The Secret of Lies

By Barbara Forte Abate

Named a Finalist in the Indie Excellence Book Awards, 2nd place for Newbie Fiction-Royal Dragonfly Book Awards, Honorable Mention Eric Hoffer Book Awards, Finalist Global eBook Awards

Includes Book Club Discussion Guide

Propelled by an insurmountable sense of desperation, Stevie Burke is recklessly abandoning home, husband, and outwardly contented life under cover of night; at last resigned to defeat in her long battle against the tortured memories of the past.

Days later, lost and floundering in a dreary motel room without plan or destination, it is a long ago song playing on the radio that gently tugs Stevie back through the dust of remembrance. 1957 - The last summer spent at the ancient house overlooking the North Atlantic. A season which had unfolded with abundant promise, but then spiraled horribly out of control - torn apart by a shattering tragedy that leaves a family impossibly broken ...

"This is a coming-of-age story at its best."
"It was as if I could smell the sea air as the words unfolded from the page and danced around me. It was really breathtaking."
"An impressive and detailed story of love, loss, and betrayal ... "
"An amazingly accurate account of how many lives can be affected by one single moment in time, and how long the repercussions can last."
"The imagery and character depths capture the reader by both hands with the author not letting go, even at the very end."
"I recommend this book for anyone who appreciates the beauty of the written word and a story well-told."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Forte Abate
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311004727

Barbara Forte Abate

Barbara Forte Abate grew up in Millbrook New York, and currently lives in a creaky old house in Pennsylvania, where she makes up lies, doses them with truth, and titles it fiction. She is long time married to a very fine fellow and is the mother of four pretty fabulous children. Asleep Without Dreaming is Barbara's second novel. Her debut novel, The Secret of Lies, is coming soon to Smashwords!

Book preview

Prologue

Maybe it’s the raw brilliance of the pale white moon suspended in a hard black sky that somehow makes everything about this night feel harsher. Uglier. Failing to soften what now seems especially unconscionable.

But I pretend not to notice, cautiously opening the door of his old blue Buick and sliding into the drivers’ seat, ignoring the question that all at once arrives with the insistence of knuckles rapping on glass, as to what I will do if the car doesn’t start. As it is, every movement feels sharply critical, increasingly desperate, my insides tightly clenched around the fear that he will wake before I’m gone.

Over these past months I have become intimately versed to his sleep patterns and the varying depths of his slumber, yet even so, the acrid taste of unease clings like sour bile inside my mouth as I release the brake and the behemoth slowly drifts backward.

The movement proves inconsequential, the car stubbornly halting after rolling only a few feet. I slide two fingers into the breast pocket of my cotton blouse, feeling for the sharp edges of the single key I’ve slipped from his key ring; a hard knot of anxiety thickening like a log at the back of my throat as I say a brief silent prayer.

My heart clatters like a galloping horse inside my chest as the worn-out car chokes once … twice … then sputters to life. And the swell of my breathing–raspy and tight–throbs a passionate rhythm against my eardrums as I swing the vehicle around in the driveway; the sound of tires crunching over gravel striking against the jangled edges of my exposed nerves like gunshots.

I nose the car out toward the highway, drawn if by the taut threads of some imminent slow torture, daring only one final glance in the rearview mirror as the tires edge onto the pavement, watching just long enough to see the dark silhouette of the house swallowed up by night–only an instant before it is fully gone.

There is nothing stirring. Nothing reminiscent of actual life beyond the grunts emanating from the tired engine as the car passes slowly along the nodding streets. And despite my screaming urgency to be away from this place, I somehow manage to hold firm against the impulse to slam my foot down on the gas pedal, knowing it is essential that I not risk drawing attention to my leaving.

On Main Street, the only interruption to the ominous veil of darkness draped over the shadowy buildings is the harsh glare of artificial light spilling over the sidewalk outside Tootie’s all-night diner, and beyond that, the constant yellow blink of the traffic light suspended over the intersection like a fallen moon.

Beneath the smoky film of a descending mirage, the compacted residential streets have all but melted away into the darkness, and all at once a vast green sea of corn is rolling past in waves. The farmlands spread out to eclipse the landscape in every direction beyond the flat ribbon of concrete roadway; neatly quilted squares of fenced pasture held motionless in the shimmering wash of moonlight.

The openness of the interstate unfurls before me, unraveled like twine across what has always seemed an impenetrable barrier. The world lying beyond looks immense, the earth itself rising up to meet me.

