A Keeper's Truth (16 page)

He frowns.
“Let me get you a glass of wine. It’ll help calm your nerves.”

He escapes
through the double doors.

My ears
prick at a muffled voice. I raise my chin to the ceiling, my mind’s eye spying
Abby through layers of plaster and flooring. That little lady is in big
trouble.

Bryce
enters the room with two glasses of white wine.

“My nerves
are shot as well,” he says, raising a glass. His jaw muscles twitch. “I’ve
never had a woman storm my house, guns blazing.”

He
presents me with a glass. I don’t move so he places it on the granite beside
me. He takes a swig and sighs, allowing me my silence.

The quiet
grants me the chance to conduct a physical assessment. Stress has knotted my
muscles into thick clumps that ache with the slightest of movements and a
raging headache assaults my sinuses. My temper has subsided leaving an empty
cavern that quickly fills with humiliation over my display of aggression. I
lean forward, resting my forearms on the cool countertop. I close my eyes.
Bryce allows me a moment, but his presence does strange things to my insides.
My body pulls him in, an invisible array of connecting wires that feed off each
other’s energy. Even in the utter quiet, I sense him inching closer.

“Hey now,
relax,” he says, his voice a whisper.

The heat
of his breath on my skin is euphoric. Gentle hands slide over my fists, their
warmth alleviating tension. His fingers move in slow circles kneading taut skin
and muscles, his chest rests against my back. A distant thought comes to me,
foggy, something about another man, but serenity overwhelms my senses, forcing
the images to dissolve into nothingness. Tranquility seeps from his body to
mine, his existence coddling frayed nerve endings. I sink into him, resting the
back of my head against his chin.

“Feel
better now?” he asks.

I float
within Bryce’s personal space, the stone countertop absorbing anxiety through
my flattened palms. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”

“I might,”
he mumbles.

“I
couldn’t help but picture the worst. I thought I’d lost her. I thought someone
had taken her. That I might never . . .”

“This is
my fault. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“Abby and
I are going to have a serious talk about strangers.”

I have no
clue what I’m going to say. My mother’s lectures usually had something to do
with finding strangers to help me when she couldn’t, not avoiding them.

Bryce’s
body deflates around me. “I’m not a stranger, Tess.”

He’s
right, he’s not. But what is he exactly?

“I would
never intentionally hurt you or Abby,” he says, pain entwined in every word.
“Please tell me you know this.”

I don’t
know how or why but I know this to be true. It’s a feeling from deep within my
belly, a quiet, content feeling. I didn’t realize I was still holding tension,
but it releases and I ease back the last bit into Bryce’s embrace. He lowers
his head to my collarbone and rests his lips on my skin. It should feel
intimate, too intimate, but it just feels natural, his breath warm and welcome.
His hands gently grip my waist and in one fluid motion I’m turned and lifted,
effortlessly, into a sitting position on the counter. My body tucks into his
like a puzzle piece. We’re silent for a while, both of us taking quiet,
controlled breaths.

Now,
face-to-face, I can see silver sparks dance in his eyes. They’re beautiful,
intoxicating, but not real. I’m about to say something but the subtle texture
of his hand cradling my face brings thought to an abrupt halt. A stray tear
slides down my cheek only to be caught by his caressing thumb. Exhaustion takes
over my body, and my limbs feel too heavy to hold up. More tears follow the
contours of my face, gathering at the base of my chin. Bryce wipes the
collection with the back of his hand. His eyes lock on my wet lips. He leans
in, softly gliding his lips over mine. The sensation draws my breath and he
pulls back slightly, just enough for me to witness his mesmerizing silver-gray
eyes.

I think he
expects me to pull away but my body is paralyzed and I have no desire to move.
This is all so new, yet familiar, like I’ve kissed these lips for a lifetime. I
close my eyes, allowing other senses to govern my emotions. I take in the smell
of wine on his breath, the feel of his hands on my lower back. I swear I can
hear his heart pound through his shirt.

Bryce’s
lips touch mine again, not really kissing, just sliding, tasting. His hand
inches up my spine before becoming tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck.
I’m torn between leaning into his mouth and surrendering to his hand. His
breath catches and his lips follow the line of my jaw, dusting my ear. My head
falls back, yielding of its own free will. The heat from his mouth makes me
dizzy.

