Page 7 of One Last Night

I feel a sharp pain in my hands and snap out of the short fugue. I lift my hands and see that I’ve dug my nails into my skin. The wounds are shallow and not serious, but they’re irritating. I have no reason to suspect that there are any secrets in this family, certainly none that are any of my business to know.

But as Sean is fond of pointing out, I am as much a slave to my curiosity as the cat was. Of course, we all know what happened to that cat.

I shake my head, exasperated with myself. “Just pick a damned book, Mary. Something with pictures you can stare at so you’re not stuck with your nightmares.”

I’m not sure exactly what I mean by this self-deprecating insult, but it calms me down enough that I’m able to move among the shelves and explore the different options available to me.

The library itself is slightly dusty but not so much that it appears abandoned. I know from the company website that Parker Bellamy died when his boat capsized at sea twenty-seven years ago, four years after my sister disappears, not that the two events are connected. It seems Julian has enjoyed good use of his father’s collection. Most of the books are well-worn and when I leaf through old copies of such classics asThe Great GatsbyandOf Mice and Men, I find stains from food and occasionally from tears.

I don't find the residue disgusting. Rather, I find it endearing. Books are an excellent escape, especially for older children who are approaching adulthood and beginning to see for the first time how frightening it is.

Besides the American classics, there is an entire bookcase dedicated to the great British novelists. An entire shelf is filled with copies of every one of Dickens' works, and another is filled with the collected plays of Shakespeare. Another contains the works of the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the highest—accessible to me only with the rolling ladder in the room—contains the wonderful mysteries of that great authoress Agatha Christie. I am quite the fan of Miss Marple, and yes, I am very much aware of the irony in that.

I select a copy ofA Caribbean Mystery, one of my favorites of the series, and step down the ladder. I’m delighted to revisit the book, and for a moment, I am able to put my own nosiness aside out of excitement for Miss Marple’s.

But then I see the safe. It sits at the bottom of the corner of the library, nearest the door. Its own door—a cast iron object with a cross-shaped handle and a dial lock—hangs ajar.

So you see, Sean, I think drily.I had no choice. Fate overwhelmed me.

I set the Christie book on the top step of the ladder and walk to the safe. Perhaps it will be empty. Perhaps nothing will be there that will require me to look further and involve myself in a mystery that’s none of my business.

But instead, I open the door and find the safe filled with notebooks. I spend a perfunctory second trying to convince myself to be respectful of the family and another wondering why the safe is open in the first place, but I know the moment I see that open safe door that I’m going to read whatever’s inside. I am a slave to my own nature, as Miss Marple is. As we all are.

I select the first notebook. It is an old, leather-bound journal, its cover cracked and its pages yellowing. I open the journal and gasp when I see the date across the first entry. November fourth, 1861.

My guilt fades. Surely I can’t bethatevil for reading a diary written by someone who died well over a century ago?

I read, eager to slake my nosiness with this relatively harmless bit of ancient history.

Dear Diary,

It’s over now. Roger has left me, gone west to flee the war and the memories that haunt his dark eyes. I am lost without him. Henry, the poor dear, thinks I am taken ill with a fever, and I allow him to believe that. He is a gentle soul and willnot survive if he discovers that I have been in love with a Rebel soldier.

I gasp and glance at the door, struck with a fresh rush of guilt. It seems that this family has its own history of scandals. There’s no one there, of course, so I continue.

The baby is kicking. I lay my hand over my stomach and wonder if the child I bear will belong to Henry or to Roger. I would not regret it should Henry prove to be the father. He is a good man and kind even if he is not strong or courageous. A child bearing those traits would be a service to the world.

But I can’t lie. I hope, I plead, I beg that in this child’s face, I will once more see the dark, brooding eyes of the only man I ever truly loved, the man I could never have but who will own my desire until I leave this Earth. May God forgive me for this prayer, but may He also please grant that the child I bring into this world will be that of Roger Harlow.

With love as always, Marianne Bellamy.

I close the novel and stare at the wall in wonder. There is no mirror to show me my reflection, but I’m sure that my eyes are wide and gleeful.

Gleeful? For goodness’ sake, what is my problem?

I sigh and replace the diary. “For what it’s worth, Marianne, I hope you learned to appreciate gentle, good Henry. God knows a man like that is worth a thousand strong men.”

That’s a tad hypocritical, I suppose, since I find my own man’s strength and brooding personality deliciously attractive. But I’m not cheating on my man, so there.

I grabA Caribbean Mysteryand leave the library, leaving the safe as I found it. I've gotten my fill of gossip for the evening. It's time to read my novel and leave the past where it belongs.

I make it to my room, but when I open the door, a memory hits me as sharp and clear as day. I am looking out of my bedroom window—not this bedroom but the one I sleep in asa child—and I’m watching my mother kiss another man in our backyard.

I recognize the man. His name is George Terrell. He is an employee of my father’s who often visits when Annie and I are very young. I like him. He brings us sweets when he visits, and he’s especially gentle with Annie, who is very small and very fragile when she is younger.

I have a round face with medium brown hair and eyes, just like my father. George Terrell has noble features with bright hair, the color of sunshine, and eyes, the hue of a summer sky.

The same hair and the same stunning eyes as my sister, Annie.

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