It isn’t long in coming that my fleeting sense of elation begins to cower, readily surrendering to the superior press of guilt and shame. How can I really do this? He has done nothing to mark himself deserving of such a cruel betrayal. His one mortal fault has been to love me–clearly that is his sin. This solitary crime running parallel with my own fatal flaw, the one residing here inside me–poisonously tangled; deep enough that it can’t so easily be grasped and wrenched away.

And while I am aware that this cowardly act of desertion will mark me as wholly unforgivable, I just as clearly understand that there is no going back. Altogether certain that my determined choice to carve myself free from my life–slicing away both past and present–insures there can be no prodigal return.

I feel the tension gradually leaking away as the distance between Callicoon and my eventual destination shortens, my fingers at last relaxing their white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. I’ve left. Done the unthinkable and relinquished my life. Where I go doesn’t matter, my only concern that it be distant. Further than the past might ever seek to reclaim me.

I wonder where I am. A soft peachy glow is rising in the east and the subtle coming of morning’s light has altogether erased the sensation of reckless adventure which has successfully carried me through the night.

Fatigue pulls heavily at my eyelids. There are so many decisions to be made, yet my mind hangs suspended in a thick paste of confusion refusing to dissipate. And it is as if I have all at once forgotten how to breathe, frantic to squelch the panic rising like seawater into my throat. Where am I going? Do I know what I’m doing? Do I even have a plan?

The insistent warning blare of an automobile horn startles me back to full consciousness, slapping me sober to the recognition I’ve drifted into the wrong lane of traffic, an oncoming car swerving wildly to avoid collision.

Again the car’s engine has overheated and I find myself stranded alongside the highway, a flock of motorists blowing past (an occasional craned neck or fleeting glimpse in a rearview mirror the only indication of momentary interest), as I wait for the geyser of steam jetting from the radiator to subside. Not for the first time, I consider deserting the worthless hunk of tires and metal. Yet, despite my wildly floundering state, thankfully or not, reason prevails and I impatiently wait for the chance to move on.

Pulling over to fill the radiator at a gas station just up the road, I consider calling him from the payphone. I stand inside a dirty glass-walled booth at the edge of the parking lot, not bothering to pull the accordion door shut behind me. My eyes pass over the sequence of numbers necessary to place the call–watch my fingers dialing–then return the receiver to its cradle without depositing the required coins, knowing there is nothing I might say now which will explain any of this.

Another night is gone.

The afternoon has turned stormy, and after traveling for much of the day in a heedless driving rain, I pull into the near empty parking lot of a motel somewhere in Iowa.

The stale air closed within the room holds tightly to the pungent odor of mothballs and mustiness, but I hardly care. My only thought is for a shower and sleep. After three days on the road, I feel like a soiled garment balled up and forgotten at the bottom of a laundry hamper. And when I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror I am oddly frightened by the reflection of the stranger staring back: an expressionless, hollow-eyed entity watching from behind the glass.

The plain cotton sheets dressing the bed have absorbed the clammy dampness of the room. It is almost painfully cold and I curl into a tight ball beneath the thin blanket and wildly patterned bedspread, attempting to radiate the deadening chill from my limbs.

Outside the rain continues to pound against the roof and windows like an angry fist. From somewhere in the room comes the distinct sound of dripping water, but I don’t care to investigate. It is of little consequence to me whether this room, or even the entire earth, should wash away.

I squeeze my eyes tight against the dark, waiting, hoping, praying, for sleep. But my mind stubbornly refuses to be coaxed, the sheets tangling around me like determined arms as I pitch and roll uselessly.

Wide-eyed with restless exhaustion, I all at once remember the small plastic radio I’d earlier noticed on the scratched veneer table opposite the bed. I drop my bare feet to the cold linoleum floor and stumble forward in the darkness.

The channels crackle and hiss as I turn the dial and listen for intelligible sounds, my fingers hesitating over recognizable tones: disturbingly rousing polka, gospel music, a local news program ... until all at once, my body stiffens in mid-search. Wavering … fading … then clearing as I attempt to adjust the tuning, is a voice at once recognizable–Elvis Presley singing Love Me Tender.

A whirlwind of undetermined emotions stir and rise to the surface like a surging crowd, but the song is already finished and another voice immediately leaps out from the tiny speaker. Hold tight and we’ll be right back after these announcements, bringing you another hit, this one from 1957, when we continue in just a moment with more of your favorite golden oldies.

