Journals of the Secret Keeper Read online

  JOURNALS OF THE SECRET KEEPER

  CHAPTER 1 Willetta Jones' car was stuffed with her belongings. Her back window was completely blocked with bags of clothes. The rearview mirrors on the doors were the only things that kept her from driving blindly on her drive from Atlanta, Georgia to Marks, Mississippi. She was on a long sabbatical to do a little soul searching. The best place for that was always home.

  The old dusty Mississippi road had not changed at all. Trees stood tall along either side of the road. They leaned into the dusty lane as if they were protecting something or someone. Willetta had at one time felt the effect was creepy, but now she drew comfort from it. After all, she did need protection. She was hiding from her fiance.

  Willetta met Damion Racy at a college house party in Atlanta, Georgia. He was tall, thick with muscle, and cocky. Willetta was nineteen and green. That one meeting began a six year

  relationship that had been tumultuous and

  demoralizing for Willetta. Damion was controlling and unnecessarily mean at times, but he was a charmer too. His apologies would be so eloquent and sincere; they would nearly melt Willetta's heart. The course of their relationship vacillated between terrible arguments and sweet makeups.

  Recently Damion decided they should marry. Finally, Willetta realized something was awfully wrong with their relationship, because she had absolutely no desire to marry him, but was too afraid to say no. So, she said yes. The days before the wedding date flew by with Willetta never quite gathering her courage to tell Damion she could not marry him.

  Two days before the wedding Willetta received the phone call that Mama Jean was dead. The caller was a man she had no recollection of and his voice had been laced with steel and cold as ice. When Willetta asked how she died, it sounded as if he slammed the phone down in her ear. She heard a click and then the dial tone. It left her bewildered, but she was thankful for the call.

  Willetta was sad that Mama Jean had died, but she had grown apart from her grandmother. They had not been on the best terms. Mama Jean was more controlling and demanding than Damion. Willetta shook her head at the irony of her situation. She'd left Marks, Mississippi running from her grandmother and now she had left Atlanta, Georgia running from Damion. Running back to the very same place she ran from in the first place. That had to mean something. She shrugged her shoulders and continued driving.

  Willetta was now twenty-six years old and savvy to the world and the people in it. She was cynical and independent. She'd made her career in marketing. She freelanced and floated between huge corporate businesses that needed her expertise. This allowed her versatility in schedule and location. All she needed was her laptop and her cell phone.

  She suppressed a giggle as she realized this was the exact time the wedding was to have taken place. She wondered if Damion had been arrogant enough to continue on as if she had not been ignoring his phone calls for two days. She could see him right now standing at the altar in his black tuxedo. He would be tapping his feet and flashing a fake grin at his friends and family. She hoped fervently that the wedding was still on. She only wished she could be there to see his face when he finally realized she would not be there. Willetta decided it was okay to laugh and she cracked up.

  She was still laughing when she pulled into Mama Jean's yard. There was an old beat up pickup truck parked on the grass. Willetta saw the truck before she saw the man, but he had already seen her. Her wild laughter had left a crazy smile on her face. The smile slowly slid away at the sight of the man standing in the middle of the yard. He was huge and black. His skin was blacker than any skin Willetta had ever seen in her life. His tall frame towered above everything in the yard except the house and the trees. He was looking directly at Willetta and waiting.

  Willetta fumbled with the door to get it open. She stepped out of the car realizing too late that it was still in gear. The car lurched forward and Willetta's eyes opened wide in horror, as she realized she could not get back in quick enough to stop it. She wrenched herself away from the car and out of the way. The man moved really fast for someone his size. He had practically stopped the car with his bare hands before he opened the door and stuck his long leg in to put his foot on the brake. He put the car in park and took the keys out of the ignition.

  "You must be Willetta," he said

  sarcastically, as he dropped her car keys into his pocket.

