by Karen White
I love to sail, and I have become quite proficient, and Father takes a lot of pride in me for that. But I find myself pretending that I would rather be on terra firma. It is easier to miss doing something I love than to deal with R’s wrath that I have succeeded at something that she cannot—and I am not necessarily referring to the ability to sail.
When I finished reading, I looked up at Rebecca. A small pucker had formed between her eyebrows. “This R sounds like a real charmer, doesn’t she?”
“I know. Which is why I keep saying she can’t be related to me at all. But then again, Jack seems convinced that my ancestors were wreckers, too, so God only knows what other skeletons my family tree might be hiding.”
She only nodded, her gaze intense as if she were committing my words to memory.
I turned back to the journal. “And this morning, when I was showing the journal to Jack, we found a calling card that we believe belonged to the writer of the journal.” I flipped to the back page, frowning when I saw that the card had slipped back inside the little pocket in which it had been hidden. I was trying to stick my pinkie under the flap when the foreman appeared from the kitchen.
“Excuse me, ladies, but we’ve made a hole big enough for somebody to pass through. I’ve already been inside to check to make sure it’s structurally sound and it looks good.”
The journal forgotten, I slid it onto the step and we both stood, then followed the foreman back to the kitchen. As I walked toward the opening, one of the workmen handed me a flashlight. I glanced back at Rebecca to see her watching me intently.
“Total clearance is only about five and a half feet,” said the foreman, pointedly eyeing my four-inch heels. “They were a lot shorter back in the day.”
“Apparently,” I muttered as I reluctantly slid out of my high-heeled pumps. Then I stepped through the bricks, my stockinged feet touching the cool, hard-packed earth as I breathed in two-hundred-year-old air.
“Can I come in, too?” I looked back through the hole to see Rebecca backlit from the kitchen light.
My first instinct was to tell her no, and I wasn’t sure why. Despite our recently shared information, I wasn’t quite ready to make her a full partner.
“Just a minute,” I said. “There’s a really low ceiling, a lot of cobwebs, and not much else. It might not be worth your while. . . .”
I stopped when I saw her foot come through the opening followed by her head and then the rest of her body. She smiled her perky cheerleader smile. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you. What were you saying?”
I wanted to be furious, but I couldn’t. I even felt a little admiration for her bravado, if only because she’d done exactly what I would have if our situations had been reversed.
“I was saying how dark it was in here and how you should bring your own flashlight.”
I heard a click, then saw her holding a flashlight under her chin, hollowing her eyes out and making them appear as black holes. I turned away. “Keep your head down, the ceiling’s really low. There’s nothing much in here besides the trunk.” I gave a cursory sweep of my flashlight over the brick walls, then up to the darkened oak beams that spanned the ceiling in three-foot intervals, with one beam cutting through the middle like the spine in the bleached-out bones of a whale carcass. I allowed the light to touch on them briefly, eager to focus on the trunk. I was slowly lowering the arc of light when Rebecca spoke.
“Hang on. Shine your light up there again.” She flicked her flashlight over to the side of the beam on the farthest side of the room, near the wall. “It looks like something’s scratched into the side.”
We both shone our flashlights at the same spot as we walked in tandem to get a better view, then paused in silence as we read the words. Wilhelm Hoffmann 1782. Gefangener des Herzens. We looked at each other. “It’s German,” I said.
She nodded. “Do you know what it means?”
“No.” I shifted, feeling a breath of icy cold stealing up my spine.
“Neither do I. It makes sense that it’s German, though.”
I stared at her, wondering how she knew. “What makes you think so?”
It was her turn to stare back at me. “You need to brush up on your history, Melanie. In December 1782, the British forces abandoned the city to return to England following the end of the war. A lot of the Hessian mercenaries deserted, not being particularly loyal to the British Army. A few were lucky to be hidden by Americans.” She gave a little shrug. “It meant freedom for some, but for others they simply traded in their uniforms for lives of servitude to their supposed rescuers, who demanded payment for their efforts.” Absently, she traced the words with a finger. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that your Prioleau ancestors, if they really were wreckers, sent him to work on the coast. Much less risky for the family members if he’s caught, you know?”
The story of the Hessians seemed vaguely familiar to me, something I had once read in a long-ago history class. I looked back at the carved words. Each letter was made with straight strokes as if etched with a sharpened stick, or maybe even an eating utensil, and I committed them to memory. I thought, too, about what Rebecca had said about the fate of some of the deserters, and I hoped she was wrong about Wilhelm.
Then I turned my attention back to the sea trunk, the wood worn on the front by the empty loop where a padlock might have once been, the brass fittings dulled with age.
I placed my hand on the lid, hoping to feel something—or at least a warning about the contents and to prepare myself. But I felt only cool, varnished wood.Tucking my flashlight under my chin, I tried to pry open the lid but only managed to lift it an inch or so before my grip slipped.
