Journals of the Secret Keeper Read online

  "What happened, Willetta," he bit out. "She died, Andrik," she said.

  Andrik squeezed her arm and pulled. His

  nostrils flared. "What did you do," he asked. Andrik was unable to voice his suspicions.

  Somehow they seemed ludicrous and he

  subconsciously knew they were unfounded. But he

  was at a loss as to how to control his simmering

  anger and grief. Mama Jean meant the world to

  him, but she had not wanted him in her final hours.

  She'd wanted this traitorous woman standing before

  him. The one who ran away and never came back.

  His hand tightened around Willetta's forearm. "Let me go," Willetta demanded.

  Andrik removed his hand, but stepped closer

  to Willetta. This time he didn't get in her face. He

  stood his full height and looked down his nose at

  her.

  "You need to tell me every single thing that

  happened after I left last night."

  Willetta took a deep breath and exhaled.

  She knew how to be patient with bad tempered men.

  Andrik was hurting and he was taking it out on her.

  The best thing to do was to remain silent. Her lack

  of response would surely bring him to his senses. "Do you need something to drink, Andrik,"

  she asked kindly.

  "Don't start asking me what I need. You

  have no idea how dangerous that territory is for you

  right now," he growled.

  Willetta backed away. "I didn't ask you

  what you needed. I asked if you wanted a drink,"

  she said.

  "I distinctly heard the word 'need' come out

  of your mouth," he said. "Should I tell you what I

  need, Willetta? What I haven't had since I got back

  to this stinking depressing place," he bit out. Willetta ran to the porch and through the

  screened door. "If you come through this door, I

  swear I'll hurt you Andrik."

  Andrik stood in the yard and watched the

  screen door. He couldn't see Willetta through the

  screen, but he could hear the fear in her voice. She

  was afraid of him and she had every right to be.

  Thoughts of their conversation the night before

  washed over him and he felt sick. What was he

  doing? She had told him openly and honestly that

  she had been raped and here he was fanning her old

  fears.

  "Willetta, I'm not going to hurt you. I don't

  know what's wrong with me. I better go on back to

  the house. Your keys are in your car."

  Andrik turned and took long quick strides

  back to his truck. He was more ashamed than he

  had ever been in his life. He wanted Willetta, but

  never by force. He had never threatened a woman

  in such a way before. Even grief stricken there was

  no excuse for doing it, especially to Willetta of all

  people. The incident left him unnerved and

  depressed. He climbed into his truck and sped away

  as if demons were after him.

  # Willetta breathed a sigh of relief. Thank

  God for thinking men. Obviously Andrik was a

  thinker and had some control. She saw the horror

  on his face and recognized it for what it was, when

  he finally realized how stupid he was acting. She

  knew firsthand how fatalistic the combination of

  testosterone and stupidity could be. One of her new

  mottos was to steer clear of it. Andrik's quick

  retreat had instantly redeemed him. She knew she

  had no real reason to ever fear him. So, her

  thoughts slid back to Mama Jean.

  The date was September the fifteenth, twothousand and seven. According to the coroner,

  Mama Jean had passed away in the early morning

  hours between three and four. She was seventy-five

  years old. Willetta remembered the year of her

  birth, nineteen thirty-three. It was written

  somewhere in a Bible.

  Willetta thought about the black trunk

  buried beneath the mulberry tree. She opened the

  screened door and stepped onto the porch.

  Shielding her eyes against the settling sun, she

  scanned the yard to the right. About hundred feet away stood the mulberry tree. Its trunk was twisted and misshapen. It seemed stooped over like an old man and with its naked branches and absence of

  mulberries the tree looked dead.

  Willetta jumped off the porch and walked

  barefooted over to the tree. "Well, ain't you a sight,"

  she breathed. "I sure hope I don't end up looking

  like you reading about other folks business and

  holding it all in." She put her right hand against the

  bark of the tree. Chips of bark crumbled beneath

  her palm and fell away, but the tree was warm. She

  didn't know if it was warm with life's blood or from

  the sun.

  Willetta looked at the ground. There were

  no telltale signs of anything buried beneath. The

  grass wasn't broken. She frowned. Surely Mama

  Jean didn't expect her to get a shovel and go digging

  all around the tree looking for a black trunk. She

  got on her knees and crawled around the trunk of

  the tree. There was nothing there. She kept

  crawling in wider circles until her knee landed on a

  rock. It hurt so badly, Willetta fell onto her back

  and just squeezed the knee against her chest for a

  minute. She felt around on the ground for the rock

  and was shocked to find an old tarnished handle.

