Summer Secrets Read online

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Completely.”

  “How much is it?”

  “It’s yours. A gift.” He bowed.

  “A gift? But…”

  “Yes. I won’t hear anything else about it. Say, what are you doing now? Do you want to get an ice cream from the Paradise?”

  Audrey broke into a wide grin. “I can’t imagine anything I’d like to do more.”

  * * *

  “Don’t you look happy.” Aunt Judith looked up from where she was sitting in the garden, reading the newspaper, a small folding table next to her with a glass of what might have been iced tea, a bowl of nuts beside it.

  “I do? I feel pretty happy.” Audrey, in fact, felt more than happy—she felt giddy. A perfect day with a man she might not be able to have, but his attention, his flattery, the way he had made her laugh, had her feeling like a teenager, light and free, without a care in the world.

  “Where have you been? I was thinking perhaps tomorrow we can start making headway with sorting out the attic. How would that be?” She peered at Audrey. “You’ve caught the sun, and I noticed the baby oil was missing. The beach?”

  “Yes. Actually I ran into Brooks, your neighbor, this morning, and he ended up coming to the beach with me.” Audrey looked away as she said this, not wanting her perceptive aunt to see anything in her eyes.

  “What a treat!” Aunt Judith spoke without judgment. “He’s delicious, isn’t he? If I weren’t so old I’d fall head over heels for that man.”

  “He’s terribly nice.”

  Aunt Judith sat back and gazed at her niece. “My sweet girl, I think you deserve to have some fun, and I’m delighted you’ve found a new friend who makes you smile. You seemed weighted down by the world yesterday, and today it is as if I have got my Audrey back. If being in the company of my neighbor does that for you, then more power to him, I say.”

  “You don’t think it’s dangerous?” Audrey asked, after some hesitation.

  Aunt Judith smiled her familiar smile, her eyes twinkling as she tilted her head. “I think we are only here for one life,” said her aunt. “I think we cannot tell what our future holds, but we should seize happiness where we find it. Do I think you should leap into bed with him? Well, no. Of course not. But nor do I think you should avoid someone with whom you have a connection. Have fun, Audrey. You deserve to have fun, my darling. That’s all.”

  Audrey skipped over to her aunt and leaned down, kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “I won’t be jumping into bed with him—I am a happily married woman, after all—but thank you for blessing our friendship.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her aunt watched thoughtfully as Audrey hopped up the wooden staircase and back into the house.

  * * *

  Audrey felt herself bubble over with excitement. She might not have been thinking about jumping into bed with Brooks, but she couldn’t stop replaying their day together. Their walk to the ice cream parlor, then wandering around looking at the boats, and finally the beach, where they sat and talked about everything under the sun.

  Everything seemed brighter, the trees greener, the sun stronger, her world in sharp relief as her insides fizzed with possibility. She hadn’t thought about her husband all day, her other life, her staid suburban-housewife life back in boring old England.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. She had indeed caught the sun. Freckles were emerging on her nose, as they always used to do. She had left the rollers and hair iron behind in England, was leaving her hair loose and long, hanging below her shoulders.

  She slipped a tunic over her head and slid her feet into sandals, calling to her aunt that she would be going for a walk, suppressing the knowledge that actually she was going to find Brooks, was hoping against hope she might run into him again, just wanting to see him smile, to continue feeling the high she had felt all day.

  She skipped down the front steps, out onto the street, pausing as she heard a murmur from next door. There in the doorway was Brooks, with a young woman. Audrey froze behind the tree, her heart pounding as she watched them, watched Brooks reach out a hand and lay it on her arm, saw the woman throw her head back and laugh.

  A wave of misery washed over her as she silently turned left instead of right. She heard her name, heard him call a hello, but she didn’t want to see him, felt betrayed, and ridiculous for feeling that way. What did she expect, she asked herself as she rounded the corner, that he had fallen in love with her? That he had no life and was waiting at home for her to appear?

  You are being childish, she berated herself, then: You are a married woman; what on earth are you thinking? She was stunned at the depths to which she sank, so quickly, merely from seeing a man she didn’t really know with another woman. What business is it of mine? she muttered, forcing her thoughts to her loving husband, which didn’t make her feel better at all, the entire day clouded in misery.

  At the Hub, at the end of the day, she picked up a postcard and sat on a bench, writing to Richard. Darling Richard, she wrote. Aunt Judith is fine, and we’re starting to organize tomorrow—have been getting over jet lag! Sun is shining and lovely, but I miss you terribly. Your loving wife, Audrey xx.

  Her spirits were lifted somewhat in writing this, as if writing down she was a loving wife, would make it so: would change the fact that she was sitting on a stoop deep in misery at a perceived rejection by a man who wasn’t her husband.

  She took the postcard to the post office to stamp and mail, feeling better.

  Richard.

  She must think about Richard.

  How lucky she is, what a good life they have.

  Deep in thought, she walked out of the post office, and straight into Brooks.

