Her Perfect Secret
T.J. BREARTON
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE | Friday
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It’s him.
I recognize the sharp nose and flare to the nostrils. His thick eyebrows and defined cheekbones. But mostly it’s the eyes. Sea green.
There’s no question that he’s a handsome man. The child I remember, just eight or nine, was becoming handsome, too.
The boy’s name was Tom.
“Mom, Dad,” my daughter says, “I want you to meet Michael.”
Michael.
Not him, then. Just a close resemblance. A trick of the light.
“Michael and I are getting married,” she says.
My husband, beside me, coughs, like he’s just choked on something. We’re standing halfway between the house and the lake, on the gently sloping lawn. The sun is beaming down. “Really?” my husband says. “Married? Wow . . .”
He’s trying to sound upbeat. He glances at me; everything is in that glance. More than you could put into words. The turbulent history of our daughter, Joni. The girl who ran away from two preparatory schools. The girl we spent nights searching for, on dismal city streets, wondering if we’d find her dead or alive.
She’s not a teenager anymore, I remind myself. She’s a young woman. We knew she was bringing someone, but the engagement is a huge surprise.
I try not to stare at Michael, the man holding her hand as they stand just slightly downslope of us in the yard. The lake shimmers behind them, a gunmetal blue, scattered with sun diamonds. Somewhere in the distance a motorboat is buzzing. I ask Joni, “When did this happen?”
“Just two weeks ago,” she says, tucking her wavy blond hair behind her ears.
I hear it in the curt tone and see it in her body language — my question has kick-started her defenses.
“We wanted to tell you here. Coming to the lake house was already in the plan, and then, when he asked me . . .” Joni squeezes Michael’s hand as she trails off. She’s deferring to him.
Michael takes a subtle step forward. He’s concentrating more on my husband, Paul, than me. “I would’ve liked to ask you in the traditional way, sir.” He glances at Joni before finishing. “But we wanted it to be a surprise.”
I’m aware of my folded arms; my own defenses are up. I try smiling. “How long have you two been . . . ?”
“Mom,” Joni says, “things have been busy.”
“I’m just asking how long you’ve been dating. I’ve never . . . you’ve never . . .”
“We’re going to talk about all of that.”
“Okay.”
“But I wanted to . . .” Joni chews her lip and looks away. After a moment of gathering her thoughts: “I wanted to tell you as soon as we got here. So you could get used to it. Because I thought that if I just introduced him as my boyfriend, and then at the end of the weekend told you about our engagement, things might . . .”
End on a bad note, she might’ve said. I get where she’s going.
She’d been vague on the phone: someone I can’t wait for you to meet. We knew what that meant. Joni had been bringing home someone I can’t wait for you to meet since she was seventeen. Five years of new faces, flash-in-the-pan relationships. She brought them to us because she sought our approval. Almost like a cat, dropping the dead mouse on the doorstep. I never understood why, when she was so rebellious about everything else.
As a psychotherapist, I should have some insight. But perhaps my being her parent clouds my judgment.
Joni finishes her thought: “If we waited until the end of the weekend, you wouldn’t have time to get used to it. So, we’re doing it like this.” She draws a breath. “Mom, Dad, this is my fiancé. Michael Rand.”
He grins and blushes at the same time. He’s good with eye contact, though, and his own body language implies openness. He holds Joni’s hand, and his other arm hangs at his side. I try not to study his features in an obvious way, comparing him to that boy from fifteen years ago.
It’s hard not to; the likeness is uncanny. The eyes, the nose. Even the dark hair — cut into a contemporary medium-length layered look — is similar. It’s thicker than I remember, but then he’s so much older.
“Well,” Paul says, sticking out his hand, “welcome to the family, Michael.”
They shake. “Thank you, Mr. Lindman.”
“Call me Paul.”
Michael faces me and holds out his hand. “Mrs. Lindman.”
For a moment, I can’t move. Locked on his eyes, it strikes me again that Tom’s were the same exact color. But how can I really remember that? It doesn’t seem to matter, because I’m suddenly thrust back fifteen years, flicking through photos of a violent and bloody crime scene. The man on the floor of the kitchen, his head beaten in, a shining pool of dark blood surrounding him.
I blink and pull back from the memory. I shake Michael’s hand, trying not to withdraw too quickly, marshaling the effort to maintain eye contact long enough.
It’s him.
It’s not. It can’t be.
But even if it were — what could I say? What could I do? Everything that happened during those five sessions with eight-year-old Tom Bishop is held in confidence. Even if I were sure, I’d be ethically bound to keep it to myself. Telling Joni would not only be unprofessional. I could lose my license to practice psychology. My daughter’s engagement hanging in the balance or not.
“Well,” Paul says. “Should we have a drink to celebrate?”
“Dad. It’s eleven in the morning,” Joni says.
“So? This is vacation, isn’t it?”
“I’ll make mimosas,” I blurt out, eager to get away. “Why don’t the three of you sit down at the lake? I’ll be right back.”
I turn and start walking up to the house before anyone can object.
“Mrs. Lindman?”
Not fast enough.
I slow and turn. “Yes?”
Michael says, “Can you make mine a virgin? I don’t really drink.”
For a moment, I can’t find my voice. Then, “Of course. No problem.” I continue along, trying not to run. I might not be able to say anything, but I can satisfy my own curiosity. I can do a quick search online. Nothing unethical about that.
Just before I reach the front door, I glance back toward the lake. Paul is walking down to the dock, Joni and Michael beside him, their hands still interlocked. I grasp the door handle and am about to step inside when Michael looks over his shoulder at me.
He smiles, then turns away.
CHAPTER TWO
Tom Bishop is a semi-famous triathlete. He’s also the owner of a company that presents “the world’s finest dollhouse miniature shows.” I google Thomas Bishop with no better results. And then it hits me: little eight-year-old Tom was rarely in the media. When he was mentioned, his identity was concealed.