The First Lie Page 4

  “Oh, she’s growing up,” Mrs. Werkman said. “I think Ivy might surprise you.”

  I was grateful for her faith in me. I wasn’t sure I deserved it.

  I walked away from the door and sat down on the edge of the bed again. The room was real dim now with the shades pulled down, and I couldn’t see Mary Ella or her baby too clear, but I felt them there. I felt the weight of them on my shoulders. Nonnie was right: You couldn’t trust Mary Ella to take good care of herself, much less a little baby. Even Nonnie wasn’t that good at taking care of things. She got upset if one of us even sneezed or tore a hole in a dress. Ivy might surprise you, Mrs. Werkman had said. It was up to me now. I’d do my part. I’d stay home at night. Take care of my nephew. My sister. Take care of everything.

  I leaned over the bassinet and kissed William on his forehead. Oh, that clean, sweet baby smell! I stood up, feeling like a different person than I’d been an hour ago. It was like I was starting a new chapter in a book. A real good book.

  I’d make sure it had a happy ending.

  Read on for an excerpt of

  NECESSARY LIES

  By Diane Chamberlain

  Out June 2013 from St. Martin's Press

  June 22, 2011

  1

  Brenna

  It was an odd request—visit a stranger’s house and peer inside a closet—and as I drove through the neighborhood searching for the address, I felt my anxiety mounting.

  There it was: number two-forty-seven. I hadn’t expected the house to be so large. It stood apart from its neighbors on the gently winding road, flanked on either side by huge magnolia trees, tall oaks and crape myrtle. Painted a soft buttery yellow with white trim, everything about it looked crisp and clean in the early morning sun. Every house I’d passed, although different in architecture, had the same stately yet inviting look. I didn’t know Raleigh well at all, but this had to be one of the most beautiful old neighborhoods in the city.

  I parked close to the curb and headed up the walk. Potted plants lined either side of the broad steps that led up to the wraparound porch. I glanced at my watch. I had an hour before I needed to be back at the hotel. No rush, though my nerves were really acting up. There was so much I hoped would go well today, and so much of it was out of my control.

  I rang the bell and heard it chime inside the house. I could see someone pass behind the sidelight and then the door opened. The woman—forty, maybe? At least ten years younger than me—smiled, although that didn’t mask her harried expression. I felt bad for bothering her this early. She wore white shorts, a pink striped t-shirt and tennis shoes, and sported a glowing tan. She was the petite, toned and well-put-together sort of woman that always made me feel sloppy, even though I knew I looked fine in my black pants and blue blouse.

  “Brenna?” She ran her fingers through her short-short, spikey blond hair.

  “Yes,” I said. “And you must be Jennifer.”

  Jennifer peered behind me. “She’s not with you?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I thought she’d come, but at the last minute she said she just couldn’t.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Today must be really hard for her.” She took a step back from the doorway. “Come on in,” she said. “My kids are done with school for the summer, but they have swim team practice this morning, so we’re in luck. We have the house to ourselves. The kids are always too full of questions.”

  “Thanks.” I walked past her into the foyer. I was glad no one else was home. I wished I had the house totally to myself, to be honest. I would have loved to explore it. But that wasn’t why I was here.

  “Can I get you anything?” Jennifer asked. “Coffee?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  “Well, come on then. I’ll show you.”

  She led me to the broad, winding staircase and we climbed it without speaking, my shoes on the shiny dark hardwood treads making the only sound.

  “How long have you been in the house?” I asked when we reached the second story.

  “Five years,” she said. “We redid everything. I mean, we painted every single room and every inch of molding. And every closet too, except for that one.”

  “Why didn’t you paint that one?” I asked as I followed her down a short hallway.

  “The woman we bought the house from specifically told us not to. She said that the couple she’d bought the house from had also told her not to, but nobody seemed to understand why not. The woman we bought it from showed us the writing. My husband thought we should just paint over it—I think he was spooked by it--but I talked him out of it. It’s a closet. What would it hurt to leave it unpainted?” We’d reached the closed door at the end of the hall. “I had no idea what it meant until I spoke to you on the phone.” She pushed open the door. “It’s my daughter’s room now,” she said, “so excuse the mess.”

  It wasn’t what I’d call messy at all. My twin daughters’ rooms had been far worse. “How old’s your daughter?” I asked.

  “Ten. Thus the Justin Bieber obsession.” She swept her arm through the air to take in the lavender room and its nearly wall-to-wall posters.

  “It only gets worse.” I smiled. “I barely survived my girls’ teen years.” I thought of my family—my husband and my daughters and their babies—up in Maryland and suddenly missed them. I hoped I’d be home by the weekend, when all of this would be over.

  Jennifer opened the closet door. It was a small closet, the type you’d find in these older homes, and it was crammed with clothes on hangers and shoes helter skelter on the floor. I felt a chill, as though a ghost had slipped past me into the room. I hugged my arms as Jennifer pulled a cord to turn on the light. She pressed the clothes to one side of the closet.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the left wall at about the level of my knees. “Maybe we need a flashlight?” she asked. “Or I can just take a bunch of these clothes out. I should have done that before you got here.” She lifted an armload of the clothes and struggled to disengage the hangers before carrying them from the closet. Without the clothing, the closet filled with light and I squatted inside the tight space, pushing pink sneakers and a pair of sandals out of my way.

  I ran my fingers over the words carved into the wall. Ancient paint snagged my fingertips where it had chipped away around the letters. Ivy and Mary was here. All at once, I felt overwhelmed by the fear they must have felt back then, and by their courage. When I stood up, I was brushing tears from my eyes.

  Jennifer touched my arm. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m grateful to you for not covering that over. It makes it real to me.”

  “If we ever move out of this house, we’ll tell the new owners to leave it alone, too. It’s a little bit of history, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. I remembered my phone in my purse. “May I take a picture of it?”

  “Of course!” Jennifer said, then added with a laugh. “Just don’t get my daughter’s messy closet in it.”

  I pulled out my phone and knelt down near the writing on the wall. I snapped the picture and felt the presence of a ghost again, but this time it wrapped around me like an embrace.

  Also by Diane Chamberlain

  The Good Father

  The Midwife’s Confession

  The Lies We Told

  Secrets She Left Behind

  Before the Storm

  The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes

  The Bay at Midnight

  Her Mother’s Shadow

  The Journey Home

  Kiss River

  The Courage Tree

  Keeper of the Light

  Cypress Point

  Summer’s Child

  Breaking the Silence

  The Escape Artist

  Reflection

  Brass Ring

  Lovers and Strangers

  Fire and Rain

  Private Relations

  Secret Lives

  About the Author

  DIANE CHAMBERLAIN is
the national bestselling author of twenty-one novels published in more than eleven languages. She lives in North Carolina with her partner, photographer John Pagliuca, and her shelties, Keeper and Cole.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE FIRST LIE. Copyright © 2013 by Diane Chamberlain. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Olga Grlic

  Cover photograph by Shutterstock.com

  e-ISBN 9781466839403

  First Edition: June 2013

 

 

  Diane Chamberlain, The First Lie

 

 

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