  “Audrey!” He frowned, reaching out his hands to steady her. “I came to find you. Didn’t you hear me? I called to you from the porch, but … you didn’t hear.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Audrey took a step back, glancing at him, then over his shoulder, as if she had places to go, people to see. “I must have been in another world.” She didn’t want to look at him too closely, didn’t want to give him back the power he had over her earlier today, when the rest of the world dropped away, when all she could look at was him.

  “She’s a client,” he said quietly. Urgently. “The wife of a client, actually, buying a painting for her husband’s office.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It was business,” he said simply, as Audrey flushed a deep red. “It wasn’t anything else.”

  “It’s none of my business,” Audrey said eventually, shuffling with discomfort, unable to look him in the eye.

  “It is, though,” he said. “You and I both know it is.”

  After that, Audrey had no idea what to say, the glimmer of warmth in her body spreading and growing until she felt bathed in sunlight and happiness, all over again.

  “Do you want to go to the Club Car?” he asked. “We could have cocktails.”

  Audrey, not trusting herself to speak, nodded as they set off down the street, neither of them looking anywhere but straight ahead.

  * * *

  Halfway into her second Gibson, Audrey realized she was drunk. Her third was untouched, sitting off to the side; she knew if she ventured further, she might well fall asleep.

  As it was, she was filled with a gorgeous, happy buzz. She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror above the sink, astonished at how she was glowing.

  She walked carefully along the side of the bar, concentrating on walking in a straight line, on placing one foot in front of the other, and sat on her stool, giggling.

  “I’ve had too much to drink,” she said, playing with the stem of her glass, not wanting this to be the end of the evening, but knowing she couldn’t handle any more.

  “Really? You’re a lightweight,” said Brooks, who didn’t seem even tipsy, despite coming to the end of his third. “One more for the road?”

&nbs
p; “For you,” she said, sliding her third glass over to him. “Not for me.”

  “What about some food?” He peered at her. “That will help soak it up if you’re feeling bad. They have great fish here. Want to eat?”

  Audrey realized suddenly that she was starving, but Aunt Judith would be waiting. “I can’t,” she said. “Aunt Judith. I have to get back.”

  “I saw her on the way out. I told her if I found you I might whisk you out for cocktails. She knows. She’ll be fine.”

  “In that case, I’d love to.” Audrey found that once again, she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

  * * *

  Dinner out had never been so much fun. They ate shellfish with their fingers, Audrey leaning forward and laughing, giddy with excitement, surrounded in a vague alcoholic haze, which did, she was relieved to discover, get better over dinner. Brooks ordered a bottle of champagne, but Audrey didn’t touch her glass, watching him demolish the bottle, not the slightest bit the worse for wear, before moving on to wine.

  “Black Irish,” he confessed, halfway through the meal. “It’s the blood. Same with my father and grandfather. We don’t get drunk. This? Alcohol? Mother’s milk to us.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Audrey, thinking fleetingly of her staid husband and his one vodka gimlet before a meal, with perhaps a shared half bottle during dinner. She had never seen Richard drunk, and although Brooks was not drunk, he was looser than he was earlier, funnier, more exuberant, although perhaps, she thought, we are both more relaxed as we are getting to know each other.

  “So how is life in England?” Brooks asked.

  “Are you asking me how life is in England or how married life is?”

  A grin spread on his face as he sat back, his hands in the air. “Okay. You got me. How is married life? We’ve talked about everything under the sun except that.”

  “I know.” She paused. How would she answer this? “Well. Married life is…” Audrey had no idea what to say. “It’s fine,” she said lamely. “Good.”

  “Good? That’s it? What’s your husband like?”

  “He’s very good-looking,” she said, which was about the nicest thing she could think of to say about him. “And he’s a good person. I think.”

  Brooks raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

  Audrey visibly deflated. Sick of pretending everything was fine, sick of pretending to be happy, sick of being the downtrodden wife, she looked Brooks in the eye and took a deep breath. “He’s pompous. And cold. And distant. And I’ve never been so lonely in my life.”

  They looked at each other in shock. And Audrey started to laugh. Peals of laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had no idea why she was laughing, only that she couldn’t stop. Until she felt Brooks taking her hand and holding it gently, and when she looked at him he was not laughing with her. In his eyes she saw empathy, and kindness, and a longing that she instantly recognized; she felt the same way.

  This excitement cannot turn into anything more, she told herself, excusing herself to go to the bathroom, seeing her bright eyes in the mirror. It is just a lovely new friendship. Whatever is going on here—and it was clear to her by that time that they both had feelings that could be dangerous—it cannot lead to anything.

  They were the last to leave. As they walked up the street, Audrey still slightly unsteady on her feet, brushing shoulders with Brooks, bumping into him every few steps, their hands sliding together, as her fingers intertwined with his, neither of them looking at each other, neither of them saying a word.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought, feeling his thumb rub her hand, her breath almost stopping. But she couldn’t remove her hand, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything other than relish the feeling of her hand in his.

  And when they reached Aunt Judith’s, and he turned and pulled her in, placed his hands on the side of her face and gazed into her eyes, his head moving closer and closer as her heart threatened to leap out of her body, she still couldn’t say anything, couldn’t think of anything other than his mouth landing on hers.