Golden oldie? Since when have the remembrances of my life become oldies? It was only twelve years ago when I’d been a gangly fourteen-year-old with a ponytail and a poodle skirt. Is it possible such an extraordinary chunk of time has found a way to slip away over the sill and out of reach? Could all of it have been so long ago? Become so far away?

Waves of emotion wash over me, deepening in intensity as they invade heart and mind with a precise edge of sharpened clarity. Those days have shaped my life; never quite forgotten days I’ve purposely packed away, trying hard to forget, even now, as they swell and swirl upwards in memories that break like the sea against the rocks.

The sea. Where it began and ended. The whole of my existence. All of it molded and shrewdly defined by the hand of the beautiful–insatiably hostile sea.

Chapter One

You look like a slimy old reptile sunning itself, I said, watching my sister Eleanor as she massaged tanning oil into her already slick limbs.

Better than a pale white pile of seagull shit.

Ha ha, so hilarious, I shot her a purposeful glare before rolled onto my stomach to fidget with the dial on the transistor radio we were forced to share.

Hey, I was listening to something, Eleanor turned her head, eyes aiming warning daggers from where she lay stretched-out on her beach towel.

Big deal. Your turn’s up now.

Baloney. It hasn’t been an hour yet.

Yeah–more like two.

You’re so full of crap, Stevie.

I ignored her, twisting the dial to WRR–not just my favorite station, but the only one I ever listened to. (The RR stood for rock and roll and played more Elvis Presley records than any other station.) I closed my eyes, wiggling my toes in the sand bordering the bottom edge of my painstakingly smoothed out beach towel, altogether content to be there beside the rolling sea; the sun licking hot radiant trails over my skin, Elvis gyrating behind my lids in a scene nearly painful in its perfection.

I don’t see what’s so great about that guy. He always has a look like he’s smelling something rotten.

You’re such a dope Eleanor. Elvis is a sensual person. That’s the way sensual people look.

Oh that’s just perfect–words from an expert. I think it’s more like gas pains.

I bit back my retort, rolling over to bake my front side as if I hadn’t heard. It was the same transparent ruse whenever Eleanor grew bored with sunbathing, baiting me into some stupid argument for the sole purpose of entertaining herself with my indignation. Despite my awareness of her tactics, there were still plenty of occasions when I leapt right in anyway, as eager and willing as she was to spar insults. It all depended on my mood, since I could just as easily ignore her, in which case she’d eventually give-up and pack herself back up to the house where she’d spend the rest of the afternoon in our bedroom with the door closed, devouring the dog-eared copies of Confidential magazine she kept under her mattress.

And while many of Eleanor’s habits remained accustomed and familiar, there were other recent changes to contend with as well. Most obvious was the marked alteration in her attitude once we’d arrived at the beach; namely, her ambitious perch on a pedestal even loftier than the one she customarily occupied whenever we were away from home. What’s more, she now preferred to be by herself much of the time and was annoyingly distracted when she wasn’t, as if the company of anyone other than herself was not only inconvenient, but incredibly boring. And I wondered if maybe her newborn attitude had something to do with her having grown breasts. They’d been a long time in coming and now that they’d emerged it appeared there was a lot for her to meditate over.

We’d been spending our summers with Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Calvin ever since Eleanor was twelve and I ten. Which meant that as soon as school let out in June we were anxious and ready to leave behind the family farm in Callicoon, Pennsylvania, traveling by train all the way to Long Island where our aunt and uncle spent the season in their great old summer house, a wondrous relic from another era, settled high on the rocks extending up from the sandy shoreline–a fading sea palace staring out defiantly over the North Atlantic.

As often as we’d mulled over it privately, Eleanor and I had never quite figured out how it was our consistently cautious parents surrendered to releasing us from Callicoon every summer (afraid that asking them directly could inevitably result in their questioning and rethinking the trip onto the side of permanent denial). Increasingly in recent years, we’d allowed ourselves to shamelessly eavesdrop on their quiet conversations, eager for some insight into their motivations. Yet we’d detected no obvious links between our vacations away from home and those private anxieties passed between them; concern for the Callicoon boys who’d gone off to fight the war in Korea; dismay over the ugly scenes of desegregation splintering races in the South and shockingly reeled into our living room via the nightly news once our father finally conceded to buy a television set–images of black school children harangued by white parents seeming all but impossible in a civilized world. And now, their increasing unease as a Senator by the name of McCarthy unleashed a formidable attack against the dangerous threat of Communists living and working amongst us–devious persons expert in their portrayal of ordinary citizens, whether it be someone’s jovial mailman, favorite movie star, or a neighbor’s eighty-year old grandmother. (And while neither of us were especially clear as to the actual nature of Communists or the particular threats such persons wielded, Eleanor and I nevertheless agreed Callicoon was ripe with suspicious characters, and had thus spent considerable hours composing lists of names to send on to Senator McCarthy for interrogation.)

