Secrets of You (21 page)

“With your vegetable peelers and cheese graters?”
She shook her head and hid a smile. Ash and Quinn put up a good front of disliking one another but for two men who said they didn’t want to be in one another’s company, they certainly enjoyed sparring. Eve said it was a mental challenge and one Quinn enjoyed. Apparently, he spent a good deal of time planning and plotting ways to best Ash at his culinary endeavors. Arianna found it charming and quite endearing that the two men she cared about most actually liked one another, even if they would never admit it.

“I can’t wait for Eve and Quinn to see what we’ve done with the place.” Arianna gazed at the clusters of daffodils and tulips they’d planted last fall, six months after they moved in. They’d decided to spend summers and holidays here but the more time they spent in the old
farmhouse, the more they missed the quiet life it offered when they were gone. Ash had designed a studio for them, complete with a darkroom and a perfect view of the ten acres they owned. They’d dubbed the farmhouse Our Gathering Place and sent open invitations to Quinn and Eve, Pete and Caroline, Michael and Annie, and, of course, Arianna’s family. Her nieces stopped by at least twice a week to check out Arianna’s jewelry designs and eat Ash’s grilled chops, burgers, or whatever else was on the menu for the day. Her mother delivered herbs and vegetables “
until you get situated with your own garden.” And Vanessa? She was taking night classes at the community college, enjoying her makeover, and smiling. Laughing, too.

“If Eve hadn’t decided to have her baby the day before Thanksgiving, they might have made it to dinner and then they would have seen how we turned this into our own little haven.”

“How horribly inconsiderate of Eve. She should have waited until after your dinner.” Arianna cast him a sly look. “Or maybe she could have delivered right here on our new kitchen floor.”

He pretended a scowl. “Or maybe
Burnes got her pregnant when he did so he had a good reason to miss the dinner, seeing as he wouldn’t be able to stand eating the best turkey he ever tasted.” Ash pointed to himself. “
My
turkey.”

Arianna hid a smile. “Yes, I’m certain your precious Thanksgiving dinner was behind the pregnancy. I bet he had a calendar under the bed and calculated the exact time to get Eve pregnant—with you in mind, of course.”

“Of course.” They looked at one another and burst out laughing. Ash grinned. “It’s a good story, though, isn’t it?”

“I admit, it is interesting.”

“So let me torment him with it when he arrives and you play along.”

Arianna wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him.
“As long as you’re ready for a few snide comments from Quinn. You don’t think he’ll have something to say about us?”

Ash placed his large hands low on her belly. “He’ll accuse me of trying to blow his Labor Day bash.” His voice dipped. “And of course, I’ll tell him that’s exactly what I had in mind the night I got you pregnant.”

“Just be prepared for his comeback, because there will be one.”

“I’m counting on it.” His smile faded, his gaze grew intent. He knelt and lifted her shirt, placed a soft kiss where their baby grew. “Do you know how happy you’ve made me?”

She ran her fingers through his hair, her heart swelling with love, and whispered, “Tell me again.”

The End

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Keys to a happy marriage

Written in Ash and Arianna’s wedding book

Always close the bathroom door—Hank Silvers, married 42 years to Becky

Talk. Love. Listen—Ginnie Toloweitz, married 12 years to Manny

Cook up a batch of chili, grab a beer, and watch a chick flick with her—Mark J. Petersen, married 22 years to Cindy

Listen with your heart. Love with your soul—Angie Andolini, married 6 months to Tony

Ask her if something’s bothering her, even when you don’t really want to know— Jeff
Rothberry, Sr., married 32 years to Carolina

Laugh. Laugh again—Tom R. Phillips, married 25 years to Kitty

Rototill the garden for her and plant her favorite flowers—Frank Helms, married 49 years to Betty

Absolutely NOTHING makes her butt look big— Will
Ebbers, married 19 years to Cassandra

When your mother-in-law comes, let her sit in your favorite chair and control the remote—Bobby Franklin, married 17 years to Barbara.

Bake him his favorite pie on his birthday. If he doesn’t like pie, make him cookies—Marjorie Bestkane, married 27 years to Art

Tell him he’s sexy—and mean it—Rochelle Catalano, married 10 years to Luke

Wear the sweater she bought you, even if it’s not your favorite—Ralph Wenston, married 8 years to Joanne

Cuddle. Snuggle. Hug. Kiss—Suzie
Merlene, married 2 months to Travis

Listen. Think. Talk. In that order—Quinn
Burnes, married 9 months to Eve

Ride on the back of his Harley—Jim Campisi, married 18 years to Mary

by

Mary Campisi

She’ll risk anything to save her child…even the truth
.

It’s taken nine years and a cross-country move, but Audra Valentine
Wheyton has kept her secrets safe. She’s created the perfect life—a husband who loves her, a daughter she adores, and a position as head writer for an award-winning daytime soap. When her husband dies suddenly, Audra returns to her hometown for the funeral and faces a community that has not forgotten her meager beginnings and a man who has never forgiven her for marrying his brother.

Jack
Wheyton is a successful pediatric neurosurgeon who is about to become engaged when Audra walks back into his life with her daughter. He forgave his brother long ago for taking something that had been his, something he hadn’t even realized he wanted until it was gone. But forgiving Audra is another story…and forgetting her? Near impossible.

