One Small Secret

“How awful.” Honor wondered if she were fooling her daughter or not with her false bravado.

“They scared me, Mommy. They’re going to bring a tiger here, and they said maybe the tiger would get him, too.”

“They won’t bring any tigers here, Lockey. Now I don’t want you to have nightmares. Those bad men will never come back here. I’ll make sure of that. And Doug will make sure of it, too.” Honor hugged her as if nothing could ever part them. “I promise you, they’ll never come back here.”

She finished tucking in her daughter, her mind racing all the while.

“It’s over now, honey, so go to sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” She kissed Lockey again, more for herself than for her daughter’s sake, and closed Lockey’s door.

After racing silently down the back stairs to the kitchen, Honor picked up the phone and called the sheriff at home.

“Doug, I just talked to Lockey, and she said that not only were those guys talking about robbing the Hall, they were talking about their real reason for being here—to kill Mark Griffin.”

“To kill him? Not in my county, they won’t,” Doug said angrily. He’d obviously been in the middle of dinner. Honor could hear him swallow.

“What should you do? Go over there?” she asked.

“First I’ll call Griffin Enterprises again and give them this news. But I’ll tell your, they’re very protective of his privacy. I doubt he’ll give permission for me to go over to the Hall and see him personally. They wouldn’t the last time.”

“But you don’t need permission. You’re the law!” she exclaimed.

“Mark Griffin isn’t the criminal here. He has a nght to privacy, even if it kills him.” Doug’s voice dropped to a grave whisper. “Which it may.”

Honor groaned. “Does this guy even get his messages? I can’t believe I’m in this predicament again.”

“What d‘you mean by ‘again,’ girl?” Doug questioned.

Caught off-guard, Honor quickly changed the subject. “Hey, I guess there’s not much else we can do. I was just upset hearing that those creeps staying in my own bed and breakfast were even worse than I imagined. Go on and finish your dinner, Doug. Tell Dons I’ll see her Wednesday. Bye.”

She put down the receiver. To calm herself, she made a cup of hot tea and took it to the back veranda.

The lights of Blackbird Hall shone through the forest of live oaks like a landing UFO. It didn’t seem natural to see them, when for years there had never been lights in that dark grove.

Sipping her tea, staring at the lights, she thought about Mark Griffin.

It wasn’t hard to picture him. Even after all these years, she could still see his eyes, still picture him standing in the candlelight of the parlor of Blackbird Hall with that grin on his face, that terrible, beautiful grin.

It didn’t seem right that she could sip her tea and watch those lights, when the very person who had lit them might even now be the object of a murder plot. Not when she could personally see to it that he was warned.

She was an ordinary citizen. She’d been rebuffed by Griffin Enterprises before. But this time, she wouldn’t go through the bureaucracy of Griffin Enterprises or even the Natchez Police Department. She didn’t need to have proof of a threat to be a Good Samaritan and go warn her neighbor about the men who had stayed at her bed and breakfast.

In truth, she was probably morally obligated to ring the bell at the Hall’s gates and tell the man that there had been a threat against him.

She could give him the information and then move on. He could do with it what he would; she would have no further obligation to see him.

But did she have the courage to do the right thing?

She closed her eyes. In truth, she wasn’t sure. Blackbird Hall was only a few steps away, but she could be opening a hornets’ nest if she were to see him again. There would be questions. God, would there be questions. Questions she just didn’t want to answer after all these years.

Yet, she couldn’t not warn him. If something happened, she would never forgive herself.

And then there was Lockey.

She didn’t know what she would say to Lockey if Mark Griffin were hurt because no one had warned him...how she would explain that she’d had the chance to help. To maybe even put things right, but...

As much as it frightened her, she knew she had to give it a try. Mark Griffin had to be warned, if only to keep her own conscience clear.

She shoved away her teacup and stood. Her housekeeper Vergie was in the next room. Lockey would be fine for a few minutes if she went next door. Trembling, she stepped down from the veranda and across the back lawn to the street, following it until it ended at the notorious gates.

