One Small Secret. Meagan McKinney

several seconds she stood there in the darkness, smelling the deep mossy smells of night.

      Then, as if it were now or never, she pulled the bronze chain of the gate bell and listened to its raw echo through the shadows.

      A light went on at the Hall.

      She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. The alpaca sweater she wore was certainly warm enough to ward off the spring chill; her shivering had nothing to do with the temperature.

      Just tell him and go home, she told herself as she saw the movement of someone coming toward her along the Hall’s cobblestone drive.

      Just tell him what he needs to know, then get out of Dodge and pray he never comes for a visit at the Retreat. She shivered again as the night-cloaked figure became larger and more ominous.

      “Rosie?” she gasped when she suddenly realized the figure coming down the lane was not human at all, but the leggy half-Irish wolfhound mutt she remembered from her last visit to the Hall years ago.

      “Rosie, how are you, girl?” she cooed as she stuck her hand through the bars and scratched the dog behind her ear.

      They stood almost eye to eye. She might have been afraid of a dog this size, but she remembered how gentle Rosie was, and the funny story of how the mutt had gotten her name. Mark had told her of rescuing a bag-of-bones puppy from a drainage ditch. The starving creature hardly looked like a dog, because most of her hair was missing from mange. He named her Rosie after the pathetic animal’s exposed raw skin. Even now, Honor smiled thinking about the silly wrestling matches between Rosie and Mark when Mark would resort to calling Rosie a “mange brain.

      “So where’s your master, Rosie? Where is he?” she whispered, exciting the animal. Rosie barked and jumped up on the gate.

      Suddenly Honor realized the gate was not locked. It sprang back under the weight of the dog, and in a second she found Rosie running around her like a Tasmanian devil.

      She looked up the dark lane toward the house. Nothing moved.

      A chill ran down her spine as her mind ran through the nefarious possibilities of why the gate was unlatched.

      “Let’s go find Mark. Go find Mark,” she whispered to Rosie. The dog bolted up the drive toward the house.

      Alone in the shadows, Honor slowly followed.

      The front veranda was three times the size of the Retreat’s. She walked up the stairs, comforted by the flicker of two gas lanterns that flanked the door.

      But she was not comforted by the fact that the front door stood ajar. Or by the fact that the lights that were on in the Hall were in rooms at the far end of the pitch-dark foyer.

      Nervously she reviewed her options. But there was no turning back. She had to see him now. She had to know if he was all right, even if that meant summoning Doug. She hadn’t endured all these years by herself only to let Mark Griffin be murdered the day of his return.

      “Who the hell are you?”

      She froze at the harsh voice behind her. The anger m it terrified her; the familiarity of it melted her. She remembered that same voice laughing down by the creek; and then she remembered it slow and husky, just before he fell upon her in surrender.

      She turned toward the veranda stairs.

      Their eyes met in one violent second. Recognition was like lightning.

      “Honor.”

      Her name sounded so impossibly right on his lips, she could barely choke back the wanting and fear that built up inside her.

      “Mark.”

      It was too dark to make out details. But even so, she could see he’d hardly changed. He was the same dark and handsome, tall and commanding, man she remembered. He wore black trousers and a gray polo shirt. Even in the flickering light, she could tell that his eyes were still as vividly blue as she remembered them.

      “What are you doing here?”

      The full-blown animosity in his voice hurt her, though she supposed she should have expected it. She’d obviously shocked him by her abrupt appearance at the Hall. Clearly he wasn’t pleased to see her.

      “Look,” she began to prattle, “I’m really sorry to just show up like this. I didn’t want to bother you, especially tonight, since it’s your first night back. But I’ve got something to say and—”

      Before she could finish he interrupted her. “It’s been a hell of a long time.”

      The moment was absurd. Almost a decade had passed since they’d been together, but suddenly it seemed as if she was a senior in high school again, nervous about making the acquaintance of the notorious rich boy staying at the mansion next door.

      “It has been a long time,” was all she could say.

      He stared at her for a long, sickening moment.

      Finally, gathering herself, she said, “I really didn’t want to come here without calling first, but you don’t have a phone, and I’ve got something I need to tell you. A lot’s been happening over at the Retreat.”

      He gestured toward the- darkened foyer. Impatiently he said, “I was just letting Rosie out for her run. I didn’t think I’d be entertaining the neighbors.”

      She could feel herself dying inside. For years she had wondered if she and Mark would ever meet again. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought it would be like this, with her trembling at the threshold of his dark mansion, afraid of the terse, unsmiling man he’d become.

      “This won’t take long. I promise.”

      He didn’t bother to turn on the lights. He walked through the dark foyer, and she trailed behind, cowed by the enormous shadows of the antebellum bookcases and the clock against the wall.

      He led her all the way to the back wing, where the kitchen opened up to the rear courtyard. Silently he motioned for her to sit down at the kitchen table.

      Nervously, she looked around. The place had been cleaned until it shone. Somehow the sterility of the room cowed her more than the dark foyer had. At least in her kitchen there were crumbs and used dishes next to the sink. Here there was nothing but an original set of Audubon prints over the fireplace to give the modern stainless steel palace some warmth.

      “The place looks great,” she began, taking a seat at the table. “I was really surprised to find you still owned it and...and were coming back.” She sounded like a fool. It was best for her to say her piece and get out. “But that’s not why I came here—”

      “I just came back to donate the place to the Natchez Trust. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

      It was a common practice in Natchez, where they had an embarrassment of riches in old antebellum mansions, for people to donate property to the Trust. Blackbird Hall was considered one of the America’s most-treasured properties, which was why it had been the perfect trophy house for the wealthy Griffin family. They owned properties all over the world, but Blackbird Hall had stood out as their little playhouse. Their Petit Trianon. It was also why Honor had never known the people who lived next door, until one summer, when the bored young man arrived to change her life forever.

      She looked at him. In the fluorescent light, he seemed that much more real to her, that much more frightening. He’d developed just a few lines in the corners of his eyes. Some might call them laugh lines, but looking at him now, the way his face was frozen in that barren expression, she didn’t think he’d spent much time laughing.

      “I won’t keep you. I just felt I had to tell you what’s been going on,” she blathered.

      “Go ahead.” He sat across from her at the table, leaving lots of space between them. It was almost as if he wanted the distance, to better study her, to better intimidate her.

      She took a deep breath. “I only came here to tell you that a