by Joanne Rock
Yeah, that’s why Leonard had the psych degree and Brad was the one sitting for the head exam.
NIKKI THOUGHT SHE NOTICED a distance in Brad that afternoon as they worked with the metal detector around the rock in the garden meadow. She wasn’t quite sure when it had taken root, but it sat between them like a palpable thing despite the gorgeous day and an activity that was a heck of a lot easier than tearing down the chicken coop or reshingling the porch roof, or any of the other hundreds of tasks she needed to tackle at the house.
Now, digging in the third spot the metal detector had chimed, she took a break with her shovel while he continued to spear down into the earth with his. Muscles strained and flexed in the warm spring sun, his arms moving in easy harmony with the demands he made of his body. Dirt lifted and relocated according to his dictate, worms and roots tangling together as he pulled up weeds and stones. She debated asking him if anything was wrong, but part of her hated to wade into that territory with him. He’d demonstrated a clear discomfort with talking about his feelings—shutting her out more times than he’d let her in. Or maybe he was simply reinforcing the boundaries between them, making sure things didn’t become too entangled before he returned to his life overseas without her.
“Did you see something?” Brad had paused in the digging, his gaze shifting between the gaping hole in the meadow floor and the pile of displaced earth beside it.
Wrenching her attention back to the present, she brought her shovel over to the mound of dirt and began sifting through it.
“Not really.” Certainly nothing the size of two missing diaries. Then her shovel tip scraped along something metallic. “Oh, wait.”
He yanked the hem of his T-shirt up to wipe at the sheen of sweat on his forehead, providing her with a tantalizing glimpse of six-pack abs and a narrow waist. The band of his boxers peeked just over the low-riding cargo shorts.
The temptation to drag her knuckle along that bare patch of skin bit her hard. Not only because she wanted him. Also because there was no confusion about where they stood with each other on a physical plane. While they were getting naked, they understood each other perfectly.
“You see something?” He peered down into the raked-through earth beside her, his shoulder brushing hers.
Shovel slipping under the edge of her find, she held it up for him to look at.
“Can you tell what it is?” Not a book by any stretch. They’d dug up a coin and a wad of aluminum foil the first two times the detector had beeped.
He removed the object from the blade and shook it off. “Congratulations, you’re the proud owner of an old brass candlestick.”
Disheartened, she eyed the purple flowers again.
He must have caught the direction of her gaze because he tossed aside the candlestick and circled the patch of Virginia bluebells by the rock.
“You’re convinced it’s under here?” He knelt to examine the base of the dense green leaves dotted with buds and a few early blooms. “Even though the metal detector didn’t go off?”
“Didn’t they say the device wasn’t all that reliable below twelve inches? Maybe the journals are just buried deeper than that.” She couldn’t explain why she had such a good feeling about that spot.
“Can’t hurt to try.” He forked the shovel down into the earth again, stepping on the heel of the blade to drive it deeper.
Nikki’s heartbeat quickened as he dug around the flowers and pried them out, preserving the roots in a wad of earth and laying them aside to replant. She joined in the effort and they tunneled farther and farther down, widening the gouge in the earth until they stood in a shallow hole about a foot deep and six feet wide. He’d burrowed out more than twice as much as she had so far and her still arms were shaky from the strain.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” Defeated, she set aside the shovel, wondering if she’d been a nutcase to come out here because of a dream. “I didn’t really have any concrete proof the journals were in the meadow anyway. I probably should have waited—”
“Can you hand me the metal detector?” He pointed to the device where he’d last laid it down, close to her feet.
“Sure.” She hefted it up, even that much weight feeling like a chore after all those shovelfuls of dirt to unearth a bunch of nothing. “But I don’t see—”
As he fired up the detector again, she finally understood his intent. Now that he’d excavated down another foot, he would be able to use the equipment to test what lay beneath this area for the next twelve inches. He double-checked the discriminator dial to be sure it was set to pick up anything, then began slow, methodical sweeps of the new terrain.
The strong, steady beep began about a foot away from the rock. Their eyes met. Held.
She brought him his shovel at the same time she carried over her own. In wordless agreement, they each began to dig. And as intrigued and excited as she was about the potential find, Nikki couldn’t help but spare a thought that maybe she and Brad understood each other out of bed after all. They’d worked effectively together on the big dig today and they’d also been one heck of a team the day they’d tackled the hard chores at Nikki’s house, ending with a dinner she’d cooked but that he warmed up and served.
Those were small things, maybe. But she liked the idea of working beside him, understanding what he wanted before he asked half the time.
Her heart ached with the knowledge that it wouldn’t last—
Clink.
His shovel hit something with a metallic thud.
Nikki’s pulse spiked again, her hopes elevated even though she told herself it was probably nothing. A fork, maybe. Or some old toy that had been lost and forgotten for decades…
“I feel a definite straight edge.” Brad set the shovel down and worked with his hands, brushing, digging and tugging.
