The Art of Keeping Secrets Part 3

Mrs. Thurgood nodded. "You'll have the rest of the day-it won't be in the paper until the evening edition."

Annabelle dropped her head. "I've got to go. . . ." She retreated from the office without saying more.

Light and shadow danced across Cooper and Christine's porch in an afternoon ch.o.r.eography. Annabelle held her hand in midair before the door, wanting to find the perfect words to ask her friends about Knox's woman. She didn't want to emotionally spew the news and questions as she just had in Mrs. Thurgood's office.

Christine opened the door and smiled before Annabelle could knock. "Hey, Annabelle." Christine hugged her. "I swear I cannot mix white wine and boat rides. I'm getting too old. . . . I have a horrid headache today. How are you?"

"I'm good. . . . I was hoping I caught y'all at a good time. I was wondering if I could talk to both of you for a second. Or is Cooper traveling today?"

"He's leaving in about an hour for a plane to Phoenix. Let me see if he's done packing."

Annabelle pictured the newspaper headlines, the gossip that would surely flow, the phones ringing across town. "I just need five minutes to talk to y'all . . . if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all. Let me get Cooper." Christine motioned for Annabelle to follow, then shot a teasing look over her shoulder and laughed. "I can't believe you jumped in last night."

"G.o.d, that already seems a million years ago," Annabelle said.

"What do you mean?"

"I got some news today. . . . Get Cooper so I don't have to keep saying it. . . ."

"Okay." Christine walked down the hall to the bedroom. She'd met Cooper in college and had set her sights on marrying him after their second date. Christine was from Florida-a place, she said, that was in the South, but wasn't Southern. She fell in love first with the Lowcountry and then with Cooper, as though he were a piece of the land broken off and given to her as a gift.

Annabelle remembered a long-ago New Year's Eve party when Christine had told her that she knew Cooper loved her because he'd stayed with her when he'd had the chance to reunite with an old girlfriend who had once broken his heart.

When Christine had told Annabelle this story-following too many gla.s.ses of champagne, after both of them had been married for years-Annabelle experienced a rare moment of doubt about Knox. Would he have left her if he'd really had the chance? She'd watched Knox across the room talking to Shawn, and laughing. Then he'd glanced around until he found her, met her eyes and smiled. So many years they'd been married by then-ten-that she knew he was looking for her, seeking a point of comfort in the crowded room. But, she wondered, was she merely that for him: a source of comfort and familiarity?

Now standing in Christine's foyer, Knox dead and gone, Annabelle remembered Knox's smile for her as if she had just received it.

Cooper came from the back bedroom, hair wet and b.u.t.toning his shirt. "Hey, Belle, what's up?" He kissed her on the cheek.

"Can I talk to y'all for a few minutes?" Annabelle asked.

"You sound so formal-you don't have to ask to talk to us. What is it? You don't look so . . . well."

"Thanks, Cooper," Annabelle said, punched the side of his arm.

He waved toward the kitchen. "Come on, let's get coffee."

Annabelle followed him into the kitchen-newly re-modeled to look antique. An oxymoron: Christine's new old kitchen. It had heart-of-pine floors, granite counters honed to look ancient, a black Viking stove with a false patina of age and custom-built mahogany cabinetry.

Cooper poured coffee beans into the grinder, Annabelle seated herself on a bar stool at the counter and Christine paced the kitchen as though she were looking for one more thing to put in its proper place.

The grinder noise kept them silent for a moment, and then Cooper tapped the coffee into the brewer and turned to Annabelle. "Shoot, girl. What's up?"

Christine sat, too, now, across from Annabelle at the discreet family desk with the roll-down top that hid the bills and paraphernalia of family life.

"Sheriff Gunther came to visit me this afternoon. It seems they've found Knox's plane, his body," Annabelle said.

Cooper came around the counter, hugged Annabelle. The simple fragrance of soap and toothpaste clung to him. He didn't say anything at all, and for this, she was grateful.