Placing my flashlight on the ground and shining it at the chest, I turned to Rebecca. “Put your flashlight down and help me open this.” I glanced at her slim arms and hoped the two of us would be enough. Whatever was in the trunk, I was fairly sure I didn’t want the workmen to see it and possibly broadcast the news wherever they could find a willing listener.
Rebecca did as I asked and returned to stand next to me, facing the trunk. “I’m going to count to three, and when I say ‘three,’ lift the lid.”
She nodded, and I began to count. “One, two, three!”
I felt the weight of the lid pressing down on us, the unexpected odor of rotting fish suddenly permeating the small space. I heard Rebecca gag, but she didn’t let go of the lid. A cold hand brushed my neck and I shivered, almost letting my fingers slip, but I held on and with a renewed fervor, I strained harder.
I sensed the soldier standing nearby. I felt him as a child is aware of his shadow—stealthy and dark, twisting beyond your sight whichever direction you turn. And then suddenly it seemed as if a third set of hands had joined ours and the lid flew back so fast that it crashed into the wall behind it.
“Everything all right in there?” The foreman stuck his head through the opening.
“We’re fine,” I said, waving him away.We stood with our hands on the inside of the open lid, waiting to catch our breaths.
One of the flashlights began to sputter, then died, casting deep shadows in the room. Without saying anything, I slowly backed away from the chest, retrieved the remaining flashlight, and then shone it into the yawning black mouth of the empty chest and waited for what I saw to register in my mind.
“It’s empty,” Rebecca said, her voice muffled as if she were speaking underwater.
I handed her the flashlight and began to tap along the inside and the outside of the chest the way Jack had shown me once, listening for a place that sounded different from the rest—a hidden compartment or bottom used to conceal valuables. The sound was thick and solid all the way around, but I did it twice just to make sure. I straightened, feeling more disappointed than I could explain. “It’s definitely empty.”
A soft hand stroked my cheek and I glanced up to see Wilhelm, his hat neatly tucked under an arm, his ever-present musket held firmly against his body. The only thing that surprised me
about his being there was that he wasn’t looking at me; he was focused on Rebecca.
I heard her gasp and I watched as if in slow motion the flashlight tumbled out of her hand. And in the second before the flashlight hit the hard dirt floor and went out, I saw Rebecca’s face and realized that she had seen him, too.
CHAPTER 21
I met Marc Longo for lunch on East Bay Street at Blossom—one of my favorite restaurants in a city known for its eateries. I’d chosen to meet him there instead of his picking me up at the house so I’d have the option of leaving whenever I wanted.
Marc and I had a short history, one that ended when I discovered he’d been romancing me solely to find the diamonds hidden in my house. To Marc’s credit, he admitted that his attraction to me started that way, but had turned into something else. I wasn’t sure if I really believed him, or even why I’d agreed to have lunch with him; all I knew was that he wasn’t Jack, and Marc was a suitable distraction for my bruised ego and empty social calendar.
He stood when I approached the table, and kissed me on the cheek. He smelled good, and looked even better, although he was thinner and less muscular than Jack, and he lacked Jack’s ability to make you smile even when he wasn’t. I mentally chided myself for comparing them, and threw my arms around Marc to make it up to him.
He seemed pleasantly surprised at my greeting, then pulled his chair closer to mine after seating me. “I have to admit, Melanie, that I didn’t really expect you to show up today, considering . . .”
I let his voice trail away and smiled. “I thought I owed you at least the opportunity to explain.”
Marc took my hand and held it to his lips. “And that’s what makes you a true lady, Melanie. Beautiful, smart, and compassionate—an irresistible combination.”
I felt myself blushing. Despite our past, I was still fairly confident that Marc’s compliments were real, whereas with Jack I was sometimes left wondering if he had less than altruistic motives for saying something nice. I closed my eyes, castigating myself for comparing Marc to Jack again.
The waiter appeared at the table with a bottle of champagne and a carafe of orange juice. Marc smiled. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of ordering us mimosas.” The waiter filled two glasses with a mixture of both and then Marc raised his glass to me. “To forgiveness, and to new beginnings.” I clicked my glass with his, took a sweet, bubbly swallow, and smiled back at him, determined to enjoy my lunch.
The waiter returned and we ordered, and I resisted the urge to ask him what was on the dessert menu. When he’d disappeared with our orders, Marc refilled our glasses.
“Melanie, I do mean it when I say I’d like another chance. There are no excuses for my past behavior. Yes, I was desperate, but that was no excuse. I want you to believe that I had—have—feelings for you. I hated myself for lying to you.”
I studied the crisp white tablecloth before glancing up at him again. “I accept your apology. It will take me a while to trust you again, but we can start over, if that’s what you’d like.”
He smiled, and I realized again what a very handsome man he was. He raised his glass and drank. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
I raised my glass, too. “To new beginnings,” I repeated, and took a sip before leaning back in my seat. “So, tell me about this book you’re working on. I have to admit that I’m a little surprised; you don’t seem the authorly type, if there is such a thing.”
