As obsessed as I was over the mysterious box and its contents, I was perhaps more so with Darby. I’d have spent the rest of the evening reading the journal and letters, but I didn’t want to waste time doing so when I had Darby alone. Plus, I had to feed the poor guy. It was almost nine by the time I got up from the mystery box and my dinner date to put the steaks on to broil. I’d stopped after work to pick up groceries, including two large potatoes to bake, which were already done and smelled terrific. The steak was a tough flank cut, but I’d beat the crap out of it before putting some meat tenderizer on it.
Darby opened the bottle of wine he’d brought with him. While the steaks broiled, I quickly put together a salad. As I worked, we continued with theories about our friend Annabelle.
“What I know,” I said, “is that Annabelle left Emerson Pass for good in 1937. Clive died in 1936, unexpectedly.” I’d read that during my research of the house. “The year after his death, she sold the house and moved somewhere else. The people who built the gazebo lived there for decades after that. I think anyway. They only lived there part of the year and according to their kids had refused to sell it. When they died, the kids left it abandoned for long enough that it needed almost a complete overhaul. But the old place had good bones, as they say.” I paused to take a sip of wine. Berries and tobacco.
“Is the wine okay?”
“Yes, it’s good,” I said.
Darby winced as he sat in one of my kitchen chairs. “Sorry, a little sore from today.”
“I hope you’re not going to permanently hurt yourself,” I said.
“Nah. I’m tough. If you’d seen how I was raised you wouldn’t be worried.”
That made me curious, but I decided to let it go for now. I found myself wanting nothing more than to hear everything about him.
“I wonder where she went?” I asked Darby. “Do you think she went to Bromley after Clive died?”
“It’s certainly possible. I don’t know if we’ll ever understand the whole story.”
“There was an old chest in the attic, left over from Annabelle’s time there. Or, I assumed so, because it had her name carved into the side. You know, one of those old steamer trunks.”
“Where is it now?”
I laughed at the glitter in his eyes. He was as into this as I was. “At the time I didn’t think it was my place to go through it. Once I realized they were things left behind by Annabelle, I took them out to Mr. Barnes—Trapper’s dad. I figured they belonged in their family. He was kind enough to bring me a few photographs that he thought I might like for the walls. I wish he hadn’t now, because they’re gone.”
“Do you think he’d let you look at what was in the trunk? If you gave him what we found?”
“I’m sure he would. He loves to talk about the history of this town.” I leaned down to pull the steak from the oven and waved away the smoke. “Don’t worry. They’re not burned.”
“I wasn’t worried.” He gazed at me for a moment, head cocked to the side. “I know I’m in good hands with you.”
We sat down to eat, enjoying the food without talking much. He scarfed his down, which meant I’d practically starved him with all the excitement over Annabelle’s things. When I was done, I pushed away my plate and told him to eat the rest of the steak.
“You sure?”
“Go for it.” I poured more wine into my glass and leaned back in the chair, crossing my jean-clad leg over the other. It felt good to be out of my work clothes, especially the shoes. “I wonder what ever happened to this Bromley guy?”
“Maybe the journal will tell us. I’m going to be itching to hear about what you find out.” Darby cut into another piece of meat and brought it to his mouth and chewed. I liked the way the muscle in his cheek moved.
“I’ll go out and see Trapper’s dad tomorrow if I have a break at work. Maybe he’ll know more.”
“Be sure to take notes.” He grinned and pointed his steak knife at me. “And now, you promised all the gory details about your talk with Arianna. I want everything.”
I laughed. “I completely forgot about her. Let’s see. Well, I wasn’t very nice. I was evil, actually.” I recounted as best I could the conversation. “I laid it on a little thick but held myself back from going on too much about how great you are.”
“I’m surprised you could think of much.” His eyes held both vulnerability and a marked lack of self-esteem. I could relate.
“Why would you say that?” I asked, curious what he would say even though I suspected I knew the stories he told himself all too well.
He lifted one shoulder. “You don’t know me that well.”
