A Sparkle of Silver

by Liz Johnson

  “Everybody gave up on it after Dawkins died. Funny how something so big can be so quickly forgotten.”

  Ben responded with a humorless laugh, more to fill the silence than because he felt like laughing. But there was something in Carl’s pale gaze that didn’t quite fit with the rest of their conversation. “You mean the Chateau?”

  Carl patted his knee. “That too.”

  July 1, 1929

  George invited me on a picnic today. I was supposed to go to the beach with Jane and Angelique, as Claude is still out of town on his secret mission, but George slipped me a note this morning as we left the house for a walk.

  I should not have agreed. It is highly improper. But how could I not when he said he would like to take me to his favorite spot on St. Simons?

  I told Jane I wanted to stay near the house. She was concerned about my health, but I assured her I only wanted to stay out of the sun.

  God, forgive me these fibs. And my impropriety.

  There is just something about George that makes me . . . well, I don’t exactly know how to explain it. Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of him in the yard, my heart begins to beat faster, and my head spins. And I think it quite likely that I will swoon, even though I have never done such a thing in my life.

  I snuck to the gardener’s shed a little before noon, making sure that Jane and Angelique were long gone. Lucille and Mr. Dawkins were nowhere to be found, so I tiptoed down the long corridor and past his study. There was no sound coming from behind the closed door, so I hurried along, remaining as silent as I could.

  George was right where he said he would be, a wicker basket in his hand and a shy smile on his face. And my heart responded immediately.

  He called me Miss Holiday again, despite my insistence that he call me Ruth. He dipped his chin and probably missed the way I rolled my eyes at his insistence on propriety.

  Maddening man. But I could not stay angry as he held out his hand. I stared at it for a very long second—all long, lean fingers and calluses across his palm—and I wanted to reach out and grab it and let it swallow mine. But when I glanced up for a moment, I saw a look of horror in his eyes. It was there only for a flash, as though perhaps he could not believe he had just made such a gesture. Before I could grab him and tell him how I was the opposite of repulsed, he shifted his arm, poking his elbow in my direction as he turned.

  I blinked and tried not to let my disappointment show. When I tucked my fingers into the crook of his arm, he set off in the opposite direction of the beach.

  I asked him where we were going, and he chuckled. (He has such a nice laugh.) But he said only to his favorite spot on all of St. Simons Island. I nodded like I knew where that was or even generally what direction we were headed. I had not an inkling.

  We walked for approximately twenty minutes, all beneath the shade of the moss-covered oak trees. They hung over a path, the grass worn thin from frequent trips. Had George made all of those? There was no time to ask, for just as soon as I opened my mouth, we came upon a clearing. Truly, it was much larger than a clearing. But the break in the hanging branches left room for the sun to shine directly on a small white cross atop a steeple adorning a dark gray roof.

  Oh my. It took my breath away.

  It was a simple church, having the standard four walls and a wooden door. It sat on a patch of lawn nearly as green as George’s eyes. But the spot of sun illuminating it all made it look nearly angelic. Somehow holy.

  I could only put my hand to my throat, but George seemed to understand. I tried to find the words to describe just how beautiful it was, but I lost them all as he led me into the open, into the warmth of the sunshine and the coolness of the breeze. It tugged at my hair, and before I could push it into place, George reached for it, tucking it behind my ear.

  I must have frozen. He certainly did. Only his eyes changed, growing larger and filling with shock. Twice in the span of half an hour I had caused him to do something he found to be dreadfully scandalous. I barely know this man. What was I doing alone with him, letting him touch my hair and my ear and my cheek?

  But if I had not agreed to this walk, I would have missed this church. I’d have missed this moment. I’d have missed him.

  A bird sang loud and long, and it must have pulled him from his reverie. George jumped into action, telling me all about Christ Church of Frederica. Nearly 200 years old, it was started by the renowned preacher John Wesley and his brother Charles.

