by Liz Johnson
She couldn’t ask another impertinent question. And that was all she had.
Thankfully he saved her from testing the size of her mouth with her foot. “So, did you discover a map in the diary last night?” His scowl disappeared, replaced by the hint of a smile.
“No.” She swung her bag onto a desk in the front row and cringed when it settled with a loud thunk. She shot a side glance at Ben, who paused as he put his stack of papers into his beaten-up messenger bag.
His look seemed to suggest that perhaps she ought to have a little more respect for a treasured artifact that, at the least, carried her family’s history. At the most, it was the key to wealth that would change both of their lives. Forever.
“Sorry.” She mouthed the word as she pulled out the brown paper bag–wrapped package, the diary just as she’d found it the night before—minus some dust that she’d blown off. Flipping open the first page, she paused, then glanced up from beneath her lashes.
His bag now packed, Ben had repositioned himself. Sitting on the edge of his desk, his long, khaki-covered legs stretched out before him, he crossed his arms. “So what did you find?”
“Um . . .” She tried not to look guilty, but the glint in his eyes was either humor or accusation. While she hoped it was the first, the rope around her chest suggested that it very well might be the second.
“I read the last line. First.”
His eyebrows went up, but other than that he remained still.
“It’s just a thing I do.”
Those deep brown arches rose nearly to the matching wave sweeping across his forehead, and her neck immediately burned under his scrutiny.
Pressing a hand to her throat, she dropped her gaze to the diary. “I always read the last line of a book first.” He opened his mouth to ask the same question that everyone else did, but she beat him with the response. “Of course, not mysteries. I’m not trying to ruin the book, but if I know where I’m going, I know if the journey is going to be worth it.”
She glanced down at her feet, pressing one hand to the desk at her side and clutching the journal in the other. They were maybe three feet apart, but in his current pose, they could have been eye to eye if she’d looked up. Which she didn’t.
She could only bring her gaze as far as his feet. The look of censure she was sure would be on his face kept her from lifting her eyes. She wasn’t educated like he was. She didn’t do things the way she was supposed to like he did. And she’d found herself in a position he could never understand.
He uncrossed his ankles, then crossed them again. “Isn’t this a mystery?”
Her stomach seeped toward her toes. “I-I suppose.” And it wasn’t just any mystery. It was the mystery. Her past and present swept into one big question.
“So what does the last line say?”
She cringed. “There’s another journal.”
“What?” He grabbed for the book, his hands gentle but nothing less than intent. Flipping to the end, he scanned the last lines. Ones she’d memorized in a single read.
This summer is so different than I anticipated. There is more to share. It is a good thing Mama thought to pack a second journal, for I shall have no difficulty filling it.
“This is only the first volume?” The disbelief evident in his voice was just like hers had been the night before, and he smoothly flipped the pages before him, his eyes scanning them, clearly searching for a clue that had been missed.
But the only missing piece was from Grandma Joy, who had said the map would be here. She’d known about the diary, so how had she missed that there was a second one? Had she not known about it at all? Or, more likely, had she forgotten?
“What else did you find out?”
“Ruth was invited to the Chateau by Lucille Globe, who was”—she held up her fingers in air quotes—“‘the particular friend of Howard Dawkins.’”
Ben’s chuckle wasn’t really humorous but spoke to the absurdity of the phrase.
“I know. It’s amazing how they flaunted their inappropriate relationships.”
He nodded. “But labeled them with the most unassuming titles.”
“And everyone knew.” She pointed at the journal. “Ruth wrote about it so matter-of-factly. It wasn’t even questioned. Lucille was the mistress of the Chateau—at least for the summer.”
That scowl he’d worn before made its way back into place, the tip of his nose twitching. “Even though Dawkins had a wife and a son back in Chicago.”
Her stomach did a full flip. “He did?”
“Sure.” Ben shifted his weight against the desk beneath him, but he didn’t attempt to make eye contact. “His son passed away about ten years ago. It was big news because it was on the eightieth anniversary of the stock market crash, and of course his dad had been hit hard by it.”
Her insides shivered, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, not sure how to make sense of this bit of information or if it mattered at all. “I guess I assumed . . . Wasn’t the Chateau passed down to his nephew or something?”
Ben nodded. “Maybe his son didn’t want it. Maybe his wife didn’t. There must have been a lot of bad memories wrapped up in the old place.”
Millie had just assumed he’d been single. She wasn’t naive enough to believe that married men were always faithful, but . . . In her first entries, Ruth had made it seem as though everyone liked Dawkins, that he was a man worthy of their respect.
But if Dawkins wasn’t the man Millie had assumed him to be, then was Ruth a reliable narrator? Or was Millie missing the truth on the pages?
She hated those novels—the ones where she couldn’t tell if the main character was lying to her. And now she had to wonder if her great-grandmother was doing the same. Was this all a wild goose chase or an elaborate hoax? Or was it possible that there was some truth—hidden though it might be—in what Ruth had written?
“Did the diary mention anyone else? Besides Dawkins and his girlfriend?”