I caught his eye for a moment. “I’d like to. What do you think? About that idea,” I finished lamely. This putting oneself out there wasn’t for the faint of heart. As much as I’d told myself I wasn’t interested in opening myself up this way, here I was, compelled toward him like metal to a magnet.
His forehead wrinkled and in the hesitation that followed, I feared the worst. He was not interested in anything other than friendship. There was someone else. Another teacher maybe? He spent a lot of his life at school. Or maybe he still had feelings for Arianna. Ones that would keep him from exploring a new relationship for fear it would hurt whoever was on the hopeful end of the rope.
Finally, he spoke, taking away my fears but giving me something mysterious nonetheless. “I’d like to get to know you better too. Tonight and last night, I’ve really enjoyed myself.” A pink flush smeared his cheeks and jawline like strokes of liquid blush.
“I have too.” I braced myself for whatever was next, already sweaty and embarrassed and wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut. In my life, the “but” had often come from the man I was trying to connect with, starting with my father and continuing on with the men I’d dated.
“I’m not sure if you knew me better that you’d feel that way,” Darby said.
“Try me?” Darn, I was being brave tonight. Maybe it was the wine or being so tired or the romance of the silly metal box.
“It’s just that, well, I’m broke, and I have no intention of being anything else but a teacher. I love it. I can’t compete with guys in suits, you know.”
“Yeah? So what? I already know that anyway.”
He watched me, eyes glittering in the dim light. “Growing up, my dad was…harsh.”
“How harsh?” I held my breath, knowing that whatever he said next would change how I perceived him. He would no longer be just a hot, sweet guy I liked, but someone complicated with layers. Complexities that could lead to dysfunction and betrayal. Like my parents.
An image of my mother after my father left played before my eyes. She hadn’t come out of her bedroom for two days. Desperate and worried, I’d gone into the room to check on her. She’d been curled in the fetal position. The shades were drawn, and the room was overly warm and stuffy. When I’d yanked open the shades, she hadn’t opened her eyes. For a split second I’d been worried she was dead, but a slight moan informed me differently. I’d sat next to her, stroking her dirty hair, coaxing her eyes open. When she did open them to look up at me, the utter defeat and despair filled me with a darkness I’d never felt before. One I’d not fully shaken since then.
She was doing much better now. Life had returned to her eyes and her spirit. However, a shadow remained. One that made her cautious and guarded. I doubted she would have the courage to try love again. As for me? The same shadow lurked over me as well. I must remember what he did, I thought now, in the presence of this beautiful man before me. Men leave once the bloom of youth is gone. They find a younger version of their wives in an attempt to recapture their own youth perhaps? Or was it purely man’s instinct to seek the young, with their firm thighs and taut skin? Was it purely physical? I didn’t know and probably never would. My own father would certainly give little insight. Especially since I hadn’t spoken to him in years. I hadn’t even recognized myself in the blowout we’d had. The venom that spewed from my mouth was not only for what he’d done to our family with his desertion but the ways in which he’d undermined us all when he presented the model husband and father to the outside world. Total hypocrite.
I returned my attention to Darby and immediately melted. He had such a strong yet vulnerable presence—an openness to him that drew me to him and weakened my defenses.
“Beatings for the smallest things, like placing the knife in the wrong direction at dinner. He was very controlling. Very precise. And violent.” Darby’s shoulders lifted and then drooped. “He was also a cop. A corrupt cop, as it turns out.”
“No, really?”
“Yes. He’s the one in the news recently. I’m sure you’ve seen the story. Benji Hanes.” He said this casually, as if it weren’t a big deal.
This confession was a punch in the stomach and drained me of breath. “Oh, Darby. I’m sorry.” How had I not known this? Did anyone in our circle know?
As if I’d asked the question out loud, he said, “I hadn’t told anyone who I am until recently.”
“Who have you told?” I was surprised to find that I wished I was the only one he’d confessed to. Selfish, I know, but I’d felt such intimacy with him. As if I were special to him. The only one he trusted. I tossed those selfish thoughts aside and returned my attention to him.
“I told the guys. Just recently. It felt like my secret was keeping me from true friendships. Do you understand what I mean?”
