by Liz Johnson
That’s what mattered.
No, it’s not. And you know it.
She flopped over again, pressing her mouth into her pillow and screaming for all she was worth. She could still hear the clicking of the fan.
When her breath ended and her head thumped in time with the rotating blades, she rolled onto her back and sighed. The moon’s light filled the gaps in the blinds, covering her room with shadows as clouds rolled across the sky.
It had rained when Ruth was on St. Simons too.
But that and a bit of DNA were all they shared. Ruth had had two loving parents, a chance for success, and the eye of the richest man in Georgia at the time. Millie had two exhausting jobs, a chance that her electricity would be turned off, and a partner she’d never expected.
Ben’s face flashed through her mind, and she tried to forget the way he’d looked the last time she’d seen him, when they searched the maids’ rooms. He’d swiped his dirt-covered hands across his face at some point, and there was a swath of black from his forehead around his eye to his chin. It hadn’t dampened his grin at all or the twinkle in his eyes. Or maybe that had been her imagination. It had been relatively dark, after all. And she hadn’t been staring all that hard.
Liar.
Sticking her tongue out, she blew a raspberry. That’s what she thought of that voice in her head. It insisted on keeping her up and calling her names.
She did not need that kind of negativity in her life. Not now. Not when she had a mission to complete. Not when Ben seemed intent on distracting her at every curve.
He wasn’t. At least not on purpose.
It wasn’t his fault that she still felt his firm grip on her hand as he led her down the stairs. It wasn’t his fault that his hair fell across his forehead and he just had to brush it out of the way. And that made her insides wiggle like unset Jell-O.
She didn’t have time to think about him—or any man, for that matter. She never had. Not since Grandma Joy had needed her help and her care, anyway.
That didn’t stop his too-blue eyes from flashing before her. Or that little voice in her head from wondering what it might be like to be the heroine of one of the novels stacked on her floor. Somehow those women found a way to make it work. All of them. They found a way to balance the responsibilities they carried with the men they fell in love with.
But that was fiction. This was real life.
Of course nothing could keep the girl from falling in love with the guy. She didn’t have actual bills to pay. She didn’t have an actual grandma who needed to be cared for. She didn’t have to actually find a safe place where her grandma could be cared for.
Of course it was all going to work out in the books. At least the ones that she chose to read. She made sure of it. A quick peek at the last page was all she needed in order to know if the story would have a happy ending.
Real life didn’t come with the same guarantees. And neither did Ruth’s story.
Millie flopped over one more time, hunting for a cooler spot free of the stickiness that caked her limbs. There wasn’t one. Her bed had turned into a radiator.
Finally she dripped out of bed, crawling across the floor of the semi-enclosed bedroom toward the bathroom. Turning on the cold water, she splashed some on her face. Then a little more. Then she held a washcloth below the cool water—cold was far too generous a description. It felt good pressed against the back of her neck. And down her arms, right where Ben had touched her.
Flinging herself back into bed, she tried to wipe that memory away. But it would take a full scrubbing, maybe more.
Maybe Ruth had felt the same. About George, that is.
Maybe she wouldn’t think about this right now.
Sure. That was a logical plan. But logical and actionable were very different things. Despite the alarm clock reminding her that she had to be awake in a little more than four hours, she couldn’t stop thinking about it all. About Ruth and George. And Ruth and Claude. About why she herself had hesitated to enter the maids’ quarters a few nights ago. About whatever Ruth’s second journal would reveal.
Millie knew what was keeping her awake. She just didn’t want to put it into words. It was easy to look for a treasure. It was so much harder to look for family.
Whether George was a thief wasn’t the question. If he was, her great-grandfather was.
And she desperately needed it to be the other man in Ruth’s life.
“Are you all right?”
Millie nearly jumped out of her skin at the breath in her ear, and her hands flew to her throat as she stumbled backward. Right into the arms that seemed to be ever-present lately.
“Whoa there.” His voice sounded like it had been raked over gravel. “It’s just me.”
No just about it.
“Yes. I’m fine.” Her words were barely more than a breath, and she had no doubt that gravel could take her down in a heartbeat. Especially after the night before.
Isabelle Calhoun, the aptly named actress who played the Southern belle of the house party, glanced their way. She seemed quick to dismiss the way Ben held Millie upright and how close his lips were to her ear. Until she zeroed in on Ben.
Who wouldn’t? Millie hadn’t at first, true, even when Ben’s student had pointed it out. But after a sleepless night that involved way too much thinking about Ben on the cover of one of her library books, she understood why women might take another look.
Millie immediately recognized his absence as he stepped away. Probably because he’d noticed that they’d been spotted. Thus far they’d managed to keep from arousing Juliet’s suspicions of an inappropriate relationship any more than they had on that first night.
Isabelle, however, wasn’t known for her discretion. And if she thought she’d spotted something between tours, it wouldn’t take long for the entire cast—and management—to hear about it.
Millie did a quick sidestep, tugging on her gloves and straightening her necklace. Forcing her face into a mild look of surprise, she took a quick breath before diving in. “Ben. How are you? It’s been ages.”