  There is so much history in this little slice of heaven, and I wanted to focus on what George said. I really did. But I got lost just past the history of the building in the tenor of his voice, the way it rose and fell with excitement and joy. I think he went on to talk about the graveyard and the grounds. I heard none of it.

  By the time he had laid a blanket down to cover the grass and pulled paper-wrapped sandwiches from his basket, I realized my eyes were closed and my face turned up to capture all of the sunny warmth as he told his tale. When he asked if I was well, I jumped, startling us both. I reassured him that I was only enjoying the scenery. I could not very well admit to having been enjoying the sound of his voice. He deserves to be on the radio if anyone does.

  One of his eyebrows arched, but he did not point out that I had been looking at exactly nothing. So I attempted to change the subject as quickly as I could, and asked him why this was his favorite place. He looked surprised for a moment but then said the church lawn has everything he needs for peace. Sunshine, roses, and the gospel.

  He made it all sound so personal. I had never heard anyone but a preacher talk about the gospel like that, but I could not bring myself to ask another intrusive question, so I took the sandwich he offered and nibbled at the corner.

  We barely spoke after that, reclining lazily in the sun until it was time to go back. All I could think about was how glad I was that I had not gone to the beach.

  I love the gazebo with all my heart. It is so quiet and calm in the early mornings and still my favorite spot at the Chateau. But George’s favorite spot on St. Simons might become mine as well.

  July 17, 1929

  Claude pulled me into an alcove and kissed me today just as I left my room. I do not know how else to describe it. There were no romantic words or gentle kisses to my wrist beforehand. One moment I was hurrying to meet Jane and Betsy for a swim, and then something grabbed my arm and pulled me right off my feet.

  Of course it was Claude. But before I could even realize that, his hands were on my face and he was kissing me. Thoroughly.

  This was nothing like the sweet, chaste kiss of the beach. It was not like the playful kisses that Mama and Papa share when they think no one is looking.

  Just when I thought I would never have the opportunity to breathe again, he stopped abruptly to tell me that he had missed me. He nearly growled those words. I didn’t even know a man could make that sound.

  I hoped that his surprise kiss would make my insides take flight yet again, but instead I wanted to flee. I only wanted to find Jane and sit near her or have her put her arm around me.

  No, that was not entirely true. I most wanted to be in that patch of sunshine on the lawn of the church. With George.

  There was barely space in that tiny little room off the upper hallway for the two of us to stand. There certainly was not room for me to think about George too. Claude tilted my head up, and I tried to smile. All I could focus on was the strange little curve of his mustache. It sent shivers down my spine, but not the kind I so wanted.

  When I finally registered his initial greeting and responded that he had just seen me at breakfast, he assured me that two hours was far too long. And then he called me “my dear.”

  He was so suave, so debonair. The type of man I have always dreamed of. And the man who could make my dreams come true.

  I fled anyway. I am sure I must have given him some sort of excuse or apology, but I can only recall running. The sunlight through the windows was warm, and my skin felt flushed. By the time I burs
t through a door on the first floor, I had lost track of where I was. I only truly recognized that I had exited the house because the steady slap of my feet against the hard floors disappeared when I reached the grass.

  Free of the house and with no further sign of Claude, I tried to orient myself. Useless.

  And that is when I heard a familiar chuckle from behind me. I turned to find George leaning on his rake and grinning like he had won a prize. He presumed I had lost my way and insisted on calling me Miss Holiday.

  I insisted on Ruth.

  He nodded and promptly called me Miss Holiday.

  This again. I was already disoriented, uncertain, and . . . frightened? I was not scared of Claude. He would never hurt me. But I was in turmoil. My insides were scrambled like a batch of eggs. And before I could help it, I burst into tears. I put my head into my hands and tried to muffle the sobs, but I am afraid there was no helping them.

  Suddenly something clattered to the ground—it must have been the rake—and two strong arms wrapped around me. They were gentle and warm, and I leaned into them, resting my forehead against George’s chest. He rubbed a small circle on my back and offered to help me find my way back.