“A thousand percent.” How could we expect to truly connect with others if we didn’t share where we came from and how it had shaped us? Yet, there seemed to be an instinct in most of us to show people only what they wanted to see or that we thought they could handle. When, in fact, the only way to achieve closeness with others was to show them who we really were, flaws and past hurts and demons. Authenticity, perhaps, was the secret to intimacy. Why then, did we run from it? Fear, I thought. Of not being enough or weak or simply too damaged to be lovable.
“I haven’t spoken to my dad since I left for college,” Darby said. “When I turned eighteen, I officially took my mother’s maiden name.” He looked away from me, his eyes glassy. He was remembering the past, I thought. All the hurts and scars from those days were suddenly apparent to me as if they were physically visible.
Without thinking, I reached across the table and took one of his hands. “It must have been so hard to keep all this in, to not let anyone know.”
“It wasn’t hard until his picture was splashed all over the news for the last year. I’ve tried to ignore it all and live my own life, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“I understand. My dad’s not in the public eye, and I still find it hard to let go of him and just be. There’s this anger and bitterness that just sticks to me, no matter how hard I try to focus on the positive.”
“We’ve built lives, you know,” Darby said softly. “Made our own way without them.”
“Yeah, but they’re still in here.” I tapped the side of my head. “I can’t tell you how often I hear his voice criticizing my choices. He never hit us, but he could pack a mean punch with a few choice sentences. He’s a lawyer.” As if that explained everything. There were plenty of good lawyers out there. Not all of them used words as weapons. “He has a way of making me feel small the moment he opens his mouth.”
“Yeah.” Darby nodded, his mouth downturned into a frown. This was not a natural state for him. He should be smiling, showing off those half-dimples. I’d like to make him smile, I realized. Tonight and all the ones after this. No, no. Don’t get caught up thinking you could save him or that he would even want you to, I silently told myself.
“I’m glad you told me,” I said, taking my hand back to my lap. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, there’s nothing to do. It’s all on me. I have to figure out a way to live with who I am and where I came from.”
“His behavior is not who you are. You’re nothing like him.”
“Most days I feel that way.” He placed his knife and fork onto his empty plate, making them into an X shape. “But sometimes I wonder if he’s in here and just not come out yet.”
“That seems unlikely. You would know by now. Maybe you would have chosen to be a cop instead of a teacher, for example.”
His mouth twitched into a smile, but his eyes remained cloudy and troubled. “He ridiculed me when I told him I was going to be an English major and teach school. You can’t imagine the things he said.”
“I can, actually. My dad said the same kinds of things to Trey and me when we told him what we wanted to do. Dad seemed to assume that Trey, at least, would become an attorney and a partner at the firm, working twenty-hour days like he had when we were young. I don’t think he ever thought highly enough of me that I’d be anything other than a wife and mother. He said that once about my cooking. What a good wife I would make to a high-powered man, creating a home and lifestyle that would be the envy of all his friends. That was how he saw me. An accessory to a man. One whose only goal was to make her husband look good. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If that’s what a woman wants, then she should go for it, but I have to have my own way of making money, my own business that’s separate from a man.”
“So that what happened to your mom doesn’t happen to you?” Darby asked softly.
“Yeah, I can’t ever let that happen. I can’t ever give the power over my life to someone else.” I pushed back my hair. “But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”
“There’s nothing else to say. You know the truth now.” He rose to his feet and cleared both our plates, putting them in the sink.
“Did you think knowing who your dad is would make me dislike you?” I asked.
He slowly turned from the sink to face me. “Not dislike exactly. I was afraid you might see me in a new way. The son of a person like that—maybe you wouldn’t want that in your life.”
“From what I can see, you’re nothing like him. Anyway, you’re you, not him. Who raised you makes no difference to me. It’s what you did after you got away from him that matters.”
He was quiet for a moment before striding across the kitchen toward me. I froze, unsure what was about to happen. His eyes seemed to seek answers in my face. It was too intense. I had to look away.
He leaned his backside against the corner of the table, standing close to my chair. “You’re killing me here, Jamie Wattson.”
“I am?” What did that mean?
“Yes. You are. You’re so much more than I thought. So much more.”
