No Perfect Secret Read online

  NO PERFECT SECRET

  By

  JACKIE WEGER

  Copyright 2014 by Jackie Weger

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, including photocopy, recording or any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 1500977101

  ISBN-13: 978-1500977108

  Cover Design: The Cover Collection

  Formatting by Rich Meyer of Quantum Formatting Service

  Copy Editing by Carolyn Steele of Friendly SEO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anna Nesmith tugged on a white velour caftan, its cool silk lining whispering over her supple flesh. She stood very still, trying to disengage her mind from her body's reaction to the silk. The mental trick did not work. Kevin...Kevin... You have to find time for me—and soon.

  She went into his closet and buried her face into an old favorite sport coat—one Kevin wore with jeans or khakis. Around the collar and lapels, the coat was redolent with the faint scent of Jean Patou. She inhaled deeply, and her loneliness became a thing so alive, so unbearable, her knees refused to support her; she folded slowly onto the floor, bringing the coat with her.

  Anna inhaled and exhaled slowly several times, calming the thud of her heart before she returned the coat to his closet. Her thoughts shifted to all the reasons they had not made love in weeks: Kevin worked on his days off or he was jet-lagged, or worse and least acceptable—his mother, Clara-Alice, was not feeling well—and bedroom doors had to be left open.

  There were other reasons, problems Anna felt like a weight inside her—arguments about money, when best to start a family, the subtle manipulations Kevin foisted upon her and which served to erode her sense of self. That was an argument in itself.

  Yet everything her eye touched these days seemed to have some sort of sensual symbolism, like the Renoir print, Le bal a Bourgival, hanging over the bed on the textured gray wall. The couple portrayed actually seemed to be moving in their dancing embrace, and in her mind, Anna carried their delicately painted movements into bed.

  In the small reading nook was the chaise longue, covered in Chinese silk—an ordinary piece of furniture—yet as soon as she picked up a book or magazine and leaned back onto the soft, feathery pillow, her mind strayed; she saw herself lying upon it and beckoning to her husband to join her in sensual play.

  Sadly, that was mere fantasy. She ran her fingers along the spines of her favorite books, some she had owned since childhood. Volumes of Nancy Drew, a library of How and Why, four coffee-table sized books thick with children’s poems and stories, from Jack and the Beanstalk to Sing a Song of Six Pence and A Visit from St. Nicholas, which every child in the world knew as Twas the Night Before Christmas—all of which she hoped to read to her own children one day. There was C. S. Forester’s The African Queen, tattered and held together with a rubber band. Anna thought it the best love story she’d ever read, even better than Doctor Zhivago.

  But books and love stories could not take the place of the real thing. The longing for a child was so deep within her psyche she seldom mentioned it any more for fear she would sound obsessed. Nor could she fathom what was so wrong with her marriage that her husband wanted her so seldom.

  She began the ritual self-inventory to boost her self-esteem. Not that it worked as well as one hoped, but it was usually enough to remind her to be thankful for the life and opportunities she had when so many others in the world had none. Moreover, it had become a habit, a mental litany, which she suspected was not healthy. She had graduated college with a degree in Library Science. Of course, librarians were dull by anyone’s standards—she knew her expression was often serious, but a smile or laughter transformed her. Lord knows, she had practiced for hours in front of mirrors to make it happen.

  She could cook. Not only ordinary everyday meals, but a few fabulous concoctions that pleased the eye, and did not disappoint the palate. She had used a portion of her inheritance from her widowed mother to treat herself to a year in France and she had not squandered her time. She had attended Le Cordon Bleu, sharing a miniscule flat in the 15th arrondissement with another student from Ottawa. Not only had she learned to cook and speak passable French, as well, the experience gave her otherwise dull résumé élan.

  She kept a moderately clean house, her decorating skills honed by visits to museums, villas great and small in the French countryside, wineries, and elegant shops.

  I have a well-paying job. That, too, was a bonus, especially in these difficult economic times. She was a Senate research assistant at the Library of Congress, a job that was neither exciting nor glamorous, but the holy truth was that outside of politics, few ordinary jobs in D.C. were glamorous. She did not mix with the public or tourists, but worked like the other staffers in a warren of cubbies below street level. She worked on demand and those usually from a secretary or speech writer for a famous orator—or one who hoped to be famous and in the limelight. She had been beside herself with excitement the first time a query came in for an obscure quote from Lincoln’s papers. She watched the political news to catch it being broadcast, only to learn the quote had been included in a document read into the Congressional Record for posterity—not for public consumption, unless it one day turned up in a biography of the late great and very dead.

  On the physical side, she was not pencil-thin chic, but all soft curves and her flesh hugged her bones. She wore her richly brown hair parted on the side, and kept it professionally cut so that it framed her face and loosely brushed her shoulders. At least, that was how she imagined it the first few hours out of the salon until a muggy or foggy mist rolling over the city had her putting it into a ponytail, or like she had worn it today—shoved beneath a knit cap pulled down over her ears because comfort was everything.

