The Husband's Secret(139)

            “Useless, patronizing, miserable little . . .” Her throat closed up. She turned the keys in the ignition.





            Look at that man’s kite!” said Isabel.

            Cecilia looked up to see a man on the crest of the hill carrying an enormous kite in the shape of a tropical fish. He was letting it bob about behind him like a balloon.

            “It’s like he’s taking his fish for a walk,” huffed John-Paul. He was leaned over almost double, pushing Polly on her bike because she’d just complained that her legs had turned to jelly. She was sitting upright, wearing a glittery pink helmet and plastic rock-star sunglasses with star-shaped lenses. As Cecilia watched, Polly leaned forward to take a sip of lemon cordial from the purple water bottle she’d packed for herself in the white mesh basket.

            “Fish can’t walk,” said Esther, without looking up from her book. She had a remarkable ability to walk and read at the same time.

            “You could at least pedal a bit, Princess Polly,” said Cecilia.

            “My legs still feel like jelly,” said Polly delicately.

            John-Paul grinned at Cecilia. “It’s okay. Good workout for me.”

            Cecilia breathed in deeply. There was something comical and wonderful about the sight of the fish-shaped kite swimming jauntily through the air behind the man in front of them. The air smelled sweet. The sun was warm on her back. Isabel was pulling tiny yellow dandelions from hedges and sticking them in between the strands of Esther’s plait. It reminded Cecilia of something. A book or a movie from her childhood. Something to do with a little girl who lived in the mountains who wore flowers in her braid. Heidi?

            “Beautiful day!” called out a man who was sitting on his front porch drinking tea. Cecilia knew his face vaguely from church.

            “Gorgeous!” she called back warmly.

            The man ahead of them with the kite stopped. He pulled a phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.

            “That’s not a man.” Polly straightened. “That’s Mr. Whitby!”





            Rachel drove robotically toward home, trying to keep her mind completely empty of thoughts.

            She stopped at a red light and looked at the time on the dashboard clock. It was ten o’clock. At this time twenty-eight years ago, Janie would have been at school, and Rachel was probably ironing her dress for her appointment with Toby Murphy. The bloody dress that Marla had convinced her to buy because it showed off her legs.

            Just seven minutes late. It probably made no difference. She would never know.

            “We won’t be taking any further action.” She heard again the prim voice of Detective-Sergeant Strout. She saw Connor Whitby’s frozen face when she paused the video. She thought of the unmistakable guilt in his eyes.

            He did it.

            She screamed. An ugly, bloodcurdling scream that reverberated around the car. She beat her fists just once on the steering wheel. It both frightened and embarrassed her.

            The lights changed. She put her foot on the accelerator. Was today the worst anniversary yet, or was it always this bad? It was probably always this bad. It was so easy to forget how bad things were. Like winter. Like the flu. Like childbirth.

            She could feel the sun on her face. It was a beautiful day, like the day Janie died. The streets were deserted. Nobody appeared to be about. What did people do on Good Friday?

            Rachel’s mother used to do the Stations of the Cross. Would Janie have stayed a Catholic? Probably not.

            Don’t think about the woman Janie would have been.