Ben’s question made her jump, and she jerked herself away from her own troubling inquiries. “Yes. A few. There was a gardener and her friend Jane. And Claude Devereaux.” She stumbled on the name, but he didn’t seem to notice, his jaw dropping and his eyes narrowing in on the leather volume dwarfed by his long fingers.
“Claude Devereaux? As in . . .” He found her gaze and held it for a long moment. “The Devereaux family? As in Henri Devereaux? As in the Louisiana Vanderbilts?”
Millie swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, but it refused to fully dislodge, and she had to resort to a simple nod of response. Which felt rather pathetic given the incredulity of his tone.
She hadn’t been surprised to see the name of one of the wealthiest families in the country written in her great-grandmother’s handwriting. As soon as she’d learned that Ruth had spent time there, she’d begun to research that summer on the shore, and the Devereaux name had been mentioned. Perhaps not effusively, but it wasn’t hidden either.
But Ben didn’t need to know what that meant. After all, that information had zero effect on him. It wasn’t tied to the treasure. Not really.
No. Not at all. They were definitely two very different searches.
“Henri was the oldest brother and inherited the majority of their father’s estate,” Ben said, “but Claude was no slouch. Wasn’t he interested in radio?”
Millie nodded quickly, and Ben opened his mouth like he was going to explain, but she jumped in. She didn’t have to read it in a textbook. She’d read about the prevalence of personal radios in a Depression-era novel. “Because television wasn’t really around yet. Radio was the way most people kept in touch with the rest of the country. It was also a key source of entertainment.”
Ben smiled. “Exactly.”
“And of course Dawkins invested heavily in radio.”
“Ha!” Ben’s laugh was like a chocolate-covered caramel, all things pleasant and soothing. “How’d you know that?”
Pressing her hands to her hip
s, she cocked her head and shot him her best fake scowl. “You think I don’t listen when the tour guides come through the Chateau?”
He crossed his arms and leaned back, but his lips twitched like they were fighting back a smile. “I would never presume such a thing.”
“Good.”
“But this isn’t going to help us figure out where the treasure is hidden or the location of the second diary.”
Fair point. But not really helpful. “So . . . I guess we go back to the start? It stands to reason that the second journal would be near the first.”
Ben scrubbed his cheek with a flat hand and stared at a spot over her shoulder, but it was clear he wasn’t really focused on it. Finally he gave a curt nod of his head. “Back to the library, then?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
June 19, 1929
I am glad to be fully recovered from the ordeal at the pool. The ache in my temple has finally subsided. However, Mr. Devereaux took it upon himself to inspect the injury. No man has ever asked if he could touch me so, but his fingers were terribly gentle, and it was all very decent in the company of his sister and Jane.
What was happening in my nerves was rather lacking in decency. He is a very handsome man, and I could not help but lean in toward him ever so slightly.
Willa and Betsy arrived in the midst of his examination, and they scowled at me as though I’d stolen their spots in his next production. Of course, I have not. He has said nothing about his work except in passing. Perhaps he does not realize that I long to pursue a career in radio. I have no desire to work as a bank teller forever, even if banking has made Mr. Dawkins sinfully rich.
Although I see Mr. Devereaux watching me, I am afraid I have missed several chances to spend time with him. Yesterday the whole of the house party took advantage of the stables, and I stayed in my room.
By the afternoon, the light through the window was too bright for me to keep my eyes closed. I wandered the house for a while and ended up thoroughly lost. I walked the hallways for an hour, trying to locate a familiar room or stairwell, but they all seemed to blend together. Just when I had decided to sit a spell on the floor, I discovered a small spiral staircase. I followed it down and found myself by the kitchen. It smelled of wonderful roasted duck and sautéed onions.
Everyone here has been so kind to me, but I could not bring myself to ask for assistance. Instead I found a back door and snuck through it, successful in avoiding detection by any of the household staff.
That is, until I rounded the corner of the outside of the house. The sun nearly blinded me as it peeked around the column of one of the towers and through the Spanish moss hanging from the enormous oak trees. I promptly ran into what I thought was a brick wall. Then it grunted. Or rather, he grunted. When he spun around, he put his hand to my elbow, as I was dangerously close to toppling over after our collision. And that is when I realized who he was. It was George, the man who rescued me from the pool.
He dropped his hand, leaving behind a coolness in its absence, but his eyes were as warm as any I have ever seen.
He tugged on the corner of his brown cap before wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and called me Miss Holiday. The farmhands often made a similar movement when the sun burned so brightly. But here, so close to the coast, the breeze off the water keeps us cool beneath the ever-present summer sunshine.
He made no other movement, only holding a rake steady at his side. I held out my hand, and he stared at it for a long moment, making no motion to shake it. I told him that I owed him my gratitude, but when I went to call him by name, I trailed off, my face flushing. We hadn’t been introduced, and I did not know his last name. The man had pulled me to safety and carried me through the house, and I knew absolutely nothing about him. Except that his eyes were the color of grass and his embrace was as gentle as a newborn kitten.