I can
hear . . . what is that . . .?

Footsteps
and laughter resonate off the walls, coming down the stairwell toward us.

Bryce’s
body stiffens, hand dropping to the counter with a thud.

Abby
bounds into view having passed over the bottom step entirely, and Sofia tumbles
to fall in line beside her, both girls taking in our intimate stance, tension
filling the air like a sentient being.

The cloak
of serenity is suddenly gone, and I recall why we’re here.

“Time to
go,” I say, pushing Bryce away and sliding from the counter.

“Mom—”

“Not a
word.” I grab Abby, steering her toward the exit.

Bryce
paces forward, not blocking my way but positioning himself to get my attention.
“Please stay,” he says. “Join us for dinner.”

Anger is
returning with a vengeance, so I need to leave before I do or say something
I’ll regret. Bryce is no good for me, or Abby, and this fiasco only proves it.
I escort Abby down the hall to the foyer where a quick scan shows no sign of
her coat or boots. I lift her into my arms, throw open the door, and barge down
the steps.

The crisp
air bites but I barely feel a thing. I’m numb, confused.

Not
another word is spoken . . . to Bryce or Sofia.

I
tuck Abby
into bed, give Grams and Gramps a kiss goodnight, and hop into the taxi.
Covering my bases, I hand the driver a ten before confessing our destination.
Cabbies don’t like coming so far out of the city for such a small fare and ten
dollars is generous considering the fare won’t be much more than two. Still,
the driver gets
pissy
when I tell him the address of
the party and that it’s technically eight houses down the street.

“The
houses are far apart and nothing but acres of snow, dirt, and tree debris lies
between them. To walk in the dark would be downright dangerous,” I explain.

He thinks
I can trek the distance and is still idling in my driveway when I show him my
Jimmy Choo red satin heels.

“Lady—”

“Cops
found a dead woman around the corner less than a week ago. Unless you plan to
drag my ass from your cab, I suggest you drive because I am not walking.”

This shuts
him up.

Every New
Year’s Eve Karen and her husband throw a memorable bash. Well, Karen does. Her
husband sulks in the corner nursing a gin and tonic while the hostess directs
the festivities herself. I had wondered if Karen would cancel this year’s
celebration due to Sonia’s murder investigation, but apparently the show really
does go on and life resumes for the living. Even so, my attendance was in
question until Karen called pleading. “You absolutely must come,” she said.
“This is what friends do, they show up.” I wasn’t really in the mood for a
party, but as far as friends go, Karen has been a good one, so I agreed to be
there for her. “Besides,” she said, “if your best friends don’t show for your
party, what does that say about you?”

Karen’s
house is more of an estate. Not quite the size and grandeur of Bryce’s or
several others in Carlisle, but large enough to deserve the title. A winding
driveway lined with cedars ends at two stories of sand-gray brick and over six
thousand square feet of designer style. Everything inside, outside, and around
Karen’s house is the best. She has a world famous interior designer on retainer
and a budget that allows her to purchase almost anything she wants. And she
does just that.

I leave
the driver with little fanfare and make my way to the front door, unlocked and
labeled with a sign that reads,
Party’s here, come on inside!
The glass
dining room table is covered with coats and more hang on chairs. The credenza
holds a smorgasbord of party favors, the gold and silver tiara’s glittering in
the candlelight. I add my coat to the pile and knowing my way around Karen’s
house, head for the living room.

The place
is packed.

“Nice
turnout,” I say, sliding in beside the hostess.

Karen
shrieks, throwing her arms around me for a hug. Her gown is emerald stones, to
die for, the color making her dyed auburn locks pop.

“Chickpea,”
she says, “you sure you’re going to be okay with the men here?”

“The men”
would be Bryce and Thomas. Karen invited them weeks ago, long before the games.
I don’t foresee a problem. I’ve had a reconciliation of sorts with Bryce, the
kid thief, and Thomas the liar, well, if he shows I’ll avoid heavy
conversation, saving it for a more appropriate time and place.

“I’ll be
fine.” I pump my biceps.

Karen
laughs. My arms are quite puny. And apparently useless, considering I was putty
in Bryce’s hands only hours ago.

“You
show’em
, girl.” She points to the kitchen. “I
gotta
check on the servers. Mingle and let me know if
anyone looks bored.”