  She wrapped her hand around it and pulled. It

  didn't budge. Willetta got up off her back and onto

  her knees again. This time when she pulled it lifted

  and the ground around it lifted too. Willetta was

  stunned. She had just uncovered a coffin-sized hole

  in the ground that had obviously been made years

  before her time and possibly before Mama Jean's

  time.

  Mama Jean's warning sounded off in her head,

  "Don't touch it, if you don't believe in secrets."

  Willetta dropped the handle and ran back to the porch. She was alone and afraid. Mama Jean was dead and all her secrets were buried beneath the mulberry tree. Willetta knew without a doubt that she was not ready to spend the night alone in Mama Jean's house. She jumped in her car and drove as fast as she could the fifteen miles to the Thompson Estates.

  CHAPTER 7

  Volume 2, pg. 3 (December 1901): "Its cold outside. Ain't much for me to do but wait til summertime. I don't know if this land is really mine or not. Ain't nobody been around asking questions. It's been four months since Mrs. Williams died. I'm glad them white folks didn't like Mr. and Mrs. Williams. That's gone make this situation much easier for me. What I need now is a real smart wife. I need somebody who can help me hang on to this house and this land."

  #

  When Willetta pulled into the drive she was

  aware of many changes. There was no longer a

  gravel road leading to the house, it was paved with

  dark concrete. Trees neatly lined each side of the

  narrow road. The road, itself, curved around to

  reveal a huge iron gate. The gate was at least eight

  feet tall and could not be breached by man or

  animal with its pointed iron spikes. Willetta could

  see the luxurious landscaping through the black iron

  bars of the gate.

  The house itself had even chan
ged. It no

  longer had the look of a two-hundred-year-old

  Victorian monstrosity. The soft yellow paint,

  updated windows, and security-controlled entrance

  gave it a modern edge. The face of rural

  Mississippi had been completely wiped away. The

  sight was inviting and uplifting in a way Willetta

  was at a loss to explain.

  She eagerly rolled down her window to push

  the receiving button on the black box at the entrance

  of the gate.

  "Whose there?" Andrik's voice sounded

  through the intercom.

  "It's Willetta, Andrik," she said.

  There was a moment of silence, before the

  gates slid apart. Willetta drove through. Her eyes

  ate up the view. Trees, bushes, and flowers of

  every sort strategically covered the expansive front

  yard of Thompson Estates. It was a garden. For a

  moment, she forgot about her fears and simply

  enjoyed being in the middle of the richest kind of

  beauty there ever was.

  Willetta parked her car in front of the threecar garage, which was a new addition as well. Her

  eyes went wide in amazement at the changes. She

  couldn't help but remember how Mr. Thompson had

  kept the place. The house had always been white

  and sterile looking. The yard never had flowers or

  bushes, but the tall pecan and oak trees had always

  been there. The old cars and equipment were gone

  from the front yard. There were no longer patches

  of grass missing and burnt away from tractors and

  trucks being parked upon it. The grass was deeply

  green everywhere. Willetta felt an urge to roll in it. "What's the matter, Willetta," Andrik came

  from the side of the house. His face was guarded.

  He wore a white T-shirt and Khaki pants. He was

  barefoot. He stopped a couple of feet away from

  Willetta and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I can't stay at that house. I'm scared. I

  know it sounds silly, but I just can't stay there," she

  said.

  Andrik stared at his feet as his thoughts

  rushed forward. What did she want from him?

  He'd only just met Willetta yesterday. The tie that

  brought them together was gone and he'd made a

  fool out of himself just an hour ago. Surely, she

  didn't want to stay with him. Her unpredictability

  unnerved him and made it hard to think when he was around her. The last thing he'd expected was

  for her to show up here.

  "Willetta, what do you want me to do," he

  asked.

  Willetta turned around and looked at the

  huge house. "I would think there would be room

  enough for me to stay here until I can go back down

  the road. Is that too much to ask, Andrik," she said. "No, of course not. I just didn't think you

  would be comfortable being alone with me," he said

  nervously.

  Willetta shrugged, "You told me you were

  not going to hurt me. I took your word for it. You

  seemed sincere."

  Andrik looked up. His eyes met Willetta's

  and neither one spoke for a moment. Andrik was

  relieved that she wasn't afraid of him, but he still

  wasn't sure if inviting her to stay was a good idea.

  It would just be the two of them. It was bad enough

  that they were the only two people around for miles

  and miles on this dark back road of Marks,

  Mississippi. Clarksdale was thirty minutes away

  and the next country road with homes on it was

  about forty minutes away in the opposite direction.

  They were isolated.

  He knew what this sort of isolation

  eventually did to a person. When he was a boy

  every girl in the rural territory had been pregnant at

  least once by the time they reached sixteen. There

  just was not much else to do. He didn't want them

  to fall into each other's arms out of simple boredom,

  but he knew it could happen and most likely would. "I was sincere, Willetta, but I don't think it's

  a good idea for you to stay here with me. I can get

  a hotel in Clarksdale until the funeral is over with. I'm sure by then you'll be ready to go back to

  Atlanta," he said.

