before she died.
For a moment she held the glass globe in her hand. The lamplight, falling on it, reflected a distorted image of her own face, and the glass felt warm against her palm. She was smiling, she realized, but there were tears in her eyes.
She set the ball carefully on the table. She’d tell Court about the ornaments, including that one. That kind