I make my
way over to Karen’s husband. Frank is perched on a stool in the far corner of
the room, four feet of empty space around him.

“Hey,
Frank. Thought I’d come say hello.”

Frank
raises his glass and flashes a smirk that leaves his face faster than a mouse
sprints from a snake. I don’t take it personally. “Sorry to hear about Meyer,”
he mumbles. His glass turns in his hand, ice cubes spinning round and round,
jingling as they go.

“Me too,”
I say, opting for diplomacy.

Time ticks
in slow motion. I stand in silence, picking invisible dust bunnies off my
dress. The only thing Frank and I have in common is Karen, and history has
proven Karen isn’t a topic Frank participates in. I scan the crowd and
recognize Frank’s ex-wife, Felisha. I smile to myself. Karen likes Felisha,
sometimes more than she likes Frank, and invites her to every social function
just to piss him off.

“Why don’t
I refill that drink?” I finally say to Frank, itching to abort.

Frank
gives me his glass and what might be a genuine smile.

The bar is
a wall-to-wall make-your-own, fully stocked, with most bottles sporting pewter
pour spouts. Like a mad scientist, I measure and mix the ingredients for my
infamous Chocolate Monkey Martini. I’m in need of a buzz sweet enough to gulp.
I’m pouring gin into Frank’s glass when I sense someone hovering behind me,
radiating tension.

“It’s a
big house, Thomas. We’ll talk another time.”

“Thomas
isn’t here. He doesn’t like—”

“Parties,”
I say, spinning to face Bryce. “What’s wrong, why do you seem
so . . . intense?”

“Do I?” He
throws his shoulders back, lifts his chest.

“Puff up
all you want, I can still read you like a book. Something is bothering you. It
surrounds you like a black cloud. Are you worried about Thomas coming?”

“Thomas is
a big boy. He can do as he pleases. I’m just a tad disturbed tonight. I don’t
want to talk about it now though.” He grips the back of his neck. “You can really
see that?” It’s more of a statement than a question, and it causes him to put
great effort into changing his demeanor. His facial features soften and a smile
makes an appearance. He leans into me and my heart skips a beat at the thought
of his touch.

Bad idea,
bad idea, bad idea.

He halts
mid-motion, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

“You look
beautiful tonight,” he says. “You remind me of
Hekate
,
the queen of the night and goddess of witchcraft. Ancient myths tell of
Hekate
patrolling the frontier between life and death, her
thigh-length hair flowing down an ebony gown made of coral.”

I never
know what to say when he talks like this, so I curtsy, holding the hem of my
fire engine-red dress.

“I wasn’t
sure if sleepless nights and lack of iron go with retro chic.” The low, scooped
front gathers around my neck with braided straps. Very sixties. The dress makes
me look classy yet sexy, but the holiday from hell has done a number on my hair
and skin, so the dress is working on its own tonight.

“I love you
in red, and gold, and black.” His composure evaporates and his eyes drop to
stare at my Jimmy
Choos
.

When has
Bryce seen me in black? The red is this dress, and the gold was my costume for
Halloween. I seldom wear black anymore, the widow thing and all.

“When have
you seen me in black?”

“About the
playdate earlier—”

“Abduction
is more like it. ‘Playdate’ would suggest it was preapproved. And I’m still
pissed at you.”

“I
should’ve done things differently, and I regret causing you to worry about your
daughter’s safety. Really.”

My anger
has long since lost its fizzle. Blushing, I recall the intimacy of his apology
and my response to it. Forgiveness was granted, I suppose.

“You and
Abby gave me the scare of a lifetime, but I’m over it. Abby and I had a long talk,
and she won’t be leaving my side anytime soon.”

Until
she’s forty.

“I’ve
learned my lesson as well. Felines come for their kittens nails out and teeth
bared.”

“
Ya
, well, take my kid and you’ll feel the wrath of the
hunter.” I squint in an attempt to appear menacing. “That isn’t why you’re
agitated, is it?”

“No.” He
moves closer, a rogue smile toys with his lips, his bravado having found its
way home. “Hmm, I like it when you fret over me.” The sparkle, the dashing
silver I’ve come to appreciate, slowly ignites his pupils.

“Why so
stressed then?” I ignore the way my body responds to his mischief.

