Her tone dropped even lower, making me lean closer to hear it.
“Why, what was wrong?” I asked.
“She didn’t say,” Melanie said. “She just looked as though she were dreading the next step. I was convinced for a while that she’d killed herself. She looked so… determined. I invited her to join us, but she waved me off and never looked back.” She shook her head. “It was at that epic party your folks threw for our last dig day with that delicious Professor Tremonti.”
I stared at her, shocked. Allison had been at our stables that night? I hadn’t seen her and it was never mentioned in any of the reports. But then, why would it be? It was a week before her disappearance was even reported, and it was not unusual for her to go riding at dusk.
Still, it was chilling to think that she’d been there on that night of mixed highs and lows. While I was growing to hate Amber, Joe Tremonti’s would-be-bride, the ill-fated Allison was taking her last ride on our grounds.
Melanie obviously felt the same way.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” she said. “You just never know, from one moment to the next, when fate will change everything.”
***
I went home at noon to help Lindsay and Aunt Susanna with the riders at the camp, but my mind wasn’t on them or their proper riding techniques.
Melanie’s words haunted me. I couldn’t believe that Allison had been there, on the grounds, and I hadn’t known. There was no reason why I should have: she’d contacted either Aunt Susanna or Uncle Michael for permission to ride, and I would have been far too distracted by the party and my crush to pay attention. What Melanie said about Allison’s fateful attitude I dismissed as hindsight colored by later events, but what I couldn’t dismiss was the idea that, if we had been paying more attention, the situation might not have ended as it did.
The girls were too busy riding to notice my distraction, but Aunt Susanna and Lindsay both commented on it.
“Something worrying you?” Lindsay asked when the girls were busy cleaning their tack.
I lied and said no, but Aunt Susanna asked, “Missing Greg? I know I am – the house doesn’t seem the same without his noise.”
“No,” I said sharply, and left the stables before they could respond.
I went into my room to change, then down into the kitchen to grab a snack. It was only about 3:30 and a long, unusually empty afternoon stretched out before me. I was nervous and irritable, and I suppose it was inevitable that I should wind up in the office.
Alexander’s letter was in the safe, of course, but copies of it lay scattered about Gregory’s workplace along with notes and books and hymnals. My desk alone was free of the clutter, an island of the present amid the sea of the worn past. It seemed out of place.
I tried to pay a few bills, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wondered what Gregory was learning in Charleston, annoyed that he wasn’t calling me with updates, and annoyed with myself for wanting him to call. My attention wandered from my accounting software to my cell phone, but it lay by my hand silently, receiving messages from neither Gregory nor Joe.
When the silence and stillness grew too much for me, I gave up on the bills. I turned on some music to cover the silence, and began to tidy the room. I straightened the shelves and the papers on the desk, and began to clear the floor of the overflowing stacks. As I worked, the music and the activity began to work on my mood, soothing my troubled thoughts and relaxing my tension.
The corner of the room with Uncle Michael’s old chair seemed to have been devoted to code-breaking, for it was piled high with old hymnals, devotionals, copies from Mary’s old diary and Alexander’s letters, well-covered with Gregory’s penciled notes.
There were more books than I remembered Uncle Michael having, and I wondered how many Gregory had brought into the house. I loaded them onto the nearby shelves, double-stacking them in some places.
With the books out of the way, I went to work on the paper. I couldn’t help but start reading snatches from the letters as I cleaned, reading until eventually I was sitting on the floor, paging through their correspondence. I noticed how similarly Mary Chase and Alexander wrote – they worried the same way, thought the same way, and expressed their concerns with rich detail. The pages that Randall had copied out of her diary were filled with concern about her only son and her loneliness, while Alexander wrote about the war and the country and his growing discontent. It was touching to see how they cared for each other.
Know that my thoughts are with you, my best friend on this earth, Alexander wrote to his mother.
(Alexander) misses his books, though he will not say so. I am arranging to send him a parcel with a few volumes in it, including a new copy of the little prayer book that has brought me so much comfort – God willing, it will reach him without damage, Mary had written in her diary about a month before. She then went on to lament how hard it was to get good books in her area, a further indication of her willingness to go without for her son’s sake.
Sitting on the office floor, surrounded by the remnants of their relationship, I felt their bond almost as strongly as if they had been in the room with me. I couldn’t help but wonder about Mary Anna McInnis, and the conclusions that Gregory was coming to. But how could a man who worried so about the youth in his regiment steal from a woman he was leading on? How could he, who seemed to understand his mother’s isolation so well, take advantage of a spinster like Mary Anna? I was convinced that he couldn’t. Gregory had to be wrong. But, if Alexander hadn’t been romancing her, then how did Mary Anna McInnis fit into this story?
“This is impossible,” I grumbled, looking down at the copies spread across my legs. With a frustrated sigh, I got up and began, again, to collect the scattered pages.