As his gaze rose to meet mine, he transferred his rake from his right hand to his left. After a swipe of his fingers against his brown trousers, he shook my hand and supplied his name. Whitman. George Whitman. But he said everyone here just calls him George.
I tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy given the strange tumult inside me that seemed to be tied to his grin. It was slightly lopsided. His front teeth are the slightest bit crooked, but it is endearing rather than off-putting.
“Ruth Holiday,” I said. And then I nearly bit off my tongue. What on earth was wrong with me? He knew my name. He had called me by it many times by the side of the pool. I sputtered on, trying not to be even more inane, but there is no way to be certain if I succeeded. I bumbled on with my thank-yous, even specifying where he’d rescued me, though he certainly remembered the ordeal.
His chin dipped, but his gaze stayed locked on me. He said nothing else, so I was forced to continue.
I said that I hoped his clothes were not ruined. He responded only that they had already dried. Then I tried to ask him if he’d had someone wash them for him, but oh dear, I botched it terribly. Because suddenly it was the most important thing to know if there was a woman in his life who would take care of such things.
I felt a strange sensation in my stomach as he paused. Oh my. I’ve never experienced anything like that in all of my nineteen years. It was the oddest feeling.
Before I could fully analyze it, the corners of his eyes crinkled. There was no accompanying smile, but the planes of his face transformed with a humor that had not been there before.
He said he had managed, and he sounded fully capable. However, it was not an answer to my question. And I think he knew it.
Before I could push further, he asked me what I was doing outside alone. And I was forced to tell the truth. George laughed so hard at my silly story of getting lost and wandering for an hour, pressing a hand to his side and leaning heavily on his rake.
When his humor finally abated, he agreed to show me the way. Mama would have said I was too forward asking for his help. But he had already saved my life once. How could a short stroll around the Chateau be wrong? No one was around to see us anyway.
It was a lovely walk.
June 20, 1929
The strangest thing has happened at the Chateau. Last night after dinner, we retired to the parlor and the men poured themselves drinks. Mr. Dawkins says that no matter what the government says, certain men will always have access to the best liquor. He is one of those men.
Some men indulge in their drink among friends. Some in private. But aren’t all breaking the law?
I must say that Mr. Devereaux abstained from a drink last evening. When the butler offered him the highball glass filled with amber liquid, he caught my eye, waved the drink off, and winked at me from his place on the far sofa.
It was rather forward of him, but I smiled nonetheless. He is a handsome man and has been terribly attentive since my ordeal. I believe he blames himself for not being at the pool when he had said he would meet me there.
He stood then and walked toward me. But before he could even make it halfway around the circle of women playing cards at the center table, Angelique spoke loudly, declaring that Willa must be mistaken.
Every eye in the room, including mine and Jane’s beside me, turned toward the four women.
Willa, the actress with deep chestnut hair, said she could see no other way around it. Her silver sapphire necklace and earrings were missing, and only the maid had been in her room. Lucille looked aghast and pleaded with Mr. Dawkins to tell Willa that she was mistaken.
Mr. Dawkins only reclined further in his chair and mumbled something about how it must have been misplaced. Willa seemed disinclined to agree, but she said that she would look again in the morning in fresh light.
But I thought it very strange, as Jane had lost a brooch just that morning.
five
There’s something strange going on.”
Ben snapped his head toward Millie, still hunched over a low shelf, then in the direction of the library door, looking for any sign that they’d been ca
ught beyond the burgundy velvet rope by his supervisor or hers. But the only thing there was the faint smell of summer rain wafting through the screened windows on the other side of the third-story corridor.
“What?” He kept his voice low, but an inch of frustration seeped into it. He didn’t have any desire to identify the source of that irritation, but he took a deep breath anyway. Forcing his hands to unclench, he tried again. Gentler. Softer. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t even bother to look up from where her finger scrolled below every leather-bound title on the shelf before her. Just as it had for the last forty-five minutes.
And they’d found nothing.
Frustration, meet your maker.
Rubbing his hands on the front of his navy-blue uniform pants, he tried not to focus on their wasted time, their blatant rule breaking, and the little voice in the back of his head that kept chiding him. This is all for nothing. You’re never going to find that money. Your life isn’t going to change unless you change it.
Yes, if he wanted a different future than the one he’d been handed, he was going to have to make it happen. There were debts to pay and he was going to have to pay them. And this sneaking around—even if it went against everything he believed—might be his only chance to pay them back before there was no one left to pay back.
There was another voice too, this one sweet and promising. And it tempted him with a future where he’d only have to work one job—one he loved. A future where the bills could be settled as soon as they arrived. A future where he didn’t drive a coupe that only started when it felt like it. A future that wasn’t cloaked in his mother’s sins.
And he wanted that future. He’d worked for that future. He’d prayed for that future. Maybe this—meeting Millie and agreeing to help her search for her treasure—was some sort of answer to that request.
Or maybe he was ignoring the still small voice of God telling him to run.
“I said there was something going on at the Chateau.”
“What? When?”
