Public Secrets (16 page)

“Ah, yeah, I got time.” He frowned down at the sand clinging to his feet. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”

“Of course it is.” She stepped out of the car, the same ’68 Chevelle that Lou had once driven to the rehearsal hall. She waited for Michael to unstrap her board from the roof, then started up the steps. “I’ll have to tell Da what happened. The guards will anyhow. I hope you don’t mind if I, well, make it sound minor. You know?”

“Sure.” He grinned at her again, making her young heart flutter. “Parents always overreact. I guess they can’t help it.”

He heard the music the moment she opened the door. A piano, a series of thunderous chords, then an experimental noodling of notes, and the chords again. Emma took her board from him to prop it against the wall.

“They’re back here.” After a moment’s hesitation, she took Michael’s hand and led him down the wide white hallway.

He’d never seen a house like it, though he was too embarrassed to say so. Arched doorways opened on room after room where abstract paintings were slashes of frantic color against white walls. Even the floors were white so that Michael was unable to shake the feeling he was walking through some kind of temple.

Then he saw the goddess, the portrait of the goddess above a fireplace of white stone. She was blond and sulky-mouthed,
wearing a white sequined dress that skimmed dangerously over the globes of her lush breasts.

“Wow.”

“That’s Angie,” Emma told him. Her nose wrinkled quickly, automatically. “She’s married to P.M.”

“Yeah.” He had the oddest feeling that the portrait’s eyes were alive and fixed on him hungrily. “I, ah, saw her last movie.” He didn’t add that after he had, he’d experienced fascinating and uncomfortably erotic dreams. “Man, she’s something.”

“Yes, she is.” And even at not-quite thirteen, Emma was aware what that something was. She gave Michael’s hand an impatient tug, then continued on.

It was the only room Emma felt at ease in—the only room in the mausoleum of a house where she imagined P.M. had been given a chance to express his own taste. There was color here, a mix-match of blues and reds and sunny yellows. Music awards lined the mantel; gold records dotted the wails. There were a couple of thriving plants near the window. A pair of lemon trees that Emma knew P.M. had started from seed.

Her father was seated at a beautiful old baby grand that had been in a movie whose tide always escaped Emma. Johnno sat beside him, smoking his habitual French cigarettes. There was a litter of papers on the floor, a big pitcher of lemonade sprinkled with condensation on the coffee table. The glasses, ice melting lazily inside them, were already leaving a duo of rings on the wood.

“We’ll keep it moving through the bridge,” Brian was saying as he pounded out chords. “Keep it fast, overlap the strings and horns, but keep the guitar the dominant force.”

“Fine, but it’s still the wrong beat.” Johnno brushed Brian’s hands aside. His diamonds winked on each pinky as he moved them over the keys.

Brian took out a cigarette, flipping it through his fingers. “I hate you when you’re right.”

“Da.”

He looked up. The smile came first, then faded as he focused on Michael. “Emma. You were supposed to ring if you wanted to come back early.”

“I know, but I met Michael.” Her lips curved, charmingly, so that her dimple flashed. “I wiped out, and he helped me get
my board.” Because she wanted to leave it at that, she hurried on. “And I thought you’d like to meet him again.”

There was something enormously disturbing about seeing his girl, his little girl, standing with her hand in the hand of a boy who was nearly a man. “Again?”

“Don’t you remember? His father brought him to a rehearsal. His father, the policeman.”

“Kesselring.” The muscles in Brian’s stomach clenched. “You’re Michael Kesselring?”

“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t sure if it was proper to extend his hand for a shake with a music giant, so stood, rubbing his palms on his sandy trunks. “I was like eleven when I met you before. It was great.”

He was too used to being onstage, under the lights, to let the ache show. He looked at Michael, tall, dark, sturdy, and saw not Lou Kesselring’s son, but the potential of his own lost little boy. But he smiled as he stood up from the piano.

“It’s nice to see you again. You remember Michael, Johnno?”

“Sure. Ever talk your old man into that electric guitar?”

“Yeah.” Michael grinned, flattered to be remembered. “I took lessons awhile, but they gave me up as hopeless. I play the harmonica some, though.”