He waves,
whisking the question away. “I’ve decided to focus on you this evening. To let
trouble fade into the darkness for one night.”

Well,
that’s good, because I’ve got questions.

“You’ll
need a drink,” I say, showcasing the array of bottles. “What’s your vice? A
Chocolate Monkey Martini might do the trick.”

“Four
shots of liquor is three too many. I’m not much of a drinker.”

“How could
you possibly know how many shots go into a—”

“Maybe I
was watching you create your concoction.” He points to my martini glass and
peeks over my shoulder. “Any red wine here?”

I eye him
suspiciously, uncorking a bottle of wine. “Maybe, Mr. Waters, you can tell me
how you know what you know while I pour your wine.” I expertly navigate the
bottle from his grasp.

He smirks.
“An artist who knows her way around a bar.”

“An
education isn’t cheap. I worked nights at a club.”

I also
lived there for a time. The club owner let me stash my stuff and study during
the day while the club was closed and quiet.

“Ah. I was
trying to find an artist. Had I known to look for a barmaid, I would have found
you sooner.”

Although
I’m sure Bryce’s lines are well rehearsed, I have to admit I like this side of
him. I can see how a woman could fall for his charms. I, on the other hand, am
privy to the wily ways of a man on the prowl.

“You’ll
have to excuse me,” I say, raising the glass of gin and tonic. “An
interrogation is forthcoming. First this barmaid needs to make a delivery.”

Bryce nods
and smiles as I breeze past him in search Dr. Social.

A minute
later there is a light tug on my elbow as I pass a group of people talking in a
circle.

“Have you
seen anyone not having a good time?” Karen asks.

“Does your
husband count?” I tease.

“Is he
still sulking?”

“Not for
long.” I raise the G&T and Karen frowns.

“After
you’ve sated Frank, make rounds, will you, Chickpea? I need help steering
conversations toward topics less gruesome. Police have been scouring the area for
days, and the residents have their knickers in knots.” She sips her martini.
“Dreadful this girl was killed, but ruining a perfectly good New Year’s party
isn’t going to bring her back.”

“You are
obnoxious,” I say with a smile. Karen is as distressed by Sonia’s death as
everyone else in this town. I know because we’ve talked about it. “Just give me
a minute with Frank, then I’ll do my best.”

Karen
blows me a kiss, waving me away.

When my
second attempt at a conversation with Frank fails miserably, I down my martini
and follow Karen’s instructions, socializing with the townspeople present.
Bryce has disappeared and Karen is right, the mood is tense, most talking about
Sonia’s murder.

My first
steps into the kitchen reveal a tight-knit group of local landscapers, headed
by Manny and Loraine
Capore
. Apparently Sonia’s body
was found on their land and someone suggested a monument be raised on the site.
I hover on the verge of the circle listening to varying arguments. Most think
the idea has merit but aren’t willing to fork over the funds to create such a
memorial.

The woman
standing beside Mr. Jenkins is the cousin to the owner of Smith’s Funeral Home
in the city. It’s suggested she solicit her cousin for a freebie. The woman
fidgets, obviously uneasy with the suggestion, until the
Capore’s
lodge their complaint. They are sorry Sonia was killed but they don’t really
want a monument on their land. Loraine steps into the circle, her face and neck
several shades of flustered. She doesn’t want to be reminded of the dead body
every time she steps out her front door. Who would? The entire group falls
quiet, obviously ruffled.

This is my
cue. I slide between Mr. Simpson and Mr.
Capore
,
displaying a red satin stiletto in a way that hikes my hemline and calls
attention to my long legs. It’s an attention-grabbing trick I’ve learned
serving drinks to the intoxicated, and works every time.

“Hey,
guys, gals, hope everyone is having a good time,” I say, smiling. “I’m thinking
of taking my daughter to Disney World this week. It’ll be our first time there.
Any recommendations?”

I’m
grateful that this is all it takes. Instantly the group, obviously relieved to
be presented with a topic change, begins reminiscing about family trips to
Florida, comparing notes and making suggestions. The discussion quickly takes
on a life of its own, venturing from Disney to fantastical holiday
destinations, and before making a clean escape, I take one last look at my
handiwork. The group is no longer gloomy but roused and enthusiastic. I smile
and duck from the circle, in need of a bathroom break.