Free The Art of Keeping Secrets by Patti Callahan Henry Page B

all the time. Have affairs and then go back to living their regular lives, no one the wiser.”
    Shawn broke eye contact, stared through the back window into the darkness. “Not Knox.”
    Even in her fog of gin and half-sleep, Annabelle knew Shawn well enough to recognize the gap between his words and his emotions, but she couldn’t tell what he was really saying. “Did you ever . . . cheat or . . . ?”
    “This isn’t about me.” He turned back to her. “But, Annabelle, he was never gone, always here.”
    “No, he went on business trips, hunting trips. And when he was here . . . what if it was because he was supposed to be, not because he really wanted to be?”
    “You can’t go on believing in your own made-up reasons. You can only trust what he said—then.”
    “An affair is too terrible a thought to consider,” she said, “and yet I am. What is worse than anything is thinking that he might have been with me not because he longed for me, but out of a sense of obligation.”
    Shawn released a shiver, put his arm around her and pulled her head to his shoulder. She felt something in him tremble. “You okay?” she asked.
    “Yes,” he said. “Sometimes what is worse is not being able to be with the person you long for.”
    “Exactly . . .” She lifted her head. “Are we talking about you?”
    He shook his head. “No. I have everything I need.” He released her.
    “So, what if Knox longed for her ?”
    “No, I would have known. I know what that terrible feeling looks like and acts like, and it didn’t look or act like Knox Murphy.”
    Annabelle nodded as the doorbell rang with their pizza. Shawn answered the door and paid, then handed the box to Annabelle. They each ate a slice in complete silence, comfortable as only old friends can be.
    Shawn stood, stretched. “I need to get on home. You get some sleep, okay?”
    “Okay,” she said, and hugged him. “Thanks for checking on me . . . and feeding me.”
    He touched her arm, then squeezed her hand. “Good night.”
    Annabelle locked the door behind him, and climbed the stairs to Keeley’s room. She knocked lightly, and when there was no answer, she slipped the door open and saw Keeley’s body beneath the yellow quilt. Annabelle walked in, brushed the hair off her daughter’s face. Just as Annabelle’s life had become uncertain and full of doubt, so had Keeley’s. Like the magnolia tree outside, their roots were intertwined. Annabelle sat on the edge of the bed.
    “Oh, Keeley,” she whispered. Keeley appeared younger with her face scrunched up against the pillow, her features reminiscent of the toddler who’d listened to Dr. Seuss before bedtime.
    Annabelle lay down next to Keeley and thought of their life like a lopsided sand fortress built by a pack of children at low tide: a sandcastle built on the belief that Knox had truly loved her and their family, that she knew everything there was to know about him.
    Keeley stirred beside her, opened one eye. “Mama, what ya doing?”
    “Couldn’t sleep.”
    “Oh,” Keeley said, rolled over and returned to her own sleep. “You can lie here.”
    Whatever Knox had been doing then— on that plane with that woman—was affecting them more now than it had at the time he was doing it.
    Starting tomorrow, she would face her neighbors’ questions and odd looks with smiles of false certainty, with expressions of a faith and bravado she didn’t possess. And maybe if she faked the feelings long enough, they would become real.

SIX
    ANNABELLE MURPHY
    Pushing a full grocery cart, Annabelle ticked through a mental checklist of items she needed for the dinner party that night at Cooper and Christine’s house. She was in charge of the appetizers. Although only three days had passed since the last dinner party, the group had decided they needed to get together again. Annabelle wasn’t a bit fooled by their talk of a free night and “Why not just meet tonight?”—they were worried about her. Keeley was