by Liz Johnson
Stupid questions. He knew when. When it came to the two of them, there was only one when.
But she didn’t harp on it. “In the diary. Ruth said that one of the guests lost a sapphire and silver necklace.”
Looking up from where he’d knelt before the bottom shelf, he shot her a look that he hoped conveyed just how much he didn’t care about a rich woman misplacing a necklace that could more than cover the down payment on the townhouse he’d been dreaming of for the last nine months. “So what?”
Her eyebrows rose, and he immediately regretted the sharp words. “I’m sorry.” Scrubbing his hand down his face, he shook his head. “I’m just tired. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
She glanced back down toward the shelf she’d been checking, her shoulders slumping beneath the gauzy weight of the navy-blue straps that crisscrossed below her neck. She had to be as exhausted as he was after a long shift at the Chateau, and it wasn’t her fault that there was a second diary or that she hadn’t known about it.
Taking a shallow breath, he tried for a softer tone. “What do you think was going on?”
Her gaze remained trained on the leather casings at her knee, and her volume stayed just as low. But there was a certainty in her tone when she finally spoke. “Someone stole them.”
“Them?”
“Ruth’s friend lost a brooch too. The same day.”
“You think there was a thief?” He couldn’t help the way his voice rose in astonishment, and he clapped a hand over his mouth at her startled glance. At least, he thought she was startled. The yellow and pink shadows from the low lamps played across her face, hiding some of her features. The big window in the wall adjacent to the empty fireplace didn’t even let in the moonlight, a blanket of clouds covering the sky.
But there was no anger or palpable tension flowing from her, so he made his move. Tiptoeing to the door and ducking his head around to stare down the hallway, he held his breath, only releasing it when he’d confirmed that it was empty. “Coast is still clear.”
“Lucky you. Unless you’re trying to get us caught and banned from the premises.”
He wrinkled his nose, and she giggled behind the fingers of an elbow-length white glove.
It wasn’t surprising that she was teasing him. What was surprising was his laugh joining hers. It snuck up on him and popped out before he even realized it was coming. Or how much he liked the sound of their mingled laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself enjoy a moment of humor with someone else.
Probably not since before his mother’s arraignment.
A memory flashed against the back of his eyelids. The courtroom. The stern scowl on the judge’s face. His mom’s cold gaze. Her crisp black suit—most likely purchased with someone else’s hard-earned money.
The images reached into his chest like spindly fingers and then clenched into a fist that had him doubling over before he knew it.
“You okay?”
He nodded quickly, rubbing at the spot over his heart and praying that the memories would subside.
Someday.
Someday he’d forget. When the debts were repaid.
And the treasure could take care of that. It could make at least half of his problems disappear. Redoubling his efforts to find that elusive second diary, he returned to his spot on the shelf and ignored the way her gaze stayed heavy on his back. He needed something to distract her.
“So how’d you say you knew about the first diary?” His question popped out without much thought, and as soon as it did, he remembered that she’d already told him the answer.
“Um . . . my grandmother.” The lilt at the end of her response made it sound more like a question, but he kept his back to her and his finger nearly tracing the outline of the books at hand.
“Any chance she could help us find the second? I mean, how did you know where to find it exactly?”
Millie cleared her throat, and it seemed more like an excuse to delay her response than a necessity. “Well . . . I’m pretty sure she told me everything she knows.”
Looking over his shoulder, he squinted at her. “What exactly did she tell you?”
Tilting her head back and closing her eyes, she seemed to stretch for the words. “She said that her mom had often wished she had her journal from that summer.”
“Single?”
“Yes. Just the one.” Millie cracked an eye open at him as she smoothed her hand down the front of her dress. In the dim glow its fabric swished and shimmered like the sky in a midnight thunderstorm, but he kept his gaze on her face.
“She never said anything about there being two,” she continued.
“So how’d you know where to find it?”
The look in her eyes shifted from seeing into the past to a very curious direct stare into the present. “She said, ‘It’s in the room with the books.’ Why?”
He met her gaze with the same fortitude. “Maybe she could help us find the second. I think we should ask her.”
Millie’s lips—still outrageously red from her role that evening—nearly disappeared as she bit them together. Tugging up her gloves, she dropped her gaze to her fingers. “Sure. I’ll ask her.”
Ben frowned. That wasn’t what he’d been proposing. And he had a gut feeling she knew it. She was keeping him away from something. Maybe it was a bit of key information. Or maybe it was . . . more.
He didn’t have a clue what he was missing, but the longer she hemmed and hawed about it, the more he was going to press. And he’d get there. He’d figure it out. Digging up the past was his job. All three of his jobs, actually. He’d uncover the truth, whether she wanted to tell him or not.
“I meant we should talk to her. Together. What are you doing tomorrow?”
If Millie had been chewing gum, she’d have swallowed it. As it was, she choked on an otherwise typical breath, coughing and wheezing until Ben marched across the room and ushered her to the antique settee centered between the four book-lined walls.