For several seconds she stood there in the darkness, smelling the deep mossy smells of night.

Then, as if it were now or never, she pulled the bronze chain of the gate bell and listened to its raw echo through the shadows.

A light went on at the Hall.

She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. The alpaca sweater she wore was certainly warm enough to ward off the spring chill; her shivering had nothing to do with the temperature.

Just tell him and go home, she told herself as she saw the movement of someone coming toward her along the Hall’s cobblestone drive.

Just tell him what he needs to know, then get out of Dodge and pray he never comes for a visit at the Retreat. She shivered again as the night-cloaked figure became larger and more ominous.

“Rosie?” she gasped when she suddenly realized the figure coming down the lane was not human at all, but the leggy half-Irish wolfhound mutt she remembered from her last visit to the Hall years ago.

“Rosie, how are you, girl?” she cooed as she stuck her hand through the bars and scratched the dog behind her ear.

They stood almost eye to eye. She might have been afraid of a dog this size, but she remembered how gentle Rosie was, and the funny story of how the mutt had gotten her name. Mark had told her of rescuing a bag-of-bones puppy from a drainage ditch. The starving creature hardly looked like a dog, because most of her hair was missing from mange. He named her Rosie after the pathetic animal’s exposed raw skin. Even now, Honor smiled thinking about the silly wrestling matches between Rosie and Mark when Mark would resort to calling Rosie a “mange brain.

“So where’s your master, Rosie? Where is he?” she whispered, exciting the animal. Rosie barked and jumped up on the gate.

Suddenly Honor realized the gate was not locked. It sprang back under the weight of the dog, and in a second she found Rosie running around her like a Tasmanian devil.

She looked up the dark lane toward the house. Nothing moved.

A chill ran down her spine as her mind ran through the nefarious possibilities of why the gate was unlatched.

“Let’s go find Mark. Go find Mark,” she whispered to Rosie. The dog bolted up the drive toward the house.

Alone in the shadows, Honor slowly followed.

The front veranda was three times the size of the Retreat’s. She walked up the stairs, comforted by the flicker of two gas lanterns that flanked the door.

But she was not comforted by the fact that the front door stood ajar. Or by the fact that the lights that were on in the Hall were in rooms at the far end of the pitch-dark foyer.

Nervously she reviewed her options. But there was no turning back. She had to see him now. She had to know if he was all right, even if that meant summoning Doug. She hadn’t endured all these years by herself only to let Mark Griffin be murdered the day of his return.

“Who the hell are you?”

She froze at the harsh voice behind her. The anger m it terrified her; the familiarity of it melted her. She remembered that same voice laughing down by the creek; and then she remembered it slow and husky, just before he fell upon her in surrender.

She turned toward the veranda stairs.

Their eyes met in one violent second. Recognition was like lightning.

“Honor.”

Her name sounded so impossibly right on his lips, she could barely choke back the wanting and fear that built up inside her.

“Mark.”

It was too dark to make out details. But even so, she could see he’d hardly changed. He was the same dark and handsome, tall and commanding, man she remembered. He wore black trousers and a gray polo shirt. Even in the flickering light, she could tell that his eyes were still as vividly blue as she remembered them.

“What are you doing here?”

The full-blown animosity in his voice hurt her, though she supposed she should have expected it. She’d obviously shocked him by her abrupt appearance at the Hall. Clearly he wasn’t pleased to see her.

“Look,” she began to prattle, “I’m really sorry to just show up like this. I didn’t want to bother you, especially tonight, since it’s your first night back. But I’ve got something to say and—”

Before she could finish he interrupted her. “It’s been a hell of a long time.”

The moment was absurd. Almost a decade had passed since they’d been together, but suddenly it seemed as if she was a senior in high school again, nervous about making the acquaintance of the notorious rich boy staying at the mansion next door.

“It has been a long time,” was all she could say.

He stared at her for a long, sickening moment.