“What did you think before?” I knew it was dangerous to ask, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“I thought you were a California girl. Blond, tan, and careless.”
“Careless? Why are California girls careless? I don’t get that.” I narrowed my eyes, pretending to be mad but failing and laughing instead.
“I just meant that the girls I knew in California never seemed serious about anything but their designer purses. They had the potential to hurt me with their haphazardness and the way they shone with glitter and smelled of coconut.”
I sputtered with laughter. “You do have a way of putting things. Glitter and coconut?”
“You know what I mean. That stuff women put on their skin that makes it all shimmery?”
“I do know. And I’m not careless. Not at all. Sometimes I wish I was—about something, anyway. Just one thing so I’m not weighed down all the time with self-doubt and this restless feeling, like I’m waiting for my life to start. Everything has always seemed dead serious to me. I’ve been this way from the time I was a kid. Driven and ambitious and perfectly sure of my path. Until lately. The fire put me back a bit, I have to admit.”
“Of course it did. It was a terrible loss after all your hard work. To see your dream quite literally go up in flames.” He said it so simply but with such earnestness that darned if it didn’t make me feel seen and validated.
“Like you said, I’m still here,” I said. “It didn’t beat me. You’re here too, Darby. No matter what your dad did. Living your life on your own terms, giving the gift of yourself to those kids every day. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“My father called me overly sensitive,” Darby said. “Always thinking too much, he’d say. As if thinking were a bad thing. It took me a long time to realize he was wrong about that. Wrong about me.”
He wore an expression I couldn’t quite place. Uncertainty? Anticipation?
“Would you like to dance with me?”
I blinked, sure I’d heard him wrong. “Um, dance?”
“Yes, dance.” Darby smiled and nodded toward his hand. “I’m a very good dancer.”
“You are?”
He laughed. “Why the face?”
“I’ve never known a guy who likes to dance, let alone someone who’s good at it.”
“I’m old-school. I should carry a handkerchief,” Darby said. “And wear a three-piece suit.”
“You’d look good in a suit.”
“You think?” He put his hands around his neck, pantomiming a high collar. “One of those shirts that comes up to my jawline? What do you think? Could I pull it off?” He lifted his chin and sniffed, as if he were high society.
“I need to get you some contemporary fiction,” I said, teasing him. “And give you a new perspective. Modern men don’t act like you.”
“Maybe I was born in the wrong time.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. He held out his hand again. “Will you do me the honor, Miss Wattson?”
“If you insist, Mr. Devillier.” I rose to my feet.
“Have I ever told you how pretty you are?”
“I think so.” I flushed, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. “But I thought it might be the bump on the head talking.”
“No way. That’s all me.” He led me into the living room. “Put on one of those records and let’s dance.”
“What kind of dancing are we doing?”
“The slow kind.” He grinned and gestured toward the stereo. “I know you’ll pick just the right song.”
“Now you’ve put me on the spot. I’m stumped, but I’ll do my best.” I went to my stereo cabinet and flipped through my records, choosing James Taylor’s greatest hits, and put the needle on the first track.
“Classic choice,” Darby said, holding out his arms. “Come here.”
A shiver of desire went through me. I almost tripped over my own feet as I went to him. He folded me into him, with his arms around my waist. I came to his chest. “You’re tall.”
“Did you not notice before?”
“I never thought about it much.” Avoiding his eyes, I focused on the artery in his neck, which pulsed with the beat of his heart and seemingly in time to the music.
“Is this a date?” Darby asked, his mouth against my hair.
“I’ve no idea,” I said, and moved closer to him, nestling my face into his neck, which smelled spicy and of fresh soap. He was substantial, muscular, and graceful. “You were right. You are a good dancer.”
“I have other talents too.”
I giggled. “I remember.”
“Jamie?”
“Yes?” I drew back slightly to look up at him.
“Would it be all right, even though this may or may not be a date, for me to kiss you?”
“Yes, it would be fine.” I smiled up at him. My pulse raced, and my body ached for him.
He leaned down and captured my mouth in his, kissing me until I was breathless.
“I want you,” I whispered in his ear. “Stay with me?”