All the Secrets We Keep (Quarry Book 2) Page 16

  The house was full of people and the buzz of conversation. Theresa had been helping Babulya serve food while Ilya and Niko, typical boys, snitched booze from the table and didn’t help at all.

  She found Ilya in the upstairs bathroom, the door unlocked. He’d probably been puking, although he stood in front of the toilet, not hunched over it. He looked at her when she came in.

  “Sorry,” she said automatically. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

  “I don’t want to be in here,” Ilya said. “I want to be anywhere but here.”

  “Maybe you should go to bed.” She was used to dealing with her father when he needed to be put to bed, but Ilya proved more difficult to maneuver. He wouldn’t go. Stubborn, he dragged his feet and stumbled against her, pushing her into the wall of the hallway hard enough to leave a bruise she found later on the outside edge of her elbow. “Stop it!”

  Ilya hung his head, swaying. He muttered something she couldn’t make out and again pulled his arm from her grasp when she tried to tug him down the hall to his bedroom. Exasperated, she let go of him as he stumbled toward the attic door and the steps beyond. She should have let him trip on them and hurt himself. She should have left him alone.

  She followed, instead, making sure he got up the stairs and into the army cot beneath the eaves without hitting his head on the slanting rafters. His eyes closed at once, but his hand gripped hers and wouldn’t let go. He gave a single sobbing breath before his fingers relaxed.

  Theresa sat with him for a few more minutes, watching the way his lips parted, his brows furrowed. Ilya’s face contorted with grief even in unconsciousness. Her own heart twisted at the sight. Somehow, she felt worse for Ilya than for anyone else.

  Downstairs, the murmuring began when Theresa brought a new platter of sliced cheese and deli meat to the dining room. Her dad had burst into braying, gasping sobs. Seated, his face buried in his hands, he raked at his hair and clutched at his own skin while he rocked back and forth. His pain was palpable and embarrassing to everyone in the room, because everyone knew there was no good reason for Barry Malone to be so distraught about a girl he barely knew.

  Nobody stepped forward to comfort him, not even his wife, who turned her back with a shake of her head. Galina caught Theresa’s gaze from across the room. A dip of chin, accompanied by a small narrowing of her eyes, was a signal for Theresa to come and deal with her father, but what could she do? He was a grown-up. She was a kid. This wasn’t her job.

  Still, someone needed to get him out of there. He was making everyone uncomfortable. Causing a scene.

  “C’mon, Dad.” Theresa tugged at his arm.

  Her father looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Hey, kiddo. C’mere. Let your old dad give you a hug. I’m so glad you’re here. You know that? You know how lucky I am?”

  “Dad.” She tugged his arm again, her own face heating with the weight of everyone’s eyes on her. “Let’s go outside, get some fresh air.”

  In the backyard, her father pulled her into an awkward, suffocating embrace. He muttered incoherently. Grateful she was alive, that nothing bad happened to her—that was all Theresa could gather from his mumbling.

  He gripped her by the upper arms, keeping her from moving away. “Promise me, Theresa. Promise your dad that you’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll try, Dad.” She tried to tug herself out from his grip, but it was too tight.

  “Don’t let anyone tempt you into trouble, Theresa. Oh God, oh God. What would I ever do if I lost you?”

  “Barry.” Galina’s tone was sharper than shattered glass. “Get control of yourself. You’re making a scene. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. I’m trying to make sure my little girl doesn’t end up . . . shit, Galina. I’m just . . .”

  “You’re drunk,” Galina said without inflection. “People are going home. You should come inside and go to bed. Sleep this off.”

  Without another word, her father pushed past Galina and went inside. Galina let out a long, sputtering sigh. She lit a cigarette and drew the smoke in deep, eyeing Theresa.

  “That dress is too small,” she said.

  Theresa touched the buttons at her throat, which still choked. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Your dad will be fine.”

  “I know.” Theresa cleared her throat. “Do you know what happened? To Jenni, I mean.”