  I wanted to scream. I was not lost, and I assured him so.

  His hand stopped moving, and his entire body grew stiff. He said, “Are you injured? Has someone hurt you?”

  I believe I will remember those words for the rest of my life. They were so simple but seemed to mask a fierceness, a promise of protection. I pulled back but immediately felt the loss of his arms, so I took a tiny step back into his embrace. I told him I had not been injured. Not really. I am not sure why I added that caveat—I just had to. Truly I had not been harmed, simply shaken up. Surprised. Terribly upset by my response to the man I care for.

  And I do care for him—Claude, that is. However, I did not mention such a thing to George. He simply looked at me intently, as though he could see right into my heart. It is not the first time he has done that. But I had to look away.

  He kept asking if I was certain I was unharmed. Although I spoke my assurances to him, tears still slipped down my cheeks. I tried to wipe them away, but he beat me to it. His thumbs were large and coarse and as gentle as they had been that day he rescued me from the pool.

  He did not quite meet my eyes when next he spoke. But again his words were filled with such depth. “I can take you away from here.”

  I smiled at that. What a sweet gesture.

  As I pulled back all the way, I sniffed but kept my eyes lowered. I looked a mess, surely, and probably a fool too. Mama always says that the tip of my nose turns red when I have been crying. But somehow the weight of George’s gaze on me made me feel beautiful, cherished.

  I could not help but compare the way he held me with the way Claude had only a few moments before. There was no comparison. And I hate myself for feeling those things with George. It is not right. I have kissed Claude. I am certain that he cares for me, and I for him.

  So why did I run into George’s arms like a ninny?

  I ran away from George just as fast. I am sure I gave some sort of excuse to him as well, but honestly my throat closed right up, and I could barely breathe as I raced for the outdoor pool.

  I was so distracted that I nearly missed the breeze off the ocean and the way the palm trees dipped under the weight of the wind. The air felt thick, wetter than usual, and I looked up into the sky. The clouds unfurled, dark and foreboding. As I reached Jane on the pool deck, they opened up and poured out everything they had inside.

  We spent the rest of the day in the parlor playing card games. I lost them all. Every time someone passed the door, I jumped, afraid that I would be forced to face Claude. I was not ready to see him again. At least not yet.

  I was much calmer by the time dinner came around. “Much” may be too great of a word. But I was at least able to greet Claude with a quiet smile. He took my hand and kissed it as he helped me into my seat. Betsy and Willa scowled at me, but Lucille tittered to Angelique.

  Later, after dinner, Jane said that Claude could not take his eyes off me all through the meal. He even missed a bite of his food for staring too intently. I did not dare let my focus waver, even when the conversation turned to more missing pieces of jewelry. I caught a peek of Mr. Dawkins looking rather troubled, and I cannot blame him. He sent Jenny away, almost certainly without a reference, and items are still disappearing. He said even some valuable papers, something to do with the stock market, have disappeared from his study.

  If it was Jenny, she had an accomplice. Someone is still at the Chateau.

  And yet I am sitting at my vanity scribbling in this journal while Jane sleeps, and thinking only of George.

  I cannot help but think he was offering me more than a drive down the lane or a diverting trip to Christ Church of Frederica again. There was something in his eyes. They are so terribly green and expressive, and I almost thought that he might . . . well, it is too embarrassing to even write down. But could he have meant more? Could he have been offering to take me away? Far away? For good?

  But how? How could he ever manage that on a groundskeeper’s salary? And he would have no salary at all if he left the Chateau. It makes no sense.

  Yet I am rather sad that the prospect is mere fancy. I am a silly girl.

  I would never go with him even if he had the means, which he never could. Unless . . .

  Oh my. I have the most painful knot in my stomach.

  Is it possible? Could George be Jenny’s accomplice? Or could he be working on his own to steal from the guests?

  What a ridiculous idea.