Oh dear. She sounded like an idiot. Probably because she was one.
The angle of Ben’s lips seemed to ask what game she was playing. She didn’t know what it was called. She just needed him to play along.
Please. Please.
She tried to convey everything flying through her mind in a single glance.
“Hi?” His response was definitely a question rather than a statement. He might not have gotten everything she was trying to send him. So she tried again with a harder look filled with all the things at stake.
“You look great. How is everything?”
Isabelle was still staring at them, leaning toward them, ignoring her partner for the night, Duncan. He was probably rambling on about his new car. It was always about his car or his clothes or some exorbitantly priced steak he’d eaten. Sort of the opposite of Ben, who seemed to always be working and never spending his money.
“Good?” The tilt of Ben’s head and furrowed eyebrows said he still wasn’t sure what she was up to.
“Great.” Now what? She searched for anything that would sound normal. Natural. But she’d forgotten how to have a conversation. “Um . . . You seem . . . How’s work?”
Ben’s voice dropped a full octave and more than a few decibels. “Did you hit your head?”
Spinning so her back was fully to Isabelle and—she hoped—blocking their conversation, she whispered, “We have to be careful. She’s watching us.” She hoped her nod toward the redhead across the room was imperceptible from the back. And that Ben would understand.
“You don’t look very well.”
Wrinkling up her face as much as she could, she scowled at him. “Well, you’re too tall.”
He laughed right into her face, and for a minute she forgot that she was supposed to be playing this cool and giggled back at him.
“Your gloves keep falling down.”
“I know.” She jerked them back u
p again and let her gaze sweep over him, hunting for anything to criticize. It wasn’t easy. He was tall. Probably three inches over six feet. And a little on the lanky side. But there was nothing wrong with his dark hair, pale eyes, regal nose, and steeply angled jaw. Or the five o’clock shadow growing on it.
“Well . . . well . . .” Argh. Why couldn’t she be quicker on her feet? Maybe if she’d gotten more than three hours of sleep the night before, she could be. “Your . . . your . . . eyes . . .”
Their gazes locked, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.
Those eyes. Looked. Right. Through. Her. And the teasing light that had filled them just a moment before disappeared.
“Seriously, are you all right?” He waved toward her face, and she leaned away on reflex. “You’re looking a little tired.”
“Is that a subtle way of saying that I have dark circles under my eyes?”
He didn’t really have to point it out. She already knew they were there. They had been since she’d dragged herself out of bed, brushed her teeth, looked in the mirror, and groaned.
Ben shrugged.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She glanced over her shoulder at Isabelle, who had turned her attention back to Duncan and followed him across the room. At least for the moment they had a bit of privacy, and she could be honest. “I was thinking about Ruth.”
He squinted. “Something new?”
“The thefts didn’t stop after the maid was fired.”
He scratched at his chin, his whiskers rustling beneath his fingernails. “It wasn’t her.” There was a certainty in his voice that made her lean in closer.
“You seem pretty sure for someone who hasn’t even read the diary.”
“I have my sources.”
“You do?” Her voice rose in volume and pitch, and she quickly pinched her lips together.
“Don’t look so surprised.” A smug smile crossed his lips as the antique clock on the mantel rang the half hour. They both looked toward it and recognized it as their warning bell. Five minutes until the next tour arrived at the parlor.
He turned to find his spot in the hallway, but she grabbed his arm. “Ruth said her room was near a small alcove on the second floor.”
His gaze turned distant, like he could see the blueprints rolled out before him. “She said the second floor? There isn’t an alcove on the second floor.”
Millie mentally ran back through the words she’d read. “Upper hallway maybe? Could there be something on the upper hallway?”
A slow smile made its way across his face until the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’ll meet you outside the women’s locker room after your shift.” With that, he disappeared between two ficus trees, removing his modern self from the old-time elegance of the parlor. She glanced down at her dress—silk and satin except for the beaded chain at the low waistline—and then at the knit cotton covering Ben’s retreating form. He certainly didn’t fit into the world created for the guests.
But he was beginning to fit into her life.
He also knew more about this old house than anyone she’d ever met. He could be the difference between finding the truth about her past or losing her future entirely.
nine
Ben stayed in the shadow of a large sycamore tree for several long seconds after Millie made her exit from the locker room. She looked around quickly, then down at the phone in her hand. He almost texted her his location, but he waited another second.
Right on time, Felicity, the tour guide, walked out behind Millie. She said something that sounded like “good night” and then stalked toward the employee parking lot.
Then the redhead who had stared at them earlier that night joined Millie, her costume traded for jeans and a tank top. Spinning her keys around her finger, she stopped to say something.
He couldn’t hear the words, but he could see Millie’s profile. First she plastered a fake smile on her face. Then it dipped. She fought to get it back into place, but it was a losing battle. Millie looked like she couldn’t be any more uncomfortable if she’d come face-to-face with a rattlesnake.
