Page 39 of Edge of Secrets

He disappeared into the kitchen. Lights flipped on. I heard water running, clattering, and clinking. When he came back out, he was holding out a big glass of wine to me. The wine was so densely red it looked almost black.

“This stuff will knock you out on an empty stomach, so sip slowly,” he said, taking the roses I still held. “I’ll find a jug for these. And I’ve got water on to boil for some artichoke ravioli, and some red sauce. That work for you?”

I accepted the glass gratefully. “That sounds like heaven.”

I savored the complex, aromatic wine as I gazed at the photographs. They were stark, dynamic, full of high contrast. One showed a young man diving off a cliff into a lake. He was still upright, his body starting to jackknife, his face a mask of concentration.

I looked more closely and realized that it was Duncan’s brother, Bruce. A younger version.

I studied them all, moving down the hall. There was a young girl curled up asleep, her mouth open. The same girl again, older, laughing, swinging on a rope swing, hair flying like a banner. She was pretty, with the same narrow face and uptilting eyebrows as Duncan. Then a photograph of a handsome older woman in profile, staring off a porch, smoking a cigarette. She looked like Bruce. Mother. Family.

There were landscapes, too. Deserts and mountains, barren and stark. Cruelly sharp contrasts of light and shadow made them almost like moonscapes. They were lonely, aching, extremely personal. I called to the kitchen. “Did you take the pictures?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Are there any pictures of your father here?”

He came out of the kitchen and leaned against the entryway, sipping his wine. “No. He’s long gone. Haven’t seen him in years. Off in California, working on his fifth wife. She’s welcome to him.”

“Oh.” I stared down into the cup of blood-red wine. “I think I can one-up you on that one. I doubt my father even knows of my existence.”

“No? Your mom kept it a secret from him?”

I stifled a snort. “In a manner of speaking. Are these landscapes Afghanistan?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you know about Afghanistan?”

“Bruce told me you were stationed there. Said you were a spy.”

He grunted. “Bruce babbles a lot. About things he knows shit about.”

“So? Did you take them there?” I prodded him, staring at a picture of jagged mountain peaks, the sun a blazing halo behind them.

“Yes, most of them,” he said.

“Was that where you learned to fight like that?” I asked.

He hesitated. “More or less.”

“Amazing photos,” I offered. “I wouldn’t have dreamed you had an artistic side.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Heaven forbid that you engage in something as frivolous as art,” I teased.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you busting my balls?”

“No. I just like your pictures. I like what they say about you.”

He looked alarmed. “What do you mean? What do they say?”

“Relax,” I soothed. “I couldn’t tell you in words. I can’t discuss visual art intelligently. I don’t know how. I just like the way they make me feel.”

A cautious smile started in his narrowed eyes. “Thank you.” Duncan lifted his glass.

I lifted my own in response, toasting rare, delicate moments of connection. The very kind that got me worked up and longing for things I could not have. The dangerous kind. The tinkle of crystal was a chime, sweet and faint as a blown kiss. The sound of an unspoken pact, delicately sealed.

Stop it, D’Onofrio. Stop it right now.

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