“Why don’t you get Michael a Coke, Emma?” Brian dropped to the arm of a chair, gesturing to the couch. The glint of his wedding ring caught a sliver of light. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

“We live to be interrupted,” Johnno told him, mellowing the sarcasm with a smile. “What’d you think of the song?”

“It was great. Everything you do is great.”

Johnno’s brow lifted not so much in sarcasm now as amusement. “Here’s a smart boy, Bri. Maybe we should keep him.”

Michael grinned, unsure if he should be embarrassed. “No, really. I like all your stuff.”

“Not into disco?”

“Disco sucks.”

“A very smart boy,” Johnno decided. “So how’d you come to meet our Emma on the beach?” He continued talking, knowing Brian needed another moment to adjust.

“She had a little trouble with a wave and I helped her out.” He breezed over the incident with the skill of a teenager used to
outwitting adults. “She’s got pretty good form, Mr. McAvoy. Just needs more practice.”

Brian managed another smile and toyed with his warm lemonade. “You surf a lot?”

“Every chance I get.”

“How’s your father?”

“He’s cool. He’s a captain now.”

“I’d heard. You must be out of high school by now.”

“Yes, sir. I graduated in June.”

“Going on?”

“Well, yeah. I thought I’d give college a shot. My father’s counting on it.”

Johnno pulled out his cigarettes, carelessly offering one to Michael. He took it, and the first pull of the strong, exotic smoke had his stomach bouncing. “So,” Johnno asked, mildly amused, “do you plan to follow in your father’s flat feet? Isn’t that what they call cops?” he continued. “Flat foots?”

“Oh.” Michael tried another small, experimental puff on the Gauloise. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cop. Dad, he’s great at it. Patient, you know. Like with your son’s case. He worked on that for years, even after the department closed the files.” He caught himself, appalled that he’d brought it up. “He’s like, dedicated,” he finished weakly.

“Yes, he is.” More at ease, Brian smiled the charming, heartwarming smile that made his fans love him. He wished he’d added rum to the lemonade. “You’ll give him my best, won’t you?”

“Sure.” It was with great relief that Michael saw Emma bringing in cold drinks on a tray.

An hour later, Emma walked him back to his car. “I want to thank you for not telling Da how stupid I was today.”

“No big deal.”

“Yes, it was. He gets … upset.” She gazed out to the high stone walls that surrounded the estate. Wherever she went there were walls. “I think he’d put me in a bubble if he could.”

The urge to touch her hair was so strong, so unexpected, that he’d lifted his hand before he caught himself and brushed it through his own. “It must be tough, with what happened to your brother and everything.”

“He’s always afraid, afraid someone will try to take me, too.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. I don’t think so. The guards are always there, so I’ve never had a chance to be, really.”

He hesitated, one hand on the door handle. It wasn’t like he was stuck on her or anything, he told himself. She was just a kid. “Maybe I’ll see you at the beach tomorrow.”

A woman’s heart fluttered in her young chest. “Maybe.”

“I could give you some pointers on the board—you know, help you with your form.”

“That would be great.”

He got in, fiddling with the keys before starting the engine. “Thanks for the Coke and everything. It was really far out getting to meet your dad again and all.”

“Any time. Goodbye, Michael.”

“Yeah, See you.” He drove down the tree-lined drive, nearly steering onto the lawn because he was watching her in the rear-view mirror.

H
E WENT BACK
to the beach every day, but he never saw her there again that summer.

T
HEY HAD AN
hour before bed check. An hour before Sister Immaculata shuffled her way down the halls in her black, sensible shoes to poke her disapproving, warty nose in each of the rooms to make sure all music was off and clothes were neatly hung in closets.

They had an hour, and Emma was afraid it was going to be enough time.

“Are they numb yet?”

“I don’t think so.”

Marianne narrowed her eyes as she tapped her foot along with her latest Billy Joel album. She was convinced he was right. Catholic girls did start much too late.

“Emma, you’ve had that ice on your ears for twenty minutes. You should have frostbite by now.”