How can we solve a case that’s been dead for a century and a half? How can we ever understand what was going on in the heads of people who wouldn’t write it down? It’s impossible. This whole thing is just too-
Suddenly, my mind wrenched itself from its spiraling pattern. I had just placed an enlarged copy of Alexander’s last letter on top of the pile, when my eyes fell upon a sentence that I knew by heart, but had never actually noticed before:
…I al-
So wish to thank you for your kind words of
Blessing – they are dew-drops to my soul…
Dew-drops…
I’d wondered before why the words were hyphenated, but today it jumped out at me, almost as violently as the emphasized lettering had jumped out on me the other night.
The papers fell from my hands. I nearly slipped on them in my haste to get to the bookcase, frantically scanning it for the book I placed there only moments ago. It was still there, the worn cover bearing the remains of a gilt pattern, a tiny volume that my uncle had bought on a whim at an antiquarian book fair years ago. Its faded orange binding was pulling away from the pages and there were only traces of the gold that once adorned the page edges. It was an elegant, but practical book with a Bible verse for every day, and it was obvious that my copy had been well used by one of its owners. Despite its wear, the print was crisp and clean and the title page was as bold as ever:
Dew-Drops.
My speech shall distill as the dew. Deut. 32:2
Published by the American Tract Society, 150 Nassau Street, NEW YORK.
I held it in my shaking hand. This had to be it. This book had to contain the key word that Alexander was trying to convey to his mother.
Gregory.
I needed to call him. I had to let him know what I’d just found.
I dashed for my desk, looking for my phone. It wasn’t on top, so I cast about, rummaging through his desk, the shelves, the piles of books, and even under the rocking chair. It wasn’t until I sat down on the chair that I realized my phone was where I always left it – in my back pocket.
I pulled up his contact information and was about to call when the doorbell rang suddenly – almost causing me to drop the phone.
No, not now!
But curiosity is a powerful influence. No one I knew ever rang the front door, and ignoring it might mean losing a new client. Reluctant as I was to leave the office, I locked Dew-Drops in my desk drawer, and shut the office door behind me.
The bell rang again and I grit my teeth. No matter who it was or what they wanted, I was determined to rid myself of them quickly so I could call Gregory and get started on the cipher. I imagined the look on his face when I told him what I’d discovered.
“Darn it!”
I wrenched the door open, fully intending to send the visitor packing. But when I saw who it was, I froze.
“Hello, Maddie.”
Joe Tremonti leaned against the door jam, his phone in his hand, and his BMW convertible just visible in the driveway over his shoulder. He was dressed in immaculate casual wear: jeans, rugged shoes, a polo shirt that strained to contain his shoulders, and cologne that wrapped around my senses and held them hostage. He was just inches from me, looming so large that there seemed to be nothing else in the world but him.
I gasped, gripping the door tightly, fighting the feeling of unreality. He couldn’t be here. Not now.
“Joe! You’re here. But – you’re in California!”
Thank God Gregory is in Charleston.
Joe smiled at me, an assault that sent my brain reeling. The effect doubled when he stepped closer.
“So I was,” he said. Then he bent down to whisper in my ear, “Let’s just say I decided there was more fun to be had back here.”
His lips were so close I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, and it sent waves of fire through my system, burning away whatever vestige of interest in codes and ciphers that might have remained. I was completely taken.
When he kissed my cheek and murmured, “I couldn’t stop thinking of you, Maddie, and your offer of a ride… Today a good day?” it was all I could do not to throw myself in his arms and give him whatever he wanted and more.
Chapter 27:
My memories of that afternoon have an ethereal quality to them.
I don’t remember if it was Joe who suggested we start with a ride around the property or if it was me, but that’s what we wound up doing. I had the dubious pleasure of re-introducing Joe to Aunt Susanna, whose frosty exterior was quite at odds with her normal demeanor.
“What brings you to Chase Farm?” she asked, after the normal pleasantries were exchanged. She was alone in the stables. Lindsay was out back, watching Jacob lead the girls in a run around the paddock. Aunt Susanna’s eyes ran up and down Joe, but she showed nothing but a casual disinterest.
I didn’t know how tense I was until Joe wrapped his arm around my shoulder and tugged me into a one-armed hug.
“Oh, several reasons,” he said. “Some of them… Sentimental.”
My heart did a little backflip, but Aunt Susanna was not impressed. She leveled a cold stare at me, which I had to brush off. This was not the time to discuss my choice in men.
I helped Joe select a horse and tack and met Aunt Susanna again when I went back into the barn for my helmet. She hobbled up behind me and tapped me with her cane.
“What is he doing here?” she asked, in a whisper that nearly echoed in the empty room.
I shrugged, trying to push away my own concerns. “He said he wanted to ride. I told him to stop by whenever. Is there something wrong with that?”
“We’re in the middle of an investigation,” she protested. “We’re hardly in the position to entertain guests. I thought you said that he was in California.”
“He was, but now he’s back. And the investigation is stalled until Randall gets back,” I said, faltering at the name. Somehow, it was difficult to mention Gregory in the same breathe as Joe. “Besides, don’t you think I’ve earned an afternoon off?”