  And when he took her by the hand and led her not up the garden path to Aunt Judith’s but next door, through the gate and up the path to his house, when he stood before her in the living room, lifted the tunic over her head, traced his fingers down the side of her neck, over her breasts, hooked them into her panties, leaving her naked and yearning, still she couldn’t speak.

  “Audrey,” he whispered, scooping her up and carrying her to his bedroom, laying her on the bed as every nerve and fiber in her body jumped and tingled, as if electricity were coursing through her.

  And still she didn’t speak.

  However she imagined he would look naked, it could not possibly have been as good as how he felt. His skin was warm, his lips so soft as he kissed, licked, sucked, murmured, nibbled every inch of her body, his tongue reaching into places Richard had never gone, as Audrey quivered and moaned, reaching for him to kiss, over and over.

  She had never known what she had been missing.

  She had never known how it was supposed to be.

  Six

  London, 1998

  “What about my father?”

  What? What could she possibly tell me about my dear, departed father that I don’t already know? That he was a controlling, narcissistic bastard? That everything was all about him? That she hated him? My mind races. Maybe she’s going to tell me he had affairs. Not that it would particularly surprise me, just give me a reason to hate him more. Now it’s my time to frown. Oh God. Perhaps he beat her up? Perhaps his bullying crossed the line into physical abuse.

  “What is it, Mum?” She still hasn’t spoken, and now I’m worrying.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this. Your father…” she stops. “He wasn’t your father.”

  And everything falls into place.

  * * *

  Of course he wasn’t my father. Didn’t I always know I was different? Didn’t I always dream that he would turn out not to be my father? Because I never felt close to him, never felt a connection, never understood how I, with my dark skin and wild (at times) personality, could have come from his loins.

  Still, I am stunned. I sit and look at my mother as she starts to talk, to tell me about an artist called Brooks Mayhew, about one perfect summer in Nantucket, about how she knew, when I was born a month early, weighing eight pounds three ounces, much to my eternal shame, for what kind of a monster baby is born a month early weighing more than most babies at full term, how she took one look at my olive skin, my screwed-up features, and knew exactly who my father was, and that it wasn’t her husband.

  “I don’t understand,” I keep saying, trying to process everything, trying to figure out how on earth you process, after twenty-nine years, that nothing you thought about yourself was true, that in finding out your father is not your father, it makes everything else a lie.

  Even when that’s not a bad thing, even when you are grateful and relieved that your father wasn’t your father, you feel, immediately, that you are standing on shifting sands. That nothing in your life is real, and nothing in your life will ever be the same again.

  “Which bit don’t you understand?” My mother is flush with reminiscing about a man I can see she loved. Which makes me know, instantly, how little she loved my father.

  “Why didn’t you stay with him? Why didn’t you go back to Nantucket?”

  Sadness crosses her face. “Things were different in those days. The shame of having an affair was something I couldn’t face, not to mention the shame of divorce. Back then it would have been a tremendous thing, and to walk out of a new marriage was just something I couldn’t face. You have to remember, my darling, I didn’t have supportive parents. I didn’t really have anyone, other than your father.”

  “You had Aunt Judith.”

  “True. And I thought so much about what would happen if I left and went back to Nantucket. I dreamed about it, often. I just couldn’t muster up the courage
to leave. I was also”—she looks down, ashamed—“terrified of your father. Whenever I thought about leaving, about saying the actual words, I would see his face screwed up with rage. I imagined him taking everything, taking you, making sure I was left with nothing.”

  “Which he would have done,” I agree. “Although he wouldn’t have wanted me if he knew I wasn’t his. He didn’t really want me anyway.”

  “I’m sorry.” She reaches out a hand, and I see her eyes are filled with tears. “I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you a stable home, a family, with a father who was able to support us, to give you the life I wanted you to have. Brooks was from a wealthy family, but his trusts were tied up for years. He didn’t have anything, not then. And I didn’t even know if he wanted me, or the responsibility of a child. I doubt he would have done.”

  I blink at her in horror. “You never told him?”

  “I didn’t want to disrupt his life any more.”

  “So when you left Nantucket you never spoke to him again? That was it?”

  “He wrote to me, care of Aunt Judith, so your father never questioned the writing on the envelope. But I didn’t write back. I couldn’t. I had made my decision and I had to live with it. I thought I was doing the right thing for you.” She shakes her head. “God, I wish I’d left him years ago. The only thing that kept me there was fear.”

  “You were doing the best you could,” I reassure her. “It wasn’t such a bad life. Who knows how it would have been had you made a different decision. We can’t look back.” Even as the words leave my mouth I am impressed with how wise they sound, how calm I sound, given the turmoil going on inside me.

  I am alternately elated and devastated. It feels surreal to suddenly know that I have a father I have never met—quite possibly a whole other family. I may have brothers, sisters. I may suddenly get to have the life I have always wanted, one filled with siblings and noise and laughter.