Free The Secret Keeping by Francine Saint Marie Page A

could detect a slight snarl in the girl’s smile. It was, she noted, possibly the only defect in all that astonishing perfection.

    “Helaine.”
    And a songster sang, Oh, that shark has…pearly teeth, dear…
    Helaine? Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw the blond stiffen.
    “Helaine,” the girl cooed in a spoiled voice, stopping at the table next to Lydia’s, bending to whisper in the tired blond’s ear, her lips parting into a seductive smile for her audience…and she shows them pearly white…for “Helaine.”
    Daughter, Lydia hoped. Perhaps just her daughter?
    The blond–Helaine–attempted a smile for the girl, failed.
    Daughter, niece, sister, whatever, no. No resemblance. Girl too old. Blond too young, too nervous.
    LOVER. Lydia leaned back in her chair and took them both in, sighing sadly at the picture they made.
    Lovers. Obviously lovers. She now knew too much about the pretty blond in Frank’s Place. Helaine, she repeated inaudibly. It rolled beautifully off the tongue. Helaine, a woman named Helaine, not reading anymore but listening and looking for all the world as if she was being eaten alive. And not fleeing, as Delilah had suggested, but probably waiting the whole time. A beautiful lover, it all made sense. Alone and waiting for her lover, a pretty dangerous looking thing, but young and beautiful nonetheless. Well, why not?
    Helaine, Helaine, Helaine. Helaine so-and-so. That rhymes with Joe, Lydia said, kicking herself. What a beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. And, if at all possible, the beautiful woman had become even more pale than when she first arrived. She put her sunglasses on again, grabbed her purse and glanced briefly in Lydia’s direction before allowing herself to be lifted from her chair and escorted to the sidewalk.
    Let it be, Lydia told herself as she watched the girl claiming her prize, wrapping her arms around the pale woman’s waist, guiding her onto the sidewalk, taking her away, the blond slowly fading from view, never looking to her left or right, not once looking back.
    Lovers. The couple stood across the street now, looking like day and night.
    Worth waiting for, Lydia forced herself to admit. A perfect ten.
    They stood now on the opposite side of the street, waiting. The girl raised a magnificent arm above her head, a cab pulled over, they were gone.
    You know when that shark bites…gone…with those teeth there…probably for good, Lydia realized…there’s never…never a trace of…gone for good.
    For good, she murmured, wishing the stupid song would end. What’s so good about it? She followed the cab with her eyes until it was swallowed by traffic.
    The waiter–where the hell was the waiter?
    The waiter had been missing in action and suddenly appeared stone-faced at the abandoned table. He dropped the umbrella and tucked a forsaken book and menu under his arm. Lydia lifted her hand to get his attention and, neglecting to smile, he acknowledged her, approaching her slowly, as if carrying ten trays.
    She nodded quizzically at the book.
    “Burns,” he said in a flat tone.
    “Burns?”
    “The poet.”
    Burns. She smiled bitterly. Yeah, it sure did.
    _____

    The week dragged her unwillingly along with it and Lydia was relieved Wednesday morning to get the good news that her parquet floors were finally done and ready to walk on. She had not shared her weekend revelations with Delilah and it suddenly seemed she could avoid it altogether, if she could just keep up appearances for a few more hours.
    That same afternoon she got word from her antique dealer that the sofa she had been eagerly waiting for would be delivered this week.
    The sweet old sofa. That was welcome news, too. Now she could throw herself down in it and cry.
    She had been charmed on the spot by it, lying in it while the dealer went on and on about value and importance. Value, fine. But she was more attracted to its worn finish, its threadbare arms and comfortably depressed