Can you keep a secret?

423 Words Suzanne Baldacchino

Wednesday nights were sacred.

Not hymn-singing, incense-burning sacred — unless you counted the monthly uncorking of a bottle of Chardonnay as a kind of holy communion — but sacred in the deeply human, stubbornly unshakable sense of ritual.

For the last ten years, on the first Wednesday of each month, the same five people had gathered at the same corner table at La Sicilia wine bar. The table was tucked beneath a low brass lamp that cast a warm, honeyed glow over their faces, softening lines, smoothing flaws. The air was always heavy with the smell of rosemary bread and something slow cooking in Gino’s kitchen.

Francesca always arrived first, because she always wanted to sit facing the entrance. She’d be in a scarf worth more than most people’s rent, her black curls tumbling like she’d just stepped out of a perfume advert. Francesca could make reading a bus timetable sound dramatic; gossip, in her hands, became gospel.

Rita usually followed, punctual to the minute, a neat trench coat and a handbag that rattled faintly with emergency supplies — plasters, tissues, mints, an umbrella for a sunny day “just in case.” She was calm, considered, and liked her wine measured, both in pour and in effect.

Marco swept in with a smile sharp enough to cut glass, hair immaculately tousled as though styled by the wind (and an expensive barber). He wore cologne you could smell before you saw him and carried himself like the hero in a film no one else had seen.

Elena arrived quietly, slipping into her seat with cool, deliberate grace. Her eyes missed nothing, but she gave away less than a locked safe. She could listen for an hour without revealing what she thought, and when she did speak, her voice was so calm people tended to believe her instantly.

Tommy was last, without fail. Not because he was late but simply unhurried. His sweaters always looked soft enough to sleep in, and he spoke in low, even tones that never quite gave you more than you asked for.

“What’s said on Wednesday,” Francesca intoned, as she always did, “stays on Wednesday.” She liked to say it with the gravity of a judge sentencing someone to life without parole.

The irony, of course, was that Francesca herself had the loosest lips in the group. Her idea of keeping a secret was telling only three people instead of the entire island.

This particular Wednesday, the table was already on its second bottle of wine before the main course had even arrived. For dessert, instead of tiramisu, Francesca had ordered a bottle of limoncello “just to warm us up.”

And warm limoncello, as any seasoned drinker knows, is the natural predator of discretion.

It started innocently enough. Francesca, swirling the last sip in her glass, leaned forward with the kind of conspiratorial grin that meant trouble.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve been keeping a massive secret.”

Marco, ever the performer, clutched his chest. “From us? The sacred table?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, relishing the moment. “From everyone.”

Rita gave her a level look, the one she used on her nephews when they insisted they hadn’t eaten the last biscuit. “Francesca, you can’t keep a plant alive, let alone a secret.”

“This one, I have kept,” Francesca said proudly. “For months.”

Elena sipped her wine without expression. “Do you want us to promise not to tell?”

“Oh, don’t bother.” Francesca waved a dismissive hand. “You’d find out eventually anyway.”

And then, like a magician pulling the cloth from a table set for disaster:

“I’ve been seeing two men. At the same time.”

The table went dead quiet.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by Marco spitting out his wine. “Two men?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, grinning. “And they’re both married.”

Tommy, who had been cutting his tiramisu with the precision of a surgeon, looked up. “To each other?”

“No.” Francesca laughed. “To women we all know. One’s married to the pharmacist. The other…” She lowered her voice until it was practically a vibration. “…Rita’s dentist.”

Rita’s wineglass hovered mid-air, untouched.

“Francesca,” Marco said slowly, “you are a walking soap opera.”

“I’m telling you because I needed to get it off my chest,” Francesca insisted. “You lot are my vault.”

Marco smirked. “Your vault has a leaky tap.”

The others laughed — except Rita. She placed her glass down with the same precision she used to measure flour for cake.

“Speaking of vaults,” Rita said evenly, “maybe I should share something too.”