Not until some years later would I find myself pausing to consider the possibility our mother and father’s purpose in allowing us to leave home every summer might’ve been intended as something other than simple merciful release from the tedium of everyday life on our farm. That maybe the trip had been permitted as a concession of another sort, allowing my sister and me to savor the last visages of youthful innocence before we’d grown too old to ignore the messy world churning out beyond Callicoon.

Nevertheless, whatever their reasoning, in the final weeks before school let out Eleanor and I diligently held ourselves as twin images of saintliness; both of us unanimous in the promise that no chance be taken which might jeopardize our leaving. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil–our indispensable commandments for the month of June.

Mom always cried when we left with Daddy for the train station; Eleanor and I making certain to work up a sprinkling of dutiful tears in return. Not the easiest task, since as much as Mom worried about our making the trip alone, we couldn’t have been more excited or fearless ourselves.

While Daddy insisted we stick together for the duration of the trip, Eleanor was of the opinion my presence was a crippling hindrance to her successful portrayal of whichever persona it was she’d chosen to affect for the length of our journey (An international spy on one occasion, orphaned heiress, famous actress, Queen Elizabeth’s royal cousin …), meaning she would immediately move to another seat comfortably removed from the one we’d shared at departure as soon as the train had safely left the station. Rather than being insulted over her desertion, I found her antics thoroughly amusing, having no sound inkling as to who she expected to deceive with her silly performances. Because from where I was sitting, she still looked like a dopey kid with far too many freckles.

Until shockingly, the year she turned fourteen, Eleanor actually managed to garner the attentions of a pimply faced boy sporting a swept back duck-tail and a rather ridiculous pink shirt. I wasted little time launching into my own best efforts to annoy her–snickering and rolling my eyes whenever I succeeded in catching the corner of her eye, wagging my tongue like a leering cartoon character, and patting my chest to simulate a throbbing heart–so by the time we’d reached Long Island station she was no longer speaking to me.

Now, Eleanor stood, picking up her bottle of tanning oil and propping her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. Don’t use up the batteries. She nudged my outstretched arm with her toe, peering at me over her cat eye lenses.

Get lost, I said turning away my face and closing my eyes.

Eleanor bent to retrieve her towel, deliberately shaking a shower of sand over my oil coated figure as she yanked it up and balled it under her arm.

Drop dead twice, jerk, I shouted after her retreating figure, though it was a curse bringing little satisfaction whatsoever.

While I undoubtedly loved my uncle as much as I ever had, I was nevertheless relieved now that he was only at the house on weekends. Unlike the summers previous when he’d commuted daily to his job in Manhattan, this year Uncle Cal had settled on a routine where he stayed the week at the apartment he and Aunt Smyrna kept in the city, not returning to the beach until late on Friday evenings.

Tonight Uncle Cal drank too much wine with supper again, the certitude of his inebriation readily apparent as his conversation became increasingly animated and jovial, his gestures broadly exaggerated.

He continued to fill his glass, his words growing a little too loud, his comments a little too sharp. A menacing undercurrent began to surface in his remarks to Aunt Smyrna as the meal dragged on, her countenance visibly stiffening with a ripening expression of embarrassment–or insult–though I had no certainty of which it might be. I’d never witnessed such bold animosity between them in past years and I found it both puzzling and increasingly unnerving now.

Supper at last concluded, we retreated outside to lounge amongst the comfortable collection of old wicker chairs scattered about on the wide porch jutting out from the front of the house like a toothy grin.

Aunt Smyrna handed us each a comfortably worn blanket to wrap ourselves against the damp chill rolling up from the crashing sea. The North Atlantic was frigid yet, and although Eleanor and I had darted in and out of the water when we’d gone down to the beach that morning–high-pitched squeals punctuating the dash from chilly ocean back to warm sand–we’d spent the majority of our time stretched out in the sun.

Uncle Cal grumbled under his breath as he attempted to light his pipe. Despite the protective shield of his cupped hand, the far reaching breeze waving up from the ocean teasingly whisked away each weak flame birthed by a succession of angry match strikes, until finally a subtle orange glow appeared successful in the bowl of packed tobacco.