Ice was melting cold down her wrists, but she kept it firmly against her ears. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Of course I do.” Marianne’s hips swayed in her prim cotton nightgown as she walked to the mirror. There, she admired the little gold balls in her newly pierced ears. “I watched every move my cousin made when she did mine.” She switched to an exaggerated German accent. “Und ve have all de instruments. Ice, needle.” Gleefully she held it up so it glinted in the lamplight. “The potato we ripped off from the kitchen. Two quick jabs and your dull, dreary ears become sophisticated.”

Emma kept her eye on the needle. She was searching for a
way out, ears and pride intact. “I never asked Da if it was all right.”

“Jesus, Emma, ear piercing’s a personal choice. You’ve got your period, you’ve got your boobs—such as they are,” she added with a grin. “That makes you a woman.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to be a woman if it meant having her best friend stick a needle in her earlobe. “I don’t have any earrings.”

“I told you, you can borrow some of mine. I’ve got scads. Come on, let’s see that British stiff upper lip.”

“Right.” Having a deep breath, Emma took the ice from one ear. “Don’t screw up.”

“Me?” Marianne knelt by the chair to draw a tiny
x
on Emma’s earlobe with a purple felt-tip pen. “Listen, just in case I miss and drive this into your brain, can I have your record collection?” Then she giggled, held the potato behind Emma’s ear, and plunged.

It was a toss-up as to who was more queasy.

“God.” Marianne tucked her head between her knees. “At least my parents don’t have to worry about me becoming a drug addict. Shooting up must be disgusting.”

Emma slid bonelessly out of the chair. “You didn’t say I’d feel it.” As her stomach roiled, she concentrated on keeping very still and breathing. “Oh gross. You didn’t say I’d hear it.”

“I didn’t. But then Marcia and I had swiped a bottle of bourbon from Daddy’s bar. I guess we weren’t feeling or hearing anything.” She lifted her head, focused. There was blood, just a drop of it on Emma’s earlobe, but it made her think of the slasher movie she and her cousin had seen over the summer.

“We’ve got to do the other one.”

Emma just closed her eyes. “Oh Christ.”

“You can’t go around with one ear pierced. We’ve come this far, Emma.” Her hands were clammy as she clipped the needle free of the thread and prepared it for round two. “I’ve got the hard part. Just lie there.”

Gritting her teeth, Marianne aimed and fired. Emma only groaned and slid the rest of the way to the floor.

“It’s over. Now you have to clean them with peroxide so they don’t get infected. And keep your hair over them so none of the sisters notice for a while.”

When the door opened, both girls struggled up. But it wasn’t
Sister Immaculata. Teresa Louise Alcott, the bright and annoying girl from across the hall, popped in wearing her pink cotton robe and feather mules.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re having an orgy.” Marianne flopped down again. “Don’t you ever knock?”

Teresa only grinned. She was one of the feverishly pert girls who volunteered for everything, always completed her assignments, and wept at the Stations of the Cross. Marianne detested her on principle. Being thick-skinned as well as pert, Teresa considered the insults signs of friendship.

“Wow. You’re getting your ears pierced.” She knelt down to study the strings dangling from Emma’s lobes. “Mother Superior’ll have a cat.”

“Why don’t you have a cat, Teresa?” Marianne suggested. “In your own room.”

But Teresa only grinned and sat back on her heels. “Did it hurt?”

Emma opened her eyes and wished Teresa to everlasting hell. “No. It felt great. Marianne’s going to do my nose next. You can watch.”

Teresa ignored the sarcasm and studied her newly manicured fingernails. “I’d love to have mine done. Maybe after Sister Immaculata comes through you could do it.”

“I don’t know, Teresa.” Marianne pushed herself up to change the record to Bruce Springsteen. “I haven’t finished my report on
Silas Marner
. I was going to work on it tonight.”

“Mine’s done.” Teresa smiled her pert smile. “If you do my ears, I’ll give you my notes.”

Marianne moved her shoulders as if debating. “Well, okay then.”

“Great. Wow, I almost forgot why I came over.” She dug into the deep pocket of her frilly pink robe and pulled out a magazine article. “My sister sent this to me because she knows I go to school with you, Emma. She cut it out of
People
. Have you ever seen that magazine? It’s just great. It has pictures of everybody. They have like Robert Redford on the cover and Burt Reynolds. All the hunks.”