Finally, gathering herself, she said, “I really didn’t want to come here without calling first, but you don’t have a phone, and I’ve got something I need to tell you. A lot’s been happening over at the Retreat.”

He gestured toward the- darkened foyer. Impatiently he said, “I was just letting Rosie out for her run. I didn’t think I’d be entertaining the neighbors.”

She could feel herself dying inside. For years she had wondered if she and Mark would ever meet again. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought it would be like this, with her trembling at the threshold of his dark mansion, afraid of the terse, unsmiling man he’d become.

“This won’t take long. I promise.”

He didn’t bother to turn on the lights. He walked through the dark foyer, and she trailed behind, cowed by the enormous shadows of the antebellum bookcases and the clock against the wall.

He led her all the way to the back wing, where the kitchen opened up to the rear courtyard. Silently he motioned for her to sit down at the kitchen table.

Nervously, she looked around. The place had been cleaned until it shone. Somehow the sterility of the room cowed her more than the dark foyer had. At least in her kitchen there were crumbs and used dishes next to the sink. Here there was nothing but an original set of Audubon prints over the fireplace to give the modern stainless steel palace some warmth.

“The place looks great,” she began, taking a seat at the table. “I was really surprised to find you still owned it and...and were coming back.” She sounded like a fool. It was best for her to say her piece and get out. “But that’s not why I came here—”

“I just came back to donate the place to the Natchez Trust. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

It was a common practice in Natchez, where they had an embarrassment of riches in old antebellum mansions, for people to donate property to the Trust. Blackbird Hall was considered one of the America’s most-treasured properties, which was why it had been the perfect trophy house for the wealthy Griffin family. They owned properties all over the world, but Blackbird Hall had stood out as their little playhouse. Their Petit Trianon. It was also why Honor had never known the people who lived next door, until one summer, when the bored young man arrived to change her life forever.

She looked at him. In the fluorescent light, he seemed that much more real to her, that much more frightening. He’d developed just a few lines in the corners of his eyes. Some might call them laugh lines, but looking at him now, the way his face was frozen in that barren expression, she didn’t think he’d spent much time laughing.

“I won’t keep you. I just felt I had to tell you what’s been going on,” she blathered.

“Go ahead.” He sat across from her at the table, leaving lots of space between them. It was almost as if he wanted the distance, to better study her, to better intimidate her.

She took a deep breath. “I only came here to tell you that a couple of strange men were staying at the Retreat. Lockey overheard them talking about this place and...” She met his gaze. She didn’t know how to break it to him. “And she overheard them talking about killing you.”

He stared at her for a long moment. An eternity. Then without warning he asked, “Who’s Lockey?”

She’d expected shock, horror, even surprise, when she told him about the death threat. What she hadn’t counted on was this intense gaze and pointed, offthe-subject curiosity.

“Lockey’s my daughter,” she answered quietly, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “She’s really not an eavesdropper, but she did overhear these men who were staying in the attic rooms talk about the Hall. The sheriff took a report and called your company, but I didn’t know about the threat to your life until just now. I felt it would be better for me to come and tell you myself than have Doug call your company.”

He looked nonplussed. “I’ve got a cell phone here. They would have called if it was important.”

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that. Once again, a year of unanswered phone calls and letters to Griffin Industries came back to haunt her. Sure. He got all his important messages. The little note about the illegitimate child just hadn’t been important enough to answer. So she had given up trying. Her embittered father had certainly encouraged her to quit. In the end, he’d wanted her to preserve some of the Shaw dignity. And there was none in leaving messages that were never returned.

She stood. It had been a waste of time to see him. There was relief in knowing it was futile. Now at least her conscience was clear.

“Well, I’ve done what I can. I’ll make a formal report to the sheriff, if you like. I was just so frightened when Lockey told me about the death threat that I felt compelled to come here and tell you personally.”

“I get death threats all the time. If they called me every time, I’d never get off the phone.”

She almost gasped. It didn’t seem possible, but this angry man hardly cared at all that two people had expressed the desire to see him dead. To be that jaded seemed foreign to her. But that was probably because she had so much at stake. She couldn’t take anything for granted. After all, she was a parent.

