How To Keep A Secret: A fantastic and brilliant feel-good summer read that you won’t want to end!. Sarah Morgan
a couple of minutes to absorb what her sister was saying. “What? Lauren, I can hardly hear you—are you crying?” She sat up suddenly, spilling her wine over her jeans. “Say that again!”
By the time Jenna ended the call she was in shock.
Her hand was shaking so badly she almost dropped her phone.
Greg walked back into the room and put two mugs of coffee on the table. “Did you lose the signal or something?”
“No.”
“Then why so quick? I was going to speak to Ed.”
“You can’t.” Her lips felt strange, as if they didn’t want to move. “Ed is—” She broke off and he looked at her.
“Ed is what?”
Jenna felt shaky and strange. Her eyes filled. “He’s dead. Today was his fortieth birthday. He was found at his desk by one of the cleaners. They think it must have been his heart. My poor sister.” She remembered the agony in her sister’s voice and didn’t even try to hold back the tears. How would Lauren live without Ed? What would she do? “I have to go to her.” She felt her sister’s loss as keenly as if it were her own.
Looking shaken, Greg took the glass from her hand and tugged her to her feet. “I’ll call the airline while you pack.”
Her brain was moving in slow motion. “We can’t—I can’t—” She couldn’t think straight. “There’s school, and—”
“I’ll call them. I’ve got this.”
“What about the money? We already decided we couldn’t afford to go away in the summer.”
“We’ll figure it out. Some things are more important than money.”
She didn’t argue. There was no way she wasn’t going to be with her sister.
Only hours before she’d been envying Lauren, and now her life was shattered.
It was unbelievable. Unfair.
And to think she’d been about to off-load her own problems.
Jenna sleepwalked to the bedroom and pulled out her suitcase. Without thinking about what she was packing, she stuffed random clothes into it. All she could think about was her sister, her big sister, who had always been there for her through thick and thin.
There was nothing her sister didn’t know about her.
Not a single thing.
“It’s all booked.” Greg appeared in the doorway, his phone in one hand and his credit card in the other. “Take sweaters. And a coat. It’s cold in England. And an umbrella, because it will probably be raining. And don’t forget to charge your phone so I can call you.”
“What? Oh yes.” She pushed some thick socks into the case and paused, helpless and more than a little scared. She felt inadequate. “What do I do, Greg? What is the right thing to say to someone who has lost a husband? I wish you were coming with me.”
But they both knew he couldn’t. He had people counting on him, and no one who could cover for him.
“I’ll call you every night. And you can text me. I promise not to give my phone to Pamela.”
It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d laughed at that.
Jenna glanced round her bedroom and tried to work out what she’d forgotten. Lauren would have made a list. She probably had a list already on her laptop entitled “for emergency travel.” Everything would be checked off. Red ticks for the outward journey, blue ticks for the return journey.
Jenna didn’t have a list to tick.
She was the disorganized one. Lauren was the perfect one.
Except that her perfect sister’s perfect life was no longer perfect.
Lauren
Widow: a woman whose spouse has died
SHE’D NEVER EXPECTED to fall in love when she was eighteen. That hadn’t been part of her plan. She’d had her life mapped out in her head. She was going to college, and after that she’d get a job in New York City. She was going to soak up bright lights and busy streets and learn everything she could about design until she was ready to start her own business.
That had always been her dream.
And then she’d met him.
Their relationship started with a single look. Until that moment she hadn’t realized so much could be conveyed without speech. It was more than interest. There was a connection.
It was the summer before she left for college and she was spending the long, hot humid months doing what all the other local teenagers did, namely working hard to make money for the winter. She had three jobs, one of which included bussing tables at a seafood restaurant.
She was clearing one of the tables on the sunny deck, counting the hours until she could go home, when a man strolled up to the takeout window.
Something about the way he moved caught her attention. He had a quiet way about him, an understated confidence that was lacking in many of the boys her age who were wrestling awkwardly with their own identity.
He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt and his cap was pulled down over his eyes.
As he pulled a sheaf of notes out of his pocket, his gaze settled on Lauren.
She had long legs and blond hair. She was used to boys looking at her. They’d reached an age where everything was about sex, who had “done it” and who hadn’t.
All her closest friends were having sex and boasting of their experiences. Cassie had lost her virginity in a field near Chilmark and had to explain away poison oak to her parents. Kelly’s first experience had been on the hood of her dad’s Cadillac in a deserted parking lot.
Because she didn’t want to expose her most private fears, Lauren pretended she’d had sex, too. She doubted she was the only one, but her reasons for holding off were probably different from most.
She was afraid she might have a phobia. The thought of sex made her heart race and her palms grow sweaty. That wasn’t normal, was it? It was all the other girls talked about, so she assumed it was supposed to be exciting, not terrifying.
Because she didn’t trust her reactions, there was no way she was experimenting with anyone from her school. What if she freaked out and humiliated herself? It would be all over the island in hours that Lauren Stewart was frigid.
This man was different. He was older for a start, and a stranger. Definitely not a Vineyarder. Nor did he look like a tourist. His fingers were stained with oil and his work boots were scuffed. A seasonal worker, she decided, and wondered why her brain was asking a thousand questions about him.
She had no idea how long the moment would have lasted or what might have been the outcome because her imagination chose that moment to conjure up a disturbingly vivid image of what it might be like to be kissed by him. It was real enough to knock the air from her lungs and trigger a curl of heat low in her belly, a reaction she’d never had before. As a result, she stumbled into a chair and knocked over a bottle of beer.
Her face burned with humiliation and by the time she’d cleared up the mess and dared to glance over in his direction, he was gone.
He hadn’t smiled at her or nodded. Hadn’t acknowledged her in any way. But she knew that if someone had asked him, he would have been able to describe her in detail.
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified to discover she was in fact capable of experiencing the same feelings as her peers.
Until she’d laid eyes on the unsmiling