“I’ve seen it,” Emma said, because she knew it was the only way to shut Teresa up.

“Sure you have, because your dad’s been in there lots of
times. Anyway, I knew you’d just be dying to see it, so I brought it over.”

Because her stomach had settled, Emma propped herself up, then took the article. The nausea came back with a vengeance.

E
TERNAL
T
RIANGLE

There was Bev rolling on the floor with another woman. And Da, with a look of stunned fury on his face, reaching down for her. Bev’s dress was ripped, and there was a kind of wild anger in her eyes. The same kind, Emma remembered, as had been there the last time she’d seen her.

“I knew you’d want it,” Teresa was saying cheerfully. “So I brought it over. That’s your mother, isn’t it?”

“My mother,” Emma murmured, staring at Bev’s picture.

“The blond lady in the glittery dress. Wow, I’d just die to have a dress like that. Jane Palmer. She’s your mother, right?”

“Jane.” She focused on the other woman now. The old fear came back, just as real, just as ripe as it had been ten years before. Just as stunning as it had been when another girl had shown her a smuggled-in copy of
Devastated with
Jane’s picture on the back cover.

It was Jane. Bev was fighting with her, and Da was there. What could they have been fighting about? Hope flashed through the fear. Perhaps Da and Bev were together. Perhaps they would all be together again.

She shook her head to clear it and focused on the text.

There was more, talk about others who had attended and the comments they made about the incident. There was a description of the clothes and a tongue-in-cheek remark about, what both Jane and Bev had worn, and torn off each other. But she didn’t read any further. Didn’t need to.

“It’s neat, isn’t it, the way they were ripping each other’s dresses, right out in public?” Teresa’s eyes shone with excitement. “Do you think they were fighting over your father? He’s so dreamy, I bet they were. It’s just like in the movies.”

“Yeah.” Since strangling Teresa would only get her suspended, Marianne vetoed it. There were other, subtler ways to deal with idiots. She picked up the needle. She’d pierce Teresa’s flappy ears all right. And if she forgot the ice, it was an honest mistake. “You’d better get going, Teresa. Sister Immaculata’s going to be coming through any minute.”

With a little squeal, Teresa sprang up. She didn’t want to spoil her perfect record with a demerit. “Come over at ten, and I’ll give you the notes. Then you can do it.”

“Fine.”

Teresa put her hands on her earlobes. “I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I.” She waited until the door closed. “Little shit,” she muttered, then moved over to drape an arm around Emma’s shoulders. “You okay?”

“It never goes away.” She stared at the picture. It was a good
one, she thought dispassionately, well focused, well lit. The faces weren’t blurred, the expressions quite clear. It was easy, all too easy to see the hate in her mother’s eyes. “Do you think I could be like her?”

“Like who?”

“My mother.”

“Come on, Emma. You haven’t even seen her since you were a baby.”

“There’s genes, heredity and all that.”

“All that’s bull.”

“Sometimes I’m mean. Sometimes I want to be mean, the way she was.”

“So what?” She rose to take Springsteen off. Sister Immaculata might come along any minute and confiscate it. “Everybody’s mean sometimes. That’s because our flesh is weak and we’re loaded with sin.”

“I hate her.” It was a relief to say it, a terrible, terrible relief. “I hate her. And I hate Bev for not wanting me, and Da for putting me here. I hate the men who killed Darren. I hate them all. She hates everyone, too. You can see it in her eyes.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes I hate everyone. And I don’t even know your mother.”

That made her laugh. She couldn’t say why, but it made her laugh. “Neither do I, I guess.” She sniffled, sighed. “I hardly remember her.”

“There, you see.” Satisfied, Marianne plopped down again. “If you don’t remember her, you can’t be like her.”

It sounded logical, and she needed to believe it. “I don’t look like her.”

Wanting to judge fairly, Marianne took up the article and studied the pictures. “Not a bit. You’ve got your father’s bone structure and coloring. Take it from an artist.”

Emma lifted a hand to her tender lobes. “Are you really going to pierce Teresa’s ears?”

“You bet—with the dullest needle I can find. Want to do one?”

Emma grinned.