Her stomach gave a sick lurch.

Then again, so was he.

“I get crap like this all the time. Don’t give it another thought.” He stood, also.

Her exit was at hand. Disarmed of her information, she had no choice but to make small talk with the man or take her leave.

And suddenly she was very much aware that she was not prepared to talk to him tonight. If any sticky issues arose, she knew she would deal with them honestly and fully. But what if they didn’t arise? Would she still tell him?

She needed time to make up her mind about what she should do. Mark Griffin was rich and powerful. So much so that a year of calling Zurich, writing him letters and resorting to sheer prayer, had not landed him on her doorstep when she’d needed him. It seemed when he’d inherited the family business, he’d gone underground, and there had been no locating him.

But that was water under the bridge now. He was back, and she had a choice to make. She could tell him about their daughter and pray he wouldn’t do something that would forever change her and Lockey’s hard-won contentment, or she could decide that Mark was not father material. She could let him donate the Hall and go back to Zurich none the wiser. And her life—and her daughter‘s—wouldn’t change one iota.

But that decision would have to wait. Now wasn’t the time to spring a surprise on him. She didn’t want to watch him run away. Nor did she want to expose Lockey to the hurt and rejection she’d gone through herself. Mark Griffin was no longer the young man who’d won her over with his idealism and loneliness. Now he was a man, full-grown and immensely powerful. Mark had the money to change both their lives—and not necessarily for the better.

No, she had to have time to think. She had to do what was best for Lockey.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Well, I really should get back. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just worried.” She smiled. “But I don’t think it would be foolish to keep the front gate locked. I think you should be careful.”

He glanced around. “That’s why I came here. To get away from the need to be careful.”

She almost released a bitter smile. “Natchez is like any other place. Not without its perils.”

Their gazes met. The silence between them grew heavy.

“Well, again, please excuse my barging in here.”

“How long has it been since I saw you here, Honor?”

Each word seemed to slice at her She felt irrational tears come to her eyes. “Look, I really do have to get back.”

“Yes, I forgot about your daughter. Is there a husband waiting for you back at the Retreat, as well?”

She thought she heard something in his voice—maybe even a bitterness of his own—but she wondered if it was only her wishful thinking. Sometimes dreams could be so strong they impaired the judgment.

“Nope. Just me and Lockey.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded, then remembered the day when Mark got the call about his parents’ deaths in a bush plane off the coast of Africa. He’d been inconsolable. He flew off to the funeral, then to Zurich to be taught all the things about Griffin Industries his Wharton education had missed. She’d never seen him again, never heard from him again. It was as if he’d never existed, except for the one small thing he’d left behind with her.

“I’ve really got to go.” The unshed tears in her eyes were stinging like acid. One more minute and they would flood over, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to explain her feelings tonight.

Walking out of Blackbird Hall like Cinderella at midnight, she didn’t even notice he was following her.

“Honor.”

Her name on his lips made her halt.

“Honor, I came back here to donate the place to the Trust.”

“Yes, you told me that.” She didn’t turn around. Suddenly she was wildly grateful for the bad lighting in the foyer.

“I also came back here because I wanted to think. Maybe even...to remember.”

Her breath stopped.

“Things haven’t gone so well for me. I don’t know if you read the papers, but I—”

“Yes, I read about your girlfriend being killed in London. I’m truly sorry.” She couldn’t have missed the story. Ralia Pembroke, supermodel and acknowledged steady of millionaire Mark Griffin. The woman’s tall exoticism had made Honor die a little inside every time she saw a cosmetic commercial.

“But what the news didn’t tell you is that she was killed with my best friend, George, in that car accident on the bridge. And that they were both stark naked when the limo went over the rail.”

Honor paused. He was right; she hadn’t known anything about that.