When he stepped away, she added, "There was another person with him. A woman." She thought she might as well get to the point quickly. "I'm really hoping you can tell me who she is. . . ."

Cooper leaned down to look her in the eye. "You're kidding, right?"

In that single moment, she understood that he had no idea who was on that plane. "No, I'm not kidding."

Christine abruptly stood up on the other side of the room, walked toward them. "d.a.m.n, Cooper, of course she's not kidding."

Annabelle faced Christine. "Do you know something, anything about who this woman was?"

Christine held up her hands as though Annabelle had thrown her empty coffee mug at her. "No, I just meant that no one would joke about such a horrible thing."

Annabelle turned back to Cooper. "G.o.d, who was it?" "Let's retrace here," Cooper said. "Knox said he was going hunting in Colorado. Alone. He did it . . . how often-once a year, every other year?"

"Yeah, no real pattern." Annabelle twirled her empty mug on the counter. "No exact dates every year."

Cooper walked over to the coffeepot, filled three mugs.

Annabelle blew on her coffee. "Listen, I know you have a plane to catch, but if you think of anything, even one thing that would help me know who she was, please tell me. Now, more than any other time in my life, is not when you should spare my feelings-you have to tell me everything. The FAA is trying to identify the body-it will end up in the papers."

Cooper shook his head. "I have absolutely no idea whatsoever who this woman was. I thought I knew everyone Knox knew. If he lied to you about this-then he lied to me, too."

"I'm not sure what he did or didn't lie about. I'm just sure that . . . Actually I'm not sure about a d.a.m.n thing." Annabelle took a swig of coffee.

Cooper sat down next to her. "Don't let this make you doubt what you knew about Knox. There is probably a very logical explanation."

Annabelle stared out the window, across Cooper and Christine's yard to the creek running behind it; a yellow chickadee sat on top of an iron bench. "Can you think of even one explanation that doesn't involve deceit or betrayal?" Annabelle asked. "Because I can't. Every explanation I come up with includes one of those two things," Annabelle held her palms up as if weighing something, and then dipped her right hand downward. "Deceit"-she dipped her left hand-"betrayal." She dropped both hands. "I'm not particularly fond of either option."

"Didn't he stop somewhere on the way to Colorado? Refuel or something?" Cooper asked.

Annabelle sat up straight. "Yes, he did. Newboro, North Carolina. He stopped there. . . ."

"See? Maybe there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. . . . Don't get yourself all worked up about things you don't yet know."

"Okay, I grant you-it doesn't make sense," Annabelle said. "I'll try to believe it still might make sense at some point." Annabelle closed her eyes, dropped her forehead on the counter. "Please let there be a good explanation."

"We're here if you need us." Cooper placed his palm on top of her head.

Christine came to his side and sat next to Annabelle. "Please let us know if we can do anything."

Annabelle lifted her head and forced a smile. "Thanks, y'all." As she stood to leave, she wondered about the next logical step in this unch.o.r.eographed dance. A dance whose steps she didn't know.

Back home, Annabelle made all the phone calls she had been dreading: to her mother, her in-laws, cousins and aunts. Each time she repeated the story in a false upbeat voice, she felt as if she were taking apart her life, removing building blocks from the foundation of her marriage.

Afterward, she needed to hear that Jake was okay, that this news was not piercing him as it was Keeley. She dialed his number and got his voice mail. "Hey, Jake, it's Mom checking in. Call me. I love you," she said, and hung up.

Schoolwork kept him busy. He'd been the only one in his high school cla.s.s accepted to the University of North Carolina's political science school. His grades and activities, his father's reputation and Jake's own amiable personality had won him a spot in the prestigious program. Jake had once wavered about his college major-until upon his father's death he firmly resolved to continue his father's work of bringing justice to those who'd been denied it.