Why don’t you live here in the winter, too, Aunt Smyrna? I asked, after a while.

The same reason nobody does. This place is positively arctic in the winter months.

But isn’t it sort of beautiful too? The ocean’s never really ugly, is it?

Well yes, I suppose it’s still pretty–but lonely. By the end of September all the summer people are gone and I’m ready to leave too. I’ve never been one for isolation.

You’re such a ninny, Stevie, Eleanor scoffed. Who’d want to stay out here wrapped up like an Eskimo Pie when they can spend the entire winter in New York shopping and going to parties?

How about you mind your own business, El.

If you didn’t say such stu–

Uncle Cal reached out and rapped his pipe sharply against the porch railing, a signal we received as a distinct motion to cease our bickering, although it was just as likely he was merely emptying the spent remains of tobacco from the bowl.

Eleanor curled a corner of her lip, glared at me, the lopsided smirk lending a menacing air to her expression. I narrowed my eyes in a silent rebuttal, sticking out my tongue before looking away.

Our uncle stood, carelessly laying aside his pipe on a table strewn with magazines. He’d remained purposely detached from the rest of us all evening and I’d nearly forgotten his presence, easily assuming his mental seclusion was nothing more complicated then the effects of all he’d had to drink before, during, and after our meal.

I’m going for a walk, he said, turning his back on Aunt Smyrna. Don’t bother to leave the light on, it attracts moths.

She didn’t answer, the three of us watching in silence as he moved down the weathered flight of steps leading to the empty beach below.

El? Why do you think he doesn’t love her anymore? I whispered hoarsely through the darkness, hours later, after we’d gone upstairs to bed.

We’d shared the same spacious room for all the summers we’d spent here. Eleanor always insisting on sleeping in the twin bed located on the far side of the room where two large windows looked out over the ocean, relegating me to accept the matching bed positioned opposite on the disappointingly windowless side of the room.

What are you talking about?

Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Cal … he doesn’t love her anymore.

What makes you think he doesn’t love her?

He isn’t very nice to her. Not like he used to be.

Well married people get like that sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.

No, this is different, I persisted. Something’s changed.

She didn’t reply and I wondered if she’d gone to sleep.

El—

She rolled over, offering her back in a delayed response to my statement.

You need to stop looking for things that aren’t there, Stevie.

It seemed I’d only just fallen asleep when my lids vaulted open, alerted by the dull sound of footsteps treading across the porch, followed by the careless slam of the screen door, and I knew it would be Uncle Cal finally returned from his walk on the beach.

I tipped my head toward the soft light glowing from the round-faced clock on Eleanor’s night table. Nearly midnight. In a few more hours he’d be leaving again to catch the train back to the city and the solace of untroubled tranquility would once more be returned to our daily routine. Excepting of course, Eleanor would still be here in the morning.

Chapter Two

June was gone, July sweeping in rapidly to replace warm languid days with a brutal stretch of bright hot scorchers melting one into another, distinguished only by the flurried arrival of the summer people.

The sun glared down mercilessly from its noontime position in a cloudless blue sky, and I paused to push the damp fringe of my bangs away from my now thoroughly cooked forehead. I’d been climbing among the dunes for hours with Eleanor in search of beach roses, leggy clusters of Queen Anne’s lace, and purple thistle, with the intent of creating an enormous bouquet for Aunt Smyrna.

It’s too hot, I complained, not for the first time. Let’s go back now and swim.

Yeah, okay. I’m hot, too. We have plenty of flowers now anyway.

We started back along the beach heading toward Aunt Smyrna’s house, our arms overflowing with an abundance of floral treasure.

You know, El, I was just thinking ... what if she’s allergic to all this stuff?

She isn’t. Don’t you remember how Uncle Cal used to bring her flowers all the time?

Yeah, but I think these might be more like weeds.

They’re not weeds. These are all native flowers. They– she said, then, Hey, who’s that? I’ve never seen him around here, have you?

I turned my head, following Eleanor’s bold stare–one eye squinted like a marksman aiming for a bull’s-eye as she zeroed in on the teenage boy striding toward us along the shoreline.

Yummy, he’s positively scrumptious, don’t you think?