Suddenly the bitterness she’d imagined in his voice was there for real. “I was thinking about giving her a ring, Honor. I knew she wasn’t right for me, but I still wanted something—something I knew I was missing. I just couldn’t get it from her. Afterward, I only knew one thing. I had to come here. I had to.”

She didn’t turn to look at him; she was too afraid of his expression and what it might do to her selfpossession.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands, knowing her composure was breaking like a dam. “Really,” she added, as she sped out the door and down the drive toward home, not once looking back.

Three

Mark watched her go, and all in all he thought he showed admirable restraint. He’d simply stood on the veranda; he’d said nothing; done nothing. When what he really wanted to do was pull her back, take her hand and force her to sit inside, so he could look at her again, close his eyes and listen to her voice. Remember.

She’d been here all the time. Honor Shaw. Somehow, he hadn’t imagined she would still be at the Retreat. He’d thought she would be in a tract house on the outskirts of town, nesting with her husband and two-point-three kids. All those long, bitter nights thinking about the man who’d gotten her—the nice average guy he’d pictured in his mind—had been nothing but a waste of energy. The guy had to have been a loser. If she was divorced now, it was her ex’s fault. No man in his right mind would let Honor Shaw slip away from him. He knew that only too well.

He reached out to stroke Rosie, who stood at his feet. The dog, as always, was a comfort to him. She went everywhere with him. Rosie had been in more private jets and boardrooms than most Homo sapiens. The people he dealt with accommodated him, but he knew everyone thought he was just another rich eccentric who had to be indulged when he brought in his wolfhound. They didn’t know that Rosie was more than a dog. They didn’t know she was his walking, breathing tie to one summer when love had come up to him, put her hands gently on his face and pulled him down for a kiss.

He felt the tightness in his chest and realized he’d been holding his breath ever since she’d fled. But he still couldn’t comprehend that Honor Shaw, from the small, nowhere town in Mississippi, was still here, as fixed in time as she was fixed in his mind.

Calling Rosie, he left the veranda and went inside to the parlor. He poured a scotch and sipped it. In the background, the CD player played a lush melancholy tune.

He almost wanted to laugh. What a reunion. Honor Shaw had come back to him. But only for fifteen quick minutes, long enough to tell him that two people wanted him dead.

He already knew that. Everyone wanted something from him. They either wanted to rob him or profit from him or kill him. The whole world was draining him of his very soul, and the one person he would gladly have given it up for had just come and gone like an instant message on his computer screen, and she wanted nothing from him.

He reached out to stroke Rosie’s head again. The dog yawned and thumped her wiry tail on the polished floor.

Rosie was still his, though. The memories were still his. Sure, they’d been tainted by reality. He’d thought he and Honor had had something special that summer; she obviously thought it had been nothing more than a fling. He’d left for Zurich; she’d started Old Miss and dived right into another relationship.

Okay, so maybe the guy had soured on her; maybe she was free now. But it didn’t change anything. She clearly hadn’t felt what he’d felt that summer. He’d never even heard from her after he left the Hall. There was no way he would resume any relationship with her, knowing he couldn’t hold her heart.

He looked into his scotch. A darkness seeped into him. No, Honor Shaw would have to feel as allconsumingly about him as he had about her for almost nine years now. He was known as cold, tough, an all-or-nothing corporate raider, and he wasn’t going to settle for anything less than a hundred percent Especially not from some girl in a backwater town who thought she could pick up and toss away a man’s heart like it was so much river rock. If he could even imagine tangling himself up with her again, the first and foremost thing would be to teach her a lesson about men like him. She didn’t know his kind; he’d bet on it. He hadn’t been this man the last time he’d come to Natchez.

But the world had changed him. She had changed him.

A shadowed smile tipped the corner of his lips. And maybe it was time to let her see that.

“You look terrible, girl,” Doug announced as he sat in the Retreat’s kitchen the next morning.

“That’s because I’m spending way too much time making police reports.” Honor poured him a cup of black coffee. Her eyes were red, her cheeks pale, but they had nothing to do with police. Rather, they were the result of staying up way too late and crying a river of tears.