“I’m fine.” She held up a hand even as he nearly pushed her to the sofa. Its burgundy upholstery let out a little puff of dust, which only made her cough harder.
“Sure you are.” He lowered himself to her side but refrained from the standard thump on the back, for which she was incredibly grateful. It was hard enough to catch her breath without being pounded into the lumpy cushion.
Ben pressed his hands to his thighs but didn’t say a word for several long seconds as she tried to quell the tickle in the back of her throat that had turned into a forest fire.
“I’m okay. Good. Fine.” And apparently a liar too.
An errant cough was the least of her worries. She closed her eyes, hoping that the truth hadn’t spilled down her face as easily as the tears streaming there. After tugging off a glove, she swiped at them with her fingernail and managed to keep from adding a saltwater spot to her silk gown. Finally she sucked in a breath, the tension in her chest easing ever so slightly.
When she snuck a glance at Ben, he raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
“Yes. I’m okay.” She gulped and swallowed the air with an extra measure of caution. “Sorry about that.”
He nodded an acknowledgment, but there was something in his eyes that said her unplanned distraction hadn’t distracted him at all. It promised that he wasn’t going to let go of his idea.
That wouldn’t—couldn’t—happen. She couldn’t take him to meet Grandma Joy for at least one very important reason, so she scrambled for another focus. “I can’t believe you let me sit on this couch.”
He looked down, and his face twisted like he’d suddenly realized he was sitting on a shark. Jumping up, he stared back at the furniture, shaking his head.
“And that’s probably not great for the carpet,” she said.
His gaze darted in the direction of his black work boots, his eyes bright and round. But it was his tiptoeing to the wooden floor that made her burst out laughing. Immediately she clamped her hand over her mouth. The tears
that had been loosened before weren’t so easily stemmed. Two big ones raced down her cheeks under his watchful glare.
“It really isn’t good for the antiques, you know. And what if the sofa was damaged? They’d know we were in here.”
“They’d know someone was in here.” Her correction was cautious, thoughtful. They couldn’t risk alerting the other private security personnel that there was anyone slinking through the shadows. If the historical preservation society thought that someone was sneaking around the property, they’d amp up security faster than Millie could fill a cup of coffee—which was quicker than any other waitress at the Hermit Crab Café.
That meant they had to leave everything precisely as they found it.
Slowly she rose from the hundred-year-old sofa, brushing at the dust she’d undoubtedly picked up and praying that it hadn’t stuck to unmentionable areas. Twisting to check her backside, she nearly missed the set in his jaw, which should have tipped her off to what was to come.
“Do you really think the second journal is in here?”
No. But she wasn’t about to give in that easily. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because we’ve searched every shelf—three times—and there’s no sign of it.”
“Okay . . .” As far as concessions went, it wasn’t one. But she didn’t have another comeback, so she stared at him. Hard. Maybe he’d back down.
He blinked, a slow smirk rolling across his lips.
All right. Back down unlikely.
“It’s not in this room, Millie.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Maybe it’s somewhere else on the property. Maybe it’s not at the Chateau at all. But one thing I know for sure. We need more information.”
Ack. He was right back to where she didn’t want him.
“We just need to read the diary.” That sounded like a valid point. It was a valid point. They had no idea the secrets that slim volume might hold, and the only way they’d find them is if they read the book.
If only she didn’t have to get some sleep between her jobs.
She’d dozed off after just two short entries the night before. She’d wanted to keep reading, but her eyes refused to cooperate, drooping and closing without permission. One minute she’d been about to flip the page, and the next her alarm clock insisted she roll out of bed and race to the diner, or she’d be late. And late meant fired. She couldn’t afford that until she—they—found whatever had been hidden on this estate.
“Sure, the book is important, but what if there’s something in there that we don’t know because we’re missing the details?” He crossed his arms again, the shoulders of his jacket pulling almost as tight as the lines around his mouth. The faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.
He’d make a good lawyer. She felt like she was on trial and he was about to act as judge and jury too.
“Of course. I’ll ask her.”
He began to shake his head slowly and then stopped in mid-motion. “I’ll go with you.”
“No—” It popped out like a firecracker, unexpected and loud, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, remembering too late that her lipstick would likely leave a mark against the white fabric. But that was the least of her worries if Ben’s squinted glare was any indication.
“Is there a reason you don’t want me to meet your grandmother?”
“Of course not.”
Liar, liar. You know better.
Her conscience chided her, reminding her of the sermon her pastor had preached a few weeks before. “Do not lie to each other.” It was somewhere in Colossians, but she couldn’t remember exactly where. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to know the reference to know lying was wrong. Even if her reasons were . . . mostly honorable.
He opened his mouth to respond, but she shook her head quickly, cutting him off. She could do better. She would do better.
“Grandma Joy is a wealth of knowledge, but . . . um . . . sometimes she requires a delicate touch. New people can overwhelm her.” She closed her eyes and prayed for the words she needed, ones that made sense. “And her mom—Ruth—died when she was fairly young. The stories, the memories, are pretty old.”