  I’ll never sleep now.

  eight

  Millie slammed the journal closed and glared at the giant red numbers of her alarm clock. Stupid alarm clock. Stupid job. Stupid story.

  Stupid Great-Grandma Ruth. She was a ninny. Through and through. She’d had one of the wealthiest men in America at her beck and call, and she’d been playing around with the gardener.

  Who was rather dashing.

  He was not. He was a landscaper with absolutely nothing to offer Ruth. And he could be the thief. Even Ruth had suggested it. Yet she seemed to have some sort of feelings for him.

  You would have too.

  She set the journal—much gentler with it than she’d been before—on the folding tray that served as her nightstand before flopping to her side and smashing a pillow over her ear. Punching it into place, she tried to ignore the little voice still whispering to her.

  Admit it. He was a good man. He understood Ruth in a way that Claude never could.

  She would admit no such thing. Okay, maybe he was a good man—not the dashing heroes on the covers of the other books by her bed, but still kind. He’d rescued Ruth from the pool, after all. He’d taken her to the church and spoken of the gospel. But that didn’t mean Claude didn’t care for Ruth in the same way. It wasn’t that Claude didn’t understand her. It was that Ruth didn’t understand her own emotions.

  That had to be it.

  Yes, she could rest in that knowledge. And she needed to rest.

  She flopped to her back, arms and legs splayed, and stared at the ceiling, muttering under her breath at the tick-tick-tick of the fan. It just kept going, ticking along at its uneven pace.

  Ugh.

  Rolling over to her stomach, she burrowed her head beneath her pillow, but her sleeping shorts had twisted around her legs. She kicked to straighten them out. No luck. Another try. Same result.

  Flopping to her back, she caught a glimpse of the alarm clock yet again. That was ten minutes of sleep she wasn’t going to get.

  He’s not a thief and you know it.

  She didn’t care. She really didn’t. He could have stolen the London Bridge for all it would matter to her. Just as long as George wasn’t her great-grandfather.

  He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be. Ruth had bigger plans than a laborer. She’d wanted to be a voice actress in the radio dramas of the day. She’d dre
amed of the big city far from the Georgia farm where she’d grown up. She wouldn’t have gotten in trouble with George.

  Millie nodded her head firmly.

  With that settled, she could go to sleep. Because she had to be up in . . . She flicked off the hours on her fingers. Six hours. Well, five hours and forty-eight minutes.

  “Go to sleep, Millie.”

  Closing her eyes, she held herself as motionless as possible. But her shorts were still twisted, and the fan still clicked along its merry way.

  Stupid fan.

  Sweat trickled down her back and across her upper lip. There was no way she could turn it off. Not when the window AC unit had been struggling to keep up with the humidity. Especially when the apartment below her was the center of the sun.

  Rolling onto a cool spot of the sheet, she kicked at the covers until they tumbled off the end of the bed.

  There. Now she could sleep.

  Maybe not. Another fifteen minutes of the ticking fan and coughing AC, and she was no closer to falling asleep. She was only closer to throwing the nearest book across the room. But it was a loaner from the library, and she had no idea where she’d come up with the money to replace a hardcover with a broken spine.

  Not an option. She just had to go to sleep.

  If she fell asleep right that minute, she’d still have five hours and twenty-nine minutes before her alarm went off. Six hours and twenty-nine minutes before she had to serve coffee to a roomful of grumpy diners in desperate need of the sweet elixir. They were all irritated before their first cup. But she couldn’t be grumpy back.

  Fall asleep. Fall asleep. Fall—

  You know he was good to her.

  So what if he was? It didn’t matter.

  You know he didn’t steal anything.

  Again, it didn’t matter.

  Maybe it does.

  It did not. It only mattered that she was functional enough to work in the morning. If she wasn’t, she’d have to move into her car, and then what would become of Grandma Joy? As it was, Millie only had fifty-three days to find a miracle source of income and a new home for Grandma Joy. Right now it only mattered that she was functional enough to find Ruth’s other journal. It only mattered that there was a map in it.