  "I'm here to stay. I can't go back to Atlanta

  right now," she said.

  "Stay? Why can't you go back to Atlanta?"

  he asked. Something was up. Had she done

  something illegal?

  "That's my business and you can get that

  look off your face. The police are not after me. It's

  for personal reasons that I refuse to go back," she

  said.

  Andrik remained quiet. She had definitely

  said that she couldn't go back and now she was

  saying she refused to back. She was hiding

  something.

  "Why are we standing outside? The yard

  looks wonderful. Let me see what you've done to

  the inside of the house," she said. Willetta wanted

  to change the subject. Andrik didn't have to know

  everything about her. She wasn't sure she wanted to

  ever tell him that she had left a man standing at the

  altar. That somehow seemed cowardly and immoral

  even to her. Yes, she would keep this one secret. Andrik let himself be distracted, because he

  was excited about the changes to the house. He was

  glad she had known the before and could appreciate

  the after. He and Willetta went through the double

  oak doors together and he watched with extreme

  pleasure the surprise and wild appreciation she

  showed for the many changes he'd made to

  Thompson Estate.

  CHAPTER 8

  Volume 3, pg. 1 (February 1902): "I

  met this woman today when I went to town.

  She is real pretty and smart like. She got off

  the train and walked right up to me. She

  wanted directions to the Negro schoolhouse.

  Her name is Etta Tucker. She came all the

  way from South Carolina to teach school. She

  sure is pretty and sure is smart. I hope she

  ain't attached."

  #

  "I came over here to keep from being alone.

  It's being alone that makes me afraid right now,"

  Willetta admitted.

  The tour of the house ended at the most

  luxuriously screened-in back porch Willetta had

  ever seen. The swing she and Andrik shared was

  custom made. It was made of threaded bamboo and

  could easily fit four people. It was suspended from

  a very high ceiling by thin strands of entwined

  bamboo. Soft downy pillows of an assorted range

  of colors were thrown about loosely upon the

  massive swing. The circumference of the seat of

  the swing was so wide that even Andrik's feet

  barely dangled. Willetta's legs stretched straight

  ahead and she was ultimately comfortable. It was

  more of a swinging daybed than an actual swing. A soothing breeze lifted from the cotton

  fields, drifted through the screens, and touched

  Andrik and Willetta.

  "She wouldn't have wanted me to leave you

  down there alone," Andrik admitted. All Mama

  Jean had talked about the past six months had been

  Willetta. She'd made him responsible
for this

  woman he didn't know. Mama Jean's pleas had

  reached a level of desperation until he had relented and summoned Willetta home the only way he knew how. Now Mama Jean was really dead and

  something had spooked Willetta.

  "We have a few things to decide about

  Mama Jean's burial arrangements. So, we can just

  spend the next few days sorting all that out. Maybe

  you'll be ready after the funeral to go back to the

  house," he said kindly.

  "I don't plan on staying in Mississippi

  indefinitely," Willetta said. "But I am going to take

  it slow and do a little reflecting before I decide what

  my next step will be."

  "Do you really hate Mississippi so much,"

  he asked.

  "I'll answer that after my soul-searching is

  done. Right now I don't know how I feel," Willetta

  admitted.

  Willetta wanted to tell Andrik about the

  journals, but the fact that Mama Jean had been with

  him all these months and obviously had not told

  him, worried her. Mama Jean had never given her a

  single idea of what the journals held and she had

  guarded them well. Willetta had no idea what

  reading them would reveal and wasn't at all sure she

  was emotionally prepared. She had figured one

  thing out though. The journals had some link to

  her. With all the mystery regarding her mom's

  disappearance and who her father was, she was

  anxious to know if the journals answered those

  questions. The thing that left her afraid to open the

  journals was what Mama Jean's link to it all was.

  She knew for a fact that Mama Jean was not her

  grandmother. She had been sure many years ago

  about that, but now Mama Jean, herself, had

  admitted she was not her grandmother.

  Willetta let her eyes roam over Andrik's

  person. His eyes were closed as he relaxed against

  the bamboo swing. It was odd how comfortable she

  was in his presence. Willetta was not a nervous

  person by nature, but she had never been an

  easygoing socialite either. It took her a minute to

  warm up to people, but things were different with

  Andrik. She wondered what association he had

  with the journals and was thankful she wasn't going

  to find out that she and he were first cousins or

  anything of that sort. Mama Jean had demanded

  that she marry Andrik. Mama Jean was bad, but