I shrugged, not much interested in the opposite sex that particular year, which was just as well, since it was unlikely Eleanor’s hearty appetite could ever be adjusted to accommodate feeding both of us if I had been. It wasn’t a gross exaggeration to say pretty much anyone of the male species was of some fascination to her–so much so I felt a definite sense of embarrassment climbing across my face like a rash as my eyes followed her shamelessly obvious interest in the boy now striding in direct line of her radar, a fishing pole laid against his shoulder and a large bucket gripped in one hand.

His eyes shifted briefly in our direction, then abruptly looked away, directing his gaze straight ahead and up the beach as though heading into an invisible corridor.

Eleanor apparently didn’t sense the rebuff as I had, and when he was within speaking range she slowed her steps and smiled engagingly. Good afternoon, she said, having recently come to the conclusion ‘good afternoon’ was far more sophisticated in comparison to a generic ‘hey’ or ‘hi’ used by less cultured mortals. How’s the fishing? Anything biting?

He continued past without so much as a blink of acknowledgement, the resulting expression of stunned surprise slapped across Eleanor’s features in a swath of florid pink nothing less than hilarious.

Can you believe that? What a creep. Like he’s Marlon Brando or something, she hissed, staring over her shoulder at the soldierly line of his retreating back. Jerk.

Goodness gracious, El, but if that doesn’t beat all, I giggled, roundly enjoying her irritation, full well knowing her intention had been to impress me as much as him. "Looks like you’d better go back and reread the chapter about enticing a man. You must’ve missed a couple essential paragraphs or something.

Yeah, well, charm and good manners are a waste on idiots like that.

I glanced up to see Aunt Smyrna emerge from the house above us and drag a wicker chaise into a path of sunlight striping the porch. And I darted ahead, eager to reach her with my armload of flowers before Eleanor did–the rude boy already forgotten.

The next day found us up early sipping hot coffee on the porch with Aunt Smyrna, anxious for the morning chill to dissipate. The sea was calm and flat. The sky that particular shade of blue which only ever seems to manifest during the summer months. No clouds. The orange ball of the sun, the only stain in the sky’s otherwise spotless perfection.

I helped myself to a second cup, feeling almost ridiculously satisfied at the opportunity to share in this adult morning ritual. Back home in Callicoon we weren’t allowed to drink coffee, but Aunt Smyrna readily allowed

Reviews for The Secret of Lies

[skstiles612 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think one thing that made this such a great book was the ending came first. The story begins with Stevie, the main character leaving her husband.We are taken back in time to the events that led up to Stevie running away.Stevie and her sister Eleanor grew up on a farm. They spent their summers with their aunt and uncle on Long Island. They lived for this. This was the first place I could identify with the characters. It wasn’t Long Island for me but the weekends in town with my cousin was time away from the farm for me to enjoy. The camping, etc. Like all young people Eleanor and Stevie grew up and began to get interested in boys. Stevie meets a young deaf boy who gives her even more reason to look forward to going back to her aunt and uncle’s house each summer. The year Stevie is 17 something terrible happens. Stevie’s aunt convinces her that it would be best if she didn’t tell her parents the truth. She needed to just forget about what happened. Years go by and she has withdrawn within herself. She doesn’t trust people anymore. The lie eats away at her. Finally she meets Ash Waterman. He works on her family’s farm. He knows how to reach her and she opens her heart to him. But, sometimes the lies we keep inside become to much to handle and the only way out is to run away from the very people who could probably help us. This is exactly what Stevie does. This is a book I would recommend to everyone. We’ve all gone through something in our life where we felt no one understood us or the situation. This is a great emotional read.

[theseprettywords · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Originally reviewed on These Pretty Words.

This review is a really tough one for me. I should warn you readers in advance – my feelings about this book run the gamut, so you'll need to grant me a bit of leeway here.

The Secret of Lies starts out with the main character, Stevie, leaving her husband in an emotional mess. The summary is clear on this; she leaves and ends up in a hotel remembering a summer from her youth. That much I got through and enjoyed.

As soon as we readers were brought back in time to the years leading up to the horrific event that forever changed our main character I started noticing problems. The characters were sometimes almost intentionally clueless, the time jumping was unclear and confusing, and the overall arc of the story was slow to build. Some chapters completely sucked me in and made me want to try and finish the book in one sitting while others left me scratching my head and almost skimming bits.

That being said, I really enjoyed Barbara's writing style. Her words flowed well and her descriptions were bright and clear without bogging down the reader. This isn't a book whose summary or cover art grabs my attention and begs me to read it, yet I'm so glad I picked it up and made it through the (too long) novel. True, there were some insanely long sentences in the book, the pacing was very stop and go, and a couple time-flow issues forced me to go back and reread parts, but overall the writing was engaging and something about the main character made me want to see how her life played out.

