Those Secrets We Keep - Softcover

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Emily Liebert is the award-winning author of Some Women, Those Secrets We Keep, When We Fall, You Knew Me When, and the nonfiction book Facebook Fairytales. She’s been featured on Today, The Rachael Ray Show, and Anderson Cooper 360°, and in InStyle, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and the Chicago Tribune, among other national media outlets.

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ALSO BY EMILY LIEBERT

acknowledgments

chapter 1

Sloane gripped the steering wheel with clenched fists as her mind darted furiously from one direction to the next. Had she remembered to pack absolutely everything Maddie would need at sleepaway camp? She’d included enough clean underwear for four weeks without laundry and had reminded her to reapply sunscreen every two hours and always after swimming. Naturally, her daughter had rolled her eyes in response to what Sloane perceived as responsible parenting. Still, aside from time spent at Grandma’s house, it was Maddie’s first time away from home for more than a few days. Sloane couldn’t help but feel anxious.

Her unease had tripled since she’d left Maddie at camp, even though her daughter had shown no signs of separation anxiety. As she’d pulled away from Maddie’s cabin, watching her daughter’s wide smile grow smaller in her rearview mirror, Sloane’s stomach had roiled. It felt like another loss. Not the same kind of loss as the one she’d been struggling to recover from lately, but a significant loss nonetheless. She wasn’t sure why.

In springtime, when she’d filled out the enrollment paperwork, she’d been so full of anticipation for everything Maddie would experience on her own during summer camp. All the friends she would make. The new skills she would learn. And Maddie had seemed happy, possibly even overjoyed at the prospect of four weeks without her mother and father to answer to. Four weeks of freedom.

Shouldn’t Sloane feel the same way? No lunches to pack. No negotiations over appropriate attire for a pre-tween-aged girl to wear to school. And no threat of boys calling past ten o’clock at night to discuss “homework.”

Yet, as soon as the gate to Camp Pinewood had closed behind her car, she’d felt vacant. Fretful. Now she and Eddie would have the summer to themselves. They could go out to see a movie without having to secure a babysitter. They could eat dinner naked on the back porch if they wanted—not that they’d ever do something like that. They could have sex with the bedroom door open. Weren’t those the sorts of things that were meant to be going through her mind? Weren’t those the sorts of things that married couples whose only child would be absent from their lives for a whole month were supposed to anticipate with great excitement? Yet Sloane had to acknowledge that she felt quite the opposite. Her daughter’s departure had brought on a rush of unsettling emotions. Empty. Unfulfilled. If she was being honest, all the emotions were familiar companions. Things hadn’t been right for Sloane for some time.

Her mother had insisted on meeting for lunch as soon as she got back to Brookline. Sloane tried to seize on the idea of lunch with her mother as a distraction for her morose thoughts, but she would no doubt receive the third degree about how Maddie had taken to her new surroundings. She’d have to be careful not to let her misgivings show, lest her mother think there was anything wrong with Camp Pinewood. She’d indicated more than once that she thought four weeks was an awfully long time for a nine-year-old to be away from home but in typical fashion had conceded, albeit reluctantly, with a hearty dose of guilt, that it was Sloane and Eddie’s decision to make. “Who am I to say? I’m just her grandmother. What do I know?”

Of course the very last thing Sloane felt like doing at the moment, on the heels of a three-hour drive, was being on the receiving end of her mother’s barrage of questions. Thankfully, her mom had invited Sloane’s aunt to join them. With any luck that would divert the focus from her.

Sloane pulled into the parking lot of an off-the-beaten-path vegan restaurant, which must have been selected by her aunt. Apparently, they had the best tofu curry this side of South Asia. Period. Who could argue with that? She pushed in the front door and immediately homed in on her mother flailing her arms in the far corner to wave her over to their table. A blind man could have spotted her.

“How’s my baby girl?” Sloane’s mother swooped in, kissing her forcefully on either side of the mouth as she crushed her cheeks between her fleshy palms.

“I’m fine, Mom. That hurts.” She shuffled into the booth and reached for a napkin to eradicate the tangerine lip stain she’d undoubtedly been branded with. Twice.

“You need to put some meat on those bones.” Her mother surveyed her with one eye half-closed, taking in everything from her faded purple Crocs with their flattened backs to the Red Sox baseball cap she was wearing to conceal her day-three-without-washing chestnut brown hair. “Did you lose more weight?”

“I don’t know, Mom.” She did know. And she had. Ten pounds in the past month alone. Quite unintentionally. “I’m just stressed-out, I guess.”

“You kids these days and your stress.”

“I have a lot on my mind is all.” Sloane spread her menu in front of her face, intending it as a makeshift barrier. As if that would discourage her mother’s third degree. Margaret Allen was not one to be discouraged. Ever. As a devout Catholic—somewhat ironic in light of her overbearing and overfeeding tendencies; she would have made a great Jew—as well as a lifetime busybody, her claim to fame was that she hadn’t missed a Sunday at church in thirty-six years. Not even when she’d given birth to Sloane’s younger sister, Amy, on a Saturday afternoon. God couldn’t have forgiven that?

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not really in the mood to talk about it now.” Sloane fidgeted with the frayed corner of her menu.

“Well, fine. Then how’s my granddaughter? Did she cry when you left?”

“No, Mom. She’s nine.”

“So? You bawled for three hours when Daddy and I dropped you at day camp.”

“I did not.”

“You most certainly did.” She nodded, as if she’d never been as sure of something in her entire life. “Do they feed her at this camp?”

“No, they starve them.”

“Very funny. Maddie is skinny enough. I hope she doesn’t lose weight.” She paused. “I’m going to send her a care package with some of my brownies.”

“They don’t allow them to receive food in the mail, Mom.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s the rule.” Sloane shrugged.

“Well, it sounds like jail to me.”

“It’s not jail, Mom. Believe me, jail doesn’t cost a fortune.”

“Well, hello, ladies!” Sloane’s aunt floated toward them, her commanding voice drawing the attention of almost everyone in their vicinity, despite the fact that Annabel Winston was a woman whose presence needed no verbal introduction.

Today, she was bedecked in a caftan that looked more suitable for Woodstock circa 1969 than present-day Brookline, Massachusetts, with its swirling rainbow of colors and coordinated handkerchief-inspired headband—if you could really call the tattered piece of fabric tied across her forehead a headband. During Sloane’s childhood and well into her teenage years, her aunt had represented everything her mother wasn’t. She would descend upon their modest New England saltbox house bearing exotic gifts, such as the worry dolls from Guatemala she’d instructed Sloane to place under her pillow before going to bed to ensure a good...