Brenda Novak - The Secrets She Kept

He spoke of Josephine with a mixture of awe and affection, the way one might refer to a willful child who was to be indulged.

“Yes, she did,” Keith said.

“You’re a lot like her—you know that,” Tyrone told him next.

“You aren’t the first to mention it,” he responded.

“That’s a good thing, Mr. Lazarow, sir. Your mamma was a strong woman. Once she got somethin’ in her head, she was immovable. Like a rock.”

As far as Keith was concerned, she’d been more like a sledgehammer. Her iron will could blast through any obstacle. But Tyrone seemed to be the same tolerant and respectful person he’d always been. He seemed truly bewildered by her death and upset that she was gone.

Keith told the groundskeeper he still had a job, that he could report to work whenever he was ready—a proclamation that was greeted with a tremendous amount of gratitude. Afterward, Keith thanked him and hung up. But several hours later, when it was well past the time he could call anyone, he was still going over that conversation and everything else he’d learned since receiving word of his mother’s death. How had Josephine died—and why? Had someone strangled her? Drugged her and then drowned her?

The mere possibility enraged him. It made no difference that they’d had so much difficulty getting along. The fact that they’d struggled actually made what had happened worse. Whoever killed her had robbed him of the ability to improve their relationship, to achieve any closure. But anger wasn’t all he felt. There was plenty of guilt, too. Would his grandfather have expected him to stay and protect her and the Coldiron legacy?

If he’d been able to cope with his own life, he would’ve stuck around—and who could say how that might’ve changed things?

Maybe she’d be alive right now...

Unable to sleep, he pulled his computer out of his bag, opened it and leaned against the headboard while he researched strangulation and asphyxiation and what doctors looked for in determining whether someone had died in that way. From what he read, many of the signs didn’t show up within the first twenty-four hours, which was interesting and made him wonder if his mother had been examined the day after she was found. He also learned that “petechial hemorrhaging,” in which the blood vessels burst behind the eyes, was one red flag. A broken hyoid bone was another.

At nearly three, he set his computer aside and went to his mother’s suite. After walking through the empty bedroom and bathroom, he wandered into the retreat set off to one side, which had a balcony with a fabulous view of the beach and ocean below. He stared out at the storm-tossed waves for several minutes. The wind and the rain had gotten stronger. Then he sat down and poked through his mother’s writing desk more thoroughly than when he’d been ransacking the place for her phone.

He found nothing that clarified what might have happened, but he did come across a stack of letters tucked inside a big travel book in a deep file drawer. They were addressed to him at his company’s address in LA.

Frowning at the discovery, he sat on the velvet-covered bench at the foot of Josephine’s bed to see what they were. Written on perfumed stationery—his mother couldn’t do anything ordinary—they were sealed, as if she’d planned on mailing them. But he’d never received any communication from her. She’d had too much pride to contact him, since he was the one who’d cut her off.

He counted them. Ten in all. Tapping them against his knee, he studied the flowing script. Even her handwriting exhibited an elegance few people could emulate.

So what did she have to tell him? Dare he find out? There had to be some reason she’d chosen not to mail them. And he was already feeling troubled and unsettled. Why give her a voice? Would he be able to tolerate what she said?

In case he couldn’t, he got up and shoved them back into the book, which he returned to the drawer. He’d be smarter to protect his sobriety, he thought. But after several minutes of pacing, he retrieved them, opened the top one and skimmed the contents.

It was just a regular letter, like something he might expect if he’d been stationed overseas in the army or was away at school. The others followed the same pattern. Some were Christmas cards. Some were birthday cards. She talked about the flower shop and Coldiron House and the vacation rentals. She talked about seeing Roxanne and any news about Roxanne’s “little family.” She talked about Maisey giving birth to Bryson, noted his size and weight and complained that he wasn’t named after anyone in their family. She also talked about Pippa taking vacation or getting sick and who she might get to fill in.

She didn’t offer him any apologies, however. She didn’t even acknowledge the fact that they were estranged. She just pretended nothing had happened between them and they were still speaking.

After reading the last one, he stacked the envelopes the way he’d found them.

Maybe he shouldn’t have read them, after all. They reminded him of how charming his mother could be when she was on her best behavior, made him miss her. They also made him wonder if maybe he was the one to blame for their problems. He’d already spent a lifetime wondering. Is it me or her? These letters dredged up all of that confusion and uncertainty. But, refusing to succumb to those thoughts, he forced himself to look at the letters more objectively. What did they mean? Was the fact that she’d taken the time to write an apology in itself? Was it her way of expressing her love?

The closings never varied—Love, Mom. That was the only thing that might suggest she cared about him, two words that could easily be interpreted as a standard closing. Was there so much wrong between them that she wouldn’t risk tackling the issues? Was she hoping to simply go on, to forget the past as if it hadn’t existed?

Since she was never one to apologize, that was her favorite approach to making up. He would’ve been content to let bygones be bygones, too, if he could. He’d tried to come to terms with his mother for thirty-seven years before giving up and forging ahead with a life that didn’t include her.

His phone buzzed. He’d received a text from Dahlia.

Should I come over again tonight?

He hadn’t told her about his mother, hadn’t even mentioned that he was going out of town.

No. I’m not in LA.

Where are you?

On the East Coast.

For what?

Business, he typed because he wasn’t willing to divulge the personal nature of his trip.

She sent him a frowny face, to which he didn’t respond. Then she wrote, When will you be home? I’m missing you.

He wasn’t missing her at all. He barely knew her and was fairly certain he didn’t want to see her again. The few times they’d actually had a conversation, he’d been bored stiff.

For some reason, he thought of Nancy—of how real and honest and caring she’d been...

His phone buzzed again. Can’t wait to see you.

I’ll let you know when I get back, he wrote.

* * *

The next morning Nancy Dellinger didn’t have to open the flower shop. It was her day off and yet she was still preoccupied with the death of her boss, who’d also been Fairham Island’s central figure. She’d been dwelling on Josephine a lot, but not the way she should’ve been—with shock and grief. Mostly she was relieved to think her boss would no longer be part of her life. She hated feeling like that, hated being unkind. Besides, Josephine Lazarow’s death had its drawbacks. Depending on who inherited the business and what that person chose to do with it, she could be out of a job. If it was Maisey, she’d keep Love’s in Bloom. Maisey loved the flower shop as much as Nancy did. But Keith? He’d probably sell it and go back to LA. She’d heard he’d become a big shot out there.