Bethany Campbell - One True Secret

“We were talking about my father. We were a close family. And private. That’s why I’m not very good at being questioned. I’m afraid I give a bad interview.”

For all the effect it had on him, she might as well have smiled at a boulder. “Your father died of cardiovascular disease. Is this something that runs in the family?”

She sidestepped the question. “My father was born with a heart defect—congenital, not hereditary. He looked very healthy. Strapping, even. But he always knew he might not live to old age.”

She and Claire had known that, too, from the time they were little girls. But they hadn’t realized it. People would say, “Damon has a heart problem.” To Emerson and Claire, the words generated a vague fear about something that seemed far away and was not truly possible.

Eli frowned. “Your mother died when you and your sister were quite young. Would you tell me about it?”

Oh, hell, she thought, how can I try to flirt when he keeps asking questions about everybody I love dying?

She decided to use tears. She could cry at will if she thought of sad things. Her father had always said she could have been an actress. So she thought of her father’s funeral and her mother’s, and the tears welled up.

She tossed her hair as if exasperated at her own weakness. “I really don’t like to talk about those things.”

To prove it, she let a tear spill over and slide down her cheek.

He stared at the tear with the air of a scientist examining an interesting bug. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out to her. “Could you try? To say just a little?”

She let two more tears fall then, her voice breaking, said, “No.” Stalling for time, she added, “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.” She dabbed the tears away but kept clutching his handkerchief as if one more such question would reduce her to a sobbing heap.

The dark eyes studied her, but she thought she saw unexpected sympathy in them. He reached out and put his hand over one of hers. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. His touch sent unexpected tingles through her.

She looked down, astonished that he’d do such a thing. She found herself gazing at the Ganesh on his arm, dancing on one foot, his four arms waving merrily. Eli’s hand felt good wrapped around hers—it actually felt comforting—but she drew back as if unready for such intimacy.

“Excuse me,” he said frowning again. “I didn’t mean to be forward.”

“It’s all right. It’s just that remembering makes me emotional.”

His expression was slightly dubious, but he said, “Let me see if I have it straight. After your mother passed away, your family came here. You lived with your grandparents. Your grandfather’s agent retired that same year, and your father took over his job.”

Emerson nodded her head yes. She sniffled and squeezed the handkerchief. Her fingers still prickled from his touch. “Yes. Felix Mettler was the agent. We called him Uncle Felix. He died, too. Of pneumonia. Fourteen years ago.”

That, she thought, was information Eli probably had anyway, and it wasted his time. She stole a glance at the watch. He’d been here a full ten minutes, and he hadn’t pried anything out of her yet.

She was doing well, she told herself. She was doing just fine.

This man wasn’t so formidable, after all.

FOR TEN MINUTES Eli had let her fend him off. If he gave her five more minutes, she’d get cocky. And when she got cocky, she’d get careless. And then he’d spring his trap.

She was an amateur, but he had to admit she was good. For a few disturbing seconds, he’d believed her tears were real. Well, they were real, but his gut instinct was that she’d summoned them by willpower.

So she’d played the tears card, which was dirty fighting, and he’d played the sympathy card, which was just as dirty, but it gave him an excuse to touch her. Because from the moment she’d opened the door, he’d wanted to touch her. He wanted it so much his blood pounded with it.

Good Lord, but she was something. When she pulled her flirtatious act, he had to control his expression until his face ached from it.

Now he toyed with the blue goblet as it sat on the table, turning it first one way, then the other. For a moment he didn’t allow himself to look at her. Why hadn’t Merriman fallen down at her feet and begged to take her photo? Was he gay? Crazy? Was it possible he was the world’s only blind photographer?

“So,” he said, his voice neutral. “Your grandparents had a big part in raising you.”

“Mmm. Yes. They were wonderful. In every way. He was such fun, and she was so sweet—”

He cut her off as he kept playing with his glass. “Did you know, when you moved here, that your grandfather was a famous artist?”

“My sister and I knew he was an artist. I don’t think we understood he was famous. To me, famous meant being on television. Or in movies. Mickey Mouse was famous. Mel Gibson was famous. We knew the Captain was kind of important, but we didn’t know why.”

He let her babble in that vein a bit, knowing she thought she was running down the clock. He would treat her gently for a while, asking simple questions. He stared at the light dancing on the blue goblet and tried his best to look harmless.

“And his nickname was the Captain because he grew up around boats? In Maine, yes?”

“Yes. His father had a fishing boat. When he went off to college in New York somebody nicknamed him the Captain. It stuck.”

“But he didn’t finish college. A bit of a rebel, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Most good artists have a rebellious streak. He took off to see the world. He wanted to study non-Western art. And to go to Paris. Don’t all painters want to go to Paris?” She sounded relieved, as if these questions weren’t as bad as she’d feared.

Eli stole a look at her, and the sight of her slammed him like a blow. She sat in that ornate white chair, wearing that simple, perfect turquoise gown and holding a goblet the same color. Something really was wrong with Merriman. Very wrong.

His breath stuck in his chest, but he got his question out with no change in tone. “He went to north Africa first?”

She nodded, and he watched her lips as she answered. “Morocco. Egypt. Tunisia. Algeria. Oh, yes. He spent time in all of them.”

“And then he went to Paris and met your grandmother…”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and Eli knew better than to push much further. Nathan Roth had always been vague about how he had met and married his wife. She had avoided the spotlight, even in the days her husband had gloried in it.

Still, Eli had to seem to try. “I’ve heard conflicting stories. That she wasn’t actually born in France. That her family came from Egypt? Algeria? Morocco?”

Emerson smiled vaguely. “That’s something you should ask her.”

He allowed himself to smile back. “Will she tell me?”

She raised the goblet to her mouth. “Perhaps.”

“Tell me,” he said, “when you were a child, what did you think of the paintings? Or is that too personal for you to say?”

The will-o’-the-wisp smile touched her lips again. “I thought they were squiggles. Pretty, but just squiggles. I didn’t know why people bought them.”

He nodded to encourage her. “Now you do. Because you sell them.”

“No. The dealer sells them. Gerald Krystol. He and I talk over the prices and so on. I’m only the agent.”

“What do you think of the paintings now?”

She sat a bit taller in the chair. A look of pride crossed her face. But there was something more, as well. He realized it might be love. “They’re great. They’re a national treasure.”

Suddenly, she rose. “Would you like to walk on the beach? It’s one of the Captain’s favorite places. This may be your only chance. The weather’s supposed to get worse the next few days.”