He feigned insult. “Maybe I should grow a paunch and start wearing tweed jackets with suede patches on the elbows.”
I laughed because that was exactly how I thought a male author should look, and I usually found myself resenting Jack for not fitting the stereotype. I looked down at my bread plate, chastising myself for thinking of Jack again.
“Seriously, though, I’m intrigued. You’re a successful businessman; when did the writing bug hit?”
He paused while the waiter placed our plates in front of us before continuing. “Oh, I suppose I’ve always had the dream of becoming a published author. Then recently I had an inspiration and wrote out an outline and a couple of chapters. A friend of mine knows somebody in the publishing world in New York and sent it in. Two months later, I had an agent and a month after that a bidding war between two different publishers netted me a nice publishing contract.”
“That’s really amazing. I’d imagine that would make a lot of authors jealous; I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way. Tell me what it’s about.”
He shook his head. “It’s a little hush-hush right now. Apparently, another writer at another house is working on a similar book so we’re rushing to get mine out first. Not to steal anybody else’s thunder, of course, but there’s no room for an also-ran in this case. As my agent said, I’ve got to be first or it won’t be worth publishing.”
We began to eat, savoring our dishes and making comments about the excellence of the food and service. I watched him as he spoke, smiling at his enthusiasm for his new endeavor, and was more than impressed that he’d found a new passion instead of resting on the laurels of his business successes. I studied him with a new appreciation, noticing how thick and brown his hair was, how he had excellent taste in clothes, and how nice he looked when he smiled at me. The only thing wrong with him was that he didn’t have blue eyes and he wasn’t Jack.
Clearing my head, I focused on what Marc was saying, realizing he’d asked me a question.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“I was asking if you and Rebecca Edgerton were good friends. I assumed you were when I ran into you at St. Philip’s.”
I took the last bite of my ricotta gnocchi, chewing slowly as I formulated an answer. “No, not really. She’s more a friend of Jack’s. She’s working on a story for the paper about my mother, Ginnette Prioleau.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
Marc signaled for the waiter and ordered the chef’s special dessert for one without asking what it was. He even got a thumbs-up from me when he didn’t ask for two forks. When the waiter left, he continued. “I took her to lunch last week, prepared to tell her all about my winery and the new restaurant, which I will bring you to the next time, I promise. Instead, she seemed more intent on asking me about my connection to you and your family. She seemed almost—obsessed with your genealogy. I began to think that she’s one of those people who believes that studying one’s ancestry is an alternative religion. You see that a lot in this city.”
A milk chocolate crème brûlée was placed in front of me, but I waited to dig in until Marc had his coffee. “That is a bit odd, but it makes sense. She’s writing about my mother, but as she explained to me, knowing my mother’s family and their collective past will help her know her subject better.”
As I polished off the last bite of crème brûlée, Marc said, “Rebecca and I were actually scheduled to have coffee later to go over her article, but she canceled about an hour ago. Said she had to drive out to Ulmer on urgent business.”
For the first time in my life, I was unable to swallow a piece of dessert. I started coughing, and had to drink a nearly full glass of water before I felt I could breathe again. “Ulmer?” I asked. “Ulmer, South Carolina?”
“Yes. Something to do with her research.”
“She didn’t say what it was about?” I dabbed at the corners of my mouth with my napkin.
“No. And she made it pretty clear that it wasn’t something she was prepared to talk about, either. All I know is that she said she’d be back too late to meet with me today but asked for a rain check.”
I slid back my chair. “I’m sorry, Marc, but I have to go. Thank you for lunch, and I hope we can do this again soon.”
He stood, too, a worried look on his face. “I hope I haven’t offended you by something I said. And that you’ve accepted my apology.”
I walked toward him and took both of his hands in mine, sensing his sincerity. “No, you haven’t said anything. I
just remembered something I have to do. But, yes, I forgive you, and I hope you’ll call me soon.”
He looked relieved and when he kissed me on my cheek, I only thought of Jack a little bit.
I sat down with a groan on the dining room floor in my house on Tradd Street, feeling as if sawdust covered every square inch of my hair, clothing, grandmother’s pearls, and teeth. I glanced at my watch, counting every second until four o’clock when Sophie would leave to go teach a class and Chad and I could bring the electric sander out.
I closed my eyes, giving in to the physical exhaustion, fueled by the frustration of getting nowhere fast. As soon as I’d left Blossom, I’d called Rebecca on her cell number at least ten times, and reached her voice mail each time. I figured that she’d either forgotten to turn on her phone, or she wasn’t answering for a reason. Just in case, I called and left messages at both her home phone and her office.
I then futilely tried to reach Jack and Yvonne with the same results. In complete desperation—because I couldn’t think of another reason why I might do so—I called my mother, who’d calmly suggested I work off some of my stress with a piece of sandpaper. At the time it had seemed like a good idea.
I must have fallen asleep because I didn’t realize my phone was ringing until the third or fourth ring. I dug it out of my pocket and flipped it open a second before it switched to voice mail. “Hello?”