  Willetta would recognize that voice anywhere. It was the same man that had hung up on her. She put her hands on her hips and looked up into his face with every intention of telling him off, but words failed her. He was beautiful. Not handsome, but beautiful. The skin on his face glistened with sweat or oil or something and it was flawless, spotless. His lips were full and his teeth were white and straight. Thick black eyebrows and super thick, long eyelashes surrounded eyes that were translucent brown. Dimples dented the side of his face even without a smile and she knew they were deep as pools. His hair was cut short and Willetta did not miss the wavy texture of it. He was more beautiful than she, and Willetta knew she had it going on.

  She realized too late that she had been just standing and staring. The slow grin that spread across his gorgeous face, made Willetta break out in a sweat. She suddenly became aware of her appearance. The rundown joggers she had on fit loosely and sloppily and the nasty tennis shoes she wore were just too nasty, but she secretly adored them. Her T-shirt had old paint and faded wordings on it. She looked horrible and here he stood grinning like a superstar on the red carpet.

  Willetta had game too. She flashed a brilliant smile, showing off her pearly whites. She snatched the baseball cap off her head and fanned vigorously as her long hair fell around her shoulders. One eyebrow went up and one leg went back. She could wait silently too. She could give as much as he gave.

  "What were you about to say before my beauty blinded you," he said flatly.

  Willetta was stunned. She thought she had left the most arrogant man she had ever met in Georgia, but this beat all she had ever experienced.

  "I was about to say that you need to give me back my car keys and get off my grandma's land," she said.

  He tilted his head to the side and stared at her. "Is something wrong with you? I mean you're not mentally ill are you," he asked sincerely. To add to his sincerity he looked around as if wondering how she could possibly have driven up to the house by herself.

  Willetta's experience with Damion had trained her to keep completely silent whenever she was upset. She had not loss control of her temper in years, but all that was about to change.

  "I am not crazy. I grew up in this house. You called to tell me that Mama Jean was dead and that is why I'm here. Now give me back my keys and get out of my way," she said meanly.

  "Well, for your information she's not dead. She's in there on the couch waiting on you. She made me call you, because she wants to see you before she dies. So, take your ungrateful, selfish, disrespectful, care-about-nobody-but-yourself self on in the house. I will bring your keys, when Mama Jean tells me to bring them," he said harshly.

  Willetta stood rooted to the spot with her mouth hanging open. Never in her life had she been spoken to this way by a complete stranger. She was devastated that he thought so badly of her and bewildered as to why she cared. Willetta flinched as he abruptly moved closer to her. He bent down to put his face close to hers, a warning flashing in his eyes.

  "Willetta," he breathed, "If Mama Jean still looks sad tomorrow, you might want to run when you see me. She doesn't have many days left, maybe not even a week. She wants you and only you. Make her happy or watch out for me."

  With every word he uttered, Willetta could feel his warm breath against the skin of her lips and cheeks. His breath was
fresh and his teeth were whiter than she thought. But his message and his body language frightened the wits out of her and she wondered for the first time how her

  disappearance had affected poor Mama Jean. CHAPTER 2

  Willetta watched the strange man get into his pickup truck and drive away with her car keys still in his pocket. His casual attire of faded jeans and white t-shirt had done nothing to set her at ease. He would have been intimidating however he came; whether in a three-piece suit or stark naked.

  Willetta turned slowly to look at the rundown house she grew up in. It too looked at her as if to say, "Where have you been?" Everything was the same. On the front porch sat the very same metal chairs that used to burn her legs in the summertime. She and Mama Jean sat on those chairs and shucked corn, shelled peas, and cleaned fish. Willetta hated it all. She looked down at her manicured fingers and was thankful those days had passed. Mama Jean and her big black bodyguard could never make her shell a single pea, if she didn't want to.

  At the thought of Mama Jean, Willetta shook her head. So, the old woman still had brass. She'd tricked her into coming home. Willetta looked at her car longingly, as if the thought of leaving was an option. She was in a catch twentytwo situation. She was afraid of Damion and what he might do to her if he found her. There was no other spot in heaven or on earth darker or denser than the dusty roads of Mississippi. She was in her hiding place and she'd best stay put.