I don't see this being an extremely popular book (though I have a few friends I think would really enjoy it) but I will definitely be keeping an eye out for more of Barbara's work. Something about her writing style spoke to me and, with the help of a better editor, I think she has real potential to write something absolutely fantastic.

[jamesterck · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I wasn't sure what to expect with this book, but I was very intrigued by the synopsis and I thought it would definitely be worth my time to read it. The story starts out with Stevie, the main character, deciding to leave her husband. It's immediately apparent that she's dealing with some very personal demons, but they are not revealed right away. Instead, we are taken back 12 years to when the troubles began, which give a very clear (and at times disturbing) picture of some pivotal moments in Stevie's life. We are then able to follow her through the years to see what ultimately leads her down the path that she chooses. I really liked Stevie. She was incredibly easy to connect with and relate to; at times she was a bit naive, but her heart was always in the right place. I would also say she is incredibly strong, because she ends up going through a lot in that time period, yet somehow she perseveres, although she certainly could have benefited from some therapy. Stevie has an older sister, Eleanor, who tries to act more worldly and sophisticated than she really is. The first part of the book follows the girls as they spend their summers at their aunt and uncle's house by the beach; even though they fight a lot, as I'm sure most teenage sisters do, it's obvious that they care a lot for each other. Eleanor was exasperating at times, but when she dropped her "I'm more mature than you" attitude she was actually very likable. There are two boys/men that come into Stevie's life. First is Jake, with whom both Stevie and Eleanor become mildly obsessed with during their summer vacations. It's Stevie and her warm, open personality that win Jake over, and as the years pass they begin to have more serious feelings for each other. Then there's Ash, who she ends up meeting several years down the road; she claims to hate him at first, although it's a case of "she doth protest too much" since there is obvious chemistry between them. I really liked both guys, but they were each a part of a different part of Stevie's life. By the time she met Ash, she was a much different person. I didn't even brush the surface of the events that changed her life, but I don't want to give any major plot points so you will have to read it for yourself to find out what happens! The only negative I could say about this book is that there are times when the story skips forward months or years, and it's confusing as to how much time has passed. I wouldn't say it's very distracting, but it did make me pause and wonder how much time was passing between major events. I truly enjoyed this book, from the well written characters to the intriguing story line. Some of main plot events were obvious and expected; others caught me completely off guard. I had trouble putting it down, anxious to find out what was going to happen next in Stevie's life. I'm glad I got the chance to read this one; I think there's a good balance of drama, romance, humor, and secrets to please almost every reader.

[carpe_librum · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Secret of Lies opens with Stevie (Stephanie) running from her home on the farm and her new husband; believing it's too late to turn back. Stevie's on the road and staying at a motel, when she begins to think about the past. The dreary surrounds of the motel fades away and the reader is transported to Stevie's teenage years in the mid '50s with her older sister Eleanor. Each summer Eleanor and Stevie stayed with their Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Calvin in their beach house on the coast. I enjoyed reading about Stevie's summers at the beach, particularly about the friendship developing over the years with fellow summer visitor and deaf neighbour Jake. These early chapters are carefree and take on a coming-of-age tone as Stevie and Eleanor live out what appears to be a 'normal' sisterly relationship. However; their relationship begins to drift away one summer when Eleanor is 17, and what occurs in that summer will haunt Stevie and her family for years to come. I thoroughly enjoyed The Secret of Lies, and towards the end, had completely forgotten that Stevie had run away and that this was a flashback; so immersed was I in the story. The circumstances of the 'event' (no spoilers here) and the lies that resulted - from which the novel takes it's title - were well written. There was a small mystery going on in the novel, and although I did figure it out (this never happens to me, so I was pretty pleased) there is a slightly ambiguous ending, which is appropriate. My only criticism of the writing was the author's misuse of the word 'then' in place of 'than'. It occurred on almost every page and should have been corrected at the edit stage. Although Stevie's mother was a minor character, she was a strong and hard-working woman and I admired her fortitude and resilience. Aunt Smyrna was a significant character in the novel and her gradual decline in the first half of the book was difficult. When juxtaposed with Eleanor's character - youthful, beautiful, falling in love - it made for quite a clash and interesting reading. I certainly admire the author's ability to write strong, individual characters; each with their own complexities. This was the story of a family torn apart by lies in a time where secrets were better kept hidden. But it is also the story of how Stevie navigates her way through the grief to find love and forgiveness. I thoroughly recommend it!