Annabelle sat on the living room couch and closed her eyes. Her own strength dissipated, she wished for something, anything to help her in her unbelief. Yet even as she formed the thought, doubt began its long, circuitous journey into her soul.

THREE.

SOFIE MILSTEAD.

The waters off Newboro, North Carolina, changed personality with every movement of cloud, every shift of wind, every pull of the moon. The rich sea bound Sofie Milstead to this place where the dolphins had become her hope and balm in a world of human misunderstanding and loss.

She'd spent the day on a commercial fishing trawler recording dolphin calls. The water was rough and her gear rattled against the metal hull. Overhead video cameras were positioned to record the dolphins' behavior around gill nets-the huge weighted nets used to capture species-specific fish. Sofie desperately desired to prevent the deaths of the hundreds of thousands of dolphins that were caught in the fishing nets every year. The goal of her research project was to gather enough information about dolphin behavior around the boats to support new legislation that would save the lives of these mythical creatures.

The boat captain, John Morris, hollered at her across the deck. "Hey, Sofie, there's a pod starboard."

"Thanks, John. It's the Delphin pod. I already have so many of their recordings-now I can make some comparisons." She smiled at him and pulled her raincoat closer, adjusted the controls on the pa.s.sive acoustic monitoring system. She yanked a logbook and camera from her bag, placed them on the seat. John and several of the other commercial fishermen were kind enough to allow the researchers on their daily fishing trips; this was Sofie's favorite boat.

"Why do you call it the Delphin pod?" John asked.

Sofie looked up at him. "I named the lead dolphin after one from a Greek myth-a love story."

"Ah," he said. "I've been meaning to ask. You think he likes your name for him?"

She shrugged. "Probably not. I didn't like his name in the catalog-Spike, after his torn dorsal fin-but, hey, I might not like the name he's given me either." She laughed and ducked her head against the wind as she flipped the switch on the machine.

She became lost in her work as she photographed the identifying dorsal fin of each dolphin, then logged their movements around and behind the boat. She carefully noted the exact times so that the visual and sound records would coincide. She could never tell how many hours had pa.s.sed when she worked like this-usually John had to call to her that the boat was ready to dock. Time collapsed in on itself, disappearing like morning mist without warning.

Water burst over the side of the boat as the crew pulled up the fishing nets. Sofie looked up from her logbook and realized that the sky had darkened. As John came to her side, another splash of cold water across the bow hit Sofie full in the face. She backed up, wiped her eyes and stared down at Delphin, who had clearly just sprayed her. "Not funny," she said.

The sleek gray dolphin's fluke shot out of the water, which meant he was going deep for food-probably for the bycatch of the nets. Sofie sighed. Swimming so close to the nets was how the dolphins became entangled and injured in them, was probably how Delphin had lost that chunk out of his dorsal fin. The pods were becoming accustomed to eating the bycatch off the fishing boats. If she only knew their language, knew how to tell them to steer clear of the nets.

The water began to churn, and the dolphin pod shot from the water and swam in a quick group toward the mouth of the sound, riding one another's currents and calling out. Each dolphin had a signature whistle, which she matched to a prerecording so she could be certain who was calling and who was initiating the movements of the pod. Years ago she'd learned that the hearing part of the dolphin brain had twice the number of nerves as the human. Maybe that was why she believed the dolphins understood her soft, whispered words.

How she wanted to speak their language, call their names.

Her own name had changed three times since birth, although only she knew this fact. The thought that the most beautiful creatures on earth had names they kept all their lives was a comfort to her. The loss of loneliness began with the naming.