  “It was an accident. That’s all I know.” Galina took in another long drag, the tip of her cigarette glowing fiercely red before she released it from her lips. She turned her head to blow the smoke out of the way, but it still stung Theresa’s eyes. “That old quarry’s never been safe. I’m surprised nobody’s gotten hurt before now.”

  “She didn’t just get hurt. She died.”

  Galina dropped the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of her shoe. “Perhaps she ought to have been more careful.”

  “Why’s my dad so upset?” Theresa asked boldly, pushing, certain her stepmother must know something she wasn’t revealing.

  “We’re all upset, Theresa. Your father drank too much. His emotions got away from him. It happens.” Galina shrugged.

  The answer didn’t satisfy her, but Theresa knew better than to push harder. Galina sometimes lost her temper quickly and violently. In the house, Theresa helped Babulya pack up the platters and containers of food, enough to last for weeks. Much of it went into their fridge and freezer, but Babulya put together two shopping bags of portioned meals in easy-to-heat containers and bid Theresa to take them next door.

  It was one of the few times Theresa had ever spoken more than a few words to Sally Harrison, who was always pleasant but often absent. Mrs. Harrison took the food with a blank look on her face, weighing each of the bags in her hands. The containers rattled inside, and Theresa worried for a moment that Babulya had packed the bags too heavily; they would tear and spill everything out into the entryway.

  “My God, we’ll dine on funeral food for months,” Sally said in a bland, blank voice without so much as a hint of inflection to it. “Who could think I would ever be able to eat a bite of any of this?”

  “I’ll take it, Mom.” From behind her, Alicia appeared. She pulled the bags from her mother’s clenched fists, gently at first, and then firmly when Sally wouldn’t let go. “Why don’t you go up to bed?”

  Sally turned without a word, leaving Theresa to stare with horrified, embarrassed eyes at Alicia. She wanted to say she was sorry, but that felt so worthless. Alicia was clearly waiting for her to leave so she could put the food away. It was a lost moment, one Theresa remembered for a long time. When she’d had the chance to say something kind, the chance to make a difference and help someone, but had not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Theresa had been thinking about Ilya’s suggestion that she work at the diner, re-creating and preparing Babulya’s signature recipes to give the restaurant its own unique menu. It made no sense. She could cook, but not on that scale, and it was something she did for love. Not as a career. More important, aligning herself with him, tying herself to him, even in the least personal of ways—that could not be something she was considering at all.

  Could it?

  Staring at the ceiling of the room in a bed that did not belong to her, in a house she did not own, and in which she was only a guest by the grace of a woman she’d known long ago, Theresa folded her hands on her chest and took a long, deep breath. Agreeing to this would be insane, but she hadn’t stopped turning over the idea in her head since Ilya had offered it.

  With the money from her commission, she could pay off a good portion of the credit-card debt, making the rest manageable. She could continue her freelance work and put in hours at the new venture and possibly end up with a decent income. More than that, she could work at something that went beyond the daily grind. Something that left her feeling fulfilled. Excited. It could also leave her financially busted, stressed, and . . . well, she wouldn’t go so far
as to say brokenhearted, because that meant a level of emotional investment she wasn’t willing to admit to. But definitely it could mess with her mojo, and she was only beginning to get back on her feet.

  Briefly, she heard the murmur of voices from down the hall, and she turned onto her side, ready to cover her ears with the pillow if she had to. She didn’t begrudge Alicia and Niko their rampant lovemaking. How could she, when Alicia had been so generous as to let Theresa move in here? But she’d never been much of a voyeur, and even though she knew they tried to be quiet, the walls were thin.

  She’d turned her phone to silent, not worried about missing anything important, but now it lit up and cast a faint blue-white light against the wall. If she’d been sleeping already, she might’ve missed it. Since she wasn’t, she looked to see who had the audacity to text her at this hour. She shouldn’t have been surprised. For as long as she’d known him, Ilya hadn’t paid much attention to whatever it was he was “supposed” to do.