[quirkygurl · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I’ve been reading a lot of genre fiction lately and it was nice to nibble on a novel with literary flavorings for a change. I couldn’t have picked a better book than The Secret Of Lies to satisfy my craving for lyrical writing, finely-crafted prose and a compelling, intricate plot.I’ll spare you the plotting, because in my opinion that is what blurbs are for. I will say that the tale spans several years- from the innocence of adolescence to the reality of adulthood. The natural progression of the novel rang true; meaning that the author has a gift with writing from a young-adult perspective as well as with the clarity of time and experience. The descriptive prose was not overdone, nor left short. Barbara Forte Abate is a writer I expect to see more of as her work reminds me of Anita Shreve or Jodi Picoult– both in terms of expertly crafted writing and with her way of seeing humanity with all its flaws, laying them open for the reader to draw their own conclusions.The Secret of Lies is a wonderful, moving novel and I’d highly recommend it to anyone that enjoys literary or family dramas with a bent towards writers like Picoult, Shreve or many previous Oprah Book Club selections !

[ziff130 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Stevie Burke had the summer everyone dreams of; at least, it started off that way and then everything changed. An adult now, she runs away from her husband to a hotel room where she tries to piece together her past and remembers the first boy she loved, sister she felt she disappointed and family she watched crumble all by the end of that "perfect" summer. Now, grown and married she must figure out how to overcome the past and look to the future before it destroys her present.The Secret of Lies was an incredible book. I normally only really get sucked into fantasy or paranormal romance but this book I started Sunday night and finished it Monday morning. And that is while taking care of two small children. I could not get my nose out of this book. Abate's prose is amazing. She causes the words to form a picture that just melts into your brain so you can sense everything that is happening. She does an amazing job.

[ljldml · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was immediately drawn to this book. It is an emotionally dark and intense novel about coming of age, lies, betrayal, guilt, and hopefully acceptance. The characters pull at your heartstrings. The writing is so rich you feel as if you personally know these people. Some you will love, some you will pity, and some you will abhor. The main character is Stephanie Burke. She is an incredible person. She has a story that must be told. Ms Forte Abate does a masterful job telling Stevie's tale. It was the summer of 1957. Stevie and her sister Eleanor are spending the summer in Long Island with their Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Cal. Smyrna is the sister of the girls mother, Libby. They spend each summer in Long Island. This summer is different. Eleanor is 17 and Stevie 5. The girls are growing up. No longer are they youngsters content with swimming in the water and running around the beach. Eleanor, at 17, is on the verge of womanhood. The unthinkable happens, tragedy strikes, lies and deceit become the norm. Events occur that scar Stevie for life. She feels a guilt that is not hers to carry. Salvation comes years later in the form of one young man named Ash waterman. He loves Stevie not in spite of, but because of who she is. A soul in need of help. A woman seeking forgiveness and understanding for a crime that was not hers. Today she would be in therapy to overcome her issues. These events are occurring in the early 60's. Therapy wasn't the 'thing to do' back then. The ending of the book (no spoilers here) is left open enough that a possible sequel can be written. I would love to see Stevie and Ash work through everything together. I would love to see Stevie write the names and baptism dates of their children in the family Bible. A fantastic book. No, it did not contain sex, drugs, vampires, werewolves, or demi gods. (There was some rock and roll in the form of Elvis Presley. ) It was an emotional book about growing.

[annettebagley4martin · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A novel by Barbara Forte AbateThe Secret of Lies is a powerful novel set on the Atlantic coast in 1957. Stevie Burke, a young teenage girl, is faced with the ugly truth that people are not always who they seem to be, even though you may have spent your entire life around them.The memories of the summer of ’57, the year her life changed forever, dog Stevie’s heels like a shadow. Years later, in an attempt to outrun them, she finds herself miles from home and at a loss for words when the urge to call the very person she has run from, has her reaching for the phone.Ash Waterman, her husband, and the one living person that loves her despite herself, has kept her anchored in reality, yet she finds herself looking for a means of escape. Will he understand her need to break free and attempt to outrun the wave of memories that threaten to crash down upon her?Be prepared as this novel sweeps you away as strongly as the undertow at sea. You will find yourself so thoroughly engrossed in Stevie’s recollection, it will feel as if you have lived a lifetime as an invisible onlooker into her life.