  Willetta knew she couldn't stand outside forever. She looked at the screened door and remembered Mama Jean screaming at her through it. She remembered squinching her eyes against the sun and the darkness of that screened door trying to see if Mama Jean was standing there watching her. Willetta was always up to something and Mama Jean was always catching her. Mama Jean knew that if she stood a few feet away from the screened door, Willetta couldn't see if she was there or not. Willetta got caught many times that way.

  Willetta looked at the screened door now and the skin of her arms crawled, as she realized she still couldn't see and didn't know if Mama Jean was watching her. She was, also, still up to no good. She'd been away for years without a phone call, a visit, or anything. Now she was home and she knew Mama Jean would have a mouthful of bashing to deliver.

  Willetta put her cap back on her head and tucked her hair behind her ears. She took her first steps towards the past. It felt surreal. She had a distinct feeling that nothing had really changed, no time had really passed, and that she had been away for only a day. It was not exactly a good feeling. Had her life been so redundant that she hadn't grown enough to feel the chasm of time?

  She opened the door and stepped in. The smell of antiseptic was so strong, she wanted to turn around and go back outside. The kitchen was so similar to when she'd last seen it, it was almost ridiculous. Mama Jean had not changed a thing. Willetta walked purposefully to the sink and sure enough the big bowl was there. Mama Jean always washed her dishes in a bowl in the sink. Willetta never understood why and had never asked.

  "Is that you, Etta," came Mama Jean's voice. It sounded weak and far away.

  Willetta walked into the living room where once again she found everything the very same as she had last seen it. That is everything but Mama Jean. She lay upon the black plastic couch that Willetta always detested. The couch was cold and uncomfortable in the winter and hot and sticky in the summer.

  Mama Jean was wrapped in a sheet. Her appearance was drastically different. She looked shrunken and fragile. Her head of hair was completely gray and thin enough to see patches of the brown skin of her scalp. Willetta trembled inside. She became frightened. Had eleven years done this to Mama Jean? Time was powerful and could inflict a havoc of its own making. Mama Jean was a shell of the authoritative woman Willetta had bitterly rebelled against and ran away from at fifteen.

  "It's me, Mama," Willetta said softly.

  The old woman breathed deeply and released a long sigh of relief. She raised a thin and feeble hand in Willetta's direction. Willetta quickly sat on the edge of the couch and took Mama Jean's hand in between hers. She frowned at how cold and brittle it was.

  "Where is your lotion, Mama? I know you never could stand for your hands to be dry," Willetta said.

  "I couldn't write with dry hands," Mama Jean whispered.

  That one sentence brought back a thousand memories for Willetta. Mama Jean used to write by candle light. She would watch her from her bed. The house had only one bedroom. Willetta already knew without going to see, that her bed was still where she last saw it.

  She had always been curious about what Mama Jean wrote every night, but Mama Jean would tell her that she was too young to be reading about grown folks business. Willetta would always be asleep by the time Mama Jean finished and she never ever saw where she put the journals. She searched everywhere for those journals and never found them. She knew there had to be many of them, because as far back as she could remember, Mama Jean wrote by candle light.

  "Where's the child? I wish I could see him, but I done lost all my eyesight," Mama Jean said hoarsely.

  Willetta slowly put Mama Jean's hand down and stood up. She looked down at the old woman. The blood coursing through her body reversed leaving her confused as it drained from her head.

  "What did you say," Willetta asked.

  Mama Jean turned non-seeing eyes on Willetta. Her pupils were glazed over with a thin layer of skin or something and Willetta knew she was completely blind, but her eyes tracked and found her. Even with her blindness Willetta fancied Mama Jean could see through her. Willetta backed away.

  "I'm sorry, Etta. I'm old. I get confused. Sit down and tell me how you been so I won't have to be making up stuff," she said slowly.