  You know you want to.

  She wanted to do a lot of things. Signing on to run a diner with him wasn’t necessarily at the top of her list. Then again, it wasn’t exactly at the bottom.

  I’m sleeping, she typed in return.

  His answer came within seconds. You’re not. You wouldn’t answer if you were.

  Theresa pressed her lips together on a laugh, because of course he was right. She thumbed in another message. ZZZZZZZZZ

  You’re not sleeping. What are you doing?

  Thinking about the diner.

  A pause. She watched the bouncing dots that indicated Ilya was typing. She should put the phone down and turn over so she didn’t see it light up. Instead, of course, she waited with her teeth pressing into her bottom lip to see what he was going to say.

  Meet me outside?

  Theresa let out the breath she’d been holding. She held the phone in two hands, thumbs poised to reply. No was a simple answer, and she owed him no more than that, really.

  It’s late, she said.

  The next message that came through was a blurry close-up of Ilya’s pouting face. She burst into a flurry of giggles at the sight of it and clutched the phone to her chest, a parody of a swooning schoolgirl. Her phone throbbed in her palms with another message. She looked again.

  You know you want to.

  It was as true now as it had been a few minutes ago. She did want to, the same way she wanted to throw all her cautions to the wind and dive into this business project with him. Agreeing to help him with the diner could potentially ruin her financially . . . but somehow agreeing to meet him outside at just past midnight on a warm Wednesday evening at the end of April seemed ever so much more dangerous.

  Ten minutes, came the next text, again before she’d replied. Outside.

  With a groan, Theresa kicked off the covers. This was stupid, yet there she was, getting out of bed, rustling in her drawer for a sweatshirt to pull on over her tank top. She found a pair of flip-flops and slipped them on. Her hair had been bundled into a loose bun on top of her head for sleep, and she contemplated tugging it free of the elastic band, but it would be kinked and messy, maybe a little damp from the shower she’d taken before bed. Better to leave it up. Besides, it wasn’t like she was rushing to meet a lover, she reminded herself. This was Ilya.

  Ilya, who’d kissed her in the front hallway of his house. Who’d made her laugh hard enough to forget the last time she’d cried. Ilya, who was asking her to meet him outside in the middle of the night.

  She brushed her teeth quickly, trying to make as little noise as she possible. If she could hear Niko and Alicia in Alicia’s bedroom with the door closed, it was conceivable they’d hear her messing around in the bathroom and wonder what she was doing up so late. Heart pounding, she slipped down the hall and the stairs and paused at the front door to slowly, carefully, and as silently as possible, click open the lock so she could ease her way outside.

  “Hey,” Ilya said with a grin, not even trying to whisper.

  “Shhh!”

  “What? Nobody’s even awake.”

  She frowned and gently closed the door behind her. “And I don’t want you to wake anyone up. Okay?”

  “It’s not like they’d care.” In the darkness, lit only by the half-moon overhead, his grin flashed white. “Wait a minute. You care?”

  “Yes. I do.” She tugged his sleeve to pull him away from the house. “I’m out here, okay? What did you want?”

  “Remember how we used to sneak out at night? All of us?”

  Theresa could recall a couple of times, no more than that, but something about how Ilya had automatically included her in his memories warmed her. Against her will, but it did. “You all did that.”

  “You were with us. I remember. It was the end of the summer, right after you and Barry moved in.” Ilya bounced on the balls of his feet. “We went out to the quarry. It was a full moon. We skinny-dipped.”

  She burst into laughter she quickly muffled behind her hand. “We did not!”

  “I did. I remember.” Ilya grinned.

  “You probably did. That sounds like something you’d do. But I know I didn’t.” She tilted her head, studying him. Like on that long-ago night he’d been trying to get her to remember, tonight’s moon was full and bright, the sky cloudless. “It can’t have been very impressive, I have to say, since I can’t remember it at all.”

  He put a hand on his chest, fingers clutching. “Ouch. Boy, you really know how to dig, huh?”