When a shattering illness strikes Audra’s daughter, she turns to Jack to save her child and risks exposing a secret that will change their lives forever.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know. It’s only eight days.”—Christian
Wheyton

They were leaving tomorrow. Scraped away from her like a D&C without anesthetic. Even after all these years, she still dreaded it—the suitcases, tagged and waiting at the front door, the early morning trip to the airport, the luggage checks, the lines of travelers snaking past. Each process pulled Audra Valentine
Wheyton’s husband and daughter away, minds and bodies beginning the two-thousand-mile trek before they reached the first escalator. Kara had a new suitcase this time, pink and green canvas with wheels to replace the Cinderella vinyl she’d used the past six trips.

Christian thought Audra should stay home and forego the airport ritual, but she needed to watch her daughter’s blonde head disappear among the mesh of travelers and gain comfort from her husband’s tanned hand raised in one last good-bye. He no longer asked her to go with them,
but his pale blue eyes shone with hope each time he packed his suitcase and looked at her with a quiet longing that begged,
Come with us. Settle the past. Show them it doesn’t matter anymore.

But it did matter. It would always matter. Christian thought the past would never catch up with her and if it did, no one would recognize it as hers anyway. He discounted the one person who might piece together the truth and recognize her deceit. Nine years and nine states separated them, but she feared
him
most.

“I saw the show today.” The softness in Christian’s voice cocooned her and she snuggled closer. “I like where you’re going with it.”

“You didn’t think it was too revealing?” Writing a story was one thing but watching the scripted words morph onto the screen and slip through someone else’s mouth? Especially words tied to a past only three people in the entire state of California knew about? That was close to torture.

“Give yourself a little credit, Audra.
Soap Digest
wouldn’t call you a masterful storyteller if it weren’t true.”

Of course Christian supported her but what did a man entranced by the Cold War know about hype and wordplay? She sighed and said, “There are no masterful storytellers in daytime drama.”

He was not going to be denied his opinion. “What about
People’s
blurb last month? Bland doesn’t make
People
, unless it’s a new diet or health food craze.”

Her husband, the optimist.
“You don’t think it has to do with the public’s insane quest to unearth the identity of the show’s head writer?”

“Maybe.”
He stroked her back, played with the ends of her shoulder-length hair in that familiar way he did when he was thinking, as though he were turning the pages of a well-worn document.

“It has everything to do with morbid curiosity. Howard’s got the press wrapped up in the mystery and he’s going to play it as long as he can.” By the time her identity squeaked out, and it would eventually, she’d be months, maybe even a year past the current storyline, and it wouldn’t matter. It only mattered now, when the critical aspects of the story might be recognized for what they were—a duplication of her own life. From the moment she walked on the set thirteen months ago, the staff knew her only as
Rhetta Hardt, a clever name born of Howard Krozer’s imagination and obsession with all things German. The rest of the staff believed they were protecting “Rhetta’s” identity, forming a camaraderie of sorts to band against overzealous fans and too-curious reporters, and it was this desire to be part of the informed group that led them to trust blindly.

Many whispered their own suspicions about the dark-haired woman who rarely smiled. One said she’d defected from Germany to flee the stigma of parents convicted of spying. Another maintained
Rhetta was in witness protection for turning state’s evidence on a kingpin boyfriend who had been engaged in drug or arms dealing. Only a few believed Howard Krozer’s fabricated story. And once they met Christian, who had been introduced sans last name, he became part of the wondering. Perhaps a good part of the fantasizing as well. The costume designer with the double knee replacements invited Christian to coffee every time she saw him, even brought raspberry streusel when she knew he’d be on the set. And 38DD Sophia Pregganio pumped extra purr into her love scenes when she spotted him. Even Roland Gergi offered up a wink and a promise to ditch his partner, Julio, if Christian would only look his way. It was all spoken in fun with the half-seriousness of those who aren’t quite joking.

And all the while, Howard smiled and popped handfuls of Chiclets in his mouth, another obsession of the sixty-something soap guru.
People don’t care about the truth
, he’d told Audra.
They only care about supporting what they believe is the truth, which is rarely even close.
He was right about that. The truth was nowhere close.

“So—” Christian heaved a sigh and pulled her from her thoughts “—are we going to talk about tomorrow?”

And there it was, the segue to tomorrow and the beginning of eight days of longing and loneliness.

“Audra?”

“I’m sorry. Just distracted, I guess.”

Christian kissed the top of her head. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. It’s only eight days.”

His presence calmed her as it had so many times before—during the scandalous death of her mother, the loss of her beloved grandmother, the horrific labor pains and emergency C-section. “I know,” she murmured, relaxing despite the dreaded separation. “This is just not a good time. Kara’s really excited about her gymnastics classes and Peter promised to take her to the set next week and…” Who was she kidding? It would never be a good time.

“I’ll miss you.”

When she didn’t answer, he loosened his hold and tipped her chin up so he could see her face. “Moscow was twenty days.”

“Moscow was work. And besides, it’s a world away from San Diego.”

“So is Holly Springs.”

“Very funny.”
She envied Christian’s light-hearted view of the world. With him there was always a solution, often tinged with a glint of humor that made the worst scenarios seem not so bad, especially when delivered with a wide smile and flash of dimple. “I’m going to miss you and Kara, whether it’s three days away or thirteen.”

“I know.” And then with the tiniest glimmer of hope, he said, “You could go with us.”

“You know I can’t.”

He didn’t respond, just held her while she breathed in his comforting scent. From the moment they’d exchanged vows nine years ago, he’d promised to be there for her and he had, with the exception of the annual research projects that took him to Moscow. But she hadn’t minded any of it, not even the three-week excursion to Altai and Novosibirsk. History professors researched and traveled so when they returned home they could write and lecture with purpose and familiarity. It was the biannual trips to Holly Springs, New
York, that left her queasy and unsettled. Every trip. Every year. Every time.