Ben stood a little taller and relaxed his arms a fraction. “She doesn’t always remember?”
Well, that was a benign way of putting it.
Millie grimaced but leaned into the truth, hunting for words that were accurate but gentle. Because, while she’d wished at least once that she’d never even met him, she needed his help. And the truth—all of it—was more likely to make him run than stick around for the hard stuff.
“You could put it that way. Her memories aren’t always particularly . . . crisp.”
Oh, man. That was a stretch. Sometimes Grandma Joy’s memory was sharper than a new knife. But sometimes—more often than either of them wanted to admit—her mind wouldn’t cut through the mashed potatoes they served at the home.
When she looked up at Ben, his thick brows had dipped until they met in the middle. The rest of his features pulled tight. “I’m sorry.” He sounded like he actually meant it, and it surprised her how much those two little words warmed that spot in her chest that had to grow a little bit cold every time she saw Grandma Joy.
“Thank you.” She sounded stupid, but really, what else was there to say?
Except, of course, a rapid reassurance that this wasn’t all a waste of their time.
“She has good days. And she knew about the first journal. She knew—she knows. She’s just—”
This time Ben stopped her, raising his hand with a sad grin. “I get it. My grandpa was forgetful too.”
Forgetful? Sure. They could go with that. For a while.
Maybe Grandma Joy could even pull it off. For a while. But then what? What would she do if Ben witnessed one of Grandma Joy’s more painful moments? What if he freaked out and took off and left Millie to do this all on her own?
That was where she had started anyway. But now it felt different.
She frowned and pressed a hand to her forehead. It wasn’t different. It was just new. She’d been on her own most of her adult life. After her grandpa died, it had been just her and Grandma Joy. Those had been a good two years. Fun even. Until Grandma Joy started forgetting. Until the house had been sold.
Her lungs ached for a breath, but it was too painful to remember how everything had changed so suddenly. One moment Grandma Joy had been taking care of her. The next, Millie had to take care of Grandma Joy.
“I still think she’s our best resource.”
Millie tiptoed off the rug and then paced the narrow confines of the available hardwood floor, trying to rid herself of both the memories and Ben’s suggestion. She couldn’t take him to meet her grandmother. She just couldn’t.
Except he was right. Grandma Joy knew more about Ruth’s story than anyone else alive.
A question wiggled its way into the back of her brain, refusing to leave. What if Ben could do more than keep her out of hot water with Chateau security?
He’d already proven to be helpful. And he was an unabashed history nerd—from the leather patches on his tweed jacket to the way he riled up a classroom full of college students over the American Revolution. While he’d never said as much, she had a feeling that he hadn’t picked up a part-time job at the Chateau because he loved being a security guard or because it paid particularly well. He loved the area and its history as much as anyone else. He knew things she’d never had the opportunity to learn.
Not that she would have chosen to learn what he had. But it would have been nice to have the option.
She swung a glance in his direction as she spun to make another trek over the open boards. He’d crossed his arms again, and his gaze had turned intense. But he didn’t seem in a rush for her response.
Maybe he understood that introducing him to her grandmother was so much bigger than a lost treasure. It meant taking this from the page to real life. And her life didn’t look like silk gowns, white gloves, and diamond necklac
es.
There was more at stake than what once was lost on this estate.
“I’ll see if she’s up for a visitor.”
June 25, 1929
Claude took me on a walk today, only the two of us. He insists that I call him Claude instead of Mr. Devereaux, and I have agreed. We have two more months together, and we must be friendly, so I have given him leave to call me Ruth. When he does, my entire spine tingles.
We strolled along the beach, and I didn’t even mind that the breeze off the water whipped my hair about my face. Who needs to be able to see when such a strong, handsome man is walking at your side, the crook of his elbow a sure guide?
Oh, but he is a fascinating man. He’s seen so much of the world and has such incredible stories to tell. He’s even been to Africa and seen elephants and lions and something called a gazelle, which sounds like a deer. I could have listened to him talk all day about his adventures and his life. It’s so foreign to me. The ships he sails on are nearly as luxurious as the Chateau, although that is hard to comprehend.
His life is so unlike anything I knew on the farm. There are no children running about his legs. I suppose that could be because all of his siblings are older. But even those he does not speak of, except Angelique, of course. They rarely have more than a casual greeting in the evenings before dinner, a simple kiss on the cheek or a mild embrace.
I cannot help but remember when I returned to the farm after my first month away. Jimmy, Sarah, Abraham, and Shirley raced to me, tangling in my skirts until I nearly fell to the yard, the air filled with their screams of delight. The farm is never quiet, but it is also never lonely.
Perhaps he has never known such a life.
We had walked nearly half a mile along the water before he stopped. There was no one else on the sand as far as I could see in either direction, so I let him take my hands in his. They were gentle and soft, not at all like George’s hands with their rough calluses. Not that I have been thinking about him. I certainly have not.
Claude told me I am beautiful. When he looked into my eyes and said those words, my insides melted like butter over hot bread. I could only stare at him, and I do not think I even blinked.