  A flirty old Frenchman had once told her that she had eyes that lived, that saw and recorded life, enchanting eyes. After which he’d invited her to his apartment for an aperitif. When she declined, he’d laughed, ‘Ah! You Americans—so prudish.’ Enchanting eyes, indeed. Perhaps that had been true ten years ago; all she saw these past months were brown eyes made darker by angst and unrest.

  She had one of those oval faces people always thought were so photogenic—no compression, no sultriness—a high forehead and well-shaped mouth. The funny part was she didn’t photograph well at all. She was always the one in the group with her mouth hanging open or eyes closed or looking down at her feet.

  Clara-Alice bolted into the bedroom, startling Anna into a sharp adrenaline rush.

  “Anna! There’s a strange man sitting in a car parked behind your Saab. He’s just sitting there, staring at our house.”

  “Clara-Alice—please! I’ve begged and begged you. Knock! Even if the door is open—knock.” Please, God, somehow allow me a life, some privacy—a fulfilling marriage and a mother-in-law who lives on the other side of the country. The plea was no more in her mind than Anna felt an instant stab of guilt.

  “Let’s turn off the lamps in here.” Clara-Alice moved around the bed switching off the lamps without waiting for Anna’s consent.

  Anna tried not to sigh, but it escaped anyway. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make us some chamomile tea.”

  “No. I don’t like chamomile.” Clara-Alice pulled back the heavy cotton-lined drapes, and tweaked a blind, peeking out to the street. “It’s starting to sleet.
Now the windshield wipers are going.”

  Folding her arms, Anna leaned against the doorjamb of the darkened bedroom and waited. Outside, the winter wind howled, a companion to her thinning patience screaming for relief.

  Her mother-in-law had been in the Pentagon when American Airlines Flight 77 flew into the building. A low-level file clerk, Clara-Alice had escaped with no physical injuries, but so traumatized by the experience that she never returned to work. Within a few months it became apparent that she was so fearful and dysfunctional she would need long-term care.

  Anna and Kevin had been married just nine days when those tragic events unfolded. They had returned to Washington only two days before September 11 after having spent five rapturous honeymoon days in Cabo San Lucas.

  Anna had used half of the balance of her inheritance for the down payment on their newly-purchased home, and before she saw it coming Kevin insisted his mother move in with them. Anna recalled how Kevin wore her down. He was an only child. He promised his father he would always take care of his mother. Why did she feel so compelled to start their marriage with an argument that made no sense? By the time they were ready to start a family, Clara-Alice would surely be stable, no longer so high strung, and able to function on her own.

  She loved her husband. She wanted him to be happy and worry-free. She believed his every word.

  She had to give Kevin credit—he was wonderfully skilled at guilt maneuvering. The bedroom she had planned for a nursery belonged to Clara-Alice—and had done for years. If Kevin were home more often, he would see for himself how impossible the situation was becoming. Though Clara-Alice refused to fly and needed a lot of emotional support, in Anna’s opinion, her mother-in-law was now entirely functional.

  “Anna,” Clara-Alice whispered, “The man is out of the car and coming up our sidewalk.”

  “Maybe it’s Kevin. He probably caught a ride from the airport.”

  “No, it not Kevin, I know what my only son looks like. This man is too tall. He’s wearing a hat, like the one Humphrey Bogart wore in The Maltese Falcon. Oh, the wind just blew his hat off.”

  “All right. I’ll see what he wants.” They lived in one of the older neighborhoods in Washington that wasn't backed up to a ghetto, a government building, or an exquisite brownstone. In the years they had lived there, Anna had noticed subtle signs of deterioration along the patched boulevard; old growth tree roots had cracked the sidewalks; a few of the houses needed a coat of paint. On this house or that, a shutter was missing, yet there was nothing so alarming that Clara-Alice should fear anyone coming to the door.

  Anna heard the insistent tattoo of the brass doorknocker as she emerged into the hall. She put her eye to the viewer. The porch light was faint, wobbly in the wind and sleet. She could make out few details. In an aside she thought tomorrow’s news would be all about the damage to the cherry trees. The man had his muffler wrapped around his face almost to his eyes, and those were enigmatic. She saw his hand come up to the knocker again. She opened the door a crack. "Yes? May I help you?”

  He unwound the muffler from his face. “Government business, Mrs Nesmith. I have a few questions. May I come in?”

  Clara-Alice hovered nervously behind her. “What did he say?”

  Anna took her mother-in-law’s arm. “Give me a minute to find out. Now, be a dear, and put the kettle on for tea.”

  Anna turned back to the door, still cracked open and allowing in freezing air. “Sorry. Show me some identification.”

  “Sure thing.” Teeth chattering, he pulled off a leather glove, slipped his hand into his inside coat pocket, and produced his wallet. He flipped it open to reveal his photograph and ID. “State Department.”

  Anna felt a sudden weakness envelop her. Kevin worked for the State Department. “Has something happened?”

  “Not that I know. We’re doing routine security checks on our couriers. Mrs Nesmith—Anna—your given name is Anna, right? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m freezing my buns off out here.”

  “All right, come in, but don’t drip on my kilim rug.”

  He looked at her with a sense of frost and frustration. “Sure, Okay. Where would you like for me to drip?”

