The Art of Keeping Secrets Read Free Page B

running wild and full as the tide rushed in.
    A large magnolia tree stood in the side yard, its thick roots pushing up the earth in all directions and sprouting offshoots that had long since merged with the original tree. Annabelle suspected that by now the smaller trees actually supported the main, ancient trunk, that without them the entire tree would topple.
    Annabelle’s son, Jake, who loved myths and legends, had once told her about Tristan and Isolde, ill-fated Irish lovers from whose graves, side by side, there rose two willows that over the years grew together as one. The story made Annabelle think of her own family, her and Knox, their son, Jake, and their daughter, Keeley, all entwined. When the tree expert came and told her that the main tree was being strangled and would need to be cut down, Belle told him to take his chainsaw and his expert advice and climb right back into his dented truck and go home. She knew the magnolia tree and its offshoots would support each other until they all fell together.
    Even now, with Knox gone, Annabelle still believed that.
    She balanced her laptop on her knees, her feet propped up on the wicker ottoman. She fingered the keys, lifted her face to a shaft of sunlight and closed her eyes, allowing the warmth to wash over her. She needed to find an answer to the bridesmaid question in her advice column, “Southern Belle Says.”
     
Dear Southern Belle,
    I have been in thirteen weddings and now I’m getting married. Do I need to ask all thirteen of these girls to be in my wedding? I only want two of them, but don’t want to lose friends and make them all mad at me.
     
Confused in Corinth
     
Annabelle wanted to tell Confused in Corinth that it really didn’t matter who was in the wedding—all that mattered was whom she was marrying and if she loved him. But that wasn’t what old Mrs. Thurgood, the Marsh Cove Gazette publisher, wanted for this column—no, Annabelle needed to give the precisely correct etiquette.
    The Emily Post book lay on the wicker table at her side, but Annabelle liked to answer the question before comparing it to her ultimate source. In the past year or so, her advice hadn’t differed once.
     
Dear Confused in Corinth,
     
Click, click, her tongue went on the top of her mouth while she thought. She watched the leftover rain clouds move from left to right, clearing the way for a long-distance view of a sailboat headed south, only its sail visible against the pale blue sky. She smiled at the memory of the previous night and her swim with old friends.
    A movement at the corner of the house caught Annabelle’s eye, and she turned to see a man standing near the bottom step of the porch. His hands were in his pockets, and he leaned back on his heels, watching her. She stood so quickly she almost dropped her laptop, but she grabbed it in time, snapped it shut, placed it on the side table.
    “May I help you?” she asked. Often tourists thought her home was on the historical tour, and she had to tell them it was a private residence. Then she smiled: the man was Wade Gunther, the local sheriff. Just as abruptly her smile faded with a razor-edged thought, Not Jake . . .
    “Hey, Annabelle,” he said, took one step onto the stairs.
    “Is something wrong?” she asked, digging around in her mind for a reason, any reason, why Wade would visit her. Nausea rose as she attempted with no success to force down the memory of the last time she had said those words to a man in uniform.
    He cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you, and I thought it would be best in person.” He pinched his lips together, and Annabelle knew this was not a facial expression one made when delivering good news. He continued. “Some mountain climbers in western Colorado were lost for a few days . . . freak snowstorm. Anyway, they were experienced outdoorsmen and survived just fine. . . .”
    Thank God it had nothing to do with Jake, but Annabelle couldn’t wrap her mind around any other