Public Secrets

the house on her own. They didn’t talk now, except for Michael’s occasional “turn right,” “bear left,” but listened to the soft, soothing sounds of Crosby, Stills, and Nash through the car speakers.
He didn’t have to tell her to stop. She recognized the house. It was like a picture, developed and stored in her mind. It was very much the same as it had been, secluded by trees, hedges, the winter bloomers of the hills. It was rustic, as only the wealthy could afford. Redwood and sheets of glass, terraced lawn falling into woods and stream.
She saw, as Michael did, the sign speared into the ground that proclaimed the house up for sale.
“We could call it fate,” he said, and touched her arm. “Do you want to go in?”
Her hands were linked hard in her lap. She could see her window, her bedroom window where she had once stood with Darren and gleefully watched a fox dart through the trees.
“I can’t.”
“Okay. We can sit as long as you like.”

She could see herself, wading in the stream, Bev laughing as Darren splashed madly in his bare feet and rolled-up overalls. She remembered a picnic the four of them had shared, a blanket spread under a tree, her father quietly strumming his guitar, Bev reading a book while Darren dozed in her lap.
She’d forgotten that day. How could she have forgotten it? It had been such a beautiful day, such a perfect day. The grass had been cool, the sun warm and lazily yellow where it pushed through the leaves, the shade soft and gray where it hadn’t. She could hear her father’s voice, and the words he’d been singing.
Never too late to look for love / Never too soon to find it .
They had been happy, Emma thought. They had been a family. Then, the next day they had given a party and everything had changed.
“Yes,” she said abruptly. “I want to go in.”
“Okay. Look, it might be better if they didn’t know who you are, about the connection, I mean.”
She nodded, and drove through the open gates.
Michael closed a hand over hers as they stood in front of the door. Hers was like ice, but steady. He put on his best smile as the door opened. “Hi. We were driving by and saw your sign. We’ve been house hunting for weeks. We’ve got an appointment to see another place in about an hour, but we just couldn’t resist this. It isn’t sold yet, is it?”
The woman, fortyish, dressed in countrywear of Bass loafers and Calvin Kleins, took a long, cautious look. She took in Michael’s work shirt, worn Levi’s, and scuffed high tops. But she was also sharp enough to note Emma’s discreetly expensive pumps and the casual Ralph Lauren skirt and blouse. As well as the Mercedes convertible parked in the drive. She smiled. The house had been on the market for five months without a firm offer.
“Well, actually we do have a prospective buyer, but the contract won’t be signed until Monday.” Her gaze swooped down to the small but elegant diamond and sapphire ring on Emma’s hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you through.”
She opened the door further, lifting a brow as Emma hesitated before stepping inside. “I’m Gloria Steinbrenner.”
“Nice to meet you.” Michael extended a hand and took hers. “Michael Kesselring. This is Emma.”

Ms. Steinbrenner gave them both a dazzling smile. The hell with the real estate broker, she thought. She’d opened the door to her own hot prospect, and intended to make the most of it.
“The place is in beautiful condition. I adore it.” She detested every board and brick. “It’s breaking my heart to sell, but—to be frank—my husband and I are divorcing, so we’re liquidating.”
“Oh.” Michael put what he hoped was an appropriately sympathetic, but interested, look on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“No need.” She waved a hand. “Are you from the area?”
“No, actually, we’re … from the Valley,” he said, inspired. “We’re just dying to get out, crowds, smog. Isn’t that right, Emma?”
“Yes.” She forced a smile. “It’s a beautiful house.”
“Thank you. The living area, as you can see, is magnificent. High ceilings, genuine oak beams, lots of glass and open space. It’s a working fireplace, of course.”
Of course, Emma thought. Hadn’t she sat in front of it? The furniture was new, and she hated it on sight. Pretentious modern sculptures and glossy enameled tables. Where were all the cushions, the funny baskets filled with balls of yarn and ribbon that Bev had arranged?
“The