  The wind died abruptly, as if pausing for breath. He stepped inside and closed the door behind himself and not at all gently. Next he unwound his muffler, dropped it to the floor and wiped his feet on it.

  Anna stepped back. Oh great! Another person with attitude. “That looks awfully like cashmere,” she said of the muffler. Cold was coming off him in waves reminding her that she was barefoot and entirely naked beneath the caftan.

  “Yep, early Christmas present.” He pulled off his other glove and stuffed both into a pocket then shrugged out of his overcoat. There was an antique coat tree in the foyer. Sans invitation, he hung his coat on it. Sleet was sliding off the coat onto the floor—but not the rug. Anna affected not to notice.

  “You let him in...” came accusingly from behind.

  “This is my mother-in-law,” Anna said to the man. Damn. She’d seen his ID, seen his picture—but had paid not one whit of attention to his name. “Clara-Alice, would you get a towel for the gentleman.”

  “No. I’ll watch him. You get the towel.” The look on her face said she was ready to hit one or both of them over the head with a tire iron or golf club.

  “Fine, watch him. Answer his questions, too.”

  Clara-Alice paled. “What questions? About what? I don’t know anything.”

  “Me, either,” Anna said and left the two of them standing the foyer. She went into the guest bathroom, buried her face into a wad of towels, and screamed. I don’t want to do this anymore. God help me, I don’t. Why, oh, why couldn’t Kevin acknowledge that his mother was an affliction on their marriage? She sat on the edge of the cold porcelain tub and pondered her past and her future because the present was too awful to contemplate.

  “What’s going on with you?” said the man from State, standing in the bathroom door. “I heard a funny noise—sounded like a muffled scream.”

  Anna stood. “Nothing is going on with me. I’m having a bad hair day.” She shoved the towels into his hands and moved past him, down the hall through the dining room and into the kitchen. The kettle was sputtering steam and singing. She put Lipton tea bags into cups and poured in the boiling water. The steam felt good on her face. She inhaled it greedily.

  ~~~~

  “Does the old lady have dementia or something?” Caburn emerged into the kitchen drying his face and head. Finished, he draped the towel on the back of a chair, ran his fingers through his hair, smiled and looked at Anna as if he’d known her a lifetime. Next, he was looking into the stainless steel fridge, taking out the half-and-half, trying to be casual, wondering what he had stepped into. Nothing in Nesmith’s file had prepared him for this pair of loonies. He understood about old people going off—his grandfather had. But a beautiful woman? Going into the bathroom and screaming her head off? That was scary—Virginia Wolff scary. Or Maybe Ayn Rand, who wrote wonderful books but lived dead evil—using people. He was half-way through Atlas Shrugged. Maybe he could finish here, go home, pop a beer, put his feet up and read another few chapters. That is, if he didn’t get killed by some fool driver on icy slick streets.

  “Clara-Alice was in the Pentagon on 9/11.” Anna answered. She loathed this type of bureaucrat that the Patriot Act had let loose on ordinary citizens. She didn’t think the Act concerned people much any more, but in the nation’s capital it was alive and well. She held her tongue on that score because she was anxious about what the visit meant for Kevin. Everything in this city was political and above the fold. The rest of the inhabitants were worker bees, seldom on anyone’s radar. Now, Kevin was in a spotlight of some sort. It couldn’t be good and she didn’t think it routine for anyone from the State Department to come knocking on her door in the worst of a winter storm. Or putter around in her kitchen as if he owned it, either.

  The man exhaled. “That was bad.”


  “Still is,” Anna said while fishing for a teabag with a spoon. She poured in the half-and-half. So much for a year at Le Cordon Bleu where one brewed tea in a porcelain pot, allowed to steep at least three minutes, then gently poured it into delicate cups; warmed cream added if desired. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name. And, I’m sorry about your scarf.” I’m sorry about 9/11, I’m sorry Kevin isn’t home, I’m sorry Clara-Alice is so difficult; and I’m sorry I can’t cope anymore. God, are you listening?

  ~~~~

  “No harm done. It’s Francis Caburn. Frank or Caburn will do.” He noticed an array of liquors on a sideboard, inspected the bottles, then chose a decent scotch. She had made three cups of tea. So. One was for him. He could use it. He was chilled to the bone. He poured a generous measure of scotch into Anna’s tea, hesitated over his own cup. Regulations be damned, and who was looking? He’d need it to sort through the god-awful mess Nesmith had left behind.

  Anna watched him add whisky to their teas. Oh! He was too much.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” She stepped away from the granite counter out of his personal space and the faint hint of Old Spice.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “I could tell.” He gave her forgiving grin. “I’ll take the old lady her tea. You might want to find a pair of socks or something, your feet are blue.”

  Clara-Alice appeared in the kitchen door. Caburn took her arm and gently turned her around. “I was just bringing you a cup of tea, dear heart.”

  “You really know my Kevin?”

  Geez, the old woman listened around corners. He’d have to keep that in mind. “I do.” In name only and only by the files in his briefcase, but 9/11 hung over the old lady like a dark cloud. If Caburn’s instincts were right and they usually were, the dark cloud had girdled the entire household as well. What a shame.