Francesca’s eyes widened like a cat spotting a bird. “Go on.”

Marco frowned. “Rita, you don’t have to…”

“No, I think I do.” Rita looked at each of them in turn. “Remember last month, when my husband said he had that work trip to London?”

Everyone nodded.

“Well… he didn’t go to London.”

Four pairs of eyes leaned in.

“He went to my sister’s flat,” Rita said. “Because we were… taking a break.”

Marco’s expression shifted like a man realising he’d wandered into the wrong meeting. “Wait. Your sister? Rebecca? The one who lives in Sliema. In the High-Rise block? That’s…” He stopped, mid-sentence.

“What?” Rita’s voice sharpened.

“That’s where I was that week,” Marco admitted. “In her building. I’d just been fired. Told everyone I had a conference in Spain, but really… I hid in my cousin’s empty flat at the High-Rise. Ate takeaway. Stared at the ceiling. Thought about… things.”

Francesca slapped the table. “So, Rita’s husband was hiding in Sliema… while Marco was hiding in Sliema?”

Rita’s mouth twitched. “Yes. And somehow, that’s still not the weirdest part of this evening.”

The limoncello had burned away any remaining restraint.

“Elena,” Francesca said suddenly, “you’ve been far too quiet. Spill.”

Elena set her glass down, her movements as neat as origami. “You know the anonymous gossip column in the Coastal Gazette?”

Four heads nodded.

“That’s me.”

The reaction was immediate and loud.

“You’re ‘The Siren’?” Francesca shrieked.

“I knew it,” Marco said. “You have that… tone.”

“Yes,” Elena said evenly. “And where do you think I get my best material?”

They stared at her.

“From here,” she said simply. “Wednesday night is my goldmine.”

Rita’s mouth fell open. “You’ve been publishing our private conversations?”

“I change the names,” Elena said. “Mostly.”

Francesca nearly leapt out of her chair. “Mostly? You wrote about a woman in a red dress having an affair with a doctor”

“Yes.” Elena’s lips curved into the tiniest smile. “And you wore that red dress here last month.”

The table sat in heavy silence, the weight of ten years’ trust wobbling like an overloaded cake.

Francesca broke it with a brittle laugh. “This is the most dysfunctional vault I’ve ever seen.”

“Which brings us,” Marco said, swivelling toward Tommy, “to you.”

Tommy, who had been quietly demolishing a slice of tiramisu, looked up. “Me?”

“Yes,” Rita said. “Everyone’s confessed something. What’s yours?”

Tommy smiled faintly. “I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has one,” Francesca insisted.

“Not me. I’m boring.”

They pressed him for the rest of the night, but Tommy just kept eating, unfazed, as though the conversation was about the weather.

Two days later, Rita was at the open-air market, weighing lemons, when she saw him.

Tommy.

He wasn’t alone.

He was holding hands with a tall, striking man.

That wasn’t shocking. What was shocking was the familiarity. The tilt of his head, the sweep of his curls — like a male echo of Francesca. Rita had seen it once before, years ago, in a framed photo on Francesca’s mantel. Francesca had laughed it off then, calling him “just an old family friend.” Rita had believed her. Until now.

Francesca’s brother.

The same brother Francesca had sworn didn’t exist.

The next Wednesday get-together, Rita didn’t even wait for the menus.

“So,” she said sweetly as Tommy sat down, “how’s Francesca’s brother?”

Francesca froze mid-pour. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Tommy said, calm as ever.

Marco’s eyes went wide. “Francesca — you told us you were an only child!”

“I… don’t talk about him,” Francesca said, colour rising in her cheeks.

“Why not?” Elena asked.

“Because… It’s a long story…” Francesca admitted, “I asked Tommy to keep it a secret.”

The table fell into an awed silence.

They had just realised the most humbling truth of all: Tommy was the only one in the group who could actually keep a secret.

He took a slow sip of his Chardonnay, his eyes glinting with the faintest trace of mischief, and said,

“Whoever said I can’t keep a secret?”

The End