Maybe she had. And from the flip of the redhead’s hand through her hair, she knew what she was doing.
Before he even knew his plan, he stepped forward. The Chateau’s lights had been turned low and clouds covered the moon, so he had about a second and a half before he was visible.
Millie’s voice rang out clear. “I don’t know what you think you saw, Isabelle.”
The redhead only leaned in closer, but if she spoke, Millie cut her off. Ben shuffled back into the safety of the shadows.
“Ben and I are acquaintances. That’s all. And he noticed that I wasn’t looking my best tonight and wanted to make sure I wasn’t sick. End of story.”
“Hmm.” Isabelle seemed to take her time digesting the information. “Then, you know him?”
“I guess.” Millie’s eyes darted in his direction, but he was still hidden. He hoped.
“Because I’ve seen him around. Some of the other girls were asking about him, you know. Is he single?”
He crossed his arms and flexed his muscles. Because what else could a guy do when he knew women were talking about him?
Not that he was interested. He certainly didn’t have time for anything like that—love and marriage and the whole thing. He’d thought about it, sure. But always down the road.
Still, it was a boon to hear that someone found him attractive. Too bad it wasn’t Millie.
He gasped at the thought, hunting for its root and determined to rip it free. He had no business thinking things like that, given their current arrangement. He did not need her to think he was handsome. Even if he thought she was just as stunning in cutoff jean shorts as she was in her costumes.
Millie looked like she’d swallowed her tongue for a split second before answering Isabelle’s question. “I have no idea.”
He couldn’t tell if Millie was still performing or if she really had no idea about his relationship status.
Isabelle shrugged. “Either way.” There was a looseness in her words—so cavalier—that made his stomach churn. She either had no respect for him or had no respect for herself. In any case, he wasn’t interested in that.
“He doesn’t date co-workers,” Millie said through clenched teeth.
Had he said that to Juliet? Or was Millie taking license with their friendship? Or did she already know that about him with certainty?
With a “we’ll see,” Isabelle spun and sashayed across the paving stones, leaving a scowling Millie to stare after her.
When she was gone and the echo of her footsteps had long since vanished, Ben whistled low. Immediately Millie’s head snapped in his direction. He could tell the exact moment she saw him. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed, and she marched toward him like a soldier on a warpath.
“How long have you been there?”
Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his navy pants, he shrugged. “Long enough.”
Despite the shadows hanging low over them, the pink on her cheeks was undeniable, and she dipped her chin quickly.
“You were right.”
Closing one eye and glaring at him through the other, she said, “You’re not all that handsome?”
He shook his head. “I don’t date co-workers.”
With a playful slug to his arm, she walked toward the Chateau’s main entrance. “So where are we going?”
He led the way to the front stairwell, opposite the one they’d taken to the kitchen a few nights before. She stayed close, but he could tell when she paused to look behind them. “Don’t worry, I shut off the cameras.”
She didn’t budge for a long second, so he reached for her hand, only to find hers halfway there. “Come on.” Pulling her up the stairs, he rushed for the alcove she’d mentioned, the only one on the upper hallway. It was a few dozen winding yards from the master suite, Dawkins’s private rooms.
“How’d you remember this was here?” She spun around in
the little offshoot just large enough for two people to stand in.
Tapping a finger to his temple, he smirked. “Same way I knew where the real maids’ quarters are.”
“You’re a big geek and spend all your time studying ancient blueprints.”
Shrugging, he nodded. “Basically.”
She smiled at that, flashing her white teeth and crinkling her nose. “Ruth said in her journal that she was leaving her room, heading for the swimming pool—the outdoor one—when she got pulled into the alcove.”
Ben turned and played out Ruth’s movements in his mind, then stopped short. “Got pulled in?”
“Oh, um . . .” The moonlight through the windows made the flames of her cheeks gentler, but there was no mistaking that she’d revealed something she hadn’t wanted him to know. “She was kind of seeing one of the other guests. He pulled her in for a . . . private moment.”
“To kiss her.”
She nodded.
“Was their relationship a secret?”
She stared at the ornate brass designs on the ceiling for a moment before shaking her head. “No. I think it was common knowledge among all the guests.”
That wasn’t the full truth—he’d bet every penny his mother had stolen on it. And if she was telling him partial truths about this, what else in that book wasn’t she telling him?
He wanted to push, but this wasn’t the time or the place. They were already pushing their chances that they’d be caught. A burst of acid reflux reminded him how much he wished he could change the circumstances. Two wrongs did not make a right. But he prayed that what they found might begin to make right some of his mother’s many, many wrongs.
Dawdling because he had questions wouldn’t help. Later he’d push Millie to explain what she was hiding. Right now he’d find Ruth’s old room and pray that she’d hidden her second journal there.
“Well, if she was going to the pool and had to pass in front of this alcove . . .” He pointed to the right, to the only door there.
“Makes sense, I guess.” Millie strode in that direction. “After her accident, Ruth said that Lucille had moved her and Jane from one of the bungalows to be closer to her and Dawkins.”