  She smiled but said nothing.

  “Well, come on then,” he said.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Come on then, what?”

  “You and me. The quarry. Skinny-dipping. Right now.” He stabbed two fingers downward. His grin got bigger and also more challenging.

  Theresa blew out a breath that wafted her bangs off her face. “You’re on.”

  Ilya looked surprised, but only for a second or so before he jumped in place, clapping his hands together. “Aw, yeah. C’mon. We’ll freeze our nuts off, but let’s do it.”

  “I don’t have nuts, and I’m sure we’ll get arrested for trespassing,” Theresa said as she followed him across Alicia’s front yard and onto the street toward the woods. “You don’t own it anymore, remember? And that’s if we don’t—”

  She cut herself off. She’d been about to say “kill ourselves falling off the cliff,” but that would’ve been bad. At the least, insensitive. But more than that, she knew without having to say it how much it would hurt him.

  “Come down with the flu,” she said instead. If Ilya noticed the momentary awkwardness, he didn’t mention it. “But, hey. Let’s do it. Why not?”

  “Why not!” Ilya cried, too loud, and ducked at her swinging punch that she pulled at the last second. He stifled his laughter and danced away from her. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Just go, before you wake the entire neighborhood.” She shot a glance over her shoulder at the Guttridge house, anticipating the lights turning on and Dina peeking out through the curtains, but if the nosy neighbor was spying on them, Theresa could see no sign of it.

  Together, they jogged to the end of the street. In the past it had ended abruptly, no curb, just cracked asphalt blending into scrubby grass that became the woods surrounding the quarry. At some point, improvements had turned the end into a paved cul-de-sac with a nice curb that nearly tripped her up as she followed Ilya into the trees. Ilya caught her as she stumbled, holding her by the arm. The pair of them dissolved into hysterical, snorting laughter that rang throughout the patch of woods despite her attempts at keeping quiet.

  “Watch yourself,” he said. “I got you.”

  She lingered a moment too long in his embrace before pushing herself away. “I’m okay.”

  “I know you’re okay.”

  In the bright moonlight, his eyes looked darker than usual, or maybe it was simply that his pupils had dilated so much they blocked out the color. He looked at her for less than a minute before taking her hand. Their fingers
linked loosely, and she let him hold tight while they wove their way through the scrub pines. Once they were past the first row or so, a curving path of dirt and pine needles opened up, heading toward the drop-off.

  “I don’t remember a path,” she said.

  “I made it. C’mon.” He tugged her hand.

  She followed. “You made it?

  “Well . . . yeah. I’ve lived here my entire life, spent countless hours trekking through the trees to get to the swimming spot. I got too old to keep fighting my way through the brush.” He ducked to slap a hanging tree branch out of the way, then held it back so she could pass. Doing so meant he dropped her hand.

  She wished he was still holding it.

  “Back then, we were the only ones hanging out there. Everyone else went around to the other side,” she said.

  Ilya shot her a grin. “Yeah, where the shop is. Easier access there. Maybe I should’ve made more of a beach, you know? I thought about it. Bringing in a couple tons of sand. Setting up a hot-dog stand. Maybe if I had, it would’ve worked out better.”

  “Things work out how they’re supposed to.”

  Ahead she glimpsed something looming. It turned out to be a fence, not the rusted, sagging chain-link fence she remembered but something newer, with a gate secured with a heavy padlock. Ilya pulled a key from his pocket to open it.

  “I wanted to keep people out,” he said, although she hadn’t asked him or even said a word about it. He pushed open the gate and stepped aside for her to walk through, then followed. “I tore down the old equipment shed, too. It was a hazard. And . . . bad things happened there.”

  It was her turn to reach for his hand, and she barely snagged his fingers, because he was moving away. She managed to catch him, though. She waited until he’d paused to look at her.

  “I do remember that,” she said.

  Ilya nodded. “If anyone remembers anything about her, it’s usually that.”