He withdrew a rectangular tin box about six by eight inches that had probably been painted at one time. Now, crusty and warped, and dented from the shovel, the container protested his efforts to pry it open. Nikki watched, holding her breath, as he gripped the box under one arm and tugged hard against the lid until it finally popped free. A leather pouch tumbled onto the ground, the string that tied it closed slipping partially open. The corner of a binding—a book binding—peeked through the slit.
“Oh!” She reached for it, lifting the heavy packet out of the dirt. Opening it the rest of the way, she found two books inside and a stack of letters tied with bale twine.
“Jane Eyre?” Brad read one of the titles over her shoulder. “The House of the Seven Gables?”
“She liked to hide the journals inside the covers of books her stepbrothers wouldn’t pick up.” All her tiredness from shoveling was gone. New energy poured through her, her veins tingling with the electric pulse of discovery. “Which apparently wasn’t hard since they hated to read.”
“These are really what we’ve been looking for?” He took one of the books from her hand and opened the cover.
Chloe’s handwriting was immediately recognizable.
“Mine says 1944,” Nikki pointed out, showing him the frontispiece for her book. “Yours says summer 1943. We’ve got them.”
“What now?” He wiped his palms on his cargo shorts. “Once you hand these over to Chloe’s publisher, you’re home free, right? The Ralstons have no reason to threaten and make trouble anymore after the publication is a done deal. Whatever bad news is in here about them, the whole world will know it soon enough.”
She sensed an eagerness to be done with the whole sordid mess. To be done with her?
She wished the idea hadn’t come to mind so readily. What if he’d only stuck to her side to protect her? He’d go back to sleeping at his house. Maybe he’d go back to being just a next-door neighbor.
“If we’re right about the Ralstons being the guilty party, yes.” She flipped a couple of pages, mindful of the soil on her hands. “But I’d like to have a quick preview of what’s in here before we do anything.”
She needed
to know how things turned out between Chloe and Eduardo. Had she sent her fiancé off to war and never seen him again? She wanted some reason to hope that relationships could work even in the face of insurmountable odds. But Chloe and Eduardo hadn’t worked out since Chloe was a single woman until the day she died. Nikki had to know what happened between them, even knowing the inevitable heartache ahead. Kind of like her own life…
Nikki’s eyes cut to Brad as a lump rose in her throat. When he said nothing, frowning his disagreement, she swallowed the lump down so she could speak again.
“As the caretaker of Chloe’s literary legacy, I really need to know what’s in here first. If I could just go home and have a day or two to read—”
“We can make copies so the publisher has them simultaneously. That would end the threat.” Brad’s methodical brain worked as quickly as his hands, which were already shoveling in the hole he’d dug. “Then you’d have time to read them and you’d still be safe.”
How…practical.
“Aren’t you a little curious to find out what happened to Chloe and Eduardo? Maybe these books will tell us Eduardo’s real identity since we know that’s not his true name.” She wanted to cut the bale twine on the stack of letters and see if they were signed “Eduardo,” as well. But even more, she wanted Brad to care about this romance as much as she did.
No, she wanted him to care about their romance as much as she did. But she could practically see him thinking through what it would mean to have the threat of danger gone. He’d be free to return to his house, free to do whatever it was he’d been doing before they’d met.
She listened to the wind flit through the trees while she waited for his answer.
“I’m more interested in finding out what incriminating things these books have to say about the Ralstons.” His jaw flexed as he worked, frustration evident. “What past sins were so important to hide that they had to threaten you?”
So that’s what it had been about for him. Protecting her. Having a cause even when he was taking a leave from the military. Honor and a sense of justice were innate facets of his personality.
“So we can take today to read?” she prodded, hurt and trying not to show it.
The triumph of their find had been tainted by the realization that Brad wanted—needed—to back off their relationship.
He nodded. “One more day.”
It sounded like more than the end of the Ralstons’ reign of harassment. It sounded like the end of her time with Brad.
13
BRAD HAD NEW RESPECT for the rigors of scholarship after four hours of closely reading the diaries for any signs of what the Ralston family was so desperate to suppress. He’d assumed he and Nikki would open a journal, find a dark secret and be done with the mysterious threats. The Ralstons would have to face up to whatever bad family karma they had going, and that would be that.
But he’d mostly read a lot of steamy letters between Eduardo and Chloe—a tough gig sitting across the patio from Nikki, who looked even hotter in her nerdy professor glasses that she used for reading than she had in a string bikini. And he still had no further clue of Eduardo’s real identity, what happened to the couple after the war or why the Ralstons felt the need to hide any of it. The guy Chloe referred to as “Eduardo” even signed his letters that way, making them wonder if it was a nickname or family name he went by—like calling John “Jack” or Margaret “Molly.”
Nikki had been thrilled that there were letters from Chloe in the pile in addition to the letters from Eduardo. She seemed to think that meant the guy had survived the war, envisioning Eduardo returning home to add the letters he’d received to the one he’d sent. Brad hadn’t told her his own theory—that the letters might have been returned to her as a courtesy by one of Eduardo’s friends afterward.