She was blessed to have this job, to be able to be on the water with her dolphins almost every day. The Marine Conservation Technology Lab had chosen Sofie to work on this project for her summer research. She'd worked with the center since she was fifteen years old, always willing to do whatever was needed. She'd cleaned tanks, swept floors, filed and entered data, until this year when she'd been hired as an intern to record the movements, behavior and vocalizations of the dolphins around commercial fishing boats. The head of the lab, Andrew Martin, said her meticulous record keeping made her one of the best interns they'd ever had. There was already a thorough catalog of identified dolphins from New Jersey to Florida, so after identifying each dolphin, Sofie could spend her time recording and listening to the mammals. What Andrew didn't know was that the acoustic records were contributing to her own private investigation into whether dolphins called each other by name.

She didn't understand her deep-seated need to prove that the dolphins loved one another enough to give names. And maybe they named the humans they also loved. She'd once read an essay by Loren Eisley in which he called the human need to bridge the gap between human and animal "The Long Loneliness." It was an apt description of her own belief that if she could call a dolphin by name and also understand his name for her, the abyss between them would be crossed.

A single flash shot across the sky and water-lightning. John grabbed her arm. "Get under cover in the c.o.c.kpit, Sofie." Rain fell in a sudden, sharp downpour as though gravity were pushing the rain into her face harder than necessary.

She felt the ache of isolation. After the dolphins left her, she often felt even more alone than before, as though they opened that empty s.p.a.ce inside her. They seemed, she thought, to lower her emotional barriers so that when they were gone she was more aware of her own needs.

Being with the dolphins was the only time when she thought: This, now, this is what I was made for.

John poked his head down into the cubby of the boat. "We're getting ready to drop you off at the research center."

"Got it," she said.

"Come on up. We're pulling up to the dock."

Sofie went up on deck, sat on the wet bench in the back, lifting her face to the rain and shivering. The Marine Research Center was situated on a ma.s.sive outcropping of rock that edged into the bay like a floating fortress. John tied the boat to the cleats while Sofie unloaded her gear and recording equipment.

Sofie liked John and felt comfortable with him, but often she grew uneasy when men paid her too much attention. Her mother had taught her, long ago and early, not to trust men, to avoid eye contact at all costs, and to confide in only the few men they already knew. Sofie's deeply ingrained lessons were hard won and firmly entrenched.

She grabbed her overstuffed bag and headed back toward the research center. "Thanks, John. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," he called after her.

She crossed the parking lot, pushed open the door with her foot and entered the center, where moist, artificially cooled air caused her breath to catch. She made her way to the locker room, showered and changed before sitting down at her computer. She needed to transfer the recordings to a hard drive and enter the statistics she'd logged.

Now that she was back at her desk, she felt safe from emotions she didn't want to admit.

The phone rang; she grabbed it and Bedford greeted her with his warm voice. "Hey, darling, just making sure you weren't out on the water in this weather."

"Nope, here at my desk," Sofie told him, clicked open a doc.u.ment.

"I'll come get you around six o'clock for dinner, okay? I need to talk to you about something. I thought we'd go to Benittos."

"What do you need to talk about?" Sofie's fingers paused over the keyboard. Had she done something wrong?

"Nothing big, baby. I'll see you soon."

Sofie hung up the phone, and closed her eyes. She loved Bedford; he made her feel secure, cared for. The few times she became overwhelmed by his demands, she reminded herself of the utter and total panic she felt when she imagined leaving him, or when he threatened to leave her. She still hadn't told him many things about her life, and maybe if she confided in him, she could cross that bridge of lonesomeness she often felt when she was with him.

Bedford Whitmore was forty; she was twenty. She'd first noticed him two years ago when he strode onto the dock of the research center; he'd looked like a safe harbor. He'd smiled at her and she'd gone to him without hesitation. He'd asked her name, then asked her out to dinner. She'd practically moved in with him less than a month later.

Everyone at the research center told her not to get involved with him-he was too old for her, a wanderer; he never stayed in Newboro for more than six months at a time. He was a marine biologist who specialized in environmental chemistry. He taught as a guest lecturer at numerous universities, yet was in Newboro often to consult with the research center on environmental problems in both the natural habitat and in the tanks housing the wounded marine life.