One True Secret

“Maybe they inspire your grandfather’s paintings. His paintings are colorful. Strong colors.”

She turned and stared at the banyan tree. “I can’t talk about him. Or the paintings.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. He put his tablet aside and rubbed Bunbury’s back. His expression went solemn, as if he was thinking hard. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Confusion filled her. “No. Probably not.” But she had wanted to say yes. She had wanted to say it very much.

“The next day?” he persisted.

“No. I shouldn’t be here now. I should go back inside.”

She got to her feet and went to pick up Bunbury, but the cat was pressed so affectionately against Merriman’s thigh that her hand brushed the man’s leg.

She’d knelt so that her eyes were now on the same level as Merriman’s. “Would you go out with me?” he asked.

She froze, her hands on the cat’s bulging middle. The question was extraordinary. “What?”

“Would you go out with me?” he repeated. “I wouldn’t pry into your family’s business, I swear. I’d just like to be with you. I know it—”

The gate clanged as Emerson burst through it. She stopped and stared in anger at Claire and Merriman kneeling so closely together. Beyond her, standing outside the gate, Claire could see Eli Garner, his expression fierce.

“What’s this?” Emerson demanded. “Claire, you were supposed to stay inside.”

Claire, usually mild-mannered, was offended by her sister’s tone. “I came out to get Bunbury.”

“Have you been talking to this person?” Emerson glared at Merriman.

“I told him the names of some plants,” Claire said.

“You—” Emerson pointed at Merriman. “Your hour here’s up. Leave now.”

“Emerson,” Claire objected, “there’s no need to be rude. He hasn’t done anything.”

Emerson ignored her. She shook her finger at the photographer. “I said time’s up. Leave. You and your sleazy friend.”

“Emerson!” Claire was shocked. She’d never seen her sister so imperious.

Merriman stood, picking up his tablet. “I’ll leave,” he said calmly. “And your sister’s right. I asked her about the banyan and the flowers. That’s all we talked about.”

Claire, too, rose, clutching Bunbury. Merriman turned to her. “Goodbye. And thank you. I hope I’ll see you again.”

“I—I hope so, too,” Claire stammered, amazing herself.

Then Merriman was leaving, and Claire felt a sense of something almost like bereavement. He nodded to Emerson. “Good day, Miss Roth. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

As soon as he was out of the gate, Emerson slammed it behind him.

“Em! Why were you so hateful?” Claire protested.

“He’s a nice man. He really is.”

“Nice?” Emerson fumed. “Those men are treacherous. They want to ruin us.”

Claire shook her head stubbornly. “I can’t believe that about him. I won’t.”

“You will when you know the truth. Come inside. Nana’s got to hear this. We need to have a council of war.”

“War?” Claire echoed, horrified.

“Yes.” Emerson said it with ferocious conviction. “War.”

“GOOD GOD,” Merriman complained, “what did you do to that woman? What did you say to her?”

As the car passed through the gates to the estate, rain began to fall in fat, cold drops. Eli glowered at the sky as if even the heavens had decided to punish him. “I told her the truth.”

“What truth?” Merriman asked, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Hey, put the top up, will you?”

“I told her that Mondragon had a detective investigating them. And he found out some strange things.”

He punched the button that brought the convertible’s top up. He punched it savagely because it suited his mood. The top rose with a smooth whir.

Merriman stared at him with an expression of disgust. “A detective? You never told me that. I’m surprised she didn’t knock your block off.”

“She tried,” Eli said from between his teeth. He still remembered how swiftly she’d drawn her hand back to slap him. And his feet hurt from walking on burrs. He was still barefoot, his feet scratched and bleeding.

“I don’t blame her,” Merriman said. “Why’d you tell her? It was sure to rile her.”

“I had to tell her so she’d stop trying to stonewall me,” Eli said. The car clattered over the rusted metal bridge.

“She doesn’t like it, but I’ve got her where I want her, and she knows it. That’s why she’s mad.”

“Great. I was just starting to get somewhere with the sister, and you make me seem like a…spy or something.” Merriman swore and stared glumly out at the rain.

Eli frowned at him. “Get somewhere with her? You mean you were actually getting information out of her?”

Merriman shot him a dirty look. “I don’t want information. I like her. I’ve never met anybody like her. And now you’ve queered it. She’ll think I’m a weasel.”

Eli grimaced in disbelief. “You like her? You’re supposed to be a professional. We’re here on a story. She’s part of it. If she talked to you, what in hell did she say?”

“We talked about flowers. I patted her cat. She seemed to trust me, but now—”

“You petted her cat? You talked about flowers? Does the word journalism have no meaning for you?”

“I’m just the guy who takes pictures. You’re the investigator.”

“Before you saw the broad, you were singing a different song,” Eli accused.

“She’s not a broad,” Merriman retorted. “She’s a lady. Now I’ll probably never see her again—thanks to you.”