Brad identified a little too well with the guy.
Now, poring over the find in Nikki’s sunny backyard, a pitcher of sweet tea between them, Brad tried to maintain focus. Chloe was missing her man overseas. She’d had to make up excuses to her family regarding why she didn’t want to date other men, but as far as he could tell, she never revealed that she had a sweetheart in the war. Why keep so many secrets?
“You sure we can’t flip to the back and read the last pages first?” He’d asked her that one before—about both the stack of letters and the diaries. “What if we’re wading through these page by page and nothing happens until the very end?”
Although, truth be told, he’d sneaked a peek at the final page of the journal on his lap a few hours ago, and it had looked fairly benign. There’d been a mention of a New Year’s Eve party and some discussion of what to wear, a lengthy debate he couldn’t relate to since guys tended to sniff out whatever was clean and go with that. Chloe’s ending wasn’t exactly earth-shattering stuff.
“It’s not fiction,” she informed him, peering over her black eyeglass frames like a megahot librarian. “Chloe didn’t write her diaries in a way that built tension and plot into some kind of explosive moment at the end. She just wrote down what happened to her on a day-to-day basis. Some days were more exciting than others and we’ll miss important information if we don’t read each entry carefully.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing.” He set aside the journal and turned his attention back to the letters, still convinced that Chloe’s fiancé was the real key to the mystery. “This Eduardo guy is having one hell of a rough time.”
U.S.S. Zeilin
1943
My Dearest Spitfire,
Our ship is frozen in ice and every churn of the ocean beneath the hull slaps frosty chunks in a teeth-grinding wail against our sides. Absurdly, it is foggy here even in the frozen temperatures, so the world is endlessly white.
On another note, I am abashed to admit that some of your letters have attracted the attention of military censors. While I have been warned that your warming words may be inappropriately stirring, I believe two were confiscated specifically so they could heat censors in need of a bit of feminine warmth. Your support of the war effort is commendable.
Because of this interest in our correspondence, I will refrain from saying any more about your relative. I will see him soon enough when we reach our destination. I have heard he takes more pleasure than most in the harshness of his mission.
I propose a worldwide tour when I am done with this war so you may experience all the places you dream of. You will live in peace from those who upset you, free to write every day in your inimitable way, and I will have you all to myself. Be thinking of where you’d like to go first. I shall come to spirit you away when you least expect it.
Yours,
Eduardo
“Brad?” Nikki peered his way across the patio table, a curious expression on her face as she covered his hand with hers. “Have you found anything?”
He wondered how she knew. He was going to miss this connection with her.
“I’m not sure.” He stared at the yellowed page written half a century ago, the words deliberately vague because of military censors. “I wouldn’t have looked at it twice if I didn’t know someone wanted to suppress these things.”
Turning the crinkled paper her way, he watched Nikki’s reactions as she smiled over the bit about Chloe’s war efforts. The corners of her lips flattened and turned downward as she read about the stepbrother. When she was done, she glanced up at him, but he could see her thoughts were still swirling around in that quick mind of hers.
“They planned to travel the world together.” Nikki’s expression was distant, full of hope for dreams that weren’t even her own.
No surprise that she craved happy endings. Brad couldn’t make that happen for her any more than Eduardo had done for Chloe.
“Maybe she decided to follow through on their plan even when he didn’t—that is, even though he might not have come home.” Brad knew she didn’t like the idea of Eduardo not returning from the war.
Her gaze cleared. Focused on him.
“What
if he did come home and she never told anyone she spent the time abroad with him?” She flipped through the diary pages now, breaking her own rule about looking ahead. “We know she went on to visit every corner of the globe. What if she was still hiding their relationship even long afterward?”
“Why?” That made no sense to Brad and she had keyed in on a completely different point in the letter than the one he’d tried to show her. “Chloe Lissander was an icon of the sexual revolution for her forthright accounts of sex. That doesn’t sound like the kind of woman who would try to hide her lover.”
“Maybe they were threatened by her family somehow. They must not have wanted her to be with him if she went to so much trouble to hide his identity.”
Brad took the letter back and glanced over the words again.
“You see this part?” He pointed to the paragraph about the “relative” that had to be Harold Ralston. “He talks about Chloe’s stepbrother taking ‘pleasure’ in the harshness of the mission.”
She nodded. “Harold isn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type. Maybe he liked ordering people around and being the boss. He had a squad underneath him, I hear.”
“Or else he liked to play God with a weapon in his hand.”
Nikki frowned. “What do you mean?”
He hated pointing out stuff like this since he took a lot of pride in his service. Dishonorable behavior in the military was rare. That didn’t mean it didn’t happen.
“It’s probably a stretch, but I’d be on the lookout in the rest of the letters for anything that hints at bloodlust in Harold. Possibly war crimes. We have a lot of watch systems in place today for guys who can’t handle the stress, but back in that time—”