  Willetta chose to sit in the recliner catercornered to the couch. She was shaking and wanted to keep that to herself. Mama Jean was playing games. She was old, blind, feeble and on her last leg, but Willetta knew Mama Jean. She knew people were sometimes like chessboard figures to her. Willetta wondered could Mama Jean be up to one last trick before she died. Was this going to be about winning an old vendetta or helping someone? She never knew when it came to Mama Jean. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hang around to find out either.

  CHAPTER 3

  Andrik Thompson's hand gripped the stick of the old nineteen-seventy-five Ford pickup fiercely, as he shifted out of third and skipped into fifth gear. Mama Jean had left out some important details about Willetta Jones. One in particular, being that she was gorgeous. The other was that she had spirit. He had been led to believe that he was deceiving a scared, but selfish woman home, who if not for his intervention would never have a real chance at happiness. Mama Jean's conviction that he could help Willetta had worn him down.

  Andrik was a psychologist and had been for ten years. Mama Jean begged him to use his skills to help Willetta deal with her past issues of abandonment. Willetta's mom left her in the care of Mama Jean when she was nine years old and never returned. Mama Jean felt this was the reason Willetta felt nothing wrong in leaving her and never returning. She was afraid Willetta would make running away a habit and eventually repeat the mistakes her mother made.

  With a name like Willetta and grandma's description of her, Andrik half expected a short, pudgy, thick-glassed-wearing, nerdy type young woman. He was totally unprepared for the sight of Willetta. It was obvious she was a woman even though she wore loose-fitting joggers and a baseball cap. Her long hair, cat-shaped eyes, and heart-shaped lips drew his attention like a magnet to steel. He never once looked away from her while she stared unbelievingly at him. Andrik was just as stricken by her appearance as she by his.

  The trees suddenly opened up to the sight of Thompson Estate. Andrik turned on to the long curving concrete drive leading up to the two century old Victorian style house he grew up in. The sight of it had never filled him with nostalgia or any sentiment to speak of. He and his father had always been at odds within the walls of this massive house. His father, Stanley Thompson, had been a very strange man with a volat
ile temperament. He was often angry to the point of violence, but was never physically abusive. This had not stopped Andrik from feeling beaten.

  The Thompson estate was about fifteen miles down the road from the little house Mama Jean lived in. Mama Jean had cleaned house and taken care of Andrik as far back as he could remember. His own mother had been sickly and had not lived past her forties. She died when Andrik was fourteen. Andrik was devastated and had survived the emotional crippling only with the help of Mama Jean. He had left Thompson Estates at age eighteen, a very bitter young man.

  Professor Hampton Chaston had changed him. Hampton was a professor of psychology at the college Andrik attended. At sixty-five he was still a huge asset to the college. He took an interest in the oftentimes withdrawn and detached Andrik. Under his tutelage Andrik learned to think. He learned to understand how people's past played a big part in the kind of adults they became. He also learned the most important lesson of all. Each individual has the power to change the effect past experiences or influences have made on their lives.

  Hampton taught Andrik how positive thinking begets positive results and how negative thinking begets negative results. Andrik began to see for himself the truth of such equations and began to painstakingly reform his way of thinking. The results were amazing. His grades turned around and the whole world opened up to him and began to smile upon him. He still had to make a conscious effort at being positive, but that effort had always yielded good things.

  Andrik climbed out of the truck and stretched. His long lean body was back in shape and it felt good. The work of repairing Thompson Estates to its previous glory had been arduous, but therapeutic. The men Andrik hired and worked along side were now his friends. Andrik had never felt at home here in the rurals of Mississippi, but since the death of his father, all this land was his. He could appreciate its beauty now that the oppressive factor was gone. He looked around. It was starting to feel like home already. . #

  Willetta had supper on the table and wasn't sure if Mama Jean could even eat it. Mama Jean seemed content to just drink juice and water, but Willetta knew she needed more than that to survive. She boiled potatoes and meshed them. Then she boiled some chicken wings and salted and peppered them to taste. She opened a can of spinach and put them on the stove too. It was a soft meal and she hoped Mama Jean would eat some of it.