I brushed past her to join Joe outside. I found him surrounded by admiring little girls, while being watched by a confused Jacob and a bemused Lindsay. When I introduced Joe as my friend, one of the smaller girls asked if he was my boyfriend.
Joe answered the girl, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“I’d say that was up to the lady,” he grinned.
The girl was confused, but thankfully Colleen was on hand to stop her from asking what had happened to my other boyfriend. Lindsay and Jacob herded them back into the stables, allowing Joe and me to ride off without further explanation.
It was a glorious ride. Joe wanted to see everything, to refresh his memory of the old days, and his memory was sharp. He took the lead, and we went everywhere - down the old trails, across the old fields, and dismounted to walk alongside the narrow river that bordered part of the property.
I was tongue-tied, but Joe was witty and charming, maintaining a steady stream of conversation that had me laughing and blushing the whole time. We walked and rode and wandered and I remember thinking, This must be a dream.
But like any dream, reality tugged at the edges of it. When Joe asked about the hole-digging and the encounter in the woods, I left out Gregory’s part in it. When Joe asked how I was holding up, I didn’t tell him that I was doing much better, now that I had help. I just told him that I was managing.
He was obviously worried, but he let it go and spoke instead about his trip to California, about how uninteresting it now seemed to him, and how glad he was to be back on the East Coast. He talked about the kind of place he wanted to settle in and write, because he had decided that he wanted to devote less of his time to academic politics and more time to writing.
“I need a retreat to work in,” he said. “You know, some place quiet and calm, peaceful but with a history. Kind of like what you have here.”
I laughed. “With everything that’s been going on around here, you could hardly consider Chase Farm a peaceful retreat.”
He regarded me sympathetically. “It’s been bad, has it?”
We were on our way back home at this point. It had been a long and full afternoon and our mounts were hungry, tired, and ready for the stables. I was buoyant, feeling both satisfied and eager to see what was going to happen next, but not so much so that I was unable to feel hungry. I was going to invite him to have dinner with Aunt Susanna and me, hoping to avoid answering his question, but Joe had drawn up and was waiting for my answer.
I drew up, too, patting my mount as she impatiently whickered at me.
“It’s getting better,” I said cautiously. “There hasn’t been any activity since the incident in the woods.”
He shook his head impatiently and looked around, as though looking for someone.
“I just can’t believe their blatant disregard for you and the farm,” he said. “It’s unbelievable! I thought when that Beaumont letter came out that it would take care of everything. We talked about that and it should have worked. What did we get wrong?”
I could have told him, but I didn’t, of course. He’d asked about Gregory, still thinking that he was a harmless romance writer, and I’d told him that he was away on a research trip, which was the truth. But it had made me uncomfortable nonetheless. Gregory was a specter that lurked on the edges of the entire afternoon, despite my best efforts to banish him. I wasn’t about to bring him up now.
“Some people,” I said, “just don’t want to let go of the dream of treasure. They insist that there’s something out there, however unbelievable it is.”
He nodded and sighed heavily. He believed me. But then, he had to. There was too much risk in believing the treasure story and we both knew it.
“People will believe the strangest things,” he said. “I just hope that this is the last time we’ll have to deal with them. I’m worried about you, Maddie. I’m worried about your safety. If anything ever happened to you… Or to your aunt…”
A cold chill made me shiver. The usually gentle woods once again assumed a sinister look an
d the gathering dusk turned ominous. I found myself wishing I was safe inside the stables or in the farmhouse.
But when he turned back to me, his grin had returned and the somber moment was broken.
“How about inviting me to dinner?” he asked.
There was nothing I’d like better; but in spite of all the potential, dinner wasn’t the success I was hoping for. Lindsay and Jacob had gone home and Darlene had an engagement - so it was just Aunt Susanna, Joe, and myself around a plate of store-bought lasagna and a salad that Joe and I put together. I even found a bottle of wine in the pantry that Joe declared was just barely drinkable, and we buried it in a bucket of ice until Aunt Susanna emerged from her room.
At first, she seemed ill-disposed to talk. She sat with a preoccupied expression on her face, pushing her noodles around on her plate and refusing the offered glass of wine. I felt awkward - but if Joe did, he didn’t show it. He effortlessly split his conversation between me and my aunt, until even she couldn’t withstand his charm and began to soften.
We were nearly finished when Joe asked Aunt Susanna about how she was holding up against the trespassers.
“We’re holding our own,” she said cautiously. “Of course, we’re going to beat them to it.”
Joe looked blank. “Beat them to what?” he asked.
“To the treasure,” Aunt Susanna said promptly, before I could stop her.
Joe asked, “So you believe there is one?”
Aunt Susanna opened her mouth, then looked at me in fright. In her effort to shield Gregory’s work, she had forgotten that the forged Beaumont letter was not common knowledge yet. Now she fumbled to cover.
Necessary Evil Page 25
